business puzzles me, though you and your friends here seem to find it devilish amusing. when i told the chief constable, the manager of the shipyard, and the admiral superintendent of naval work that you were the guilty party, they all roared. for some reason the admiral and the shipyard manager kept winking at one another and gurgling till i thought they would have choked. what is the joke?"
"if you are good, dawson, i will tell you some day. this is november, and the rampagious--the ship described on your paper--left for portsmouth in august. in july--" i broke off hurriedly, lest i should tell my visitor too much. "it has taken our friend who put the paper in the sardine tin three months to find out details of her. i could have done better than that, dawson."
"that is just what the admiral said, though he wouldn't explain why."
"the truth is, dawson, that the admiral and i both come from devon, the land of pirates, smugglers, and buccaneers. we are law breakers by instinct and family tradition. when we get an officer of the law on toast, we like to make the most of him. it is a playful little way of ours which i am sure you will understand and pardon."
"you know, of course, that i am justified in arresting you. i have a warrant and handcuffs in my pocket."
"admirable man!" i cried, with enthusiasm. "you are, dawson, the perfect detective. as a criminal i should be mightily afraid of you. but, as in my buttonhole i always wear the white flower which proclaims to the world my blameless life, i am thoroughly enjoying this visit and our cosy chat beside the fire. shall i telephone to my office and say that i shall be unavoidably detained from duty for an indefinite time? 'detained' would be the strict truth and the mot juste. if you would kindly lock me up, say, for three years or the duration of the war i should be your debtor. i have often thought that a prison, provided that one were allowed unlimited paper and the use of a typewriter, would be the most charming of holidays--a perfect rest cure. there are three books in my head which i should like to write. arrest me, dawson, i implore you! put on the handcuffs--i have never been handcuffed--ring up a taxi, and let us be off to jail. you will, i hope, do me the honour of lunching with me first and meeting my wife. she will be immensely gratified to be quit of me. it cannot often have happened in your lurid career, dawson, to be welcomed with genuine enthusiasm."
"why did that man say that he prepared the description of the ship for you?"
"that is what we are going to find out, and i will help you all i can. my reputation is like the bloom upon the peach--touch it, and it is gone for ever. there is a faint glimmer of the truth at the back of my mind which may become a clear light. did he say that he had given it to me personally, into my own hand?"
"no. he said that he was approached by a man whom he had known off and on for years, a man who was employed by you in connection with shipyard inquiries. he was informed that this man was still employed by you for the same purpose now as in the past."
"your case against me is thinning out, dawson. at its best it is second-hand; at its worst, the mere conjecture of a rather careless draughtsman. i have two things to do: first to find out the real seducer, who is probably also the despatcher of the parcels to the late lieutenant of northumberland fusiliers, and second, to save if i can this poor fool of a shipyard draughtsman from punishment for his folly. i don't doubt that he honestly thought he was dealing with me."
"he will have to be punished. the admiral will insist upon that."
"we must make the punishment as light as we can. you shall help me with all the discretionary authority with which you are equipped. i can see, dawson, from the tactful skill with which you have dealt with me that discretion is among your most distinguished characteristics. if you had been a stupid, bull-headed policeman, you would have been up against pretty serious trouble."
"that was quite my own view," replied dawson drily.
"who is the man described by our erring draughtsman?"
"he won't say. we have put on every allowable method of pressure, and some that are not in ordinary times permitted. we have had over this spy hunt business to shed most of our tender english regard for suspected persons, and to adopt the french system of fishing inquiries. in france the police try to make a man incriminate himself; in england we try our hardest to prevent him. that may be very right and just in peace time against ordinary law breakers; but war is war, and spies are too dangerous to be treated tenderly. we have cross-examined the man, and bully-ragged him, but he won't give up the name of his accomplice. it may be a relation. one thing seems sure. the man is, or was, a member of your staff, engaged in shipyard inquiries. can you give me a list of the men who are or have been on this sort of work during the past few years?"
"i will get it for you. but please use it carefully. my present men are precious jewels, the few left to me by zealous military authorities. what i must look for is some one over military age who has left me or been dismissed--probably dismissed. when a british subject, of decent education and once respectable surroundings, gets into the hands of german agents, you may be certain of one thing, dawson, that he has become a rotter through drink."
"that's it," cried dawson. "you have hit it. crime and drink are twin brothers as no one knows better than the police. look out for the name and address of a man dismissed for drunkenness and we shall have our bird."
"the name i can no doubt give you, but not the address."
"give us any address where he lived, even if it were ten years ago, and we will track him down in three days. that is just routine police work."
"i never presume to teach an expert his business--and you, dawson, are a super-expert, a director-general of those of common qualities--but would it not be well to warn all the post offices, so that when another parcel is brought in addressed to the lieutenant the bearer may be arrested?"
"do you know, dawson," i said, as he went upstairs with me to have a lick and a polish, as he put it--"i am inclined to agree with cary that you are rather an inhuman beast."
my wife, with whom i could exchange no more than a dozen words and a wink or two, gripped the situation and played up to it in the fashion which compels the admiration and terror of mere men. do they humbug us, their husbands, as they do the rest of the world on our behalf? she met dawson as if he were an old family friend, heaped hospitality upon him, and chaffed him blandly as if to entertain a police officer with a warrant and handcuffs in his pocket were the best joke in the world. "my husband, mr. dawson, needs a holiday very badly, but won't take one. he thinks that the war cannot be pursued successfully unless he looks after it himself. if you would carry him off and keep him quiet for a bit, i should be deeply grateful." she then fell into a discussion with dawson of the most conveniently situated prisons. mrs. copplestone dismissed dartmoor and portland as too bleakly situated, but was pleased to approve of parkhurst in the isle of wight--which i rather fancy is a house of detention for women. she insisted that the climate of the island was suited to my health, and wrung a promise from dawson that i should, if possible, be interned there. dawson's manners and conversation surprised me. his homespun origin was evident, yet he had developed an easy social style which was neither familiar nor aggressive. we were in his eyes eccentrics, possibly what he would call among his friends "a bit off," and he bore himself towards us accordingly. my small daughter, jane, to whom he had been presented as a colonel of police--little jane is deeply versed in military ranks--took to him at once, and his manner towards her confirmed my impression that some vestiges of humanity may still be discovered in him by the patient searcher. she insisted upon sitting next to him and in holding his hand when it was not employed in conveying food to his mouth. she was startled at first by the discussion upon the prisons most suitable for me, but quickly became reconciled to the idea of a temporary separation.
"colonel dawson," she asked. "when daddy is in prison, may i come and see him sometimes. mother and me?" dawson gripped his hair--we were the maddest crew!--and replied. "of course you shall, miss jane, as often as you like."
"thank you, colonel dawson; you are a nice man. i love you. now show me the handcuffs in your pocket."
we were sitting upon the fire-guard after luncheon, dallying over our coffee, when jane demanded to be shown a real arrest. "show me how you take up a great big man like daddy."
then came a surprise, which for a moment had so much in it of bitter realism that it drove the blood from my wife's cheeks. i could not follow dawson's movements; his hands flickered like those of a conjurer, there came a sharp click, and the handcuffs were upon my wrists! i stared at them speechless, wondering how they got there, and, looking up, met the coldly triumphant eyes of the detective. i realised then exactly how the professional manhunter glares at the prey into whom, after many days, he has set his claws. my wife gasped and clutched at my elbow, little jane screamed, and for a few seconds even i thought that the game had been played and that serious business was about to begin. dawson gave us a few seconds of apprehension, and then laughed grimly. from his waistcoat pocket he drew a key, and the fetters were removed almost as quickly as they had been clapped on. "tit for tat," said he. "you have had your fun with me. fair play is a jewel."
little jane was the first to recover speech. "i knew that dear colonel dawson was only playing," she cried. "he only did it to please me. thank you, colonel, though you did frighten me just a weeny bit at first." and pulling him down towards her she kissed him heartily upon his prickly cheek. it was a queer scene.
the door bell rang loudly, and we were informed that a policeman stood without who was inquiring for chief inspector dawson. "show him in here," said i. the constable entered, and his manner of addressing my guest--that of a raw second lieutenant towards a general of division--shed a new light upon dawson's pre-eminence in his service. "a telegram for you, sir." dawson seized it, was about to tear it open, remembered suddenly his hostess, and bowed towards her. "have i your permission, madam?" he asked. she smiled and nodded; i turned away to conceal a laugh. "good," cried dawson, poring over the message. "i think, mr. copplestone, that you had better telephone to your office and say that you are unavoidably detained."
"what--what is it?" cried my wife, who had again become white with sudden fear.
"something which will occupy the attention of your husband and myself to the exclusion of all other duties. this telegram informs me that a parcel has been handed in at carlisle and the bearer arrested."
"excellent!" i cried. "my time is at your disposal, dawson. we shall now get full light."
i had asked for five minutes, but two were sufficient for my purpose. the draughtsman had been obstinate with dawson, seeking loyally to shield his wretched brother-in-law, but when he found that i had the missing thread in my hands, he gave in at once. "what relation is ---- to your wife?" i asked. he had risen at my entrance, but the question went through him like a bullet; his pale face flushed, he staggered pitifully, and, sitting down, buried his face in his hands. "you may tell the truth now," i said gently. "we can easily find out what we must know, but the information will come better from you."
"he is my wife's brother," murmured the man.
"you knew that he was no longer in my service?"
"yes, i knew."
i might fairly have asked why he had used my name, but refrained. one can readily pardon the lapses of an honest man, terrified at finding himself in the coils of the police, clinging to the good name of his wife and her family, clutching at any device to throw the sleuth-hounds of the law off the real scent. he had given his brother-in-law forbidden information from a loyal desire to help him and with no knowledge of the base use to which it would be put. when detected, he had sought at any cost to shield him.
"i will do my best to help you," i said.
his head drooped down till it rested upon his bent arms, and he groaned and panted under the torture of tears. his was not the stuff of which criminals are made.
i found dawson's chuckling joy rather repulsive. i felt that, being successful, he might at least have had the decency to dissemble his satisfaction. he might also have given me some credit for the rapid clearing up of the problem in detection. but he took the whole thing to himself, and gloated like a child over his own cleverness. i neither obtained from him thanks for my assistance nor apologies for his suspicions. it was dawson, dawson, all the time. yet i found his egotism and unrelieved vanity extraordinarily interesting. as we sat together in his room waiting for the carlisle train to come in he discoursed freely to me of his triumphs in detection, his wide-spread system of spying upon spies, his long delayed "sport" with some, and his ruthless rapid trapping of others. men are never so interesting as when they talk shop, and as a talker of shop dawson was sublime.
"if," said dawson, as the time approached for the closing scene, "our much-wanted friend has himself handed in the parcel at carlisle--he would be afraid to trust an accomplice--our job will be done. if not, i will pull a drag net through this place which will bring him up within a day or two. what a fool the man is to think that he could escape the eye of bill dawson."
dawson began once more to descant upon his own astuteness, but i was too sick at heart to listen. i remembered only the visit years before which that man's wife had paid to me. "will you not open the parcel?" i interposed. he fell upon it, exposed its contents of bread, chocolate, and sardine tins, and called for a can opener. he shook the tins one by one beside his ear, and then, selecting that which gave out no "flop" of oil, stripped it open, plunged his fingers inside, and pulled forth a clammy mess of putty and sawdust. in a moment he had come upon a paper which after reading he handed to me. it bore the words in english, "informant arrested: dare not send more."
"what a fool!" cried dawson. "as if the evidence against him were not sufficient already he must give us this."
"you will let that poor devil of a draughtsman down easily?" i murmured.
"we want him as a witness," replied dawson. "tit for tat. if he helps us, we will help him. and now we will cut along to the admiral. he is eager for news."
we broke in upon the admiral in his office near the shipyards, and he greeted me with cheerful badinage. "so you are in the hands of the police at last, copplestone. i always told you what would be the end of your naval inquisitiveness."
dawson told his story, and the naval officer's keen kindly face grew stern and hard. "germans i can respect," said he, "even those that pretend to be our friends. but one of our own folk--to sell us like this--ugh! take the vermin away; dawson, and stamp upon it."
we stood talking for a few moments, and then dawson broke in with a question. "i have never understood, admiral, why you were so very confident that mr. copplestone here had no hand in this business. the case against him looked pretty ugly, yet you laughed at it all the time. why were you so sure?"
the admiral surveyed dawson as if he were some strange creature from an unknown world. "mr. copplestone is a friend of mine," said he drily.
"very likely," snapped the detective. "but is a man a white angel because he has the honour to be your friend?"
"a fair retort," commented the admiral. it happens that i had other and better reasons. for in july i myself showed mr. copplestone over the new battleship rampagious, and after our inspection we both lunched with the builders and discussed her design and armament in every detail. so as mr. copplestone knew all about her in july, he was not likely to suborn a draughtsman in november. see?"
"you should have told me this before. it was your duty."
"my good dawson," said the admiral gently, "you are an excellent officer of police, but even you have a few things yet to learn. i had in my mind to give you a lesson, especially as i owed you some punishment for your impertinence in opening my friend copplestone's private letters. you have had the lesson; profit by it."
dawson flushed angrily. "punishment! impertinence! this to me!"
"yes," returned the admiral stiffly, "beastly impertinence."
dawson showed no malice towards the admiral or myself for our treatment of him. i do not think that he felt any; he was too fully occupied in collecting the spoils of victory to trouble his head about what a scribbler or a salt horse might think of him. he gathered to himself every scrap of credit which the affair could be induced to yield, and received--i admit quite deservedly--the most handsome encomiums from his superiors in office. during the two weeks he passed in my city after the capture--weeks occupied in tracing out the threads connecting his wretch of a prisoner with the german agents upon what dawson called his "little list"--he paid several visits both to my house and my office. his happiness demanded that he should read to me the many letters which poured in from high officials of the c.i.d., from the chief commissioner, and on one day--a day of days in the chronicles of dawson--from the home secretary himself. to me it seemed that all these astute potentates knew their dawson very thoroughly, and lubricated, as it were, with judicious flattery the machinery of his energies. i could not but admire dawson's truly royal faculty for absorbing butter. the stomachs of most men, really good at their business, would have revolted at the diet which his superiors shovelled into dawson, but he visibly expanded and blossomed. yes, scotland yard knew its dawson, and exactly how to stimulate the best that was in him. he never bored me; i enjoyed him too thoroughly.
one day in my club i chanced upon the admiral.
"have you met our friend dawson lately?" i asked.
"met him?" shouted he, with a roar of laughter. "met him? he is in my office every day--he almost lives with me; goodness knows when he does his work. he has a pocket full of letters which he has read to me till i know them by heart. if i did not know that he was a first-class man i should set him down as a colossal ass. yet, i rather wish that the admiralty would sometimes write to me as the severe but very human scotland yard does to dawson."
"does he ever come to you in disguise?" i asked.
"not that i know of. i see vast numbers of people; some of them may be dawson in his various incarnations, but he has not given himself away."
"good. i should love to score off dawson. he is an aggravating beast."
"study his ears," said i. "he cannot alter their chief characters. the lobes of his ears are not loose, like yours or mine or those of most men and women; his are attached to the back of his cheekbones. my mother had lobes like those, so had the real roger tichborne; i noticed dawson's at once. also at the top fold of his ears he has rather a pronounced blob of flesh. this blob, more prominent in some men than in others, is, i believe, a surviving relic of the sharp point which adorned the ears of our animal ancestors. dawson's ancestor must have been a wolf or a bloodhound. whenever now i have a strange caller who is not far too tall or far too short to be dawson, if a stranger stops me in the street to ask for a direction, if a porter at a station dashes up to help me with my bag, i go for his ears. if the lobes are attached to the cheekbones and there is a pronounced blob in the fold at the top, i address the man instantly as dawson, however impossibly unlike dawson he may be. i have spotted him twice now since he bowled me out, and he is frightfully savage--especially as i won't tell him how the trick is done. he says that it is my duty to tell him, and that he will compel me under some of his beloved defence of the realm regulations. but the rack could not force me to give away my precious secret. cherish it and use it. you will not tell, for you love to mystify the ruffian as much as i do."
"i will watch for his ears when he next calls, which, i expect, will be to-morrow. thank you very much. i won't sneak."
"remember that nothing else in the way of identification is of any use, for i doubt if either of us has ever seen the real, undisguised dawson as he is known to god. we know a man whom we think is the genuine article--but is he? cary's description of him is most unlike the man whom we see here. i expect that he has a different identity for every place which he visits. if he told me that at any moment he was wholly undisguised, i should be quite sure that he was lying. the man wallows in deception for the very sport of the thing. but he can't change his ears. study them, and you will be safe."
our club was the only place in which we could be sure that dawson did not penetrate, though i should not have been surprised to learn that one or two of the waitresses were in his pay. dawson is an ardent feminist; he says that as secret agents women beat men to a frazzle.
shortly before dawson left for his headquarters on the north-east coast he dropped in upon me. he had finished his researches, and revealed the results to me with immense satisfaction.
"i have fixed up menteith," he began, "and know exactly how he came into communication with the german secret service." the contemptuous emphasis which he laid on the word "secret" would have annoyed the central office at potsdam. i have given the detected british spy the name of menteith after that of the most famous traitor in scottish history; if i called him, say, campbell or macdonald, nothing could save me from the righteous vengeance of the outraged clans.
"it was all very simple," he went on, "like most things in my business when one gets to the bottom of them. he was seduced by a man whom the local police have had on their string for a long time, but who will now be put securely away. menteith was a frequenter of a certain public house down the river, where he posed as an authority on the navy, and hinted darkly at his stores of hidden information. our german agent made friends with him, gave him small sums for drinks, and flattered his vanity. it is strange how easily some men are deceived by flattery. the agent got from menteith one or two bits of news by pretending a disbelief in his sources of intelligence, and then, when the fool had committed himself, threatened to denounce him to the police unless he took service with him altogether. money, of course, passed, but not very much. the germans who employ spies so extensively pay them extraordinarily little. they treat them like scurvy dogs, for whom any old bone is good enough, and i'm not sure they are not right. they go on the principle that the white trash who will sell their country need only to be paid with kicks and coppers. menteith swears that he did not receive more than four pounds for the plans and description of the rampagious. fancy selling one's country and risking one's neck for four measly pounds sterling! if he had got four thousand, i should have had some respect for him. his home is in a wretched state, and his wife--a pretty woman, though almost a skeleton, and a very nicely mannered, honest woman--says that her husband unexpectedly gave her four pounds a month ago. he had kept none of the blood money for drink! curious, isn't it?"
"it shows that the man had some good in him. it shows that he was ashamed to use the money upon himself. we must do something for the poor wife, dawson."
"she will easily get work, and she will be far better without her sot of a husband. she did not cry when i told her everything. 'i ought to have left him long ago,' she said, 'but i tried to save him. thank god we have no children,' that seemed to be her most insistent thought, for she repeated it over and over again. 'thank god that we have no children.'"
"i hope that you were gentle with her, dawson," said i, deeply moved. long ago the wife had come to me and pleaded for her husband. she had shed no tear; she had admitted the justice, the necessity, of my sentence. "can you not give him another chance?" she had asked. "no," i had answered sadly. "he has exhausted all the chances." when she had risen to go and i had pressed her hand, she had said, still dry-eyed, "you are right, sir, it is no use, no use at all. thank god that we have no children."
"i hope that you were gentle with her, dawson," i repeated.
he astonished me by the suddenness of his explosion. "damn," roared he--"damn and blast! do you think that i am a brute. gentle! it was as much as i could do not to kiss the woman, as your little daughter kissed me, and to promise that i would get her husband off somehow. but i should not be a friend to her if i tried to save that man."
so dawson had soft spots in his armour of callousness, and little jane's instinct was far surer than mine. she had taken to him at sight. when i tried to get from her why, why he had so marked an attraction for her, her replies baffled me more than the central fact. "i love colonel dawson. he is a nice man. he has a little girl like me. her name is clara. her birthday is next month. i shall save up my pocket money and send clara a present. i like colonel dawson better even than dear bailey." i tore my hair, for "bailey" is a wholly imaginary friend of little jane, whom i invented one evening at her bedside and who has grown gradually into a personage of clearly defined attributes--like the "putois" of anatole france. dawson and "bailey"; they are both "nice men" and little jane's friends; she is sure of them, and i expect that she is right. children always are right.
dawson, after his outburst, glowered at me for a moment and then laughed. "i am a man," said he, "though you may not think it, and i have my weaknesses. but i never give way to them when they interfere with business. menteith is in my grip, and he won't get out of it. but he is a poor creature. he handed over the description of the rampagious, saw it hidden in the sardine tin, and was ordered to take the food parcel to the post office. the german agent who used him had no notion of risking his own skin. then followed the discovery and the arrest of the draughtsman who had drawn the plan. those who had seduced menteith forbade him to come near them. they slipped away into hiding--which profited them little since all of them were on our string--after threatening menteith that he would be murdered if he gave himself up to the police, as in his terror he seemed to want to do. when nothing happened for two weeks, the vermin came out of their holes, made up the last parcel, and forced menteith to go to carlisle in order to post it. all through he has been the most abject of tools, and received nothing except the four pounds and various small sums spent in drinks."
"you have the principal all right?"
"yes, i have him tight. the others associated with him i shall leave free; they will be most useful in future. they don't know that we know them; when they do know, their number will go up, for they will be then of no further use to us. it is a beautiful system, mr. copplestone, and you have had the unusual privilege of seeing it at work."
"what will your prisoners get by way of punishment?"
by this time it had become apparent even to my slow intelligence why dawson told me so much about himself and his methods. he had formed the central figure in a real story in print, and the glory of it possessed him. he had tasted of the rich sweet wine of fame, and he thirsted for more of the same vintage. he never in so many words asked me to write this book, but his eagerness to play dr. johnson to my boswell appeared in all our relations. he was communicative far beyond the limits of official discretion. if i now disclosed half, or a quarter, of what he told me of the inner working of the secret service, scotland yard, which admires and loves him, would cast him out, lock him up securely in gaol, and prepare for me a safe harbourage in a contiguous cell. so for both our sakes i must be very, very careful.
"you have been most helpful to me," he said handsomely at parting, "and if anything good turns up on the north-east coast, i will let you know. could you come if i sent for you?"
"i would contrive to manage it," said i.
the telegram was from dawson himself. it ran: "they say i'm beaten. but i'm not. come and see."
"the deuce," said i. "sabotage! i am off."
when at last i arrived at cary's flat it was very late, and i was exceedingly tired and out of temper. a squadron of zeppelins had been reported from the sea, the air-defence control at newcastle had sent out the preliminary warning "f.m.w.," and the speed of my train had been reduced to about fifteen miles an hour. i had expected to get in to dinner, but it was eleven o'clock before i reached my destination. i had not even the satisfaction of seeing a raid, for the zepps, made cautious by recent heavy losses, had turned back before crossing the line of the coast. cary and his wife fell upon my neck, for we were old friends, condoled with me, fed me, and prescribed a tall glass of mulled port flavoured with cloves. my stern views upon the need for prohibition in time of war became lamentably weakened.
by midnight i had recovered my philosophic outlook upon life, and cary began to enlighten me upon the details of the grave problem which had brought me eagerly curious to his city.
"i expect that dawson will drop in some time to-night," he said. "all hours are the same to him. i told him that you were on the way, and he wants to give you the latest news himself. he is dead set upon you, copplestone. i can't imagine why."
"am i then so very unattractive?" i inquired drily. "it seems to me that dawson is a man of sound judgment."
"i confess that i do not understand why he lavishes so much attention upon you."
"your remarks, cary," i observed, "are deficient in tact. you might, at least, pretend to believe that my personal charm has won for me dawson's affection. as a matter of fact, he cares not a straw for my beaux yeux; his motives are crudely selfish. he thinks that it is in my power to contribute to the greater glory of dawson, and he cultivates me just as he would one of his show chrysanthemums. he has done me the honour to appoint me his biographer extraordinary."
"i am sure you are wrong," cried cary. "he was most frightfully angry about that story of ours in cornhill. he demanded from me your name and address, and swore that if i ever again disclosed to you official secrets he would proceed against me under the defence of the realm act. he was a perfect terror, i can assure you."
"and yet he always carries that story about with him in his breast-pocket; he has summoned me here to see him at his work; and you have been commanded to tell me everything which you know! my dear cary, do not be an ass. you are too simple a soul for this rather grubby world. in your eyes every politician is an ardent, disinterested patriot, and every soldier or sailor a knightly hero of romance. human beings, cary, are made in streaks, like bacon; we have our fat streaks and our lean ones; we can be big and bold, and also very small and mean. your great man and your national hero can become very poor worms when, so to speak, they are off duty. but i didn't come here, at great inconvenience, to talk this sort of stuff at midnight. go ahead; give me the details of this sabotage case which is baffling dawson and the naval authorities; let me hear about the cutting of those electric wires."
"it is, as i told you, in my note, a queer business. the antinous, a fast light cruiser, came in about a fortnight ago to have some defects made good in her high-speed geared-turbines. there was not much wrong, but her engineer commander recommended a renewal of some of the spur wheels. the officers and crew went on short leave in rotation, a care and maintenance party was put in charge, and the builders placed a working gang on board which was occupied in shifts, by night and by day, in making good the defects. when a ship is under repair in a river basin, it is practically impossible to keep up the beautiful order and discipline of a ship at sea. men of all kinds are constantly coming and going, life on board is stripped of the most ordinary comforts and conveniences, there is inevitably some falling off in strict supervision. lack of space, lack of facilities for moving about the ship, lack of any regular routine. you will understand. just as the expansion in the new army and the new navy has made it possible for unknown enemy agents to take service in the army and the navy, so the dilution of labour in the shipyards has made it possible for workmen--whose sympathies are with the enemy--to get employment about the warships. the danger is fully recognised, and that is where dawson's widespread system of counter-espionage comes in. there is not a trade union, among all the eighteen or twenty engaged in shipyard work--riveters, fitters, platers, joiners, and all the rest of them--in which he has not police officers enrolled as skilled tradesmen, members of the unions, working as ordinary hands or as foremen, sometimes even in office as "shop stewards" representing the interest of the unions and acting as their spokesmen in disputes with the employers. dawson claims that there has never yet been a secret strike committee, since the war began, upon which at least one of his own men was not serving. he is a wonderful man. i don't like him; he is too unscrupulous and merciless for my simple tastes; but his value to the country is beyond payment."
"but where in the world does he raise these men? one can't turn a policeman into a skilled worker at a moment's notice. how is it done?"
"he begins at the other end. all his skilled workmen are the best he can pick out of their various trades. they have served their full time as apprentices and journeymen. they are recommended to him by their employers after careful testing and sounding. most of them, i believe, come from the government dockyards and ordnance factories. they are given a course of police training at scotland yard, and then dropped down wherever they may be wanted. dawson, and inspectors like him, have these men everywhere--in shipyards, in shell shops, in gun factories, in aeroplane sheds, everywhere. they take a leading part in the councils of the unions wherever they go, for they add to their skill as workmen a pronounced, even blatant parade of loyalty to the interests of trade unions and a tasty flavour of socialist principles. dawson is perfectly cynically outspoken to me over the business which, i confess, appals me. in his female agents--of which he has many--he favours what he calls a 'judicious frailty'; in his male agents he favours a subtle skill in the verbal technique of anarchism. and this man dawson is by religion a peculiar baptist, in private life a faithful husband and a loving father, and in politics a strict liberal of the manchester school! as a man he is good, honest, and rather narrow; as a professional detective he is base and mean, utterly without scruple, and a jesuit of jesuits. with him the end justifies the means, whatever the means may be."
"and yet you admit that his value to the country is beyond payment. dawson--our remarkable dawson of the double life in the two compartments, professional and private, which never are allowed to overlap--dawson is an instrument of war. we do not like using gas or liquid fire, but we are compelled to use them. we do not like espionage, but we must employ it. as one who loves this fair land of england beyond everything in the world, and as one who would do anything, risk anything, and suffer anything to shield her from the filthy germans, i rejoice that she has in her service such supremely efficient guardians as this most wickedly unscrupulous dawson. there is, at any rate, not a trace of our english muddle about him."
"ours is a righteous cause," cried poor cary desperately. "we are fighting for right against wrong, for defence against aggression, for civilisation against utter barbarism. we are by instinct clean fighters. if in the stress of conflict we stoop to foul methods, can we ever wash away the filth of them from our souls? we shall stand before the world nakedly confessed as the nation of hypocrites we have always been declared to be."
"we shall know something soon," i said, "for, if i mistake not, here comes dawson." the electric bell at the front door had buzzed, and cary, slipping from the room, presently returned with a man who to me, at the first glance, was a complete stranger. i sprang up, moved round to a position whence i could see clearly the visitor's ears, and gasped. it was dawson beyond a doubt, but it was not the dawson whom i had known in the north. so what i had vaguely surmised was true--cary's dawson and copplestone's dawson were utterly unlike. dawson winked at me, glanced towards cary, and shook his head; from which i gathered that he did not desire his appearance to be the subject of comment. i therefore greeted him without remark, and, as he sat down under the electric lights, examined him in detail. this dawson was ten years older than the man whom i had known and fenced with. the hair of this one was lank and grey, while that of mine was brown and curly; the face of this one was white and thin, while the face of mine was rather full and ruddy. the teeth were different--i found out afterwards that dawson, who had few teeth of his own, possessed several artificial sets of varied patterns--the shape of the mouth was different, the nose was different. i could never have recognised the man before me had i not possessed that clue to identity furnished by his unchanging ears.
"so, dawson," said i slowly, "we meet again. permit me to say that i congratulate you. it is very well done."
he grinned and glanced at the unconscious cary. "you are learning. bill dawson takes a bit of knowing."
"have you any news, mr. dawson?" asked cary eagerly.
"you say that the antinous is all right now?" i observed.
"yes. i saw her towed out of the repair basin an hour ago, and she must be away down the river by this time. it is not of her that i'm thinking, but of the other ships which are constantly in and out for repairs. there are always a dozen here of various craft, usually small stuff. while the man who cut those wires is unknown i shall be in a perfect fever, and so will the admiral-superintendent. we'll get the beauty sooner or later, but if it is later, there may be had mischief done. if he can cut wires in one ship, he may do much worse things in some other. the responsibility rests on me, and it is rather crushing."
dawson spoke with less than his usual cheery confidence. i fancy that the thinness and whiteness of his face were not wholly due to disguise. he had not been to bed since he had been called up in the middle watch of the night before last, and the man was worn out.
his dull, weary eyes lighted as if under the stimulus of champagne, and he turned upon me a look which was almost affectionate. i really began to believe that dawson likes me, that he sees in me a kindred spirit as patriotically unscrupulous as himself.
i led him to the door and put him out, and then turned to cary with a laugh. "and i, too, will follow dawson's example. it is past one, and my head is buzzing with queer ideas. perhaps, after all, the germans have more imagination than we usually credit them with. i wonder--" but i did not tell to cary what i wondered.
we were sitting after breakfast in cary's study, enjoying the first sweet pipe of the day, when the telephone bell rang. cary took off the earpiece and i listened to a one-sided conversation somewhat as follows:--
"what! is that you, mr. dawson? yes, copplestone is here. the antigone? what about her? she is a sister ship of the antinous, and was in with damage to her forefoot, which had been ripped up when she ran down that big german submarine north of the orkneys--yes, i know; she was due to go out some time to-day. what do you say? wires cut? whose wires have been cut? the antigone's? oh, the devil! yes, we will both come down to your office this afternoon. whenever you like."
cary hung up the receiver and glared at me. "it has happened again," he groaned. "the antigone this time. she has been in dry dock for the past fortnight and was floated out yesterday. her full complement joined her last night. dawson says that he was called up at eight-o'clock by the news that her gun-wires have been cut exactly like those of the antinous and in the same incomprehensible way. he seems, curiously enough, to be quite cheerful about it."
"what is your idea? tell me quick."
"no, thank you, dr. watson. we amateur masters of intuition don't work our thrilling effects in that way. we keep our notions to ourselves until they turn out to be right, and then we declare that we saw through the problem from the first. when we have been wrong, we say nothing. so you observe, cary, that whatever happens our reputations do not suffer."
cary tried to shake my resolution, but i was obdurately silent. while he canvassed the whole position, bringing to bear his really profound knowledge of naval equipment and routine--and incidentally helping me greatly to realise the improbability of my own guesswork solution--i was able to maintain an air of lofty superiority. i must have aggravated him intensely, unpardonably, for i was his guest. he ought to have kicked me out. yet he bore with me like the sweet-blooded kindly angel that he is, and when at the end it appeared that i was right after all, cary was the first to pour congratulations and honest admiration upon me. if he reads this book he will know that i am repentant--though i must confess that i should behave in just the same abominable way if the incident were to occur again. there is no great value in repentance such as this.
we reached dawson's office in the early afternoon, and found his chief assistant there, but no dawson. "the old man," remarked that officer, a typical, stolid, faithful detective sergeant, "is out on the rampage. he ought by rights to sit here directing the staff and leave the outside investigations to me. he is a high-up man, almost a deputy assistant commissioner, and has no call to be always disguising himself and playing his tricks on everybody. i suppose you know that white-haired old gent down here ain't a bit like bill dawson, who's not a day over forty?"
"i have given up wondering where the real dawson ends and where the disguises begin. the man i met up north wasn't the least bit like the one down here."
"one might make a good story out of that," i observed to cary.
"i don't understand," said he. "mr. dawson told me once that i knew the real dawson, but that few other people did."
"if he told you that," calmly observed the assistant, "you may bet your last shirt he was humbugging you. he couldn't tell the truth, not if he tried ever so."
"what is he at now?" i asked.
"i don't know, sir. and if he told me, i shouldn't believe him. i don't take no account of a word that man says. but he's the most successful detective we've got in the whole force. he's sure to be head of the c.i.d. one day, and then he will have to stay in his office and give us others a chance."
"i don't believe he will," i observed, laughing. "there will be a sham dawson in the office and the genuine article will be out on the rampage. he is a man who couldn't sit still, not even if you tied him in his chair and sealed the knots."
we spent a pleasant hour pulling dawson to pieces and leaving to him not a rag of virtue, except intense professional zeal. we exchanged experiences of him, those of the chief assistant being particularly rich and highly flavoured. it appeared that dawson when off duty loved to occupy the platform at meetings of his religious connection and to hold forth to the elect. the privilege of "sitting under him" had been enjoyed more than once by the assistant, who retailed to us extracts from dawson's favourite sermon on "truth." his views upon truth were unbending as armour plate. "under no circumstances, not to save oneself from imminent death, not to shield a wife or a child from the penalties for a lapse from virtue, not even to preserve one's country from the attacks of an enemy, was it permissible to a peculiar baptist to diverge by the breadth of a hair from the straight path of truth. hell yawned on either hand; only along the knife edge of truth could salvation be reached."
"he made me shiver," said the chief assistant, "and he drove me to thinking of one or two little deceptions of my own. when dawson preaches, his eyes blaze, his voice breaks, and he will fall on his knees and pray for the souls of those who heed not his words. you can't look at him then and not believe that he means every word he says. yet it's all humbug."
"no, it is not," said i. "dawson in the pulpit, or on the tub--or whatever platform he uses--is absolutely genuine. he is the finest example that i have ever met of the dual personality. he is in dead earnest when he preaches on truth, and he is in just as dead earnest when, stripped of every moral scruple, he pursues a spy or a criminal. in pursuit he is ruthless as a prussian, but towards the captured victim he can be strangely tender. i should not be surprised to learn that he hates capital punishment and is a strong advocate of gentle methods in prison discipline."
the chief assistant stared, opened a drawer, and pulled forth a slim grey pamphlet. it was marked "for office use only," and was entitled, "some notes on prison reform," by chief inspector william dawson.
i had begun to read the pamphlet, when a step sounded outside; the assistant snatched it from my hand, flashed it back into its place, and jumped to attention as dawson entered. he surveyed us with those searching, unwinking eyes of his--for we had the air of conspirators--and said brusquely: "clear out, wilson. you talk too much. and don't admit any one except petty officer trehayne."
"the antigone!" cried cary, who thought only of ships. "the antigone! is she much damaged?"
"no. whoever tried to cut her wires was disturbed, or in too great a hurry to do his work well. the main gun-cable was nipped, but not cut through. she will be delayed till to-morrow, not longer. i am not worrying about the antigone, but about the new battleship malplaquet, which was commissioned last month, is nearly filled up with stores, and is expected to leave the river on saturday. we can't have her delayed by any hanky tricks, not even if we have to put the whole detective force on board of her. still, i'm not so anxious as i was. this antigone business has cleared things up a lot, and one can sift out the impossible from the possible. to begin with, the antinous was in for repairs to her geared turbines, and the antigone for damage to her forefoot. engineers were on one job, and platers and riveters on the other. different trades. so not a workman who was in the antinous was also in the antigone. we can rule out all the workmen. we can also rule out my lieutenant r.n.r. with the german name who has gone to sea in the antinous. the care and maintenance party in the antigone was not the same as the one in the antinous, not a man the same."
"you are sure of that?" cried i, for it seemed that my daring theory had gone to wreck. "you are quite sure."
"quite. i have all the names and have examined all the men. they were all off the ship by eleven o'clock last night. i hadn't one of my own men among them, but, to make sure, i sent petty officer trehayne on board at eight o'clock to keep a sharp look-out and to see all the harbour party off the vessel. he reported a little after eleven that they were all gone and the ship taken over by her own crew. the damage was discovered at four bells in the morning watch."
"six o'clock a.m.," interpreted cary.
"it looks now as if there might be a traitor among her own crew, which is her officers' job, not mine. i wash my hands of the antigone, but it is very much up to me to see that nothing hurtful happens to the malplaquet. the admiral has orders to support me with all the force under his command; the general of the district has the same orders. but it isn't force we want so much as brains--dawson's brains. i have been beaten twice, but not the third time. i've told the yard that if the malplaquet is touched i shall resign, and if they send any one to help me i shall resign. between to-day, thursday, and saturday i am going to catch the wily josser who has a fancy for cutting gun cables or dawson will say good-bye to the force. that's a fair stake."
the man swelled with determination and pride. he had no thought of failure, and drew inspiration and joy from the heaviness of the bet which he had made with fortune. he took the born gambler's delight in a big risk.
"then you think that the antinous and the antigone were both damaged by the same man, and that he may have designs upon the malplaquet?" said i.
"i don't propose to tell you what i think," replied dawson stiffly.
"still," i persisted, passing over the snub, "you have a theory?"
"what are you going to do?"
"this is thursday afternoon. i am going to join the malplaquet presently, and i'm not going to sleep till she is safely down the river. i'm going to be my own watchman this time."
"how? in what capacity?"
dawson gave a shrug of impatience, for his nerves were on edge. for a moment he hesitated, and then, recollecting the high post to which i had tacitly been appointed in his household, he replied:
"i am going as one of the marine sentries."
"it's no use, dawson," protested i emphatically. "you are a wonder at disguise, and will look, i do not doubt, the very spit of a marine. but you can't pass among the men for half an hour without discovery. they are a class apart, they talk their own language, cherish their own secret traditions, live in a world to which no stranger ever penetrates. you could pass as a naval officer more easily than you could as a pongo. it is sheer madness, dawson."
he gave a short laugh. "much you know about it. i have served in the red corps myself. i was a recruit at deal, passed two years at plymouth, and served afloat for three years. i was then drafted into the naval police. afterwards i was recommended for detective work in the dockyards, and at the end of my marine service joined the yard. my good man, i was a sergeant before i left the corps."
"i give up, dawson," said i. "nothing about you will ever surprise me again. not even if you claim to have been a cabinet minister."
a queer smile stole over his face. "no, i have not been a minister, but i have attended a meeting of the cabinet."
cary interposed at this point. "yours is a fine idea, mr. dawson. as a marine sentry you can get yourself posted by the major wherever you please, and the guard will not talk even though they may wonder that any man should want to do twenty-four hours of duty per day. the marines are the closest, faith-fullest, and best disciplined force in the wide world. bluejackets will gossip; marines never. you will be able to watch more closely than even trehayne, who, i suppose, will also be on board."
"yes. he is coming up soon for instructions. it's his last chance, as it is mine. he sees that he must be held responsible for the wire cutting in the antinous, and to some slight extent also in the antigone, and that if anything goes wrong with the malplaquet he will be dismissed. i shall be sorry to lose him, for he is an exceptionally good man, but we can't allow failures in petty officer detectives any more than we can in chief inspectors."
"where does trehayne come from? his name sounds cornish," i asked.
"falmouth, i believe. he is quite young, but he has had nearly three years in the vernon at portsmouth and in the torpedo factory at greenock. a first-class engineer and electrician and a sound detective. he has been with me for some twelve months. you will see him if he calls soon."
i had been thinking hard over the details of dawson's plans while the talk went on, and then ventured to offer some comments.
"it is fortunate that you have grown a moustache since you were in the north; you could not have been a marine as a clean-shaven man."
"i often have to shave it," said dawson, "but i always grow it again between whiles. one can take it off quicker than one can put it on again. false hair is the devil; i have never used it yet and never will. so whenever i have a spell of leisure i grow a moustache against emergencies--like this one."
my next comment was rather difficult to make, for i did not wish either cary or dawson to divine its purpose. "if i may make a suggestion to a man of your experience it would be that none of your men here, not even your chief assistant or trehayne, should know that you are joining the malplaquet as a marine. two independent strings are in this case better than a double-jointed string."
"i never tell anything to any one, least of all to pudden-headed wilson. he is loyal, but a stupid ass with a flapping tongue. trehayne is close as wax, but, on general principles, i keep my movements strictly to myself. he will be in the ship, but he won't know that i am there too. the commander must know and the major of marines, for i shall want a uniform and the free run of the ship, so as to be posted where i like. the marine sergeants of the guard may guess, but, as mr. cary says, they won't talk. you two gentlemen are safe," added dawson pleasantly, "for i've got you tight in my hand and could lock either of you up in a minute if i chose."
a peculiar knock came upon the door, a word passed between dawson and the police sentry outside, and a young man in the uniform of a naval petty officer entered the room. he was clean-shaven, looked about twenty-five years old, was dark and slim of the latin type which is not uncommon in cornwall, and impressed me at once with his air of intelligence and refinement. his voice, too, was rather striking. it was that of the wardroom rather than of the mess deck. i liked the look of petty officer trehayne. dawson presented him to us and then took him aside for instructions. when he had finished, both men rejoined us, and the conversation became light and general. trehayne, though clearly suffering from nervous strain after his recent professional failures, talked with the ease and detachment of a highly cultivated man. it appeared that he had been educated at blundell's school, had lost his parents at about sixteen, had done a course in some electrical engineering shops at plymouth, and when twenty years old had secured a good berth on the engineering staff of the vernon. he could speak both french and german, which he had learned partly at school and partly on the continent during leave. dawson, who was evidently very proud of his young pupil and assistant, paraded his accomplishments before us rather to trehayne's embarrassment. "try him with french and german," urged dawson. "he can chatter them as well as english. but he is as close as wax in all three languages. some men can't keep their tongues still in one."
i turned to trehayne and spoke in french: "german i can't abide, but french i love. my vocabulary is extensive, but my accent abominable--incurably british. you can hear it for yourself how it gives me away."
"it is not quite of paris," replied trehayne. "mais vous parlez francais tres bien, tres correctement. beaucoup mieux que moi."
"non, non, monsieur," i protested, and then reverted to english.
"now," said dawson, when trehayne had left us, "i must get along, see the commander of the malplaquet, and draw a uniform and rifle out of the marine stores. it will be quite like old times. you won't see me until saturday, when i shall be either a triumphant or a broken man. what is the betting, mr. copplestone?"
i could not understand the quizzical little smile that dawson gave me, nor the humorous twitch of his lips. he had contemptuously disclaimed all use of theories, yet there was more moving behind that big forehead of his than he chose to give away. did his ideas run on parallel lines with mine; did he even suspect that i had formed any idea at all? i could not inquire, for i dislike being laughed at, especially by this man dawson. i had nothing to go upon, at least so little that was palpable that anything which i might say would be dismissed as the merest guesswork, for which, as dawson proclaimed, he had no use. yet, yet--my original guess stuck firmly in my mind, improbable though it might be, and had just been nailed down tightly--i scorn to mystify the reader--by a few simple sentences spoken in french.
the marine sentry
"if you can manage that, cary, you will have my blessing."
he did manage to work the luncheon part by telephoning to the yard where the malplaquet was fitting out, and we left the rest to our personal charms.
cary was right. the commander was a very fine fellow, an english naval officer of the best type. he confirmed the views i had frequently heard expressed by others of his profession that no hatred exists between english and german sailors. they leave that to middle-aged civilians who write for newspapers. the german navy, in his opinion, was "a jolly fine service," worthy in high courage and skill to contest with us the supremacy of the seas. he had been through the china troubles as a lieutenant in the monmouth--afterwards sunk by german shot off coronel--knew von spee, von mueller, and other officers of the pacific squadron, and spoke of them with enthusiasm. "they sunk some of our ships and we wiped out theirs. that was all in the way of business. we loved them in peace and we loved them in war. they were splendidly loyal to us out in china--von spee actually transferred some of his ships to the command of our own senior officer so as to avoid any clash of control--and when it came to fighting, they fought like gentlemen. i grant you that their submarine work against merchant ships has been pretty putrid, but i don't believe that was the choice of their navy. they got their orders from rotten civilians like kaiser bill." imagine if you can the bristling moustache of the supreme war lord could he have heard himself described as a civilian!
our guest had commanded a destroyer in the jutland battle, and assured us that the handling of the german battle squadrons had been masterly. "they punished us heavily for just so long as they were superior in strength, and then they slipped away before jellicoe could get his blow in. they kept fending us off with torpedo attacks until the night came down, and then clean vanished. we got in some return smacks after dark at stragglers, but it was very difficult to say how much damage we did. not much, i expect. still it was a good battle, as decisive in its way as trafalgar. it proved that the whole german fleet could not fight out an action against our full force and have the smallest hope of success. i am just praying for the chance of a whack at them in the malplaquet. my destroyer was a bonny ship, the best in the flotilla, but the malplaquet is a real peach. you should see her."
"we mean to," said cary. "this very afternoon. you shall take us back with you."
the commander opened his eyes at this cool proposal, but we prevailed upon him to seek the permission of the admiral-superintendent, who, a good deal to my surprise, proved to be quite pliable. cary's reputation for discretion must be very high in the little village where he lives if it is able to guarantee so disreputable a scribbler as bennet copplestone! the admiral, fortunately, had not read any of my works before they had been censored. when printed in cornhill they were comparatively harmless.
i must not describe the malplaquet. her design was not new to me--i had seen more than one of her type--but as she is now a unit in beatty's fleet her existence is not admitted to the world. as we went up and down her many steep narrow ladders, and peered into dark corners, i looked everywhere for a marine sentry whom i could identify by mark of ear as dawson. i never saw him, but trehayne passed me twice, and i found myself again admiring his splendid young manhood. he was not big, being rather slim and wiry than strongly built, but in sheer beauty of face and form he was almost perfectly fashioned. "do you know that man?" i asked of our commander, indicating trehayne. "no," said he. "he is one of the shore party. but i should like to have him with me. he is one of the smartest looking petty officers that i have ever seen."
we were shown everything that we desired to see except the transmission room and the upper conning tower--the twin holy of holies in a commissioned ship--and slipped away, escaping the captain by a bare two minutes. which was lucky, as he would probably have had us thrown into the "ditch."
the end of the day was as weariful as the beginning, and we were all glad--especially, i expect, mrs. cary--to go early to bed. that ill-used lady, to whom we could disclose nothing of our anxieties, must have found us wretched company.
we had finished breakfast the next morning--the saturday of dawson's gamble--and were sitting on cary's big fireguard talking of every subject, except the one which had kept us awake at night, when a servant entered and announced that a soldier was at the door with a message from mr. dawson. "show him in," almost shouted cary, and i jumped to my feet, stirred for once into a visible display of eagerness.
a marine came in, dressed in the smart blue sea kit that i love; upon his head the low flat cap of his corps. he gave us a full swinging salute, and jumped to attention with a click of his heels. he looked about thirty-five, and wore a neatly trimmed dark moustache. his hair, also very dark, was cropped close to his head. standing there with his hands upon the red seams of his trousers, his chest well filled out, and his face weather tanned, he looked a proper figure of a sea-going soldier. "mr. cary, sir," he said, in a flat, monotonous orderly's voice, "major boyle's compliments, and could you and your friend come down to the police station to meet him and chief inspector dawson. i have a taxi-cab at the door, sir."
"certainly," cried cary; "in two minutes we shall be ready."
"oh, no, we shan't," i remarked calmly, for i had moved to a position of tactical advantage on the marine's port beam. "we will have the story here, if you don't mind, dawson."
he stamped pettishly on the floor, whipped off his cap, and spun it across the room. "confound you, mr. copplestone!" he growled. "how the--how the--do you do it?" he could not think of an expletive mild enough for mrs. cary's ears. "there's something about me that i can't hide. what is it? if you don't tell, i will get you on the regulation compelling all british subjects to answer questions addressed to them by a competent naval or military authority."
"you don't happen to be either, dawson," said i unkindly. "and, beside, there was never yet a law made which could compel a man to speak or a woman to hold her tongue. some day perhaps, if you are good, i will show you how the trick is done. but not yet. i want to have something to bargain with when you cast me into jail. out with the story; we are impatient. if i mistake not, you come to us dawson triumphant. you haven't the air of a broken man."
"i have been successful," he answered gravely, "but i am a long, long way from feeling triumphant. no, thank you, mrs. cary, i have had my breakfast, but if i might trouble you for a cup of coffee? many thanks."
i cut dawson short. he tended to become tedious.
"quite so," i observed politely. "and to revert to one big female creature, let us hear something of the malplaquet."
"you at any rate are curious enough for a dozen. it would serve you right to keep you hopping a bit longer. but i have a kindly eye for human weakness, though you might not think it. i joined the ship on thursday afternoon, slipping in as one of a detachment of fifty r.m.l.i. who had been wired for from chatham. they were an emergency lot; we hadn't enough in the ship for the double sentry go that i wanted. all my plans were made with the commander and major boyle, and they both did exactly what i told them. it isn't often that a private of marines has the ordering about of two officers. but dawson is dawson; no common man. they did as i told them, and were glad to do it. i had extra light bulbs put on all over the lower decks and every dark corner lit up--except one. just one. and this one was where the four gun-cables ran out of the switch-room and lay alongside one another before they branched off to the fore and after turrets and to the port and starboard side batteries. that was the most likely spot which any one wanting to cut the gun-wires would mark down, and i meant to watch it pretty closely myself. we had double sentries at the magazines. the malplaquet is an oil-fired ship, so we hadn't any bothering coal bunkers to attract fancy bombs. i was pretty sure that after the antinous and the antigone we had mostly wire-cutting to fear. when a man has done one job successfully, and repeated it almost successfully, he is pretty certain to have a third shot. besides, if one is out to delay a ship, cutting wires is as good a way as any. i had an idea that my man was not a bomber."
dawson frowned. "shut up, copplestone," snapped cary.
"we were in no danger from the lighting, heating, and telephone wires, for any defect would have been visible at once. it was the gun and gunnery control cables that were the weak spots. so i had l.t.o.'s posted in the spotting top, the conning tower, the transmission room, the four turrets, and at the side batteries. every few minutes they put through tests which would have shown up at once any wires that had been tampered with. after the shore party had cleared out about nine o'clock on the thursday, no officer or man was allowed to leave the ship without a special permit from the commander. this was all dead against the sanitary regulations of the harbour, but i had the admiral's authority to break any rules i pleased. by the way, you two ought never to have been allowed on board yesterday afternoon--i saw you, though you didn't see me; it was contrary to my orders. i spoke to the admiral pretty sharp last night. 'who is responsible for the ship?' says i. 'you or me?' 'you,' says he. 'i leave it at that,' says i."
"one moment, dawson," i put in. "if the shore party had all gone, how was it that i saw petty officer trehayne in the ship?"
"i started my own sentry duty in the dark corner i told you of as soon as i had seen to the arrangements all over the malplaquet, and i was there, with very few breaks of not more than five minutes each for a bite of food, for twenty-six hours. two marine sentries took my place whenever i was away. i had my rifle and bayonet, and stood back in a corner of a bulkhead where i couldn't be seen. the hours were awful long; i stood without hardly moving. all the pins and needles out of redditch seemed to dance up and down me, but i stuck it out--and i had my reward, i had my reward. i did my duty, but it's a sick and sorry man that i am this day."
"there was nothing else to be done," i said. "what you feel now is a nervous reaction."
dawson stopped and pulled savagely at his cigar. he jabbed the end with his knife, though the cigar was drawing perfectly well, and gave forth a deep growl which might have been a curse or a sob.
"it was petty officer trehayne," said i calmly--and waited for a sensation.
"i am not saying that he wasn't," snapped dawson, whose nerves were very badly on edge. "he was obeying the orders of his superiors as we all have to do. he gave his life, and it was for his country's service. nobody can do more than that. don't you go for to slander trehayne. i watched him die--on his feet."
cary turned to me. "what made you think it was trehayne?" he asked. this was better. i looked at dawson, who was brooding in his chair with his thoughts far away. he was still seeing those eyes fading out under the glare of the electrics between the steel decks of the malplaquet!
"it was a sheer guess at first," said i, preserving a decent show of modesty. "when i heard how the enemy plotted and dawson counter-plotted with all those skilled workmen in his detective service, it occurred to me that an enemy with imagination might counter-counterplot by getting men inside dawson's defences. i couldn't see how one would work it, but if german agents, say, could manage to become trusted servants of dawson himself, they would have the time of their lives. so far i was guessing at a possibility, however improbable it might seem. then when dawson told us that he had sent trehayne into the antigone and that he was the one factor common to both vessels--the workmen and the maintenance part were all different--i began to feel that my wild theory might have something in it. i didn't say anything to you, cary, or to dawson--he despises theories. afterwards trehayne came in and i spoke to him, and he to me, in french. he did not utter a dozen words altogether, but i was absolutely certain that his french had not been learned at an english public school and during short trips on the continent. i know too much of english school french and of one's opportunities to learn upon continental trips. it took me three years of hard work to recover from the sort of french which i learned at school, and i am not well yet. the french spoken by trehayne was the french of the nursery. it was almost, if not quite, his mother tongue, just as his english was. trehayne's french accent did not fit into trehayne's history as retailed to us by dawson. from that moment i plumped for trehayne as the cutter of gun wires."
dawson had been listening, though he showed no interest in my speech. when i had quite finished, and was basking in the respectful admiration emanating from dear old cary, he upset over me a bucket of very cold water.
"very pretty," said he. "but answer one question. why did i send trehayne to the antigone?"
dawson pitched his cigar into the fire, got up, and walked away to the far side of the room. i had never till that moment completely reverenced the penetrative, infallible judgment of little jane.
dawson came back after a few minutes, picked up another cigar from cary's box, and sat down. "you see, i have a letter from him. i found it in his quarters where i went straight from the malplaquet."
"may we read it?" i asked gently. "i was greatly taken with trehayne myself. he was a clean, beautiful boy. he was an enemy officer on secret service; there is no dishonour in that. if he were alive, i could shake his hand as the officer of the firing party shook the hand of lody before he gave the last order."
dawson took a paper from his pocket, and handed it to me. "read it out," said he; "i can't."
i took the letter from dawson and glanced through it. the first sheet and the last had been written very recently--just before the boy had left his quarters for the last time to go on board the malplaquet; the remainder had been set down at various times; and the whole had been connected up, put together, and paged after the completion of the last sheet. trehayne wrote a pretty hand, firm and clear, the writing of an artist who was also a trained engineer. there was no trace in the script of nervousness or of hesitation. he had carried out his orders, he saw clearly that the path which he had trod was leading him to the end of his journey, but he made no complaint. he was a latin, and to the last possessed that loftiness of spirit wedded to sombre fatalism which is the heritage of the latins. he was at war with his kindred of italy and france, and with the english among whom he had been brought up, and whom he loved. he was their enemy by accident of birth, but though he might and did love his foes better than his german friends of austria and prussia, yet he had taken the oath of faithful service, and kept it to the end. i could understand why dawson--that strange human bloodhound, in whom the ruthless will continually struggled with and kept under the very tender heart--would allow no one to slander trehayne.
cary was watching me eagerly, waiting for me to read the letter.
to chief inspector william dawson, c.i.d.
i spring from an old italian family which has long been settled in trieste. for many generations we have served in the austrian navy. with modern italy, with the italy above all which has thrown the holy father into captivity and stripped the holy see of the dominions bestowed upon it by god, we have no part or lot. yet when i have met italian officers, and those too of france, as i have frequently done during my cruises afloat, i have felt with them a harmony of spirit which i have never experienced in association with german-austrians and with prussians. i do not wish to speak evil of our allies, the prussians, but to one of my blood they are the most detestable people whom god ever had the ill-judgment to create.
i was born in trieste, and lived there with my parents until i was eight years old. in our private life we always spoke italian or french, german was our official language. i know that language well, of course, but it is not my mother tongue. italian or french, and afterwards english--i speak and write all three equally well; which of the three i shall use when i come to die and one reverts to the speech of the nursery and schoolroom, i cannot say; it will depend upon whom those are that stand about my deathbed.
when i was eight years old, my father, captain ---- (no, i will not tell you my name; it is not trehayne though somewhat similar in sound), was appointed austrian consul at plymouth, and we all moved to that great devonshire seaport. i was young enough to absorb the rich english atmosphere, nowhere so rich as in that county which is the home and breeding-ground of your most splendid navy. i was born again, a young elizabethan englishman. my story to you of my origin was true in one particular--i really was educated at blundell's school at tiverton. whenever--and it has happened more than once--i have met as trehayne old schoolfellows of blundell's they have accepted without comment or inquiry my tale that i had become an englishman, and had anglicised my name. among the peoples which exist on earth to-day, you english are the most nobly generous and unsuspicious. the prussians laugh at you; i, an austrian-italian, love and respect you.
when i was sixteen, after i had spent eight years in devon, and four of those years at an english public school, i was in speech and almost in the inner fibres of my mind an englishman. your naval authorities at plymouth and devonport, as serenely trustful and heedless of espionage as the mass of your kindly people, allowed my father--whom i often accompanied--to see the dockyards, the engine shops, the training schools, and the barracks. they knew that he was an austrian naval officer, and they took him to their hearts as a brother, of the common universal brotherhood of the sea. i think that your navy holds those of a foreign naval service as more nearly of kin to themselves than civilians of their own blood. the bond of a common profession is more close than the bond of a common nationality. i do not doubt that my father sent much information to our embassy in london--it was what he was employed to do--but i am sure that he did not basely betray the wonderful confidence of his hosts. our countries were at peace. my father is no prussian; he is a chivalrous gentleman. i am sure that he did not send more than his english naval friends were content at the time that he should send. for in those years your newspapers and your books upon the royal navy of england concealed little from the world. i have visited dartmouth; i have dined in the naval college there with bright sailor boys of my own age. it was then my one dream, had i remained in england, to have become an englishman, and to have myself served in your navy. it was a vain dream, but i knew no better. fate and my birth made me afterwards your enemy. i would have fought you gladly face to face on land or sea, but never, never, would i have stabbed the meanest of englishmen in the back.
when i was sixteen years old i left england with my parents and returned to triest. i was a good mathematician with a keen taste for mechanics. i spent two years in the naval engineering shops at pola, and i was gazetted as a sub-lieutenant in the engineering branch of the austrian navy. my next two years were spent afloat. although i did not know it, i had already been marked out by my superiors for the secret service. my perfect acquaintance with english, my education at blundell's, my knowledge of your thoughts and your queer ways, and twists of mind, had equipped me conspicuously for secret service work in your midst.
as a youth of twenty, in the first flush of manhood, i was seconded for service here, and i returned to england. that was five years ago.
it was extraordinarily easy for me to obtain employment in the heart of your naval mysteries. few questions were asked; you admitted me as one of yourselves. i took the broad open path of full acceptance of your conditions. i first obtained employment in a marine engineering shop at southampton, joined a trade union, attended socialist meetings--i, a member of one of the oldest families in trieste. though a catholic, i bent my knee in the english church, and this was not difficult, for i had always attended service in the chapel at blundell's. to you, my friend, i can say this, for you are of some strange sect which consigns to the lowest hell both catholics and anglicans alike. your heaven will be a small place. from southampton i went to the torpedo training-ship vernon. again i had no difficulty. i was a workman of skill and intelligence. i was there for more than two years, learning all your secrets, and storing them in my mind for the benefit of my own service at home.
it was at portsmouth that there came to me the great temptation of my life, for i fell in love, not as you colder people do, but as a latin of the warm south. she was an english girl of good, if undistinguished, family. though in my hours of duty i belonged to that you call the 'working classes,' i was well off, and lived in private the life of my own class. i had double the pay of my rank, an allowance from my father, and my wages, which were not small. there were many english families in portsmouth and southsea who were graciously pleased to recognise that john trehayne, trade unionist, and weekly wage-earning workman, was a gentleman by birth and breeding. in any foreign port i should have been under police supervision as a person eminently to be suspected; in portsmouth i was accepted without question for what i gave myself out to be--a gentleman who wished to learn his business from the bottom upwards. i will say nothing of the lady of my heart except that i loved her passionately, and should have married her--aye, and become an englishman in fact, casting off my own, country--if war had not blown my ignoble plans to shatters. there was nothing ignoble in my love, for she was a queen among women, but in myself for permitting the hot blood of youth to blind my eyes to the duty claimed of me by my country. when war became imminent, i was not recalled, as i had hoped to be, since i wished to fight afloat as became my rank and family. i was ordered to take such steps as most effectively aided me to observe the english plans and preparations, and to report when possible to vienna. in other words, i was ordered to act in your midst as a special intelligence officer--what you would call a spy. it was an honourable and dangerous service which i had no choice but to accept. my dreams of love had gone to wreck. i could have deceived the woman whom i loved, for she would have trusted me and believed any story of me that i had chosen to tell. but could i, an officer, a gentleman by birth and i hope by practice, a secret enemy of england and a spy upon her in the hour of her sorest trial, could i remain the lover of an english girl without telling her fully and frankly exactly what i was? could i have committed this frightful treason to love and remained other than an object of scorn and loathing to honest men? i could not. in soul and heart she was mine; i was her man, and she was my woman. with her there were no reserves in love. she was mine, yet i fled from her with never a word, even of good-bye. i made my plans, obtained certificates of my proficiency in the vernon, kissed my dear love quietly, almost coldly, without a trace of the passion that i felt, and fled. it was the one thing left me to do. my friend, that was two years ago. she knows not whether i am alive or am dead; i know not permission to spend the night with her father, and baron clyde called about four o'clock to escort her. was not that the hour, baron?"
"yes, your grace," i answered, bowing. "i accompanied my cousin to her father's house, returned later to fetch her back to the palace, but she did not care to face the storm, so i remained till ten o'clock, returned to whitehall, and slept till morning. here is another witness," i continued, laughing, as i turned to john churchill, who was standing near the king. "step forward, churchill, and testify. i left him making his suit to one of the most interesting ladies in london."
the king turned with an inquiring look, and churchill answered: "yes, your majesty, it is all true. i was making my suit until near the hour of eleven, when mistress jennings, who was ill, told me it was time to go home. if she was kidnapped sunday night, it was before five o'clock or after eleven."
i flattered myself that we had all done a neat bit of convincing lying in a good cause.
"odds fish!" mumbled the king, pulling his chin beard, evidently puzzled.
"odds fish!" exclaimed frances, mimicking the king's tone of voice and twisting an imaginary beard. "some one has been hoaxing jacob hall's friend."
it was a bold speech, but frances carried it off splendidly by turning to the king and speaking in mock seriousness:--
"your majesty should put a check on rochester and the wags. it is a shame to permit them to work upon the credulity of one who is growing weak in mind by reason of age."
the country girl had vanquished the terror of the court, and all who had witnessed the battle rejoiced; that is, all save the king and castlemain. she glared at frances, and her face, usually beautiful despite the lack of youth, became hideous with rage. she was making ready for another attack of words, if not of finger nails, when the duchess interposed, saying:--
"evidently some one has been hoaxing you, lady castlemain. mistress jennings was not kidnapped sunday nor any other day. she has been with me constantly of late, excepting sunday after four o'clock, and she has accounted for herself from that time till her return to my closet."
castlemain was whipped out, so she turned the whole matter off with a forced laugh, saying:--
"it was that fool rochester who set the rumor afloat."
after standing through an awkward minute or two, castlemain bowed stiffly to the king and the duchess, turned away from our group, and soon left the ballroom.
when castlemain was gone, we all laughed save the king. presently he left us, and i saw him beckon wentworth and berkeley to his side. i followed him as though going to the other side of the gallery, but walked slowly when i approached him and the two worthy villains. i was rewarded by hearing his majesty say:--
"odds fish! but you made a mess of it! you got the wrong woman! who in the devil's name did you pick up?"
i could not stop to hear the rest of this interesting conversation, but two days later i heard from rochester, who had it from wentworth, that the following occurred:--
"we thought we had her," answered berkeley, nodding towards frances, "but the woman wore a full vizard and was wrapped in furs to her ears, so that we did not see her face."
"do you suppose we could have made a mistake?" asked wentworth.
"you surely did," answered the king. "she has established an alibi. at what hour did you leave baynard's castle?"
"near one o'clock," returned berkeley.
"one o'clock! she was playing cards with the duchess till four," exclaimed the king, impatiently. "you picked up the wrong woman. but i'm glad you did. i suppose the lampooners will get hold of the story and will set every one laughing at me. kidnapped the wrong woman and lost her! odds fish! but you're a pair of wise ones. i see i shall have to find me a new lord high kidnapper."
the king was right concerning the lampooners, for soon they had the story, and he became the laughing-stock of london, though frances's name was not mentioned.
it is a significant index to the morals of our time that the king's attempt to kidnap a woman in the streets of london should have aroused laughter rather than indignation.
as it was, the kidnapping episode brought no harm to my cousin, but she did not want it to happen again, and so was careful to take a trusted escort with her when she went abroad thereafter.
at the maid's garter
betty was confined to her room during the greater part of the next month, and frances visited her frequently. notwithstanding my vows not to see betty, i was compelled to go with frances as her body-guard. i even went so far in my feeble effort to keep my resolution as to suggest churchill as a body-guard, but frances objected, and the quality of my good intent was not enduring. so i went with my cousin, and the joy in betty's eyes whenever we entered her room was not the sort that would come because she was glad to see frances.
during the first week of bettina's illness she was too sick to talk, therefore we did not remain long with her. but as she grew better our visits lengthened, and my poor resolutions grew weaker day by day because my love for the girl was growing stronger and stronger hour by hour.
on one occasion while frances's back was turned, betty impulsively snatched up my hand and kissed it, dropping it instantly, blushing intensely and covering her tracks by humming the refrain of a french lullaby. i longed to return the caress, but did not, and took great credit to myself because of my self-denial. betty understood my sacrifice and appreciated it, feeling sure that she need not thereafter restrain herself for the purpose of restraining me.
during those times i was making an honest effort to do the right by this beautiful child-woman and to save my own honor unsullied from the sin of making her unhappy for life through winning her love beyond her power to recall; and my effort toward the right, like all such efforts, achieved at least a part of the good for which i strove.
one day after our visit to betty's room, frances asked me to take her to see george. i suspected that she had seen him frequently, but was not sure. i objected, but changed my mind when she said:--
"very well. i prefer going alone."
i shall not try to describe the scene between them. we found george alone, and she sprang to him as the iron springs to the magnet.
i knew then, if never before, that there could be no happiness in this world for her away from him. whether she would find it with him was impossible for me to know, but i saw that she was in the grip of a mighty passion, and i could only hope that a way would open to save her.
hamilton's fortunes would need to mend a great deal before he could or would ask her to be his wife, for now he was at the bottom of the ladder. he lost no opportunity to impress this disagreeable truth upon her, but his honest efforts to hold himself aloof only increased her respect and love for him. it not only convinced her that notwithstanding his past life, he was a man of honor capable of resisting himself and of protecting her, but it gave him the quality so irresistible to a woman--unattainability.
taking it all in all, my poor beautiful cousin was falling day by day deeper into an abyss of love from which she could in no way extricate herself. in short, level-headed frances had got far out of plumb, and, though she struggled desperately, she could not right herself, nor could any one help her. i fully realized that the small amount of self-restraint and passivity she still retained would give way to disastrous activity when the time should come for her to part with george and lose him forever. but i could see no way to save her unless i could induce george to leave england at once, for good and all.
at times the fates seem to fly to a man's help, and in this instance they came to me most graciously that same day in whitehall, in the person of my friend the count de grammont.
soon after leaving frances in the maids' apartments, i met that most interesting gentleman roué, his grace de grammont, coming from the king's closet. as already stated, he had been banished from the french court by louis xiv because of a too great friendliness for one of the king's sweethearts, and was living in exile in london till louis should forgive his interference. the french king really liked de grammont and trusted him when his majesty's lady-loves were not concerned, so the count had been sent to england in honorable exile, and was employed in certain cases as a spy and in others as a means of secret communication between the french king and persons connected with the court of charles ii.
when de grammont saw me, he came forward, holding out both hands in his effusive french manner, apparently overjoyed at finding a long-lost brother.
"come with me, my dear baron," he cried, bending so close to me that i feared he was going to kiss me. "come with me! you are the very man of all the world i want, i need, i must have!"
"you have me, my dear count," said i, "but i cannot go with you. i am engaged elsewhere."
"no, no, let me whisper!" he brought his lips close to my ear and continued almost inaudibly: "you may please me. you may help a friend. you may oblige--a king."
the last, of course, was the ne plus ultra of inducement according to the count's way of thinking, and he supposed the mere suggestion would vanquish me. still i pleaded my engagement. he insisted, however, repeating in my ear:--
"oblige a king! a real king! not a flimsy fool of bourgeois, who makes of himself the laughing-stock of his people, but a real king. i cannot name him now, but you must know."
we were in a narrow passage leading to the stone gallery in whitehall. he looked about him a moment, then taking me by the arm, led me to the stone gallery and thence to the garden. i wanted to stop, but he kept his grasp on my arm, repeating now and then the word "come" in whispers, till we reached a lonely spot in st. james park. there he halted, and though there was not a living creature in sight, he brought his lips to my ear and breathed the name, "'sieur george hamilton."
i tried not to show that i was startled, but the quickwitted, sharp-eyed frenchman read me as though i were an open book, and grasping my hand, cried out:--
"ah, i knew you could tell me. it is to rejoice! i knew it!"
"tell you what, count?" i asked.
"tell me where your friend and mine is, or if you will not tell me, take to him a letter. i have been trying to find him this fortnight."
"i cannot tell you where he is, my dear count--"
"of course not! i do not ask," he interrupted.
"--but i may be able to forward your letter to him. i heard only the other day that he was in france."
"of course, of course, he is in france! not in england at all! good, good! i see you are to be trusted. but i must have your word of honor that the letter will be delivered."
"i shall send it by none but a trusted messenger," i answered, "and shall return it to you unopened unless i am convinced beyond a doubt that it will reach our friend."
"good, good! come to my hotel. i will trust you."
we went to de grammont's house, and after taking great precautions against discovery, he gave me a small wooden box wound with yards of tape and sealed with quantities of wax. i put the box in my pocket, saying:--
"i accept the trust on my honor, dear count, and though the package bears no name nor address, i shall deliver it to the person for whom it is intended."
de grammont said he knew nothing of the contents of the box except that it contained a message for a friend, and i believed him.
when i left his house he came to the door with me, murmuring: "my gratitude! my gratitude! also the gratitude of my king, which i hope may prove of far greater value to your friend than my poor offering of words."
i lost no time in seeking george, except to make sure that i was not followed. i trusted de grammont and felt sure that the box he had given me contained a personal communication from no less a person than louis xiv of france, but i wanted to take no risk of betraying hamilton by leading de grammont or any one else to his hiding-place.
since frances's providential escape, the king had suspected the right persons of her rescue. at least he suspected hamilton, and was seeking him more diligently than ever before. his majesty had not shown me any mark of disfavor, but i feared he suspected me, and was sure he was not convinced that frances's alibi had been proved by unsuborned testimony. if he was sure that she was the one who had been kidnapped, his suspicious nature would connect george with the rescue, and would lead him to conclude that hamilton must be in england.
a maid of lady castlemain's told rochester, who in turn told me, that the king had again set his men to work searching for hamilton. that being the case, george was in danger, and should he be found by the king's secret agents, who, i understood, were prowling all over england in the hope of obtaining a reward, his life would not be worth a week's purchase.
george knew the risk he ran by remaining in england, but it was a part of his reckless courage to take delight in it. later on this recklessness of disposition induced him to take a far greater risk. but of that in its turn.
after supper, i found hamilton in his bedroom, which was connected by a hidden stairway with the room of the sinking floor. he wore his quaker's disguise, and on the table beside him were the bible and a few theological works dear to the hearts of his sect. i gave him the box, telling him its history. the letter was brief and was written in cipher.
george translated it thus:--
"master george hamilton:
"monsieur le grand wishes you to pay him a visit immediately.
"you probably know monsieur le grand?" i asked.
"yes," he answered, "and i shall visit him without delay."
"in paris?" i asked, not quite sure that monsieur le grand was king louis of france, and not desiring to know certainly.
"in paris," he answered, giving me to understand by his manner that he must tell me nothing more definite of le grand's identity.
"don't tell me what you know of the business this letter refers to, but tell me whether you know," i said, hoping that george might at least tell me it meant good fortune for him.
"i cannot even conjecture the business upon which i am wanted," he said, "but i hope that it may give me an opportunity to be of service to the writer."
thus i was relieved of the disagreeable task of trying to induce george to leave england, and was very thankful to escape it.
after a long silence, during which he read the one-line letter many times, he asked:--
"are you willing to bring frances to me early to-morrow morning, if she will come?"
"doubtless i can," i answered. "her willingness to come has been shown all too plainly of late; but ought i bring her?"
"yes. it will be the last time i shall ever see her unless good fortune lies in this letter, and for that i hardly dare hope. you know that when a man's luck has been against him for a long time, it kills the very roots of hope and brings him almost to doubt certainty. soon after i have seen my friend, le grand, i shall write to you in cipher, of which i shall leave you the key. if i see a prospect of fortune worthy of frances, i shall ask her to wait a time for me, but if my ill fortune pursues me, i shall never again be heard from by any one in england. are you satisfied with the conditions?"
i gave him my hand for answer, and told him i would bring frances to him early the following morning.
i hastened back to whitehall, and coming upon frances unengaged, asked her to go to her parlor with me. when she had closed the door, she turned to me, asking:--
"what is it, baron ned? tell me quickly. i know there is something wrong with george."
"will you go with me early to-morrow morning to see betty--very early?" i asked.
her eyes opened in wonder, and she answered, somewhat amused: "you have been acting as my guardian for a long time, cousin ned, and now i think i owe it to you to return the favor. you should not see so much of betty. i know you mean no wrong to her, but you will cause her great suffering if you continue to see her, for you must know that already the girl is almost mad with love of you. yet you cannot marry her."
"nor can you marry some one else," i retorted, almost angrily, for a man dislikes to be prodded by a painful truth.
"ah, well, i suppose we are a pair of fools," she said.
"you're right, frances," i answered philosophically, "and the only consolation we can find lies in the fact that we know it."
"most fools lack that flattering unction," returned frances, musingly.
"perhaps you will take more interest in this matter when i tell you that it is not betty i propose to see," i answered. "i am deliberately offering to take you to see some one else who is about to leave england."
she stood on tiptoe and kissed my lips for answer, then sank into a chair, covering her face with her hands to hide the sudden tears.
i went to the window and waited till she was calm. i longed to comfort her by telling of the faint prospect of good fortune that lay in le grand's letter, but i hesitated raising a hope which might never be realized.
at the end of five minutes i went to her and said: "let me ask the duchess to excuse you for to-night, and in the morning i'll meet you on bowling green stairs, at, say, seven o'clock."
"i'll be there," she answered, smiling through her tears.
the next morning we took boat, and the tide running out, made good speed to the bridge, hastened to the old swan, and found george in his printing shop awaiting us. i remained in the old tapestried room, leaving frances and george to say their farewells. in the course of a few minutes he called me in. he had donned his quaker disguise, and on the floor near him was a small bundle of linen. frances was weeping, and george's voice was choked with emotion.
"well, at last, baron ned, you are to be rid of me," he said, glancing toward the bundle at his feet.
"what are your plans of escape?" i asked.
"i shall work my way down to sheerness, where i hope to find a boat for the hague or the french coast. lilly, who seems to know everything, past, present and future, came last night to tell me that the king has fifty men seeking me in various parts of england, especially the seaports, and has offered a reward of two hundred pounds for me, dead or alive, preferably dead, i suppose. if i go direct to sheerness and try to take a boat, i am sure to be examined, and i'm not prepared for the ordeal. so i intend to preach my way down the river and induce the king's officers to send me abroad by force."
"how are you off for money, george?" i asked.
"i borrowed ten guineas from lilly," he answered.
"i thought you might be in need of money, so i brought fifty guineas from the strong box under my bed," i said, offering him the little bag of gold.
he hesitated, saying: "if i take the money, you may never again see a farthing of it."
"in that case, i'll take my pay in abusing you," i replied.
"do you believe he would, frances?" asked george, turning to my cousin. then continuing thoughtfully:
"it is strange that i should have found such a friend at the bottom of a quarrel, all because i allowed him to abuse me. truly forbearance is a profitable virtue. the 'other cheek' is the better of the two."
upon my insistence, he accepted the gold and gave me the ten guineas he had borrowed from lilly, asking me to return them.
frances was making an entire failure of her effort to hold herself in check, and george was having difficulty in restraining himself, so, to bring the interview to an end, he gave me his hand, saying:--
"thank you, ned, and good-by. i wish i could hope ever to see you again, but if le grand fails me, i shall go to the new world and lose myself in the canadian woods."
"no, no!" cried frances, imploringly.
"i hope not," began george, but he could not finish, so he took frances in his arms for a moment, and when he released her, thrust us both out the door, saying: "please leave me at once. if you do not, i fear i shall never let her go. take care of her, ned. good-by!"
the door closed on us, and when frances had put on her vizard, she followed me upstairs to see betty.
i was not admitted to betty's room, so i went back to the printing shop for a moment, and george gave me the key to the cipher, in which we were to write to each other. his letters were to be sent under cover to lilly, and mine were to go to an address in paris which george would send to me.
long afterwards george told me of his adventures in making his escape, but i shall give them now in the order of their happening rather than in the order of time in which i learned them.
leaving the old swan within ten minutes after i had said good-by to him, george crossed london bridge, attired in his quaker disguise, and made his way to deptford, where he preached in the streets. from deptford he followed the river by easy stages to sheerness, where he lodged nearly a week, awaiting a boat that would answer his purpose. had he attempted to board a vessel, he would have been seized and examined; therefore his plan was to grow violent in his preaching, and, if possible, provoke the authorities to place him on board one of the outgoing crafts; that being a favorite method of the king's men in getting rid of the too blatant fanatics in sheerness.
the dutch sea captains were fanatics almost to a man, and the exiled exhorters found them always willing to help their persecuted brethren of the faith.
so well did george play his part that a collection was taken up among the passengers of the dutch boat to help the good man so vilely put upon. there was a sweet bit of irony in the fact, learned afterwards, that the officers who forced george aboard the dutch ship were at sheerness for the purpose of winning the two hundred pounds reward offered for his capture.
the goodness of god occasionally takes a whimsical form.
a month later i received a letter from george, written in cipher, which i here give translated:--
"i reached paris three weeks ago and was received by monsieur le g. most graciously. although i cannot give definite news, i hope for great improvement in my fortune soon, and perhaps may write you more fully thereof before the week is spent.
"good fortune has but one meaning for me, of which you already know. i beg you to say to one that a letter from her hand would give me greater joy than she can know, and that i would now send one to her if i felt safe in so doing. please send all letters in cipher, addressed: 'monsieur le blanc, in care of 'sieur de catanet, at the sign of the double arrow on the rue st. antoine, counting nine doors from the street corner nearest the bastile.'
when george wrote that he hoped for good fortune, i knew he had sound reason to expect it, for he was one who never permitted a mere possibility to take the form of hope, nor hope, however assuring, to take the aspect of certainty. knowing this to be true, i found great joy in the letter, and when i told frances, she did not pause even to give me one smile of thanks, but broke into a flood of tears and seemed to take great happiness in her tribulation.
i told frances that we should answer the letter at once, and suggested that she have hers ready in my hands the following day, if she wished to write one. i also suggested that we meet in bettina's parlor, where frances's letter could be rewritten in cipher. we trusted bettina as we trusted ourselves, and when we told her the good news, she clapped her hands for joy, laughing, yet ready to weep, and was as happy as even she could be, which was very happy indeed.
after we had talked, laughed, and cried a reasonable time in betty's parlor, frances handed me her letter, which was a bulky document, well taped and waxed.
"it will require a week for me to translate this," i remarked, weighing the letter in my hand.
"what do you mean by translating it?" she asked in surprise.
"i must write it out in cipher. hamilton directed that all letters should be sent in that form," i answered, amused at her alarm.
"no, no!" she cried, snatching the letter from me, pressing it to her breast and blushing to her ears. "you shall not see my letter!"
"why?" i asked.
"because," she answered.
"that is no reason," i replied. "of course you have written nothing that you would not want me or your father to see?"
"well, yes, i have," she returned emphatically. "a great deal. would you, betty, want any one to see such a letter written by yourself?"
"i suppose i could write a letter which i should want but one person in all the world to see," returned betty, arching her eyebrows.
"to whom would it be directed, betty?" i asked, to tease her.
a faint expression of reproach came to her eyes, but after a moment of pretty hesitancy, she answered boldly:--
"since you are so unwise as to ask, i'll answer in like folly. the letter could be directed to but one person in the world--you."
i had received more than i had expected, and though i longed to make a suitable return, i dared not for the sake of my vows, so we all remained silent, and somewhat embarrassed, for a minute or two.
turning to frances, i said: "if you don't want me to read your letter, i'll give you the key, and you may make it into cipher." but after examining the key, she declared that she could never learn to use it, and i suggested that she write a shorter letter in terms fit for a modest man to read.
the next day she handed me a shorter letter, saying that she had cut and pruned it till there was nothing left worth sending, but i assured her that george would think otherwise.
when i read the letter, my eyes were opened to the fact that there was more fire in frances's heart than i had supposed any woman capable of holding in subjection. but that is a mistake often made by men.
this was my cousin's "cut and pruned" letter:--
"baron ned says my letter must be short, so i smother what remnant of modesty i have, covering nothing with the veil of circumlocution, but telling you plainly what i know you want to hear. i love only you and am true to you in every thought, word, and deed. i long for you, yearn for you, pray for you, and be your fortune good or ill, i would share it and give you a part of the bliss of life which you would give to me.
"so i pray you, do not desert me in case your present hope of good fortune fails you, but let me know at any time, and i will go to you, and will go with you wherever you will take me.
"you will say, i fear, that none but a crazy woman would write such a letter as this, but if that be true, the world doubtless is and always has been populated by maniacs, and i pray god always will be. i pray you, remember, in judging me, that you are you and that i am but a woman by whom the good or evil of life is reckoned in the measure of her love; her joy or misery being only a matter of down weight or light weight more in the love she gives than in that which she receives. remember, also, that in this letter i must condense when i might easily be prolix, and that after all is written, probably i shall have left unsaid the very thing i most wished to say. but these three words will tell it all and bear repeating: i love you.
and this from my sensible cousin! what would it be if her heart were not balanced by a wise head?
our letters being written, i became alarmed about posting them in london, not knowing when a messenger would start for france, nor who he would be. the next day frances and i talked it over, and she suggested that as the king and most of the court were about to visit bath for a season, and as neither she nor i cared to go, we should take the letters to dover, cross to calais, and post them in france.
i sprang at the idea, but immediately sprang back, saying: "but it is not entirely proper for us to travel to calais together, even though you are my sister-cousin."
"we may take father," she suggested. "sarah wants to visit lady st. albans, and she can go if we take father with us. and, baron ned; i have another suggestion to offer. let us take bettina."
i sprang at that proposal and did not spring back. so we went first to my uncle, who said he would go with us, and then we went to see bettina. she had recovered from her sprains and bruises, although she was still pale and not quite strong.
when frances asked her to go with us, she answered, "ay, gladly, if father consents."
pickering, who was sitting with us at the time in bettina's cozy parlor, turned to me, laughing, and said:--
"you would suppose, from betty's remark, that i am master here, but the truth is my soul is not my own, and now her modest request for permission is made for effect on the company."
betty ran to her father, sat on his knee, twined her arm about his neck, and kissed him as a protest against the unjust insinuation.
"you see how she does it," said pickering. "no hammer and tongs for betty; just oil and honey."
"and lots and lots of love, father," interrupted betty.
well, our journey was soon arranged on a grand scale. pickering lent us his new coach, just home from the makers in cow street. it was cushioned and curtained and had springs in place of thorough-braces. it also had glass in the windows and doors; a luxury then little known in england even among the nobles. there was a prejudice against its use in coach windows because of the fact that two or three old ladies had cut their faces in trying to thrust their heads through it.
the new coach was a wonderful vehicle, and frances and i, as well as betty, were very proud of our grandeur. pickering sent along with the coach and horses two lusty fellows as drivers, and gave us a hamper almost large enough to feed a company of soldiers. i was to pay all expenses on the road.
almost at the last hour sir richard concluded not to go, but insisted that frances, bettina, and i take the journey by ourselves. as pickering offered no objection, frances shrugged her shoulders in assent, i shrugged mine, and betty laughed, whereby we all, in our own way, agreed to the new arrangement, and preparations went forward rapidly.
by the time we were ready to start, the king, the duke, the duchess, and many ladies and gentlemen of the court circle had gone to bath, thus giving us an opportunity to make our journey without the knowledge of any one in whitehall; a consideration of vast importance to us under the circumstances. some of our grand friends at court might have laughed at our taking the journey with an innkeeper's daughter, in an innkeeper's coach, but frances and i laughed because we were happy.
there are distinct periods of good and bad luck in every man's life, which may be felt in advance by one sensitive to occult influences, if one will but keep good watch on one's intuitions and leave them untrammelled by will or reason. at this time "i felt it in my bones," as betty would have said, that the day of our good luck was at hand.
all conditions seemed to combine to our pleasure when, on a certain bright spring morning, betty, frances, and i went down to the courtyard of the old swan, where we found the coach, the horses, and even the drivers all glittering in the sunshine.
there was ample room in the back seat of the coach for the three of us, so betty took one corner, frances made herself comfortable in another, and i took what was left, the pleasant place between them.
after betty had kissed her father at least a dozen times, and had shed a few tears just to make her happiness complete, the driver cracked his whip and away we went, out through the courtyard gate, down gracious hill and across london bridge before a sleepy man could have winked his eyes.
at first we thought we were in haste, but when we got out of southwark and into the country, the dark green grass, the flowering hedges, the whispering leaves of the half-fledged trees, the violets by the roadside, and the smiling sun in the blue above, all invited us to linger. so we told the driver to slow his pace, and we lowered every window in the coach, there being no one in the country whose wonder and envy we cared to arouse by a display of our glass.
there was not room in betty's little heart for all the great flood of happiness that had poured into it, so presently, to give it vent, she began to sing the little french lullaby we had so often heard, whereupon frances and i ceased listening to the birds, and i was more thoroughly convinced than ever before that there were at least distinct periods of good fortune in every man's life.
before reaching gravesend, we halted at a grassy spot near the river bank, where we ate our dinner. when the horses had rested, we set off for rochester, in which place we expected to spend the night at the maid's garter, a famous old inn kept by a friend of pickerings.
i had noticed a twinkle in pickering's eyes when he directed us to go to this tavern, but did not understand the cause of his merriment until i learned that by a curious old custom, a maid seeking entrance for the first time must contribute one of her garters before being admitted. the worst feature of the usage was that the garter must be taken off at the door, and then and there presented to the porter, who received it on the point of his official staff.
after entering rochester, we went to the maid's garter and at once drove into the courtyard, as the custom is with travellers intending to remain all night.
when we left the coach and started to climb the steps to the great door, we found the landlord and his retinue waiting to receive us. frances was in the lead, and when we reached the broad, flat stone in front of the door, the head porter stepped before her, bowed, and asked humbly:--
"is my lady maid or madam?"
frances looked up in surprise, and he repeated his question.
"what is that to you, fellow?" asked frances.
"it is this, my lady," returned the porter. "if my lady be a maid, she must pay me one of her garters as her admission fee to this inn. if she be madam, she enters free. it is a privilege conferred on the maid's garter by good st. augustine when he was bishop of canterbury, so long ago that the memory of man runneth not to the contrary."
"what nonsense is this?" asked frances, turning to me, and bettina asked the same question with her eyes. i explained the matter, and frances, turning to the porter, said:--
"i'll buy you off with a jacobus or a guinea."
"not a hundred guineas would buy me off, my lady," answered the porter, bowing, "though i might say that a shilling usually goes with the garter."
"well, i'll send you both the shilling and the garter from my room," said frances, moving toward the inn door.
"the garter must be paid here, my lady. the shilling may be paid at any time," returned the porter, with polite insistence.
frances was about to protest, but betty, more in sympathy with the eccentric customs of inns, modestly lifted her skirts, untied her garter and offered it to the porter, telling him very seriously:--
"i am a maid."
the porter thanked her gravely, whereupon frances, turning her back on the audience in the doorway, brought forth her garter, gave it to the porter, and we were admitted.
our supper, beds, and breakfast were all so good that they reconciled frances and bettina to the payment of the extraordinary admission fee, and when we left the next morning, curiosity prompted them to pass near the garter rack in the tap-room, where garters were hanging which had been taken from maids whose great granddaughters had become great grandmothers. the garters that had belonged to frances and bettina, being the latest contributions, hung at the bottom of the rack, neatly dated and labelled, and, as i left the room, i overheard bettina whisper to frances:--
"i'm glad mine was of silk."
we made a short drive to maidstone, where we stopped over night. the next day a longer journey brought us to canterbury, where we spent two nights and a day, visiting the cathedral both by sunlight and moonlight; the combination of moonlight and bettina being very trying to me.
from canterbury we drove in the rain to dover, where we lodged at that good inn, the three anchors, to await a fair wind for calais.
during the next three days the wind was fair, but it was blowing half a gale, and therefore the passage was not to be attempted. though i was enjoying myself, i was anxious to post our letters, as mine gave a full account of several matters at court concerning which i knew george ought to be informed.
among other news, i told him that king charles had sent a messenger into france carrying a personal letter to king louis, asking his help in finding the man hamilton, who had threatened charles's life. i also suggested in my letter that the king of france was trying to buy the city of dunkirk from king charles, and that because of the friendly negotiations then pending, louis might give heed to our king's request. in that case, it might be well, i thought, for hamilton to leave france at once.
with this urgency in mind, i suggested to frances and betty that i cross to calais alone, regardless of the weather, leaving them at dover till my return. but they would not be left behind, so we all set sail on a blustery morning and paid for our temerity with a day of suffering. in calais we posted our letters, having learned that a messenger would leave that same day for paris, and two days later we returned to dover.
our journey home was made in the rain, bettina sleeping with her head on my shoulder a great part of the way. and i enjoyed the rain even more than i had enjoyed the sunshine.
we reached london nearly a week before the king's return, so that nothing was known of our journey at court.
"all sunshine makes the desert"
whatever faults whitehall may have had as a place of residence, dulness was not among them. there were balls, games with high stakes, theatres, gossip, scandals, and once in a long while an affair of state to interest us. in order to interest the court thoroughly, an affair of state must have involved the getting of money for the privy purse; that is, for the king's personal use, for out of it the courtesans were fed and gambling debts were paid.
the time of our dover journey was one of extreme depletion in the privy purse. the king had borrowed from every person and every city within the realm who, by threats or cajolery, could be induced to part with money. but now he had reached the end of his tether.
when matters were thus in extremis, some one, probably castlemain, suggested the sale of england's possessions on the continent, chief of which was the rich city of dunkirk, situate on the french side of the straits of dover. this fortified city, within a few leagues of calais, had cost the english nation heavily in blood and gold to gain, and still more heavily to hold, but its value to england commercially and politically was beyond measure.
since queen mary had lost calais, dunkirk was the only important foothold england had on continental soil; therefore it was almost as dear to the english people as the city of london itself. because of its importance, it was greatly coveted by the french king, who shortly before the time of our journey to dover had made overtures to buy it.
charles turned a deaf ear to king louis's first proposal to buy dunkirk, not because he loved the city, or cared a farthing for its value to his people, but because he feared the storm of indignation its sale would raise. the lord chancellor objected to the sale of dunkirk, and tried to show charles the great folly of entertaining the offer. he was the only wise, honest man in the king's council, and, by reason of his wonderful knowledge of mankind, was called "the chancellor of human nature." but the king needed money, so after a time he listened to berkeley, crofts, castlemain, and others of like character, whose strongest argument consisted in accusing the king, most offensively, of being afraid of his people.
"are you not king?" asked castlemain. "does not dunkirk belong to you, and may you not sell that which is your property? are not these dogs, the people, your slaves, your property? yet you stand in cowardly fear of a rabble which quakes if you but crook your finger. a like fear of his subjects cost your father his head. the people will crawl before you if you kick them, but let them see that you fear them, and you will learn that there is no cruelty like that of the good people."
de grammont, the french exile, called attention to the french king's successful tyranny, declaring that his master would sell paris if he chose. de grammont was acting secretly in the french king's interest.
a weak man easily finds logic to justify the course he desires to take, so charles turned a deaf ear to clarendon, and, listening to castlemain, announced that dunkirk was for sale. as expected, a strong protest came from the people, but no one is so stubborn as a fool in the wrong, so charles remained firm in his determination.
finding that protest would avail nothing, the people of london offered to buy dunkirk, and began to bid for it against the french king. louis, knowing that london was a rich city, and believing that its people would run up the price of dunkirk to an exorbitant figure, took counsel with himself--his only adviser--and determined to employ other means than gold alone to obtain the coveted city.
my first definite knowledge of the french king's new plan to buy dunkirk at his own price came in a letter from hamilton, which reached me at lilly's house two or three weeks after my return from dover. like the others, it was written in cipher, but, translated, was as follows:--
"your warning letter reached me nearly a week ago, and i thank you for your watchfulness. i had full information of king charles's design upon my life from no less a person than monsieur le grand himself, who showed me the letter asking that i be returned to england.
"i explained to monsieur le grand that the english king sought my life, not because he is in fear of me, but because he thought i stood between him and a lady who despises him. while monsieur le grand was much in sympathy with the english king's grievance, his contempt for charles, his regard for me, which seems to be sincere, and his longing to possess dunkirk all induced him to laugh at the request, the nature of which he had imparted to no one save me.
"my account of the lady who despised king charles's love gave monsieur le grand a new idea, and suggested a method of purchasing dunkirk which he hopes will save the heavy cost of bidding against the citizens of london. i had no hint of what he intended till one day he took me to his closet and began to question me.
"'do you possess the love of the lady who despises king charles?' he asked.
"'i do, your majesty,' i answered.
"'do you know you possess it?' he asked.
"'as well as a man who is not a king may know,' i returned.
"'tush, tush! kings are no more certain than other men.'
"'i know i possess this woman's love,' i said.
"'would she be willing to make a great sacrifice to help you?'
"'anything that i should ask,' i replied.
"'ah, i see, i see! should ask? i take it there are certain sacrifices you would not ask,' returned the king. 'we here in france would say that your position was quixotic. however, your king charles is a weak fool, easily imposed upon. is the lady quick and resourceful in expedients, calm and thoughtful in emergencies, and silent on great occasions?'
"to all of which i answered, 'yes.'
"'surely the lady is not la belle jennings?' asked the king.
"'yes,' i replied.
"'in that case you are the very man i want, and your lady-love can help me buy dunkirk. it is easy to lead a fool to do the wrong thing, and i'm sure la belle jennings will find a way to gain her end and ours. if, through her, you induce king charles to sell dunkirk to me on my own terms, i'll make you its governor and a rich man. i'll put you in a position to marry this paragon, mam'selle jennings, if, as i take it, lack of fortune is all that stands between you. i do not mind telling you now that de grammont had given me full information concerning the king's view of la belle jennings and your relations to her before i wrote my first letter, inviting you to visit me.'
"i am loath to undertake so mean an office as that of inducing king charles to sell an english city, but i cannot save dunkirk, and i may profit by helping what i cannot prevent. so i beg you broach the subject to frances, cautioning her for me to take no risk, and if she is willing to use and to hoodwink the man who would not hesitate to take her life, let me know, and i shall write to you again with further instructions.
i sought frances, and when i told her the substance of george's letter, she was almost wild with joy.
"am i willing to try?" she exclaimed, laughing while tears were hanging in her eyes. "i am not only willing to try, but am determined to succeed. ay, i'd sell england itself in the same cause. of all the men i have ever known, this king of ours is the greatest dupe. since the return of the court to whitehall, he has been growing more importunate every day. he seems to have lost what little wits he had, and does and says the silliest things one can imagine."
"and you do not fear attempting to lead him on to sell dunkirk? you do not fear going too near the precipice?" i asked, wishing to weigh her self-confidence more by the manner of her reply than by her words.
she laughed and answered: "there is no precipice, cousin ned; nothing to fear save kidnapping, and i am always guarded against that danger; nothing to do of which i need feel ashamed, save the acting of a lie, and surely one may lie to the father of lies without sin."
"but the lie may be recognized," i suggested, "if one be too bold about it."
"my lie will go little beyond a smile or two. the king's vanity will do the rest. he will make himself believe that i mean more than i say."
frances and i felt that we were traitors to our country in helping the french king, but we knew that in the end he would buy dunkirk from our spendthrift monarch, and that out country's loss would be no greater by reason of our gain. therefore i wrote george as follows:--
"the duchess of hearts is eager and confident. write at once, giving full directions.
frances added a postscript in cipher, but i shall not translate it.
one morning, some three weeks after sending my letter, frances came to me in my closet in the wardrobe, and i saw at once she was in great trouble. her eyes were red with weeping, and the woebegone expression of her face would have been amusing had i not known that some good cause was back of it. as soon as she entered i saw that she was going to speak, but closets in whitehall have ears, so i placed my finger on my lips to enjoin silence, and spoke loud enough to be heard if any one was listening:--
"ah, frances, i forgot that i had promised to go with you to your father's this morning. wait for me at holbein's gate. i'll be there in ten minutes."
within the promised time i found frances at holbein's gate, and we walked up to charing cross, thence down the strand toward temple bar.
"what is the trouble, frances?" i asked, anxious to hear her news, which i feared was bad. she was in great distress, and i saw that a flood of tears was ready to accompany her tale of woe, so i said hurriedly: "don't cry. laugh while you speak. you will attract less attention."
she tried to laugh, but the effort was piteous and became a failure, as she said:--
"george hamilton has sailed for canada, and my heart is broken."
again she tried to smile, but the smile never reached her eyes, for they were full of tears.
"how do you know?" i asked, almost stunned by the news.
she tried to stay her tears, but failed, and answered between sobs: "last night at the queen's ball, the king showed me a letter sent by order of the french king, saying that george had sailed from bordeaux for canada nearly a fortnight ago. i could not help showing my grief, and the king, who was boisterously happy, said: 'now you will forget him and listen to me.' i smiled, but it was a poor effort, and he smiled, showing his yellow fangs as he left me. i pray god that i may never be called upon to hate another man as i hate him."
"i can hardly believe that george has gone to canada without notifying us," i said.
"yes, i fear it is true," she returned. "but if i am ever so fortunate as to find him again, i intend to go with him whether he consents or no, regardless of father and all the world. just as soon as i learn where he is in canada, i will go to him. you will take me, won't you, baron ned?"
"i'll not give that promise," i answered. "but i am sure there is something back of king louis's letter of which we do not know. surely george would not have sailed without notifying us."
"he may have feared to betray himself by writing," she suggested, "since king charles had asked king louis to detain him."
"that is true," i returned. "but the occasion must have been urgent indeed if he could not have sent us word in some manner."
but i could find no comfort for her, for i really believed that george had gone to canada, and there was a certain relief to me in knowing that he had passed out of frances's life.
after along silence this feeling of relief found unintentional expression when i said:--
"time heals all wounds, frances. one of these days you will find a man who will make amends for your present loss, and then--"
"no, no, baron ned. your words are spoken in kindness, but what you suggest is impossible. perhaps if there had been fewer obstacles between us, or if i had not misjudged him so cruelly, i might have found my heart more obedient to my will."
the only comfort i could give my beautiful cousin was that a letter would soon come explaining everything. in default of a letter, i promised to go to paris and learn the truth from george's friends, if possible.
frances did not go back to whitehall that day, but remained at home, pretending to be ill of an ague.
at the end of a week, frances not having returned to whitehall, sir richard was honored by a visit from no less a person than the king, accompanied by the duchess and a gentleman in waiting. the visit was made incognito.
as a result of this royal visit, which was made for the purpose of seeing frances, a part of sir richard's estates near st. albans were restored to him, and from poverty he rose at once to a comfortable income of, say, a thousand or twelve hundred pounds a year.
immediately all of sir richard's hatred of charles ii fell away, and once more the king shone in the resplendent light of his divine appointment.
while frances estimated the king's generosity at its true value, she was glad her father had received even a small part of what was his just due, and although she knew the restoration had been made to please, and, if possible, to win her, she was glad to have spoiled the royal philistine, and despised him more than ever before, if that were possible.
sir richard's good fortune brought a gleam of joy to frances, but it also brought a pang of regret, because it had come too late. her only purpose in going to whitehall had been to marry a rich nobleman and thereby raise the fallen fortunes of her house. now that reason existed no longer, and if george were here, she could throw herself away upon him with injury to no one but herself. but george was not here, and liberty to throw herself away had come too late to be of any value.
every day during the fortnight that frances remained at home, she asked if i had any news from court, meaning the french court, but using the form of inquiry to avoid acquainting her father and sarah with the real cause of her solicitude.
but my answers were always, "oh, nothing but castlemain's new tantrum," or "the duke's defeat at pall-mall."
frances was the last girl in the world, save, perhaps sarah, who i should have supposed capable of languishing and dying of love, but the former she did before my eyes, and the latter i almost began to fear if news did not reach us soon from george.
betty came up to see frances nearly every day, and the kissing and embracing that ensued disgusted sarah.
"now, if frances were a man, i could understand it," said sarah. "the little barmaid must be tempting to a man, being pretty and--"
"beautiful, sarah!" i interrupted.
"yes, beautiful, if you will."
"her eyes--" i began, again interrupting sarah.
"oh, yes!" cried sarah, impatiently. "her eyes are fine enough, but their expression comes from their color, their size, and their preposterously long eyelashes. black long lashes often give a radiance to the eyes which passes for expressiveness, and i doubt not--"
"nonsense, sarah!" i cried, half angrily. "bettina's eyes are expressive in themselves. as you say, their soft dark brown is the perfection of color, and they certainly are large. but aside from all that, their expression is--"
"there is no intellect in them!" cried sarah.
"there is tenderness, gentleness, love, and truth in them," i answered, with as careless an air as i could assume.
"yes, there may be for a man, but i insist there is no real intellect."
"well, sarah," i answered, showing irritation despite an effort to appear indifferent, "it is my opinion that the possession of great intellectual power by a woman is the one virtue with which men, as a rule, find themselves most willing to dispense. it gives her too great an advantage."
"yes, a soft, plump figure like betty's, long lashes and red lips, surrounded by dimples, are apt to please a fool."
"but they're good in their way, sarah, you'll admit--excellent!" i retorted sharply, caring little if she saw that i was angry.
"and men are fools, so there! not another word about the barmaid!" cried sarah, dismissing the subject with a wave of her hand.
but men, too, sometimes like to have the last word, so i remarked: "the mother of the duchess of york was a barmaid, at least, a barmistress."
"yes, but is that any reason why frances should be kissing this one? doubtless your friend betty finds men enough to do the office."
"sarah!" i cried, springing to my feet, now thoroughly angry. "if you were a man, i'd give you the lie direct!"
sarah began to laugh and clapped her hands, saying: "i was leading you on. i suspected you were fond of her. now i know it."
but sarah's remark, being so near the truth, did nothing to allay my anger, so i told her she was a fool, and went into an adjoining room, where i found frances and bettina luxuriating in tearful sympathy.
i walked home with bettina, and she invited me to go to her parlor to have a cup of tea. to see bettina boil the tea (steep it or draw it, she said was the proper phrase) was as pretty a sight as one could wish to behold, and when she poured it out in thin china cups, handing one to me and taking one herself, her pride in following the fashion of modish ladies was as touching as it was simple and beautiful. it was almost more than my feeble resolutions could withstand, so when i was about to leave i had a great battle with myself and was defeated, for i seized her hands, and although i said nothing, she knew what was in my mind, so she hung her head, murmuring:--
"if you are willing to make me more unhappy than i am."
"not for the world, bettina," i answered, rallying against myself. "goodnight."
"good night. now i know you are my friend," she answered softly, holding my hands for a moment, then dropping them suddenly and turning from me.
i have refrained from speaking of mary hamilton of late, partly because i did not see her frequently at this time, and partly because the shame i felt at the time of which i am now writing comes surging over me whenever i touch upon the subject. not that i did anything of which i need be ashamed, but because i remember so vividly my motives and desires that the old sensations return, even at this distant day, as a perfume, a strain of music, the soft balminess of spring, or the sharp bite of winter's frost may recall a moment of the past, and set the heart throbbing or still it as of yore.
after leaving bettina, i went back to whitehall and dressed for a ball which the queen was giving that night. it was an unfortunate time for me to see mary. my heart was full, not to overflowing, but to sinking, with my love of bettina and her love of me. there was nothing i would not have given at that time to be able to take her as my wife. i should have been glad to give my title, estates, and position--everything--to be a simple tradesman or an innkeeper so that i might take bettina with happiness to her and without the damning sin of losing caste to me.
it was true the king's brother had made a marriage of comparatively the same sort, but it is almost as impossible for a prince to lose caste as it is difficult for a mere baron to keep it. bettina would not be happy in my sphere of life, nor could i live in hers, so what was there for me to do but to keep my engagement with mary hamilton and, if i could, lose my love for bettina.
the queen's ball was to be held that night at st. james's palace, and i was glad to have the walk from whitehall across the park. the night was perfect. a slim moon hung in the west, considerately withholding a part of her light that the stars might twinkle the brighter in their vain effort to rival bettina's eyes. the night wind came to me, odor-laden from the roses, only to show me how poor a thing it was compared with bettina's breath upon my cheek and its sweetness in my nostrils. now and then a belated bird sang its sleepy song, only to remind me of the melody of her lullabies, and the cooing dove moaned out its plaintive call lest i forget the pain in her breast while selfishly remembering the ache in my own. then i thought of what the good book says about "bright clouds," and i prayed that my pain might make me a better man and might lead me to help bettina in the days of her sorrowing, which i knew were at hand.
soon after i had kissed the hands of the king and the queen, i met george's brother, count anthony hamilton. he had never been friendly to his younger brother, and had ceased to look upon him as a brother at all after his disgraceful reformation. then when the king turned against george, anthony, good courtier that he was, turned likewise, and there is no bitterness that may be compared with that of an apostate brother.
after we had talked for a minute or two, count anthony asked if i knew anything of "the fool," as he was pleased to call his brother.
"i know nothing of your brother george, my lord, if it is him you mean."
"he is no brother of mine, and if you wish to become a member of our family, you will cease to consider him your friend," returned his lordship, making an effort to conceal his anger.
i was not in the mood to take his remark kindly, therefore i answered warmly:--
"shall my entering the ranks of your noble family curtail my privilege of choosing my own friends?"
"no, with one exception," he replied.
"the honor of the alliance is great, my lord, but i shall not consent to even one exception at your dictation. your sister, my future wife, loves her brother, and if she does not object to my friendship for him, your lordship oversteps your authority, as head of your house, by protesting."
he turned angrily upon me, saying: "you have been paying your court with lukewarm ardor of late, baron clyde. perhaps you would not grieve if your friendship for a family outcast were to bar you from the family."
"if your lordship means to say that i wish to withdraw dishonorably from my engagement with your sister, i crave the privilege of telling you that you lie!"
i never was more calm in my life, and my words brought a cold smile to hamilton's lips.
"my friend de grammont will have the honor of waiting on you to-morrow morning," he answered, bowing politely.
"i shall be delighted to see his grace," i answered. "good night, my lord!"
here was a solution of my problem in so far as it concerned my engagement with mary hamilton, for if i killed her brother, she would not marry me, and if he killed me, i could not marry her. the fact that a gleam of joy came to me because of my unexpected release caused me to feel that i was a coward not to have broken the engagement in an honorable, straightforward manner rather than to have seized this opportunity to force a duel upon her brother. it is true i had not sought the duel deliberately and had not thought it possible one second before uttering the word that made it necessary. still it was my act that brought it about, and i felt that i had taken an unmanly course.
after leaving count anthony i walked across the room to where mary was standing at the outer edge of a circle of ladies and gentlemen who surrounded de grammont, listening to a narrative in broken english, of his adventures, fancied or real, i know not which, but interesting, and all of a questionable character.
when i spoke to mary, she turned and gave me her hand. i had not expected the least display of emotion on her part; therefore i was not disappointed when the smile with which she greeted me was the same she would have given to any other man. but mary was mary. nature and art had made her what she was--charming, quiescent, and calm, not cold, simply lukewarm.
of course i could not tell her the truth, so i answered evasively: "i suppose you have heard the news spread throughout the court that he has gone to canada? doubtless you can tell me more than i know."
"that is all i know," she answered. "when he went, or where, i have been unable to learn, for george is a forbidden topic in our household and seems to be the same at court. what has he done, baron? i have heard it hinted that he threatened to take the king's life. surely he did nothing of the sort."
"if he did, it was in a delirium of fever," i answered, hoping that she would cease speaking of george and would ask a question or two concerning myself.
but no. she turned again to me, asking, "did you hear him?"
"i have been told that the accusation comes from his physician, and perhaps from one who was listening at his door," i answered, avoiding a direct reply.
"i suspect the informant is a wretched little hussy of whom i have heard--the daughter of the innkeeper," remarked mary, looking up to me for confirmation.
"suspect no longer," i answered, with sharper emphasis than i should have used.
"do you know her?" she asked.
"i do not know a 'wretched hussy' who is the daughter of the innkeeper," i answered sullenly. "i know a beautiful girl who watched devotedly at your brother's bedside, day and night, and probably saved his life at a time when he was deserted by his sisters and his mother."
"we often find that sort of kindness in those low creatures," she answered, unaware of the tender spot she was touching, and ignoring my reference to george's sisters and his mother.
naturally mary was kind of heart, but her mother was a hard, painted old jezebel, whose teachings would have led her daughter away from every gentle truth and up to all that was hard, cruel, and selfish in life. a woman in the higher walks of life is liable to become enamelled before her twentieth year.
while i did not blame mary for what she had said relating to bettina, still i was angry and longed to do battle with any one who could fight.
after we had been together perhaps ten minutes, some one claimed her for a dance, and she left me, saying hurriedly in my ear:--
"i'll see you soon again. i want to ask you further about george." she had not a question to ask about me.
she was not to see me again, for i asked permission of the queen to withdraw, and immediately left the ball.
while i was crossing the park on my way back to whitehall, the wind moaned and groaned--it did not breathe. the stars did not twinkle--they glared. the nightingales did not sing--they screamed. and the roses were odorless. perhaps all this change to gloom was within me rather than without, but it existed just the same, and i went home and to bed, hating all the world save bettina, whom i vowed for the hundredth time never to see again.
the next day at noon de grammont came to my closet, where i had waited for him all morning.
"welcome to you, dear count!" i cried, leading him by the hand to a chair.
"perhaps you will not so warmly welcome me," he returned, "when you learn my errand."
"i already know your errand, count grammont, and it makes you doubly welcome," i answered, drawing a chair for myself and sitting down in front of him.
"ah, that is of good," he returned, rubbing his hands. "you already know the purpose of my visit?"
"yes, i do, my dear count, but any purpose would delight me which brings the pleasure of your company."
"ah, it is said like a civilized man," he returned, complimenting me by speaking english, though i shall not attempt to reproduce his pronunciation. "how far better it is to say: 'monsieur, permit to me,' before one runs a man through than to do it as though one were sticking a mere pig. is it not so?"
"true as sunshine, my dear count," i returned. "there's a vast difference between the trade of butchering and the gentle art of murder."
de grammont threw back his head, laughing softly. "ah, good, good! very good, dear baron! the sentiment is beau-ti-ful and could not be better expressed--in english. you should have been born across the channel."
"i wish i had been born any place, not excepting hell, rather than in england," i answered.
"true, true, what a hole it is," returned the count, regretfully. "the englishman is one pig."
he saw by the expression of my face that while i might abuse my own countrymen, i did not relish hearing it from others, so with true french tact he held up his hand to keep me from speaking till he could correct himself.
"pardon, baron, i forgot the 'r,' the englishman's affectation of a virtue he despises makes of him a prig--not a pig. non, non! mon dieu! not a pig--a prig! is it not so?"
"true, true, count," i returned, unable to restrain a laugh. "it is the affectation of virtue that makes frank vice attractive by comparison."
"ah, true, true, my dear baron. may i proceed with my errand?"
"monsieur le comte hamilton begs me to say that he was called away from london early to-day on the king's business, but that he will return in four weeks. when he returns he will do himself the honor to send me again, asking you to name a friend, unless you prefer to apologize, which no gentleman would do in a case of this sort. you said, i am told, that monsieur le comte lied. if you admit that he did not lie, of course you admit that you did. so, im-pos-si-ble! there must be to fight!"
"do you know, count, the cause of my having given count hamilton the lie?" i asked.
"i did not inquire," he answered smilingly. "to me it was to carry the message."
"george hamilton is your friend, is he not?" i asked.
"yes, but far more, he is the friend of my king, and will make entreaty with my monarch for my return to france," answered de grammont.
"it was because of count hamilton's insulting reference to his brother that i used the ugly word," i returned.
"a-ah, that is different!" then recovering himself quickly: "but i undertook the mission. it is to finish. monsieur george hamilton? my friend? my king's friend? if it had been known to me! but you have the message of 'sieur le comte."
after a short silence he said, "when monsieur le comte hamilton returns, i shall ask him to relieve me of this duty."
as de grammont was leaving my closet, he paused at the door, and, after a moment's hesitancy, whispered:--
"you may expect a letter from france soon. it will come from m. l'abbé du boise, who i hope will come soon to london on the business of my king. you know him not--m. l'abbé?" the eyebrows lifted questioningly. "no? you soon will know him, yet you will not know him. you and perhaps a lady may help him in his mission. i, too, shall help him, but i, too, know him not. yet i know him. if he succeed in his mission, he will be rich, he will be powerful. and i? mon dieu, my friend! if he succeed, my decree of banishment from paris--it will be to revoke. i may return once more to bask in the smile of my king. you must not speak; the lady must not speak; i must not speak when monsieur l'abbé comes, nor before. it is to silence. stone walls have one ear."
"two, sometimes, count," i suggested, laughing.
"yes, i should have said one ears! non, non! i forget this damnable tongue of yours! when i arrive to great interest, it is to talk faster than it is to think, and--" a shrug of the shoulders finished the sentence.
"let us speak french hereafter, my dear count," i suggested.
"mon dieu, mon dieu! it is to me more of pain to hear my sweet language murdered than to murder yours," answered grammont, seriously.
"ah, but i speak french quite as well as i speak english. perhaps i shall not murder it," i replied.
"perhaps? we shall try," he said, though with little show of faith.
i began speaking french, but when i paused for his verdict, he shrugged his shoulders, saying:--
"ah, oui, oui! it may be better than my english." but notwithstanding his scant praise, we spoke the french language thereafter.
the count bowed himself out and left me to decipher, if i could, the problem of m. l'abbé du boise. presently i discovered the cue. the abbé was george hamilton, and for the moment my heart almost stopped beating. if he should come to england on the french king's business, which could be nothing more nor less than the dunkirk affair, and should be discovered, there would be a public entertainment on tyburn hill, with george as the central figure.
when i found a spare hour, i hastened to see lilly and came upon the good doctor among the stars, as usual. there was a letter for me from hamilton. it was short and in cipher:--
"this is to tell you that m. l'abbé du boise will soon be in london. he will be the guest of m. comte de grammont.
"you do not know him. please call on him when he arrives. tell the duchess of hearts that he will want to see her. ask her to be ready to help him. he goes to buy dunkirk for the french king, and his success will mean good fortune for me.
after reading the letter, i felt sure that the abbé du boise was george hamilton. i could hardly bring myself to believe that he would be so foolhardy as to visit whitehall, though i knew the adventure was of a nature likely to appeal to his reckless disregard of consequences. i knew also that, if successful, he would win the reward without which life had little value to him.
i was sure that hamilton had fully weighed the danger of his perilous mission, and that he was deliberately staking his life on a last desperate chance to win fortune and frances jennings.
though perhaps lilly was a charlatan in many respects, he was to be trusted; still i did not feel that it was my place to impart george's secret to him, though i had in mind a plan whereby he might be of great help to the abbé du boise in influencing king charles. the king consulted him secretly in many important affairs, and i was sure that if the good doctor should be called in by his majesty in the dunkirk affair, the stars would tell a story in accord with our desires if we made it to lilly's interest.
however, all of that must wait for the abbé du boise. of one thing i was sure; i must tell frances at once so that she might be paving the way to the king with her smiles. it would be a disagreeable task, but i knew she would do it gladly, and i also knew that no woman could do it better.
while i had expressed my doubts to frances concerning hamilton's emigration to canada, i had not felt entirely sure there was nothing in it, and she, womanlike, taking the worst for granted, had accepted it as true. but the coming of the abbé du boise changed everything, and when i saw her at her father's house and told her of my suspicions, and showed her le blanc's letter, she was so greatly alarmed that she said she would rather know that george had gone to canada than to fear his return to england under the circumstances.
"the dastardly king will take his life if he comes," she said.
"i admit the danger," i answered, as hopefully as possible, "but i believe, if george comes, he will be able to take care of himself."
"danger!" she exclaimed. "it is certain death! george will find no mercy."
"if he is caught," i answered. "but the letter from king louis will convince king charles that hamilton is in canada and will throw our jealous monarch off his guard. perhaps hamilton will be safer than we suppose. he speaks french like a parisian, but, above all, he is cool, calm, and thoughtful in danger. the london merchants will be far more dangerous than the king."
"it does seem that we are guilty of treason to our country in thus helping france," she said. then laughingly, "but i'll go back to the palace at once and begin my task of wheedling the king." she paused for a moment, then continued hesitatingly, "do you suppose it possible that george would doubt me afterwards?"
"impossible," i answered, with emphasis that seemed to reassure her.
"no, by god, you'll not introduce her to the king! i'll explode the whole affair, and dunkirk may go to the devil before you shall introduce betty to the king," i answered.
"yet you are willing that i should meddle in the dangerous affair? evidently you love her more than you love me?"
"only a few hundred million times more," i answered sullenly.
"is it that way with you, my dear brother?" she asked, coming to me as i stood gazing out the window, seeing nothing save bettina's face. frances put her hand on my shoulder and said coaxingly: "forgive me. no harm shall come to her through me."
of course i was sorry that i had allowed myself to become angry, and at once made my apology as well as i could.
"let us go to see betty, anyway," said frances. and i assenting, she went to fetch her cloak, hat, and vizard.
but when she returned, i had changed my mind and declined to go, telling frances that i must see bettina no more.
"why?" asked frances.
"because i would not win a love from her which i cannot accept."
"baron ned, there are few men who would be so considerate."
but i required little coaxing, and when frances had made ready for the journey, i buckled on my sword, which i had left standing in the corner, took my hat from the floor, and started out with her.
while walking from the bridge to the old swan, i remarked to frances, "my engagement with mary hamilton is likely to be broken by her family."
"why, baron ned?" she asked in surprise.
"count hamilton has challenged me to a duel, to be fought when he returns, and you see, if i kill him or if he kills me, well--" i answered, shrugging my shoulders.
she was much alarmed at my disclosure, but was reassured when i made light of the affair, probably because there was no danger in it to george hamilton, and, perhaps, because if i should kill count hamilton, george would inherit the title and estates.
"but poor mary! she will grieve," said frances.
"i think you need waste no tears for her sake," i answered. "she is a fine, pretty little creature, who will take what comes her way without excess of pain or joy. she is incapable of feeling keenly. god has been good to her in giving her numbness."
"no, no, cousin ned, you are wrong!" she returned. "life without pain is not worth living. i have heard that the arabs have a saying, 'all sunshine makes the desert.' god is good to us when he darkens the sun now and then and gives us the sunshine afterwards."
"perhaps you are right, frances," i returned. "but you and i are in the cloud now, and a little sunshine would be most welcome."
"not enough sunshine to make a desert," she answered.
"ay! but enough to make a garden," i returned, as we climbed the narrow flight of steps leading to the private entrance to the old swan.
when we paused at the door, frances said, "your garden is at hand." and when she opened the door, there stood betty, and i was in eden. the moist glow of her eyes, the faint blush of her cheeks, the nervous fluttering of her voice, spoke more eloquently than all the tongues of babel could have spoken, and i could not help comparing her welcome with that which maxy hamilton had given me at the queen's ball.
bettina led us to the parlor, and while we were drinking a cup of tea, we had the great pleasure of asking and answering questions of which we always had a large supply in reserve.
when it was time to go, bettina walked down to the bridge with us. as it was growing dark, frances suggested that i walk back to the old swan with betty, which i did, she taking my arm of her own accord, and both of us very happy, though we spoke not a word, for fear of saying too much, save "good night" at the door.
"good night at the door!" god gave its sweetness to youth right out of the core of his infinite love.
a perilous embassy
four or five days after our visit to bettina, i met de grammont at charing cross, and he surprised me with an invitation to his house that night to meet monsieur l'abbé du boise at supper.
"the king and a dozen other gentlemen will be present," he said, "but there will be no ladies. monsieur l'abbé, being of the church, is not a ladies' man, and besides, ladies have sharper eyes than men, and might see much that is intended to remain unseen."
the count's remark seemed to settle the question of the abbé's identity, and i hastened to frances with the news. she assured me that she was ready to die of fright, but showed no outward sign of dissolution, and when i complimented her on her power of self-control, said:--
"fortunately, i am part hypocrite, and can easily act a part."
"you have a hard one ahead of you," i returned, "and will need all your strength before it is played to the end."
i was on hand early at de grammont's supper, but found several gentlemen ahead of me, awaiting, with the count in his parlor, the arrival of the king. soon after i entered the room, de grammont presented me to the abbé. i was convinced at once that he was not george hamilton. his beard, worn à la richelieu,--a mustache and a tuft on the chin,--was snow white, and his hair, which was thin, hung in long white waves almost to his shoulders. he walked with a stoop and wore spectacles, the glasses of which were slightly colored. being an ecclesiastic, though not a priest, he wore no wig; but he was of the order of the cordon bleu, and wore, in addition to his badge and blue ribbon, a sword beneath his long coat. it was the first time i had ever seen an ecclesiastic wearing a sword, though it has since become common in france, where there are many "abbés" who are neither priests nor in orders.
the abbé spoke poor english, therefore the conversation was carried on in french, much to the annoyance of some of our guests, who pretended to a greater knowledge of that language than they possessed.
soon after my presentation to the abbé, the king arrived, and we all went out to the supper table, where the abbé's chair was on the king's right, with de grammont on his majesty's left. after the king had been seated a moment, he rose and asked us to be seated; so we took our places, all save the king dropping our hats beside us on the floor because of his majesty's presence.
i sat next to de grammont, almost opposite the abbé, and had a good opportunity to observe the french emissary. the king's french was excellent, and the dinner conversation was carried on largely between him and the abbé. all subjects were discussed, but the abbé adroitly avoided dunkirk and seemed to prefer talking on religious and philosophical topics, in which he took the liberty to disagree with the king in many respects, politely though positively.
i listened attentively, hoping that some tone of the abbé's voice, a pose or a gesture, might reveal george hamilton, if it were he, in the most excellent disguise i had ever seen. but nothing of the sort occurred, and before the dinner was over, i was still more convinced that whoever the abbé du boise might be, he was not hamilton.
after dinner came the heavy wines, of which the abbé did not partake, and of which de grammont and i drank sparingly. all the others, including the king, were gloriously drunk long before the night was over.
while smoking our pipes, the king, who was eager to get his hands on french money, told the abbé that he hoped to see him, with his credentials, at whitehall on the second morning following at ten o'clock, and the abbé said he would leave his credentials with my lord clarendon, and would be at whitehall at the hour suggested by the king, for the purpose of making the french king's offer.
most of the guests went home between two men, very late at night, but fortunately i was able to walk home by myself.
i was both glad and disappointed not to find george in the gown of the abbé. i was glad because of the risk he would have taken had he come to england, yet disappointed in missing what would have been the most picturesque, daring personal exploit of english court history. but on the whole it was better as it was.
the next morning the king sent for me to come to his closet, and asked if i knew one lilly, an astrologer. i answered that i knew little of him personally, but had heard much of his wisdom and learning.
"yes, yes, but you know where he lives, do you not? on the strand, a dozen houses this side of temple bar?" asked the king.
"i have seen the house often, your majesty," i replied.
"good! now listen attentively to what i have to say," returned the king, graciously taking my arm and leading me to a window overlooking the river. "i hear from de grammont that the abbé du boise is a firm believer in the teachings of astrology. i want you to arrange, without letting any one know that my finger is in the pie, to take lilly to see the abbé, or the abbé to see lilly. i'll whisper a word in your ear. the stars will tell our friend, the abbé, a story to suit our purposes. the french king and his ambassadors will find their match in me, i warrant you. i have bought lilly, body and soul--with promises." the king shrugged his shoulders and whispered: "with promises, you understand, baron ned, with promises. now give him a chance at the abbé."
charles laughed and chuckled in self-gratulation, not the least suspecting that he was talking to the wrong man and playing into the french king's hand. i bore in mind the fact that the king had bought lilly with promises, and i determined to buy the good doctor with ready gold.
"i'll try to carry out your majesty's commands," i answered, apparently doubtful of my ability. "but of course you would not have me insist, if the abbé seems disinclined to consult lilly."
"no, no! odds fish, man, no! but find a way to bring them together, and your reward will come later. i choose, you for this little piece of business because you are in no way connected with the affair between the french king and me, and because i know you are to be trusted."
i to be trusted! so was brutus!
"i shall do my best, your majesty, and if i fail, i shall notify you at once," i said, taking my leave.
i hastened to de grammont's house, which at that time was over near the mall, and told the count what the king had said.
"ah, that is good!" cried de grammont. "a fool, who knows himself to be a fool, is likely to be wary, but one who deems himself wise is the easiest dupe in the world. i'll see monsieur l'abbé. wait."
de grammont returned in a few minutes, saying that the abbé would go with me to see doctor lilly, and i suggested that i return for him in three hours.
i went back to whitehall, where i found frances, and told her to be at lilly's house on the strand within three hours, to meet the french king's ambassador, and to receive the instructions which george's letter had intimated the abbé would give. i told her, also, that the abbé was not the person we had expected to see.
the evening before, she was ready to die of fright because we believed that the abbé was george hamilton, and now, since i had found he was not, she was ready to die of disappointment--so she assured me.
at the appointed time, de grammont, the abbé, and i took the count's barge and went down to the water stairs nearest temple bar, where the abbé and i left de grammont and walked up through the crowded streets to lilly's house. owing to the crowded condition of the street, the abbé and i found no opportunity to exchange words until we were before lilly's house.
lilly was at home, i having sent word of our coming, so when we knocked, the servant opened and directed us to the waiting parlor, saying that the doctor would soon come down.
we started upstairs, i in the lead, the abbé following ten paces behind. when i entered the room, i found bettina and frances sitting by the street window. they came to me quickly, and frances explained bettina's presence.
"i did not like to come here alone, so i asked betty to come with me. she is to be trusted."
"you need not assure me of that," i answered, taking betty's hand. "i already know it. i am glad you--"
but here i was interrupted by a soft cry from bettina, and by a half-smothered scream from frances, both of whom deserted me suddenly and ran toward the door i had just entered. turning, i saw frances with her arms about the abbé's neck, and bettina clasping one of his hands. i thought the two had gone mad, but when bettina saw my look of surprise and inquiry, she dropped his hand, came to me, and asked:--
"did you want us to pretend that we did not know him? if so, you should have told us."
"but you don't know him," i declared.
"perhaps i don't," she returned, laughing softly and shrugging her shoulders, "but evidently your cousin does. if not, she should take her arms from around his neck."
"but she is mistaken," i insisted.
"she seems to be convinced," answered bettina, with a curious little glance up to me, half laughing, half inquiring. evidently she was doubtful whether i spoke in jest or in earnest.
frances still clung to the abbé, her head resting on his shoulder, so i started toward her, intending to correct her mistake. bettina, seeing my purpose, caught me by the arm, saying:--
"don't you really know?"
the abbé turned his face toward me, and when i caught a glimpse of his eyes without spectacles, i recognized george hamilton, and almost choked myself in smothering a cry.
frances turned to me, asking indignantly, "why did not you tell me?"
"because i did not know," i answered, hardly able to believe the truth.
but we had important business before us, and i knew that we should prepare for it before lilly came in. so george, bettina, frances, and i went to a window at the far end of the room to hold a consultation.
"since i did not recognize you, perhaps lilly will not," i suggested. "i trust the doctor, but perhaps we had better leave him under the impression that you are monsieur l'abbé du boise and give no intimation of the truth."
"i had not hoped that my disguise would deceive you, baron ned," said george, "but since it has, it is just as well that we leave lilly in the dark if we can."
"but he will know. the stars will tell him," suggested bettina, opening her eyes very wide.
"the stars will tell him what he is paid to hear," i remarked. then turning to frances, i asked, "how is it that you were able to recognize him?"
"by his eyes!" exclaimed frances and bettina in concert.
"that gives me a valuable hint," said george, hastily adjusting his colored spectacles. "now, how about it?"
"i still should know you," answered frances.
"not i!" exclaimed bettina.
presently lilly came in, and i presented him to monsieur l'abbé du boise and explained the presence of frances and bettina by saying:--
"a friend of ours in france has asked mistress jennings to render what aid she can to monsieur l'abbé, and she is here at my request to receive his commands."
"it is good!" exclaimed lilly. "she has the king's ear if any one has, and the ear is very close to the mind. what may i do to serve monsieur l'abbé?"
"if i may see you privately---the baron and me--i shall tell you how you may serve me," answered the abbé.
the abbé and i excused ourselves to frances and bettina, and went with the doctor to the room which he called his observatory, where we came to the point very quickly:--
"i want to buy dunkirk for my master for the sum of one hundred thousand pounds," said the abbé, by way of starting the consultation.
"but london has already offered that sum," returned lilly, "and stands ready to pay more."
"in payments," suggested the abbé.
"yes," returned lilly. "but i see no way of bringing the king to accept the sum you offer unless--unless mistress jennings can persuade him."
"she may be able to do so," answered the abbé, shrugging his shoulders. he spoke very bad english throughout the consultation. "but the stars, too, may be very persuasive with king charles. to be plain, he will probably consult you, and if--"
"i am to see him to-night. that is why your visit was postponed until to-morrow," interrupted lilly.
"that is as i supposed," remarked the abbé. "now, if i buy dunkirk for one hundred thousand pounds, you shall receive two thousand pounds within ten days after signing the treaty, and baron clyde will be my surety."
"two thousand pounds?" mused lilly. "that is rather a small sum in so great a transaction."
"i doubt not the purchase may be made without the help of the stars if you feel that two thousand pounds is too small a sum to be considered," returned the abbé.
"no, no," said lilly. "i understand that you wish me to set a figure and work out the solution of this affair, and if i learn from the stars that it is to king charles's interest to accept your offer of one hundred thousand pounds for the city of dunkirk, i am to receive--"
"if king charles accepts!" interrupted the abbé.
"ah, i see! yes, yes, of course," returned lilly. "i shall go to work immediately and set my figure. of course i do not know what i shall learn, but i shall be glad to learn from the stars that which will enable me to advise the king according to your wishes. two thousand pounds are two thousand pounds, and the word of a king is but a breath."
"a man always says, 'who was the first one?' but the girl says, 'who'll be the next one?'" she returned, as she carefully laid the roses in her bureau drawer.
"but the time comes when there never will be a next one."
"i'd hate to stake my pile on that," observed the girl, drily. she blew up each glove as it came off and likewise carefully laid them away in the bureau drawer.
by this time wowkle's soft tread had ceased, her duties for the night were over, and she stood at the table waiting to be dismissed.
"wowkle, git to your wigwam!" suddenly ordered her mistress, watching her until she disappeared into the cupboard; but she did not see the indian woman's lips draw back in a half-grin as she closed the door behind her.
"oh, you're sending her away! must i go, too?" asked johnson, dismally.
"no--not jest yet; you can stay a--a hour or two longer," the girl informed him with a smile; and turning once more to the bureau she busied herself there for a few minutes longer.
johnson's joy knew no bounds; he burst out delightedly:
"why, i'm like dante! i want the world in that hour, because, you see, i'm afraid the door of this little paradise might be shut to me after-- let's say this is my one hour--the hour that gave me--that kiss i want."
"go long! you go to grass!" returned the girl with a nervous little laugh.
"listen," said the determined lover, pleading for a kiss as he would have pleaded for his very life.
it was at this juncture that wowkle, silently, stealthily, emerged from the cupboard and made her way over to the door. her feet were heavily moccasined and she was blanketed in a stout blanket of gay colouring.
"ugh--some snow!" she muttered, as a gust of wind beat against her face and drove great snow-flakes into the room, fairly taking her breath away. but her words fell on deaf ears. for, oblivious to the storm that was now raging outside, the youthful pair of lovers continued to concentrate their thoughts upon the storm that was raging within their own breasts, the girl keeping up the struggle with herself, while the man urged her on as only he knew how.
"why, if i let you take one you'd take two," denied the girl, half-yielding by her very words, if she but knew it.
"no, i wouldn't--i swear i wouldn't," promised the man with great earnestness.
"ugh--very bad!" was the indian woman's muffled ejaculation as she peered out into the night. but she had promised her lover to come to him when supper was over, and she would not break faith with him even if it were at the peril of her life. the next moment she went out, as did the red light in the girl's lantern hanging on a peg of the outer door.
"oh, please, please," said the girl, half-protestingly, half-willingly.
but the man was no longer to be denied; he kept on urging:
"one kiss, only one."
here was an appeal which could no longer be resisted, and though half-frightened by the tone of his voice and the look in his eye, the girl let herself be taken into his arms as she murmured:
"'tain't no use, i lay down my hands to you."
and so it was that, unconscious of the great havoc that was being wrought by the storm, unconscious of the danger that momentarily threatened their lives, they remained locked in each other's arms. the girl made no attempt to silence him now or withdraw her hands from his. why should she? had he not come to cloudy mountain to woo her? was she not awaiting his coming? to her it seemed but natural that the conventions should be as nothing in the face of love. his voice, low and musical, charged with passion, thrilled through her.
"i love you," said the man, with a note of possession that frightened her while it filled her with strange, sweet joy. for months she had dreamed of him and loved him; no wonder that she looked upon him as her hero and yielded herself entirely to her fate.
she lifted her eyes and he saw the love in them. she freed her hands from his grasp, and then gave them back to him in a little gesture of surrender.
"yes, you're mine, an' i'm yours," she said with trembling lips.
"i have lived but for this from the moment that i first saw you," he told her, softly.
"me, too--seein' that i've prayed for it day an' night," she acknowledged, her eyes seeking his.
"our destinies have brought us together; whatever happens now i am content," he said, pressing his lips once more to hers. a little while later he added: "my darkest hour will be lightened by the memory of you, to-night."
the clock, striking the hour of two, filled in a lull that might otherwise have seemed to require conversation. for some minutes, johnson, raised to a higher level of exaltation, even, than was the girl, had been secretly rejoicing in the fate that had brought them together.
"it's wonderful that i should have found her at last and won her love," he soliloquised. "we must be fortune's children--she and i."
the minutes ticked away and still they were silent. then, of a sudden, with infinite tenderness in his voice, johnson asked:
"what is your name, girl--your real name?"
"min--minnie; my father's name was smith," she told him, her eyes cast down under delicately tremulous lids.
"oh, minnie sm--"
"but 'twa'n't his right name," quickly corrected the girl, and unconsciously both rose to their feet. "his right name was falconer."
"minnie falconer--well, that is a pretty name," commented johnson; and raising her hand to his lips he pressed them against it.
"i ain't sure that's what he said it was--i ain't sure o' anythin' only jest you," she said coyly, burying her face in his neck.
"you may well be sure of me since i've loved--" johnson's sentence was cut short, a wave of remorse sweeping over him. "turn your head away, girl, and don't listen to me," he went on, gently putting her away from him. "i'm not worthy of you. don't listen but just say no, no, no, no."
the girl, puzzled, was even more so when johnson began to pace the floor.
"oh, i know--i ain't good enough for you !" she cried with a little tremour in her voice. "but i'll try hard, hard . . . if you see anythin' better in me, why don't you bring it out, 'cause i've loved you ever since i saw you first, 'cause i knowed that you--that you were the right man."
"the right man," repeated johnson, dismally, for his conscience was beginning to smite him hard.
"i'm not laughing," as indeed he was not.
"o' course every girl kind o' looks ahead," went on the girl in explanation.
"yes, i suppose," he observed seriously.
"an' figgers about bein'--well, oh, you know--about bein' settled. an' when the right man comes, why, she knows 'im, you bet! jest as we both knowed each other standin' on the road to monterey. i said that day, he's good, he's gran' an' he can have me."
"i could have you," murmured johnson, meditatively.
the girl nodded eagerly.
there was a long silence in which johnson was trying to make up his mind to tear himself away from her,--the one woman whom he loved in the world,--for it had been slowly borne in upon him that he was not a fit mate for this pure young girl. nor was his unhappiness lessened when he recalled how she had struggled against yielding to him. at last, difficult though it was, he took his courage in both hands, and said:
"girl, i have looked into your heart and my own and now i realise what this means for us both--for you, girl--and knowing that, it seems hard to say good-bye as i should, must and will . . ."
at those clear words spoken by lips which failed so utterly to hide his misery, the girl's face turned pale.
"what do you mean?" she asked.
johnson coloured, hesitated, and finally with a swift glance at the clock, he briefly explained:
"i mean it's hard to go and leave you here. the clock reminded me that long before this i should have been on my way. i shouldn't have come up here at all. god bless you, dear," and here their eyes came together and seemed unable to part,--"i love you as i never thought i could . . ."
but at johnson's queer look she hastened to inquire:
"but it ain't for long you're goin'?"
for long! then she had not understood that he meant to go for all time. how tell her the truth? while he pondered over the situation there came to him with great suddenness the thought that, perhaps, after all, life never intended that she should be given to him only to be taken away almost as suddenly; and seized with a desire to hold on to her at any cost, he sprang forward as if to take her in his arms, but before he reached her, he stopped short.
"such happiness is not for me," he muttered under his breath; and then aloud he added: "no, no, i've got to go now while i have the courage, i mean." he broke off as suddenly as he had begun, and taking her face in his hands he kissed her good-bye.
now, accustomed as was the girl to the strange comings and goings of the men at the camp, it did not occur to her to question him further when he told her that he should have been away before now. moreover, she trusted and loved him. and so it was without the slightest feeling of misgiving that she watched her lover quickly take down his coat and hat from the peg on the wall and start for the door. on the other hand, it must have required not a little courage on the man's part to have torn himself away from this lovely, if unconventional, creature, just as he was beginning to love truly and appreciate her. but, then, johnson was a man of no mean determination!
not daring to trust himself to words, johnson paused to look back over his shoulder at the girl before plunging forth into the night. but on opening the door all the multitudinous wild noises of the forests reached his ears: sounds of whispering and rocking storm-tossed pines, sounds of the wind making the rounds of the deep canyon below them, sounds that would have made the blood run cold of a man more daring, even, than himself. like one petrified he stood blinded, almost, by the great drifts of snow that were being driven into the room, while the cabin rocked and shook and the roof cracked and snapped, the lights flickered, smoked, or sent their tongues of fire upward towards the ceiling, the curtains swayed like pendants in the air, and while baskets, boxes, and other small furnishings of the cabin were blown in every direction.
but it was the girl's quick presence of mind that saved them from being buried, literally, under the snow. in an instant she had rushed past him and closed both the outer and inner doors of the cabin; then, going over to the window, she tried to look through the heavily frosted panes; but the falling of the sleet and snow, striking the window like fine shot, made it impossible for her to see more than a few inches away.
"why, it's the first time i knew that it--" she cut her sentence short and ended with: "that's the way we git it up here! look! look!"
whereupon, johnson went over to the window and put his face close to hers on the frosted panes; a great sea of white snow met his gaze!
"this means--" he said, turning away from the window and meeting her glance--"surely it doesn't mean that i can't leave cloudy to-night?"
"it means you can't get off the mountain to-night," calmly answered the girl.
"good lord!" fell from the man's lips.
"you can't leave this room to-night," went on the girl, decidedly. "why, you couldn't find your way three feet from this door--you a stranger! you don't know the trail anyway unless you can see it."
"but i can't stay here?" incredulously.
"why not? why, that's all right! the boys'll come up an' dig us out to-morrow or day after. there's plenty o' wood an' you can have my bed." and with no more ado than that, the girl went over to the bed to remove the covers and make it ready for his occupancy.
"i wouldn't think of taking that," protested the man, stoutly, while his face clouded over.
the girl felt a thrill at the note of regard in his voice and hastened to explain:
"i never use it cold nights; i always roll up in my rug in front of the fire." all of a sudden she broke out into a merry little laugh. "jest think of it stormin' all this time an' we didn't know it!"
but johnson was not in a laughing mood. indeed, he looked very grave and serious when presently he said:
"but people coming up here and finding me might--"
the girl looked up at him in blank amazement.
"might what?" and then, while she waited for his answer, two shots in close succession rang out in the night with great distinctness.
there was no mistaking the nearness of the sound. instantly scenting trouble and alert at the possibility of danger, johnson inquired:
"what's that? what's that?"
"wait! wait!" came back from the girl, unconsciously in the same tone, while she strained her ears for other sounds. she did not have long to wait, however, before other shots followed, the last ones coming from further away, so it seemed, and at greater intervals.
"they've got a road agent--it's the posse--p'r'aps they've got ramerrez or one o' his band!" suddenly declared the girl, at the same time rushing over to the window for some verification of her words. but, as before, the wind was beating with great force against the frosted panes, and only a vast stretch of snow met her gaze. turning away from the window she now came towards him with: "you see, whoever it is, they're snowed in--they can't get away."
johnson knitted his brows and muttered something under his breath which the girl did not catch.
again a shot was fired.
"another thief crep' into camp," coldly observed the girl almost simultaneously with the report.
"poor devil!" he muttered. "but of course, as you say, he's only a thief."
in reply to which the girl uttered words to the effect that she was glad he had been caught.
"well, you're right," said johnson, thoughtfully, after a short silence; then determinedly and in short jerky sentences, he went on: "i've been thinking that i must go--tear myself away. i have very important business at dawn--imperative business . . ."
the girl, who now stood by the table folding up the white cloth cover, watched him out of the corner of her eye, take down his coat from the peg on the wall.
"ever sample one o' our mountain blizzards?" she asked as he slipped on his coat. "in five minutes you wouldn't know where you was. your important business would land you at the bottom of a canyon 'bout twenty feet from here."
johnson cleared his throat as if to speak but said nothing; whereupon the girl continued:
"you say you believe in fate. well, fate has caught up with you--you got to stay here."
johnson was strangely silent. he was wondering how his coming there to-night had really come about. but he could find no solution to the problem unless it was in response to that perverse instinct which prompts us all at times to do the very thing which in our hearts we know to be wrong. the girl, meanwhile, after a final creasing of the neatly-folded cover, started for the cupboard, stopping on the way to pick up various articles which the wind had strewn about the room. flinging them quickly into the cupboard she now went over to the window and once more attempted to peer out into the night. but as before, it was of no avail. with a shrug she straightened the curtains at the windows and started for the door. her action seemed to quicken his decision, for, presently, with a gesture of resignation, he threw down his hat and coat on the table and said as if speaking to himself:
the girl looked puzzled.
"why, what do you mean?"
"i mean," began johnson, pacing the floor slowly. now he stopped by a chair and pointed as though to the falling snow. "suppose we say that's an omen--that the old trail is blotted out and there is a fresh road. would you take it with me a stranger, who says: from this day i mean to be all you'd have me. would you take it with me far away from here and forever?"
it did not take the girl long to frame an answer. taking johnson's hand she said with great feeling:
"well, show me the girl that would want to go to heaven alone! i'll sell out the saloon--i'll go anywhere with you, you bet!"
johnson bent low over her hand and kissed it. the girl's straightforward answer had filled his heart to overflowing with joy.
"you know what that means, don't you?" a moment later he asked.
sudden joy leapt to her blue eyes.
"oh, yes," she told him with a world of understanding in her voice. there was a silence; then she went on reminiscently: "there's a little spanish mission church--i pass it 'most every day. i can look in an' see the light burnin' before the virgin an' see the saints standin' round with glassy eyes an' faded satin slippers. an' i often tho't what they'd think if i was to walk right in to be made--well, some man's wife. it makes your blood like pin-points thinkin' about it. there's somethin' kind o' holy about love, ain't they?"
johnson nodded. he had never regarded love in that light before, much less known it. for many moments he stood motionless, a new problem of right and wrong throbbing in his bosom.
at last, it being settled that johnson was to pass the night in the girl's cabin, she went over to the bed and, once more, began to make it ready for his occupancy. meanwhile, johnson, seated in the barrel rocker before the fire, watched her with a new interest. the girl had not gone very far with her duties, however, when she suddenly came over to him, plumping herself down on the floor at his feet.
"say, did you ever ask any other woman to marry you?" she asked as she leaned far back in his arms.
"no," was the man's truthful answer.
"oh, how glad i am! take me--ah, take me i don't care where as long as it is with you!" cried the girl in an ecstasy of delight.
"so help me, god, i'm going to . . .!" promised johnson, his voice strained, tense. "you're worth something better than me, girl," he added, a moment later, "but they say love works miracles every hour, that it weakens the strong and strengthens the weak. with all my soul i love you, with all my soul i--" the man let his voice die out, leaving his sentence unfinished. suddenly he called: "why, min-minnie!"
"i wasn't really asleep," spoke up the girl, blinking sleepily. "i'm jest so happy an' let down, that's all." the next moment, however, she was forced to acknowledge that she was awfully sleepy and would have to say good-night.
"all right," said johnson, rising, and kissed her good-night.
"that's your bed over there," she told him, pointing in the direction of the curtains.
"but hadn't you better take the bed and let me sleep over here?"
"you're sure you would be more comfortable by the fire--sure, now?"
"yes, you bet!"
and so it was that johnson decided to pass the night in the girl's canopied bed while she herself, rolled up in a blanket rug before the fire, slept on the floor.
"this beats a bed any time," remarked the girl, spreading out the rug smoothly; and then, reaching up for the old patchwork, silk quilt that hung from the loft, she added: "there's one thing--you don't have to make it up in the mornin'."
"you're splendid, girl!" laughed johnson. presently, he saw her quietly closet herself in the cupboard, only to emerge a few minutes later dressed for the night. over her white cambric gown with its coarse lace trimming showing at the throat, she wore a red woollen blanket robe held in at the waist by a heavy, twisted, red cord which, to the man who got a glimpse of her as she crossed the room, made her prettier, even, than she had seemed at any time yet.
"now you can talk to me from your bunk an' i'll talk to you from mine," she said in a sleepy, lazy voice.
except for a prodigious yawn which came from the girl there was an ominous quiet hanging over the place that chilled the man. sudden sounds startled him, and he found it impossible to make any progress with his preparations for the night. he was about to make some remark, however, when to his well-attuned ears there came the sound of approaching footsteps. in an instant he was standing in the parting made by the curtains, his face eager, animated, tense.
"what's that?" he whispered.
"that's snow slidin'," the girl informed him without the slightest trace of anxiety in her voice.
"god bless you, girl," he murmured, and retreated back of the curtains. it was only an instant before he was back again with: "why, there is something out there--sounded like people calling," he again whispered.
"that's only the wind," she said, adding as she drew her robe tightly about her: "gettin' cold, ain't it?"
but, notwithstanding her assurances, johnson did not feel secure, and it was with many misgivings that he now directed his footsteps towards the bed behind the curtains.
"good-night!" he said uneasily.
"good-night!" unconsciously returned the girl in the same tone.
taking off her slippers the girl now put on a pair of moccasins and quietly went over to her bed, where she knelt down and made a silent prayer.
"good-night!" presently came from a little voice in the rug.
"good-night!" answered the man now settled in the centre of the much-befrilled bed.
there was a silence; then the little voice in the rug called out:
"say, what's your name?"
"dick," whispered the man behind the curtains.
"so long, dick!" drowsily.
"so long, girl!" dreamily.
there was a brief silence; then, of a sudden, the girl bolted upright in bed, and asked:
"say, dick, are you sure you don't know that nina micheltoreña?"
"sure," prevaricated the man, not without some compunction.
whereupon the girl fell back on her pillows and called out contentedly a final "good-night!"
there was no mistaking then--no need to contrast her feeling of anxiety of a few moments ago lest some other woman had preceded her in his affections, with her indifference on former occasions when her admirers had proved faithless, to make the girl realise that she was experiencing love and was dominated by a passion for this man.
it was an odd and wholly new sensation, this conjuring up of distressing spectres, for no girl was given less to that sort of thing; all the same, it was with difficulty that she checked an impulse to cry out to her lover--whom she believed to be asleep--and make him dissipate, by renewed assurances, the mysterious barrier which she felt was hemming her in.
as for johnson, the moment that his head had touched the pillows, he fell to thinking of the awkward situation in which he was placed, the many complications in which his heart had involved him and, finally, he found himself wondering whether the woman whom he loved so dearly was also lying sleepless in her rug on the floor.
and so it was not surprising that he should spring up the moment that he heard cries from outside.
"who's that knockin', i wonder?"
in that same moment johnson was standing in the parting of the curtains, his hand raised warningly. in another moment he was over to the door where, after taking his pistols from his overcoat pockets, he stood in a cool, determined attitude, fingering his weapons.
"but some one's ben callin'," the girl was saying, at the very moment when above the loud roaring of the wind another knock was heard on the cabin door. "who can it be?" she asked as if to herself, and calmly went over to the table, where she took up the candle and lit it.
springing to her side, johnson whispered tensely:
"don't answer--you can't let anyone in--they wouldn't understand."
the girl eyed him quizzically.
"understand what?" and before he had time to explain, much less to check her, she was standing at the window, candle in hand, peering out into the night.
"why, it's the posse!" she cried, wheeling round suddenly. "how did they ever risk it in this storm?"
at these words a crushed expression appeared on johnson's countenance; an uncanny sense of insecurity seized him. once more the loud, insistent pounding was repeated, and as before, the outlaw, his hands on his guns, commanded her not to answer.
"but what on earth do the boys want?" inquired the girl, seemingly oblivious to what he was saying. indeed, so much so that as the voice of nick rose high above the other sounds of the night, calling, "min-minnie-girl, let us in!" she hurriedly brushed past him and yelled through the door:
"what do you want?"
again johnson's hand went up imperatively.
"don't let him come in!" he whispered.
but even then she heard not his warning, but silently, tremulously listened to sonora, who shouted through the door: "say, girl, you all right?" and not until her answering voice had called back her assurance that she was safe did she turn to the man at her side and whisper in a voice that showed plainly her agitation and fear:
"jack rance is there! if he was to see you here--he's that jealous i'd be afraid--" she checked her words and quickly put her ear close to the door, the voices outside having become louder and more distinct. presently she spun round on her heel and announced excitedly: "ashby's there, too!" and again she put her ear to the door.
"ashby!" the exclamation fell from johnson's lips before he was aware of it. it was impossible to deceive himself any longer--the posse had tracked him!
"we want to come in, girl!" suddenly rang out from the well-known voice of nick.
"but you can't come in!" shouted back the girl above the noise of the storm; then, taking advantage of a particularly loud howl of the blast, she turned to johnson and inquired: "what will i say? what reason will i give?"
serious as was johnson's predicament, he could not suppress a smile. in a surprisedly calm voice he told her to say that she had gone to bed.
the girl's eyes flooded with admiration.
"why, o' course--that's it," she said, and turned back to the door and called through it: "i've gone to bed, nick! i'm in bed now!"
the barkeeper's answer was lost in another loud howl of the blast. soon afterwards, however, the girl made out that nick was endeavouring to convey to her a warning of some kind.
"you say you've come to warn me?" she cried.
"yes, ramerrez . . .!"
"what? say that again?"
"ramerrez is on the trail--"
"ramerrez's on the trail!" repeated the girl in tones of alarm; and not waiting to hear further she motioned to johnson to conceal himself behind the curtains of the bed, muttering the while:
"i got to let 'em in--i can't keep 'em out there on such a night . . ." he had barely reached his place of concealment when the girl slid back the bolts and bade the boys to come in.
headed by rance, the men quickly filed in and deposited their lanterns on the floor. it was evident that they had found the storm most severe, for their boots were soaked through and their heavy buffalo overcoats, caps and ear-muffs were covered with snow, which all, save rance, proceeded to remove by shaking their shoulders and stamping their feet. the latter, however, calmly took off his gloves, pulled out a beautifully-creased handkerchief from his pocket, and began slowly to flick off the snow from his elegant mink overcoat before hanging it carefully upon a peg on the wall. after that he went over to the table and warmed his hands over the lighted candle there. meanwhile, sonora, his nose, as well as his hands which with difficulty he removed from his heavy fur mittens, showing red and swollen from the effects of the biting cold, had gone over to the fire, where he ejaculated:
"ouf, i'm cold! glad you're safe, girl!"
"yes, girl, the polka's had a narrow squeak," observed nick, stamping his feet which, as well as his legs, were wrapped with pieces of blankets for added warmth.
unconsciously, at his words, the girl's eyes travelled to the bed; then, drawing her robe snugly about her, and seating herself, she asked with suppressed excitement:
"why, nick, what's the matter? what's--"
rance took it upon himself to do the answering. sauntering over to the girl, he drawled out:
"it takes you a long time to get up, seems to me. you haven't so much on, either," he went on, piercing her with his eyes.
smilingly and not in the least disconcerted by the sheriff's remark, the girl picked up a rug from the floor and wound it about her knees.
"well?" she interrogated.
"well, we was sure that you was in trouble," put in sonora. "my breath jest stopped."
"me? me in trouble, sonora?" a little laugh that was half-gay, half-derisive, accompanied her words.
"see here, that man ramerrez--" followed up rance with a grim look.
"--feller you was dancin' with," interposed sonora, but checked himself instantly lest he wound the girl's feelings.
whereupon, rance, with no such compunctions, became the spokesman, a grimace of pleasure spreading over his countenance as he thought of the unpleasant surprise he was about to impart. stretching out his stiffened fingers over the blaze, he said in his most brutal tones:
"your polkying friend is none other than ramerrez."
the girl's eyes opened wide, but they did not look at the sheriff. they looked straight before her.
"i warned you, girl," spoke up ashby, "that you should bank with us oftener."
the girl gave no sign of having heard him. her slender figure seemed to have shrunken perceptibly as she stared stupidly, uncomprehendingly, into space.
"we say that johnson was--" repeated rance, impatiently.
"--what?" fell from the girl's lips, her face pale and set.
"are you deaf?" demanded rance; and then, emphasising every word, he rasped out: "the fellow you've been polkying with is the man that has been asking people to hold up their hands."
"oh, go on--you can't hand me out that!" nevertheless the girl looked wildly about the room.
angrily rance strode over to her and sneered bitingly:
"you don't believe it yet, eh?"
"no, i don't believe it yet!" rapped out the girl, laying great stress upon the last word. "i know he isn't."
"well, he is ramerrez, and he did come to the polka to rob it," retorted the sheriff.
all at once the note of resentment in the girl's voice became positive; she flared back at him, though she flushed in spite of herself.
"but he didn't rob it!"
"that's what gits me," fretted sonora. "he didn't."
"i should think it would git you," snapped back the girl, both in her look and voice rebuking him for his words.
it was left to ashby to spring another surprise.
"we've got his horse," he said pointedly.
"an' i never knowed one o' these men to separate from his horse," commented sonora, still smarting under the girl's reprimand.
"right you are! and now that we've got his horse and this storm is on, we've got him," said rance, triumphantly. "but the last seen of johnson," he went on with a hasty movement towards the girl and eyeing her critically, "he was heading this way. you seen anything of him?"
the girl struggled hard to appear composed.
"heading this way?" she inquired, reddening.
"so nick said," declared sonora, looking towards that individual for proof of his words.
but nick had caught the girl's lightning glance imposing silence upon him; in some embarrassment he stammered out:
"that is, he was--sid said he saw 'im take the trail, too."
"but the trail ends here," pointed out rance, at the same time looking hard at the girl. "and if she hasn't seen him, where was he going?"
at this juncture nick espied a cigar butt on the floor; unseen by the others, he hurriedly picked it up and threw it in the fire.
"one o' our dollar havanas! good lord, he's here!" he muttered to himself.
"rance is right. where was he goin'?" was the question with which he was confronted by sonora when about to return to the others.
"well, i tho't i seen him," evaded nick with considerable uneasiness. "i couldn't swear to it. you see it was dark, an'--moses but the sidney duck's a liar!"
at length, ashby decided that the man had in all probability been snowed under, ending confidently with:
"something scared him off and he lit out without his horse." which remark brought temporary relief to the girl, for nick, watching her, saw the colour return to her face.
unconsciously, during this discussion, the girl had risen to her feet, but only to fall back in her chair again almost as suddenly, a sign of nervousness which did not escape the sharp eye of the sheriff.
"how do you know the man's a road agent?" a shade almost of contempt was in the girl's question.
sonora breathed on his badly nipped fingers before answering:
"well, two greasers jest now were pretty positive before they quit."
instantly the girl's head went up in the air.
"greasers!" she ejaculated scornfully, while her eyes unfalteringly met rance's steady gaze.
"but the woman knew him," was the sheriff's vindictive thrust.
the girl started; her face went white.
"the woman--the woman d'you say?"
"why, yes, it was a woman that first tol' them that ramerrez was in the camp to rob the polka," sonora informed her, though his tone showed plainly his surprise at being compelled to repeat a thing which, he wrongly believed, she already knew.
"we saw her at the palmetto," leered rance.
"and we missed the reward," frowned ashby; at which rance quickly turned upon the speaker with:
"but ramerrez is trapped."
there was a moment's startled pause in which the girl struggled with her passions; at last, she ventured:
"who's this woman?"
the sheriff laughed discordantly.
"why, the woman of the back trail," he sneered.
"nina micheltoreña! then she does know 'im--it's true--it goes through me!" unwittingly burst from the girl's lips.
the sheriff, evidently, found the situation amusing, for he laughed outright.
"he's the sort of a man who polkas with you first and then cuts your throat," was his next stab.
the girl turned upon him with eyes flashing and retorted:
"well, it's my throat, ain't it?"
"well i'll be!--" the sheriff's sentence was left unfinished, for nick, quickly pulling him to one side, whispered:
"say, rance, the girl's cut up because she vouched for 'im. don't rub it in."
notwithstanding, rance, to the girl's query of "how did this nina micheltoreña know it?" took a keen delight in telling her:
"she's his girl."
"his girl?" repeated the girl, mechanically.
"yes. she gave us his picture," went on rance; and taking the photograph out of his pocket, he added maliciously, "with love written on the back of it."
a glance at the photograph, which she fairly snatched out of his hands, convinced the girl of the truthfulness of his assertion. with a movement of pain she threw it upon the floor, crying out bitterly:
"nina micheltoreña! nina micheltoreña!" turning to ashby with an abrupt change of manner she said contritely: "i'm sorry, mr. ashby, i vouched for 'im."
the wells fargo agent softened at the note in the girl's voice; he was about to utter some comforting words to her when suddenly she spoke again.
"i s'pose they had one o' them little lovers' quarrels an' that made 'er tell you, eh?" she laughed a forced little laugh, though her heart was beating strangely as she kept on: "he's the kind o' man who sort o' polkas with every girl he meets." and at this she began to laugh almost hysterically.
rance, who resented her apologising to anyone but himself, stood scowling at her.
"what are you laughing at?" he questioned.
"oh, nothin', jack, nothin'," half-cried, half-laughed the girl. "only it's kind o' funny how things come out, ain't it? took in! nina micheltoreña! nice company he keeps--one o' them cachuca girls with eyelashes at half-mast!"
once more, she broke out into a fit of laughter.
"well, well," she resumed, "an' she sold 'im out for money! ah, jack rance, you're a better guesser'n i am!" and with these words she sank down at the table in an apathy of misery. horror and hatred and hopelessness had possession of her. a fierce look was in her eyes when a moment later she raised her head and abruptly dismissed the boys, saying:
"well, boys, it's gittin' late--good-night!"
sonora was the first to make a movement towards the door.
"come on, boys," he growled in his deep bass voice; "don't you intend to let a lady go to bed?"
one by one the men filed through the door which nick held open for them; but when all but himself had left, the devoted little barkeeper turned to the girl with a look full of meaning, and whispered:
"do you want me to stay?"
"me? oh, no, nick!" and with a "good-night, all! good-night, sonora, an' thank you! good-night, nick!" the girl closed the door upon them. the last that she heard from them was the muffled ejaculation:
"oh, lordy, we'll never git down to cloudy to-night!"
now the girl slid the bolts and stood with her back against the door as if to take extra precautions to bar out any intrusion, and with eyes that blazed she yelled out:
"come out o' that, now! step out there, mr. johnson!"
slowly the road agent parted the curtains and came forward in an attitude of dejection.
"you came here to rob me," at once began the girl, but her anger made it impossible for her to continue.
"i didn't," denied the road agent, quietly, his countenance reflecting how deeply hurt he was by her words.
"you lie!" insisted the girl, beside herself with rage.
"i admit that every circumstance points to--"
"stop! don't you give me any more o' that webster unabridged. you git to cases. if you didn't come here to steal you came to the polka to rob it, didn't you?"
johnson, his eyes lowered, was forced to admit that such were his intentions, adding swiftly:
"but when i knew about you--" he broke off and took a step towards her.
"wait! wait! wait where you are! don't you take a step further or i'll--" she made a significant gesture towards her bosom, and then, laughing harshly, went on denouncingly: "a road agent! a road agent! well, ain't it my luck! wouldn't anybody know to look at me that a gentleman wouldn't fall my way! a road agent! a road agent!" and again she laughed bitterly before going on: "but now you can git--git, you thief, you imposer on a decent woman! i ought to have tol' 'em all, but i wa'n't goin' to be the joke o' the world with you behind the curtains an' me eatin' charlotte rusks an' lemming turnovers an' a-polkyin' with a road agent! but now you can git--git, do you hear me?"
johnson heard her to the end with bowed head; and so scathing had been her denunciations of his actions that the fact that pride alone kept her from breaking down completely escaped his notice. with his eyes still downcast be said in painful fragments:
"one word only--only a word and i'm not going to say anything in defence of myself. for it's all true--everything is true except that i would have stolen from you. i am called ramerrez; i have robbed; i am a road agent--an outlaw by profession. yes, i'm all that--and my father was that before me. i was brought up, educated, thrived on thieves' money, i suppose, but until six months ago when my father died, i did not know it. i lived much in monterey--i lived there as a gentleman. when we met that day i wasn't the thing i am to-day. i only learned the truth when my father died and left me with a rancho and a band of thieves--nothing else--nothing for us all, and i--but what's the good of going into it--the circumstances. you wouldn't understand if i did. i was my father's son; i have no excuse; i guess, perhaps, it was in me--in the blood. anyhow, i took to the road, and i didn't mind it much after the first time. but i drew the line at killing--i wouldn't have that. that's the man that i am, the blackguard that i am. but--" here he raised his eyes and said with a voice that was charged with feeling--"i swear to you that from the moment i kissed you to-night i meant to change, i meant to--"
"the devil you did!" broke from the girl's lips, but with a sound that was not unlike a sob.
"i did, believe me, i did," insisted the man. "i meant to go straight and take you with me--but only honestly--when i could honestly. i meant to work for you. why, every word you said to me to-night about being a thief cut into me like a knife. over and over again i have said to myself, she must never know. and now--well, it's all over--i have finished."
"an' that's all?" questioned the girl with averted face.
"no--yes--what's the use . . .?"
the girl's anger blazed forth again.
"but there's jest one thing you've overlooked explainin', mr. johnson. it shows exactly what you are. it wasn't so much your bein' a road agent i got against you. it's this:" and here she stamped her foot excitedly. "you kissed me--you got my first kiss."
johnson hung his head.
"you said," kept on the girl, hotly, "you'd ben thinkin' o' me ever since you saw me at monterey, an' all the time you walked straight off an' ben kissin' that other woman." she shrugged her shoulder and laughed grimly. "you've got a girl," she continued, growing more and more indignant. "it's that i've got against you. it's my first kiss i've got against you. it's that nina micheltoreña that i can't forgive. so now you can git--git!" and with these words she unbolted the door and concluded tensely:
"if they kill you i don't care. do you hear, i don't care . . ."
at those bitter words spoken by lips which failed so utterly to hide their misery, the girl's face became colourless.
with the instinct of a brave man to sell his life as dearly as possible, johnson took a couple of guns from his pocket; but the next moment, as if coming to the conclusion that death without the girl would be preferable, he put them back, saying:
"you're right, girl."
the next instant he had passed out of the door which she held wide open for him.
"that's the end o' that--that's the end o' that," she wound up, slamming the door after him. but all the way from the threshold to the bureau she kept murmuring to herself: "i don't care, i don't care . . . i'll be like the rest o' the women i've seen. i'll give that nina micheltoreña cards an' spades. there'll be another hussy around here. there'll be--" the threat was never finished. instead, with eyes that fairly started out of their sockets, she listened to the sound of a couple of shots, the last one exploding so loud and distinct that there was no mistaking its nearness to the cabin.
"they've got 'im!" she cried. "well, i don't care--i don't--" but again she did not finish what she intended to say. for at the sound of a heavy body falling against the cabin door she flew to it, opened it and, throwing her arms about the sorely-wounded man, dragged him into the cabin and placed him in a chair. quick as lightning she was back at the door bolting it.
with his eyes johnson followed her action.
"don't lock that door--i'm going out again--out there. don't bar that door," he commanded feebly, struggling to his feet and attempting to walk towards it; but he lurched forward and would have fallen to the floor had she not caught him. vainly he strove to break away from her, all the time crying out: "don't you see, don't you see, girl--open the door." and then again with almost a sob: "do you think me a man to hide behind a woman?" he would have collapsed except for the strong arms that held him.
"i love you an' i'm goin' to save you," the girl murmured while struggling with him. "you asked me to go away with you; i will when you git out o' this. if you can't save your own soul--" she stopped and quickly went over to the mantel where she took down a bottle of whisky and a glass; but in the act of pouring out a drink for him there came a loud rap on the window, and quickly looking round she saw rance's piercing eyes peering into the room. for an instant she paled, but then there flashed through her mind the comforting thought that the sheriff could not possibly see johnson from his position. so, after giving the latter his drink, she waited quietly until a rap at the door told her that rance had left the window when, her eye having lit on the ladder that was held in place on the ceiling, she quickly ran over to it and let it down, saying:
"go up the ladder! climb up there to the loft you're the man that's got my first kiss an' i'm goin' to save you . . ."
"oh, no, not here," protested johnson, stubbornly.
"do you want them to see you in my cabin?" she cried reproachfully, trying to lift him to his feet.
"oh, hurry, hurry . . .!"
with the utmost difficulty johnson rose to his feet and catching the rounds of the ladder he began to ascend. but after going up a few rounds he reeled and almost fell off, gasping:
"i can't make it--no, i can't . . ."
"yes, you can," encouraged the girl; and then, simultaneously with another loud knock on the door: "you're the man i love an' you must--you've got to show me the man that's in you. oh, go on, go on, jest a step an' you'll git there."
"but i can't," came feebly from the voice above. nevertheless, the next instant he fell full length on the boarded floor of the loft with the hand outstretched in which was the handkerchief he had been staunching the blood from the wound in his side.
with a whispered injunction that he was all right and was not to move on any account, the girl put the ladder back in its place. but no sooner was this done than on looking up she caught sight of the stained handkerchief. she called softly up to him to take it away, explaining that the cracks between the boards were wide and it could plainly be seen from below.
"that's it!" she exclaimed on observing that he had changed the position of his hand. "now, don't move!"
finally, with the lighted candle in her hand, the girl made a quick survey of the room to see that nothing was in sight that would betray her lover's presence there, and then throwing open the door she took up such a position by it that it made it impossible for anyone to get past her without using force.
"you can't come in here, jack rance," she said in a resolute voice. "you can tell me what you want from where you are."
roughly, almost brutally, rance shoved her to one side and entered.
"no more jack rance. it's the sheriff coming after mr. johnson," he said, emphasizing each word.
the girl eyed him defiantly.
"yes, i said mr. johnson," reiterated the sheriff, cocking the gun that he held in his hand. "i saw him coming in here."
"it's more 'n i did," returned the girl, evenly, and bolted the door. "do you think i'd want to shield a man who tried to rob me?" she asked, facing him.
ignoring the question, rance removed the glove of his weaponless hand and strode to the curtains that enclosed the girl's bed and parted them. when he turned back he was met by a scornful look and the words:
"so, you doubt me, do you? well, go on--search the place. but this ends your acquaintance with the polka. don't you ever speak to me again. we're through."
suddenly there came a smothered groan from the man in the loft; rance wheeled round quickly and brought up his gun, demanding:
"what's that? what's that?"
leaning against the bureau the girl laughed outright and declared that the sheriff was becoming as nervous as an old woman. her ridicule was not without its effect, and, presently, rance uncocked his gun and replaced it in its holster. advancing now to the table where the girl was standing, he took off his cap and shook it before laying it down; then, pointing to the door, his eyes never leaving the girl's face, he went on accusingly:
"i saw someone standing out there against the snow. i fired. i could have sworn it was a man."
the girl winced. but as she stood watching him calmly remove his coat and shake it with the air of one determined to make himself at home, she cried out tauntingly:
"why do you stop? why don't you go on--finish your search--only don't ever speak to me again."
at that, rance became conciliatory.
"say, min, i don't want to quarrel with you."
turning her back on him the girl moved over to the bureau where she snapped out over her shoulder:
"go on with your search, then p'r'aps you'll leave a lady to herself to go to bed."
the sheriff followed her up with the declaration:
"i'm plumb crazy about you, min."
the girl shrugged her shoulder.
"i could have sworn i saw--i--oh, you know it's just you for me--just you, and curse the man you like better. i--i--even yet i can't get over the queer look in your face when i told you who that man really was." he stopped and flung his overcoat down on the floor, and fixing her with a look he demanded: "you don't love him, do you?"
again the girl sent over her shoulder a forced little laugh.
the sheriff's face brightened. taking a few steps nearer to her, he hazarded:
"say, girl, was your answer final to-night about marrying me?"
without turning round the girl answered coyly:
"i might think it over, jack."
instantly the man's passion was aroused. he strode over to her, put his arms around her and kissed her forcibly.
"i love you, i love you, minnie!" he cried passionately.
in the struggle that followed, the girl's eyes fell on the bottle on the mantel. with a cry she seized it and raised it threateningly over her head. another second, however, she sank down upon a chair and began to sob, her face buried in her hands.
rance regarded her coldly; at last he gave vent to a mirthless laugh, the nasty laugh of a man whose vanity is hurt.
"so, it's as bad as that," he sneered. "i didn't quite realise it. i'm much obliged to you. good-night." he snatched up his coat, hesitated, then repeated a little less angrily than before: "good-night!"
but the girl, with her face still hidden, made no answer. for a moment he watched the crouching form, the quivering shoulders, then asked, with sudden and unwonted gentleness:
"can't you say good-night to me, girl!"
slowly the girl rose to her feet and faced him, aversion and pity struggling for mastery. then, as she noted the spot where he was now standing, his great height bringing him so near to the low boards of the loft where her lover was lying that it seemed as though he must hear the wounded man's breathing, all other feelings were swept away by overwhelming fear. with the one thought that she must get rid of him,--do anything, say anything, but get rid of him quickly, she forced herself forward, with extended hand, and said in a voice that held out new promise:
"good-night. jack rance,--good-night!"
rance seized the hand with an almost fierce gladness in both his own, his keen glance hungrily striving to read her face. then, suddenly, he released her, drawing back his hand with a quick sharpness.
"why, look at my hand! there's blood on it!" he said.
and even as he spoke, under the yellow flare of the lamp, the girl saw a second drop of blood fall at her feet. like a flash, the terrible significance of it came upon her. only by self-violence could she keep her glance from rising, tell-tale, to the boards above.
"oh, i'm so sorry," she heard herself saying contritely, all the time desperately groping to invent a reason; at length, she added futilely: "i must have scratched you."
rance looked puzzled, staring at the spatter of red as though hypnotised.
"no, there's no scratch there," he contended, wiping off the blood with his handkerchief.
"oh, yes, there is," insisted the girl tremulously; "that is, there will be in the mornin'. you'll see in the mornin' that there'll be--" she stopped and stared in frozen terror at the sinister face of the sheriff, who was coolly watching his handkerchief turn from white to red under the slow rain of blood from the loft above.
"oho!" he emitted sardonically, stepping back and pointing his gun towards the loft. "so, he's up there!"
the girl's fingers clutched his arm, dragging desperately.
"no, he isn't, jack--no, he isn't!" she iterated in blind, mechanical denial.
with an abrupt movement, rance flung her violently from him, made a grab at the suspended ladder and lowered it into position; then, deaf to the girl's pleadings, harshly ordered johnson to come down, meanwhile covering the source of the blood-drops with his gun.
"oh, wait,--wait a minute!" begged the girl helplessly. what would happen if he couldn't obey the summons? he had spent himself in his climb to safety. perhaps he was unconscious, slowly bleeding to death! but even as she tortured herself with fears, the boards above creaked as though a heavy body was dragging itself slowly across them. johnson was evidently doing his best to reach the top of the ladder; but he did not move quickly enough to suit the sheriff.
"come down, or i'll--"
"oh, just a minute, jack, just a minute!" broke in the girl frantically. "don't shoot!--don't you see he's tryin' to--?"
"come down here, mr. johnson!" reiterated the sheriff, with a face inhuman as a fiend.
the girl clenched her hands, heedless of the nails cutting into her palms: "won't you wait a moment,--please, wait, jack!"
"wait? what for?" the sheriff flung at her brutally, his finger twitching on the trigger.
the girl's lips parted to answer, then closed again dumbly,--for it was then that she saw the boots, then the legs of the road agent slide uncertainly through the open trap, fumble clumsily for the rungs of the ladder, then slip and stumble as the weight of the following body came upon them while the weak fingers strained desperately for a hold. the whole heart and soul and mind of the girl seemed to be reaching out impotently to give her lover strength, to hurry him down fast enough to forestall a shot from the sheriff. it seemed hours until the road agent reached the bottom of the ladder, then lurched with unseeing eyes to a chair and, finally, fell forward limply, with his arms and head resting on the table. still dumb with dread, the girl watched rance slowly circle round the wounded man; it was not until the sheriff returned his pistol to its holster that she breathed freely again.
"so, you dropped into the polka to-night to play a little game of poker? funny how things change about in an hour or two!" rance chuckled mirthlessly; it seemed to suit his sardonic humour to taunt his helpless rival. "you think you can play poker,--that's your conviction, is it? well, you can play freeze-out as to your chances, mr. johnson of sacramento. come, speak up,--it's shooting or the tree,--which shall it be?"
goaded beyond endurance by rance's taunting of the unconscious man, the girl, fumbling in her bosom for her pistol, turned upon him in a sudden, cold fury:
"you better stop that laughin', jack rance, or i'll send you to finish it in some place where things ain't so funny."
something in the girl's altered tone so struck the sheriff that he obeyed her. he said nothing, but on his lips were the words, "by heaven, the girl means it!" and his eyes showed a smouldering admiration.
"he doesn't hear you,--he's out of it. but me--me--i hear you--i ain't out of it," the girl went on in compelling tones. "you're a gambler; he was, too; well, so am i." she crossed deliberately to the bureau, and laid her pistol away in the drawer, rance meanwhile eyeing her with puzzled interest. returning, she went on, incisively as a whip lash: "i live on chance money, drink money, card money, saloon money. we're gamblers,--we're all gamblers!" she paused, an odd expression coming over her face,--an expression that baffled rance's power to read. presently she resumed: "now, you asked me to-night if my answer was final,--well, here's your chance. i'll play you the game,--straight poker. it's two out o' three for me. hatin' the sight o' you, it's the nearest chance you'll ever get for me."
"do you mean--" began rance, his hands resting on the table, his hawk-like glance burning into her very thoughts.
"yes, with a wife in noo orleans all right," she interrupted him feverishly. "if you're lucky,--you'll git 'im an' me. but if you lose,--this man settin' between us is mine--mine to do with as i please, an' you shut up an' lose like a gentleman."
"you must be crazy about him!" the words seemed wrung from the sheriff against his will.
"that's my business!" came like a knife-cut from the girl.
"do you know you're talkin' to the sheriff?"
"i'm talkin' to jack rance, the gambler," she amended evenly.
"you're right,--and he's just fool enough to take you up," returned rance with sudden decision. he looked around him for a chair; there was one near the table, and the girl handed it to him. with one hand he swung it into place before the table, while with the other he jerked off the table-cover, and flung it across the room. johnson neither moved nor groaned, as the edge slid from beneath his nerveless arms.
"you and the cyards have got into my blood. i'll take you up," he said, seating himself.
"your word," demanded the girl, leaning over the table, but still standing.
"i can lose like a gentleman," returned rance curtly; then, with a swift seizure of her hand, he continued tensely, in tones that made the girl shrink and whiten, "i'm hungry for you, min, and if i win, i'll take it out on you as long as i have breath."
"what you goin' to get?" he called after her suspiciously. the girl made no reply. rance made no movement to follow her, but instead drew a pack of cards from his pocket and began to shuffle them with practiced carelessness. but when a minute had passed and the girl had not returned, he called once more, with growing impatience, to know what was keeping her.
"i'm jest gettin' the cards an' kind o' steadyin' my nerves," she answered somewhat queerly through the doorway. the next moment she had returned, quickly closing the closet door behind her, blew out her candle, and laying a pack of cards upon the table, said significantly:
"we'll use a fresh deck. there's a good deal depends on this, jack." she seated herself opposite the sheriff and so close to the unconscious form of the man she loved that from time to time her left arm brushed his shoulder.
rance, without protest other than a shrug, took up his own deck of cards, wrapped them in a handkerchief, and stowed them away in his pocket. it was the girl who spoke first:
"are you ready?"
"ready? yes. i'm ready. cut for deal."
with unfaltering fingers, the girl cut. of the man beside her, dead or dying, she must not, dared not think. for the moment she had become one incarnate purpose: to win, to win at any cost,--nothing else mattered.
rance won the deal; and taking up the pack he asked, as he shuffled:
"a case of show-down?"
"cut!" once more peremptorily from rance; and then, when she had cut, one question more: "best two out of three?"
"best two out of three." swift, staccato sentences, like the rapid crossing of swords, the first preliminary interchange of strokes before the true duel begins.
rance dealt the cards. before either looked at them, he glanced across at the girl and asked scornfully, perhaps enviously:
"what do you see in him?"
"what do you see in me?" she flashed back instantly, as she picked up her cards; and then: "what have you got?"
"king high," declared the gambler.
"king high here," echoed the girl.
"jack next," and he showed his hand.
"queen next," and the girl showed hers.
"you've got it," conceded the gambler, easily. then, in another tone, "but you're making a mistake--"
"if i am, it's my mistake! cut!"
rance cut the cards. the girl dealt them steadily. then,
"what have you got?" she asked.
"one pair,--aces. what have you?"
"nothing," throwing her cards upon the table.
with just a flicker of a smile, the sheriff once more gathered up the pack, saying smoothly:
"even now,--we're even."
"it's the next hand that tells, jack, ain't it?"
"it's the next hand that tells me,--i'm awfully sorry,--" the words seemed to come awkwardly; her glance was troubled, almost contrite, "at any rate, i want to say jest now that no matter how it comes out--"
"cut!" interjected rance mechanically.
"--that i'll always think of you the best i can," completed the girl with much feeling. "an' i want you to do the same for me."
silently, inscrutably, the gambler dealt the ten cards, one by one. but as the girl started to draw hers toward her, his long, thin fingers reached across once more and closed not ungently upon hand and cards.
"the last hand, girl!" he reminded her. "and i've a feeling that i win,--that in one minute i'll hold you in my arms." and still covering her fingers with his own, he stole a glance at his cards.
"i win," he announced, briefly, his eyes alone betraying the inward fever. he dropped the cards before her on the table. "three kings,--and the last hand!"
suddenly, as though some inward cord had snapped under the strain, the girl collapsed. limply she slid downward in her chair, one groping hand straying aimlessly to her forehead, then dropping of its own weight. "quick, jack,--i'm ill,--git me somethin'!" the voice trailed off to nothingness as the drooping eyelids closed.
in real consternation, the sheriff sprang to his feet. in one sweeping glance his alert eye caught the whisky bottle upon the mantel. "all right, girl, i'll fix you in no time," he said cheeringly over his shoulder. but where the deuce did she keep her tumblers? the next minute he was groping for them in the dark of the adjoining closet and softly cursing himself for his own slowness.
instantaneously, the girl came to life. the unturned cards upon the table vanished with one lightning movement; the girl's hand disappeared beneath her skirts, raised for the moment knee-high; then the same, swift reverse motion, and the cards were back in place, while the girl's eyes trembled shut again, to hide the light of triumph in them. a smile flickered on her lips as the sheriff returned with the glass and bottle.
"never mind,--i'm better now," her lips shaped weakly.
the sheriff set down the bottle, and put his arm around the girl with a rough tenderness.
"oh, you only fainted because you lost," he told her.
averting her gaze, the girl quietly disengaged herself, rose to her feet and turned her five cards face upwards.
"no, jack, it's because i've won,--three aces and a pair."
the sheriff shot one glance at the girl, keen, searching. then, without so much as the twitch of an eyelid, he accepted his defeat, took a cigar from his pocket and lit it, the flame of the match revealing no expression other than the nonchalance for which he was noted; then, picking up his hat and coat he walked slowly to the door. here he halted and wished her a polite good-night--so ceremoniously polite that at any other time it would have compelled her admiration.
pale as death and almost on the point of collapse, the girl staggered back to the table where the wounded road agent was half-sitting, half-lying.
thrusting her hand now into the stocking from which she had obtained the winning, if incriminating, cards, she drew forth those that remained and scattered them in the air, crying out hysterically:
"three aces an' a pair an' a stockin' full o' pictures--but his life belongs to me!"
conscious-stricken at the fraud that she had imposed upon the gambler, the girl lived a lifetime in the moments that followed his departure. with her face buried in her hands she stood lost in contemplation of her shameful secret.
a sound--the sound of a man in great pain checked her hysterical sobs. dazed, she passed her hand over her face as if to clear away the dark shades that were obstructing her vision. another groan--and like a flash she was down on her knees lavishing endearments upon the road agent.
never before, it is true, had the girl had any experience in gun-shot wounds. she had played the part of nurse, however, more than once when the boys met with accidents at the mines. for the women of the california camps at that time had endless calls upon them. it was a period for sacrifices innumerable, and help and sympathy were never asked that they were not freely given. so, if the girl did not know the very best thing to do, she knew, at least, what not to do, and it was only a few minutes before she had cut the coat from his back.
the next thing to be done--the dragging of the unconscious man to the bed--was hard work, of course, but being strong of arm, as well as stout of heart, she at last accomplished it.
now she cut away his shirt in order to find the wound, which proved to be in his breast. quickly then she felt with her fingers in an endeavour to find the ball, but in this she was unsuccessful. so after a moment's deliberation she made up her mind that the wound was a flesh one and that the ball was anywhere but in the man's body--a diagnosis that was largely due to the cheerful optimism of her nature and which, fortunately, proved to be true.
presently she went to a corner of the room and soon returned with a basin of water and some hastily torn bandages. for a good fifteen minutes after that she washed the gash and, finally, bandaged it as well as she knew how. and now, having done all that her knowledge or instinct prompted, she drew up a chair and prepared to pass the rest of the night in watching by his side.
for an hour or so he slept the sleep of unconsciousness. in the room not a sound could be heard, but outside the storm still roared and raged. it was anything but an easy or cheerful situation: here she was alone with a wounded, if not dying, man; and she well knew that, unless there came an abatement in the fury of the storm, it might be days before anyone could climb the mountain. true, the indians were not far off, but like as not they would remain in their wigwam until the sun came forth again. in the matter of food there was a scant supply, but probably enough to tide them over until communication could be had with the polka.
for three days she watched over him, and all the time the storm continued. on the third day he became delirious, and that was the night of her torture. despite a feeling that she was taking an unfair advantage of him, the girl strained her ears to catch a name which, in his delirium, was constantly on his lips; but she could not make it out. all that she knew was that it was not her name that he spoke, and it pained her. she had given him absolute faith and trust and, already, she was overwhelmed with the fierce flames of jealousy. it was a new sensation, this being jealous of anyone, and it called forth a passionate resentment. in such moments she would rise and flee to the other end of the room until the whispered endearments had ceased. then she would draw near again with flushes of shame on her cheeks for having heeded the sayings of an irresponsible person, and she would take his head in her lap and, caressing him the while, would put cold towels on his heated brow.
dawn of the fourth day saw the girl still pale and anxious, though despair had entirely left her; for the storm was over and colour and speech had come back to the man early that morning. love and good nursing, not to speak of some excellent whisky that she happened to have stored away in her cabin, had pulled him through. with a sigh of relief she threw herself down on the rug for a much-needed rest.
the man woke just before the sun rose. his first thought, that he was home in the foothills, was dissipated by the sight of the snow ranges. through the window of the cabin, as far as the eye could see, nothing of green was visible. snow was everywhere; everything was white, save at the eastern horizon where silver was fast changing into rose and rose to a fiery red as the fast-rising sun sent its shafts over the snow-coated mountains.
and now there came to him a full realisation of what had happened and where he was. to his amazement, though, he was almost without pain. that his wound had been dressed he was, of course, well aware for when he attempted to draw back still further the curtain at the window the movement strained the tight bandage, and he was instantly made conscious of a twinge of pain.
nevertheless, he persevered, for he wisely decided that it would be well to reconnoitre, to familiarise himself, as much as possible, with the lay of the land and find out whether the trail that he had followed to reach the cabin which, he recalled, was perched high up above a ravine, was the only means of communication with the valley below. it was a useless precaution, for the snow would have wholly obliterated any such trail had there been one and, soon realising the fact, he fell back exhausted by his effort on the pillows.
"what you thinkin' of?" she asked. "at any moment--jest as soon as the trail can be cleared--there'll be someone of the boys up here to see how i've pulled through. they mustn't see you . . ."
forcibly, but with loving tenderness, she put him back among his pillows and seated herself by the bed. an awkward silence followed. for now that the man was in his right senses it was borne in upon her that he might remember that she had fed him, given him drink and fondled him. it was a situation embarrassing to both. neither knew just what to say or how to begin. at length, the voice from the bed spoke:
"how long have i been here?"
"and you have nursed me all that--"
"you mustn't talk," warned the girl. "it's dangerous in more ways than one. but if you keep still no one'll suspect that you're here."
"but i must know what happened," he insisted with increasing excitement. "i remember nothing after i came down the ladder. the sheriff--rance-- what's become . . .?"
the girl chided him with gentle authority.
"you keep perfectly still--you mustn't say nothin' 'til you've rested. everythin's all right an' you needn't worry a bit." but then seeing that he chafed at this, she added: "well, then, i'll tell you all there is to know." and then followed an account of the happenings of that night. it was not a thoroughly truthful tale, for in her narrative she told him only what she thought was necessary and good for him to know, keeping the rest to herself. and when she had related all that there was to tell she insisted upon his going to sleep again, giving him no opportunity whatsoever to speak, since she left his bedside after drawing the curtains.
unwillingly the man lay back and tried to force himself to be patient; but he fretted at the enforced quietude and, as a result, sleep refused to come to him. from time to time he could hear the girl moving noiselessly about the room. the knowledge that she was there gave him a sense of security, and he began to let his thoughts dwell upon her. no longer did he doubt but what she was a real influence now; and the thought had the effect of making him keenly alive to what his life had been. it was not a pleasant picture that he looked back upon, now that he had caught a glimpse of what life might mean with the girl at his side. from the moment that he had taken her in his arms he realised to the full that his cherished dream had come true; he realised, also, that there was now but one answer to the question of keeping to the oath given to his father, and that was that gratitude--for he had guessed rightly, though she had not told him, that she had saved him from capture by the sheriff and his posse--demanded that he should put an end to his vocation and devote his life henceforth to making her happy.
once or twice while thus communing with himself he fancied that he heard voices. it seemed to him that he recognised nick's voice. but whoever it was, he spoke in whispers, and though the wounded man strove to hear, he was unsuccessful.
after a while he heard the door close and then the tension was somewhat relaxed, for he knew that she was keeping his presence in her cabin a secret with all the wiles of a clever and loving woman. and more and more he determined to gain an honoured place for her in some community--an honoured place for himself and her. vague, very vague, of course, were the new purposes and plans that had so suddenly sprang up because of her influence, but the desire to lead a clean life had touched his heart, and since his old calling had never been pleasing to him, he did not for a moment doubt his ability to succeed.
the morning was half gone when the girl returned to her patient. then, in tones that did her best to make her appear free from anxiety, she told him that it was the barkeeper, as he had surmised, with whom she had been talking and that she had been obliged to take him into her confidence. the man made no comment, for the situation necessarily was in her hands, and he felt that she could be relied upon not to make any mistake. four people, he was told, knew of his presence in the cabin. so far as rance was concerned she had absolute faith in his honour, gambler though he was; there was nothing that nick would not do for her; and as for the indians, the secret was sure to be kept by them, unless jackrabbit got hold of some whisky--a contingency not at all likely, for nick had promised to see to that. in fact, all could be trusted to be as silent as the grave.
the invalid had listened intently; nevertheless, he sighed:
"it's hard to lie here. i don't want to be caught now."
the girl smiled at the emphasis on the last word, for she knew that it referred to her. furthermore, she had divined pretty well what had been his thoughts concerning his old life; but, being essentially a woman of action and not words, she said nothing.
a moment or so later he asked her to read to him. the girl looked as she might have looked if he had asked her to go to the moon. notwithstanding, she got up and, presently, returned with a lot of old school-books, which she solemnly handed over for his inspection.
the invalid smiled at the look of earnestness on the girl's face.
"not these?" he gently inquired. "where is the dante you were telling me about?"
once more the girl went over to the book-shelf; when she came back she handed him a volume, which he glanced over carefully before showing her the place where he wished her to begin to read to him.
at first the girl was embarrassed and stumbled badly. but on seeing that he seemed not to notice it she gained courage and acquitted herself creditably, at least, so she flattered herself, for she could detect, as she looked up from time to time, no expression other than pleasure on his face. it may be surmised, though, that johnson had not merely chosen a page at random; on the contrary, when the book was in his hand he had quickly found the lines which the girl had, so to say, paraphrased, and he was intensely curious to see how they would appeal to her. but now, apparently, she saw nothing in the least amusing in them, nor in other passages fully as sentimental. in fact, no comment of any kind was forthcoming from her--though johnson was looking for it and, to tell the truth, was somewhat disappointed--when she read that dante had probably never spoken more than twice to beatrice and his passion had no other food than the mists of his own dreaming. however, it was different when,--pausing before each word after the manner of a child,--she came to a passage of the poet's, and read:
"'in that moment i say most truly that the spirit of life, which hath its dwelling in the most secret chambers of the heart, began to tremble so violently that the least pulse of my body shook herewith, and in the trembling it said these words: "here is a deity stronger than i who, coming shall rule over me."'"
at that the girl let the book fall and, going down on her knees and taking both his hands in hers, she raised to him a look so full of adoring worship that he felt himself awed before it.
"that 'ere dante ain't so far off after all. i know jest how he feels. oh, i ain't fit to read to you, to talk to you, to kiss you."
nevertheless, he saw to it that she did.
after this he told her about the inferno, and she listened eagerly to his description of the unfortunate characters, though she declared, when he explained some of the crimes that they had committed, that they "got only what was rightly comin' to them."
the patient could hardly suppress his amusement. dante was discarded and instead they told each other how much love there was in that little cabin on cloudy mountain.
the days that followed were all much like this one. food was brought up from the polka and, by degrees, the patient's strength came back. and it was but natural that he became so absorbed in his newly-found happiness that he gradually was losing all sense of danger. late one night, however, when he was asleep, an incident happened that warned the girl that it was necessary to get her lover away just as soon as he was able to ride a horse.
lying on the rug in front of the fire she had been thinking of him when, suddenly, her quick ear, more than ever alert in these days, caught the sound of a stealthy footstep outside the cabin. with no fear whatever except in relation to the discovery of her lover, the girl went noiselessly to the window and peered out into the darkness. a man was making signs that he wished to speak with her. for a moment she stood watching in perplexity, but almost instantly her instinct told her that one of that race, for she believed the man to be a mexican, would never dare to come to her cabin at that time of night unless it was on a friendly errand. so putting her face close to the pane to reassure herself that she had not been mistaken in regard to his nationality, she then went to the door and held it wide open for the man to enter, at the same time putting her finger to her lips as a sign that he should be very still.
"what are you doin' here? what do you want?" she asked in a low voice, at the same time leading him to the side of the room further away from her lover.
jose castro's first words were in spanish, but immediately perceiving that he failed to make her understand, he nodded comprehendingly, and said:
"all righta--i espeak engleesh--i am jose castro too well known to the maestro. i want to see 'im."
the girl's intuition told her that a member of the band stood before her, and she regarded him suspiciously. not that she believed that he was disloyal and had come there with hostile intent, but because she felt that she must be absolutely sure of her ground before she revealed the fact that johnson was in the cabin. she let some moments pass before she replied:
"i don't know nothin' about your master. who is he?"
an indulgent smile crossed the mexican's face.
"that ver' good to tella other peoples; but i know 'im here too much. you trusta me--me quita safe."
all this was said with many gestures and an air that convinced the girl that he was speaking the truth. but since she deemed it best that the invalid should be kept from any excitement, she resolved to make the mexican divulge to her the nature of his important errand.
"how do you know he's here?" she began warily. "what do you want 'im for?"
the mexican's shifty eyes wandered all over the room as if to make certain that no inimical ears were listening; then he whispered:
"i tella you something--you lika the maestro?"
unconsciously the girl nodded, which evidently satisfied the mexican, for he went on:
"you thinka well of him--yees. now i tella you something. the man pedro 'e no good. 'e wisha the reward--the money for ramerrez. 'e and the woman--woman no good--tell meester ashby they thinka 'im 'ere."
the girl felt the colour leave her cheeks, though she made a gesture for him to proceed.
"pedro not 'ere any longer," smiled the mexican. "me senda 'im to the devil. serva 'im right."
"an' the woman?" gasped the girl.
"she gone--got away--monterey by this time," replied castro with evident disappointment. "but meester ashby 'e know too much--'ees men everywhere searched the camp--no safa 'ere now. to-norrow--" castro stopped short; the next instant with a joyful gleam in his eyes he cried out: "maestro!"
"castro's right, girl," said johnson, who had waked and heard the mexican's last words; "it is not safe a moment more here, and i must go."
with a little cry of loving protest the girl abruptly left the men to talk over the situation and sought the opposite side of the room. there, her eyes half-closed and her lips pressed tightly together she gave herself up to her distressing fears. after a while it was made plain to her that she was being brought into the conversation, for every now and then castro would look curiously at her; at length, as if it had been determined by them that nothing should be undertaken without her advice, johnson, followed by his subordinate, came over to her and related in detail all the startling information that castro had brought.
quietly the girl listened and, in the end, it was agreed between them that it would be safer for the men not to leave the cabin together, but that castro should go at once with the understanding that he should procure horses and wait for the master at a given point across the ravine. it was decided, too, that there was not a moment to be lost in putting their plan into execution. in consequence, castro immediately took his departure.
"i'm ready, dick, but i'm a-figurin' that i can't let you go alone--you jest got to take me below with you, an' that's all there is to it."
the man shook his head.
"there's very little risk, believe me. i'll join castro and ride all through the night. i'll be down below in no time at all. but we must be going, dear."
the man passed through the door first. but when it came the girl's turn she hesitated, for she had seen a dark shadow flit by the window. it was as if someone had been stealthily watching there. in another moment, however, it turned out to be jackrabbit and, greatly relieved, the girl whispered to johnson that he was to descend the trail between the indian and herself, and that on no account was he to utter a word until she gave him permission.
for another moment or so they stood in silence; johnson, appreciating fully what were the girl's feelings, did not dare to whisper even a word of encouragement to her. at last, she ordered the indian to lead the way, and they started.
the trail curved and twisted around the mountain, and in places they had to use the greatest care lest a misstep should carry them over a precipice with a drop of hundreds of feet. it was a perilous descent, inasmuch as the path was covered with snow. moreover, it was necessary that as little noise as possible should be made while they were making their way past the buildings of the camp below, for the mexican had not been wrong when he stated that ashby's men were quartered at, or in the immediate vicinity of, the palmetto. fortunately, they passed through without meeting anyone, and before long they came to the edge of the plateau beneath which was the ravine which johnson had to cross to reach the spot where it had been agreed that castro should be waiting with horses for his master. it was also the place where the girl was to leave her lover to go on alone, and so they halted. a few moments passed without either of them speaking; at length, the man said in as cheery a voice as he could summon:
"i must leave you here. i remember the way well. all danger is past."
the girl's lips were quivering; she asked:
"an' when will you be back?"
the man noted her emotion, and though he himself was conscious of a choking sensation he contrived to say in a most optimistic tone:
"in two weeks--not more than two weeks. it will take all that time to arrange things at the rancho. as it is, i hardly see my way clear to dismissing my men--you see, they belong to me, almost, and--but i'll do so, never fear. no power on earth could make me take up the old life again."
the girl said nothing in reply; instead she put both her arms around his neck and remained a long time in his embrace. at last, summoning up all her fortitude she put him resolutely from her, and whispered:
"when you are ready, come. you must leave me now." and with a curt command to the indian she fled back into the darkness.
for an instant the road agent's eyes followed the direction that she had taken; then, his spirits rising at the thought that his escape was now well-nigh assured, he turned and plunged down the ravine.
as a strong david, at the voice of verity, great goliah, the pope, he struck down with his sling, restoring again to a christian liberty his land and people, like a most victorious king; to his first beauty intending the church to bring from ceremonies dead to the living word of the lord. this the second act will plenteously record.
as put into the mouth of the king himself, these other lines are hard to beat for deliberate partisan misrepresentation. the king feels himself about to die.
i have sore hungered and thirsted righteousness for the office sake that god hath me appointed, but now i perceive that sin and wickedness in this wretched world, like as christ prophesied, have the overhand: in me it is verified. pray for me, good people, i beseech you heartily, that the lord above on my poor soul have mercy. farewell noblemen, with the clergy spiritual, farewell men of law, with the whole commonalty. your disobedience i do forgive you all, and desire god to pardon your iniquity. farewell, sweet england, now last of all to thee: i am right sorry i could do for thee no more. farewell once again, yea, farewell for evermore.
the simplest plot sufficed heywood, and the minimum of characters. the pardoner and the friar (possibly as early as 1520) demands only four persons, while the plot may be summed up in a few sentences, thus: a pardoner and a friar, from closely adjoining platforms, are endeavouring to address the same crowd, the one to sell relics, the other to beg money for his order. by a sort of stichomythic alternation each for a time is supposed to carry on his speech regardless of the other, so that to follow either connectedly the alternate lines must be read in sequence. but every now and then they break off for abuse, and finally they fight. a parson and neighbour prat interfere to convey them to jail for the disturbance, but are themselves badly mauled. then the pardoner and the friar go off amicably together. there is no allegory, no moral; merely satire on the fraudulent and hypocritical practices of pardoners and friars, together with some horseplay to raise a louder laugh. the fashion of that satire may be judged from the following exchange of home truths by the rival orators.
friar. what, should ye give ought to parting pardoners?--
pardoner. what, should ye spend on these flattering liars,--
friar. what, should ye give ought to these bold beggars?--
pardoner. as be these babbling monks and these friars,--
friar. let them hardly labour for their living;--
pardoner. which do nought daily but babble and lie--
friar. it much hurteth them good men's giving,--
pardoner. and tell you fables dear enough at a fly,--
friar. for that maketh them idle and slothful to wark,--
pardoner. as doth this babbling friar here to-day?--
friar. that for none other thing they will cark.--
pardoner. drive him hence, therefore, in the twenty-devil way!--
now, by our honour, said lucifer, no devil in hell shall withhold her; and if thou wouldest have twenty mo, wert not for justice, they should go. for all we devils within this den have more to-do with two women than with all the charge we have beside; wherefore, if thou our friend will be tried, apply thy pardons to women so that unto us there come no mo.
johan johan, or, at greater length, the merry play between johan johan the husband, tyb his wife, and sir jhon the priest (printed 1533), contains only the three characters mentioned, but possesses a theme more nearly deserving the name of plot than do the other two, namely, the contriving and carrying out of a plan by tyb for exposing her boastful husband's real and absolute subjection to her rule. yet, even so, it is extremely simple. johan johan is first heard alone, declaring how he will beat his wife for not being at home. the tuggings of fear and valour in his heart, however, give his monologue an argumentative form, in which first one motive and then the other gains the upper hand, very similar to the conflict between launcelot gobbo's conscience and the devil. he closes in favour of the beating and then--tyb comes home. oh the difference! johan johan suspects his wife of undue friendliness with sir jhon the priest, but he dare not say so. tyb guesses his doubts, and in her turn suspects that he is inclined to rebel. so she makes the yoke heavier. johan johan has to invite sir jhon to eat a most desirable pie with them; but throughout the meal, with jealousy at his heart and the still greater pangs of unsatisfied hunger a little lower, he is kept busy by his wife, trying to mend a leaky bucket with wax. surely never did a scene contain more 'asides' than are uttered and explained away by the crushed husband! finally overtaxed endurance asserts itself, and wife and priest are driven out of doors; but the play closes with a very pronounced note of uncertainty from the victor as to what new game the vanquished may shortly be at if he be not there to see.
the all-important feature to be noticed in heywood's work is that here we have the drama escaping from its alliance with religion into the region of pure comedy. here is no well planned moral, no sententious mouthpiece of abstract excellence, no ruin of sinners and crowning of saints. here, too, is no vice, no devil, although they are the chief media for comedy in other interludes, nor is there any buffoonery; even of its near cousins, scuffling and fighting, only one of the three plays has more than a trace. hence the earlier remark, that heywood was before his time. it is not devils in bearskins and wooden-sworded vices that create true comedy; they belong to the realm of farce. yet they continued to flourish long after heywood had set another example, and with them the cuffing of ears and drunken gambolling which we may see, in the works of other men, trying to rescue prosy scenes from dullness. in johan johan is simple comedy, the comedy of laughter-raising dialogue and 'asides'. we do not say it is perfect comedy, far from it; but it is comedy cleared of its former alloys. it is the comedy which shakespeare refined for his own use in twelfth night and elsewhere.
rise of comedy and tragedy
no great discernment is required to see that, after the appearance of johan johan, all that was needed for the complete development of comedy was the invention of a well-contrived plot. for reasons already indicated, interludes were naturally deficient in this respect. nor were the moralities and bible miracles much better: their length and comprehensive themes were against them. there were the saint plays, of which some still lingered upon the stage; these offered greater possibilities. but here, again, originality was limited; the dénouement was more or less a foregone conclusion. clearly, one of two things was wanted: either a man of genius to perceive the need and to supply it, or the study of new models outside the field of english drama. the man of genius was not then forthcoming, but by good fortune the models were stumbled upon.
divided into five acts, with subordinate scenes, this play develops its story with deliberate calculated steps. acts i and ii are occupied by ralph's vain attempts to soften the heart of dame christian custance by gifts and messages. in act iii come complications, double-dealings. matthew merrygreek plays ralph false, tortures his love, misreads--by the simple trick of mispunctuation--his letter to the dame, and thus, under a mask of friendship, sets him further than ever from success. still deeper complexities appear with act iv, for now arrives, with greetings from gawin goodluck, long betrothed to dame custance, a certain sea-captain, who, misled by ralph's confident assurance, misunderstands the relations between the dame and him, suspects disloyalty, and changes from friendliness to cold aloofness. this, by vexing the lady, brings disaster upon ralph, whose bold attempt, on the suggestion of merrygreek, to carry his love off by force is repulsed by that dame's amazonian band of maid-servants with scuttles and brooms. in this extraordinary conflict ralph is horribly belaboured by the malicious matthew under pretence of blows aimed at dame custance. act v, however, brings goodluck himself and explanations. that worthy man finds his lady true, friendship is established all round, and ralph and merrygreek join the happy couple in a closing feast.
this bald outline perhaps makes sufficiently clear the great advance in plot structure. within the play, however, are many other good things. the character of ralph roister doister, 'a vain-glorious, cowardly blockhead', as the list of dramatis personae has it, is thoroughly well done: his heavy love-sighs, his confident elation, his distrust, his gullibility, his ups and downs and contradictions, are all in the best comic vein. only second in fullness of portraiture, and truer to nature, is dame custance, who--if we exclude melibaea as not native to english shores--may be said to bring into english secular drama honourable womanhood. her amused indifference at first, her sharp reproof of her maids who have allowed themselves to act as ralph's messengers, her gathering vexation at ralph's tiresome wooing, her genuine alarm when she sees that his boastful words are accepted by the sea-captain as truth--these are sentiments and emotions copied from a healthy and worthy model. matthew merrygreek, an unmistakable 'vice' ever at ralph's elbow, is of all vices the shrewdest striker of laughter out of a block of stupidity: it is from his ingenious brain that almost every absurd scene is evolved for the ridiculing of ralph. thoroughly human, and quite assertive, are the lower characters, the maid-servants and men-servants, madge mumblecrust, tibet talkapace, truepenny, dobinet doughty and the rest. need it be added that the battle in act iv is pure fooling? or that jolly songs enliven the scenes with their rousing choruses (e.g. 'i mun be married a sunday')? ralph roister doister is an english comedy with english notions of the best way of amusing english folk of the sixteenth century. with all its improvements it has no suggestion of the alien about it, as has the classically-flavoured thersites (also based, like udall's play, on plautus's miles gloriosus), or calisto and melibaea with its un-english names. perhaps that is why it had to wait fifteen years for a successor. quite possibly its spectators regarded it as merely a better interlude than usual, without recognizing the precise qualities which made it different from johan johan.
two quotations will be sufficient to illustrate the opposing characters.
t. trusty. nay, weep not, woman, but tell me what your cause is. as concerning my friend is anything amiss?
c. custance. no, not on my part; but here was sim. suresby--
t. trusty. he was with me, and told me so.
c. custance. and he stood by while ralph roister doister, with help of merrygreek, for promise of marriage did unto me seek.
t. trusty. and had ye made any promise before them twain?
c. custance. no, i had rather be torn in pieces and slain. no man hath my faith and troth but gawin goodluck, and that before suresby did i say, and there stuck; but of certain letters there were such words spoken--
t. trusty. he told me that too.
c. custance. and of a ring and token, that suresby, i spied, did more than half suspect that i my faith to gawin goodluck did reject.
t. trusty. but was there no such matter, dame custance, indeed?
c. custance. if ever my head thought it, god send me ill speed! wherefore i beseech you with me to be a witness that in all my life i never intended thing less. and what a brainsick fool ralph roister doister is yourself knows well enough.
t. trusty. ye say full true, i-wis.
in 1566 was acted at christ's college, cambridge, 'a ryght pithy, pleasaunt, and merie comedie, intytuled gammer gurton's needle.' the authorship is uncertain, recent investigation having exalted a certain stevenson into rivalry with the bishop still to whom former scholars were content to assign it. possibly as the result of a perusal of plautus, possibly under the influence of the last play--for in subject matter it is even more perfectly english than ralph roister doister--this comedy is also built on a well-arranged plan, the plot developing regularly through five acts with subsidiary scenes. let us glance through it.
gammer gurton and her goodman hodge lose their one and only needle, an article not easily renewed, nor easily done without, seeing that hodge's garments stand in need of instant repair. gib, the cat, is strongly suspected of having swallowed it. into this confusion steps diccon, a bedlam beggar, whose quick eye promptly detects opportunities for mischief. after scaring hodge with offers of magic art, he goes to dame chat, an honest but somewhat jealous neighbour, unaware of what has happened, with a tale that gammer gurton accuses her of stealing her best cock. to gammer gurton he announces that he has seen dame chat pick up the needle and make off with it. between the two dames ensues a meeting, the nature of which may be guessed, the whole trouble lying in the fact that neither thinks it necessary to name the article under dispute. no wonder that discussion under the disadvantage of so great a misunderstanding ends in violence. doctor rat, the curate, is now called in; but again diccon is equal to the occasion. having warned dame chat that hodge, to balance the matter of the cock, is about to creep in through a breach in the wall and kill her chickens, he persuades doctor rat that if he will creep through this same opening he will see the needle lying on dame chat's table. the consequences for the curate are severe. master bailey's assistance is next requisitioned, and him friend diccon cannot overreach. the whole truth coming out, diccon is required to kneel and apologize. in doing so he gives hodge a slap which elicits from that worthy a yell of pain. but it is a wholesome pang, for it finds the needle no further away than in the seat of hodge's breeches.
if we compare this play with ralph roister doister three ideas will occur: first, that we have made no advance; second, that, in giving the preference to rough country folk, the author has deliberately abandoned the higher standard of refinement in language and action set in udall's major scenes; third, that whereas the earlier work bases its comedy on character, educing the amusing scenes from the clash of vanity, constancy and mischief, the later play relies for its comic effects on situations brought about by mischief alone. these are three rather heavy counts against the younger rival. but in the other scale may be placed a very fair claim to greater naturalness. taking the scenes and characters in turn, mischief-maker, churchman and all, there is none so open to the charge of being impossible, and therefore farcical, as the battle between the forces of ralph and dame custance, or the incredibly self-deceived ralph himself. in accompanying ralph through his adventures we seem to be moving through a fantastic world in which sir andrew aguecheek and malvolio might feel at home; but with dame chat, gammer gurton and hodge we feel the solid earth beneath our feet and around us the strong air which nourished the peasantry and yeomen of tudor england.
the first extract is a verse from this comedy's one and famous song; the second is taken from act i, scene 4.
i cannot eat but little meat, my stomach is not good; but sure i think that i can drink with him that wears a hood. though i go bare, take ye no care, i am nothing a-cold; i stuff my skin so full within of jolly good ale and old. back and side go bare, go bare, both foot and hand go cold: but belly, god send thee good ale enough, whether it be new or old.
hodge. your nee'le lost? it is pity you should lack care and endless sorrow. gog's death, how shall my breeches be sewed? shall i go thus to-morrow?
gammer. ah, hodge, hodge, if that ich could find my nee'le, by the reed, ch'ould sew thy breeches, ich promise thee, with full good double thread, and set a patch on either knee should last this moneths twain. now god and good saint sithe, i pray to send it home again.
gammer. my nee'le, alas, ich lost it, hodge, what time ich me up hasted to save milk set up for thee, which gib our cat hath wasted.
hodge. the devil he burst both gib and tib, with all the rest; cham always sure of the worst end, whoever have the best. where ha' you been fidging abroad, since you your nee'le lost?
gammer. within the house, and at the door, sitting by this same post; where i was looking a long hour, before these folks came here. but, wellaway! all was in vain; my nee'le is never the near.
hodge. set me a candle, let me seek, and grope wherever it be. gog's heart, ye be foolish (ich think), you know it not when you it see.
gammer. come hither, cock: what, cock, i say!
cock. how, gammer?
gammer. go, hie thee soon, and grope behind the old brass pan, which thing when thou hast done, there shalt thou find an old shoe, wherein, if thou look well, thou shalt find lying an inch of white tallow candle: light it, and bring it tite away.
cock. that shall be done anon.
gammer. nay, tarry, hodge, till thou hast light, and then we'll seek each one.
ralph roister doister and gammer gurton's needle mark the end of the interlude stage and the commencement of comedy proper. leaving the latter at this point for the present, we shall return in the next chapter to study its fortunes at the hands of lyly.
morality plays, though theoretically quite as suitable for tragic effect as for comic, since the former only required that mankind should sometimes fail to reach heaven, seem nevertheless to have developed mainly the lighter side, setting the hero right at the finish and in the meantime discovering, to the relief of otherwise bored spectators, that wickedness, in some unexplained way, was funny. as long as propriety forbade that good should be overcome by evil it is hard to see how tragedy could appear. had humankind, in the castell of perseverance, been fought for in vain by the virtues, or had everyman found no companion to go with him and intercede for him, there had been tragedy indeed. but religious optimism was against any conclusion so discouraging to repentance. the lingering miracles, it is true, still presented the sublimest of all tragedies in the fall of man and the apparent triumph of the pharisees over jesus. between them, however, and the kind of drama that succeeded the moralities, too great a gulf was fixed. contemporaries of those original spirits, heywood and udall, could hardly revert for inspiration to the discredited performances of villages and of a few provincial towns. tragedy had to wait until there was matured and made popular an interlude from which the conflict of virtues and vices, with the orthodox triumph of the former, had been purged away, leaving to the author complete liberty alike in character and action. when that came, tragedy returned to the stage, a stranger with strange stories to tell. persia and ancient rome sent their tyrants and their heroines to contest for public favour with home-born knaves and fools. nor were the newcomers above borrowing the services of those same knaves and fools. the vice was given a place, low clownish fellows were admitted to relieve the harrowed feelings, and our old acquaintance, herod, was summoned from the miracles to lend his aid.
yet even so--and probably because it was so--tragedy was ill at ease. she had called in low comedy and rant to please the foolish, only to find herself infected and degraded by their company. moreover, the bustle of incident, the abrupt changes from grave to gay and to grave again, jangled her sad majestic harmonies with shrill interrupting discords. it had not been so in greece. it had not been so even in italy, where roman seneca, fearing the least decline to a lower plane of dignity and impressiveness, had disciplined tragedy by an imposition of artificial but not unskilful restraints. in place of the strong unbroken sweep of a resistless current, which characterized the evolution of an aeschylean drama, he had insisted on an orderly division of a plot into acts and scenes, as though one should break up the sheer plunge of a single waterfall into a well-balanced group of cascades. yet he was wise in his generation, securing by this means a carefully proportioned development which, in the absence of that genius which inspired the greek dramatists, might otherwise have been lost. once strong and free in the plays of aeschylus and his compeers, hampered and constantly under guidance but still dignified and noble in the senecan drama, tragedy now found herself debased and almost caricatured in the english interlude stage. fortunately the danger was seen in time. english writers, face to face with self-conscious tragedy, realized that here at least was more than unaided native art could compass. despairing of success if they persisted in the old methods, they fell back awkwardly upon classical imitation and, by assiduous study tempered by a wise criticism, achieved success.
only two plays with any claim to the designation of tragedies have survived to us from the interludes, neither of them of much interest. cambyses (1561), by thomas preston, has all the qualities of an imperfect interlude. there are the base fellows and the clowns, huff, ruff, snuff, hob and lob; the abstractions, diligence, shame, common's complaint, small hability, and the like; the vice, ambidexter, who enters 'with an old capcase on his head, an old pail about his hips for harness, a scummer and a potlid by his side, and a rake on his shoulder'; and the same scuffling and horseplay when the comic element is uppermost. incident follows incident as rapidly and with as trifling motives as before. in the course of a short play we see cambyses, king of persia, set off for his conquests in egypt; return; execute sisamnes, his unjust deputy; prove a far worse ruler himself; shoot through the heart the young son of praxaspes, to prove to that too-frank counsellor that he is not as drunk as was supposed; murder his own brother, smirdis, on the lying report of ambidexter; marry, contrary to the law of the church and her own wish, a lovely lady, his cousin, and then have her executed for reproaching him with the death of his brother; and finally die, accidentally pierced by his own sword when mounting a horse. all these horrors, except the death of the lady, take place on the stage. thus we have such stage-directions as, 'smite him in the neck with a sword to signify his death', 'flay him with a false skin', 'a little bladder of vinegar pricked', 'enter the king without a gown, a sword thrust up into his side, bleeding.' of real tragedy there is little, the hustle of crime upon crime obliterating the impression which any one singly might produce. yet even in this crude orgy of bloodshed the melancholy voice of unaffected pathos can be heard mourning the loss of dear ones. it speaks in the farewells of sisamnes and his son otian, and of praxaspes (the honest minister) and his little boy; throughout the whole incident of the gentle lady whose fate melts even the vice to tears; and in the outburst of a mother's grief over her child's corpse. we quote the last.
o blissful babe, o joy of womb, heart's comfort and delight, for counsel given unto the king, is this thy just requite? o heavy day and doleful time, these mourning tunes to make! with blubb'red eyes into my arms from earth i will thee take, and wrap thee in my apron white: but o my heavy heart! the spiteful pangs that it sustains would make it in two to part, the death of this my son to see: o heavy mother now, that from thy sweet and sug'red joy to sorrow so shouldst bow! what grief in womb did i retain before i did thee see; yet at the last, when smart was gone, what joy wert thou to me! how tender was i of thy food, for to preserve thy state! how stilled i thy tender heart at times early and late! with velvet paps i gave thee suck, with issue from my breast, and danced thee upon my knee to bring thee unto rest. is this the joy of thee i reap? o king of tiger's brood, o tiger's whelp, hadst thou the heart to see this child's heart-blood? nature enforceth me, alas, in this wise to deplore, to wring my hands, o wel-away, that i should see this hour. thy mother yet will kiss thy lips, silk-soft and pleasant white, with wringing hands lamenting for to see thee in this plight. my lording dear, let us go home, our mourning to augment.
the second play, appius and virginia (1563), by r.b. (not further identified), is, in some respects, weaker; though, by avoiding the crowded plot which spoilt cambyses, it attains more nearly to tragedy. the low characters, mansipulus and mansipula, the vice (haphazard), and the abstractions, conscience, comfort and their brethren, reappear with as little success. but the singleness of the theme helps towards that elevation of the main figures and intensifying of the catastrophe which tragic emotion demands. unfortunately, from the start the author seems to have been obsessed with the notion that the familiar rant of herod was peculiarly suited to his subject. in such a notion there lay, of course, the half-truth that lofty thoughts and impassioned speech are more befitting the sombre muse than the foolish chatter of clowns. but, except where his own deliberately introduced mirth-makers are speaking, he will have nothing but pompous rhetoric from the lips of his characters. his prologue begins his speech with the sounding line:
who doth desire the trump of fame to sound unto the skies--
virginius's wife makes her début upon the stage with this encouraging remark to her companion:
the pert and prickly prime of youth ought chastisement to have, but thou, dear daughter, needest not, thyself doth show thee grave.
to which virginia most becomingly answers:
refell your mind of mournful plaints, dear mother, rest your mind.
after this every one feels that the wicked judge, appius, has done no more than his duty when he exclaims, at his entrance:
the furrowed face of fortune's force my pinching pain doth move.
virginius slays his daughter on the stage and serves her head up in a charger before appius, who promptly bursts into a cataclysm of c's ('o curst and cruel cankered churl, o carl unnatural'); but there is not a suggestion of the pathos noticed in cambyses. instead there is in one place a sort of frantic agitation, which the author doubtless thought was the pure voice of tragic sorrow. it is in the terrible moment when, after the heroic strain of the sacrifice is over, virginius realizes the meaning of what he has done. presumably wild with grief, he raves in language so startlingly akin to the ludicrous despairs of pyramus and thisbe that the modern reader, acquainted with the latter, is almost jarred into laughter.
o cruel hands, o bloody knife, o man, what hast thou done? thy daughter dear and only heir her vital end hath won. come, fatal blade, make like despatch: come, atropos: come, aid! strike home, thou careless arm, with speed; of death be not afraid.
of such eloquence we might truly say with theseus, 'this passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.'
in 1562 tragedy, as we have said, took refuge in an imitation of the senecan stage: translations of seneca's tragedies had begun to appear in 1559. the tragedy of ferrex and porrex, or gorboduc, as it was originally and is now most commonly named, marks a new departure for english drama. to understand this we ought perhaps to say something about the essential features of a greek tragedy (seneca's own model), and make a note of any special senecan additions. what strikes one most in reading a play of aeschylus is the prominence given to a composite and almost colourless character known as the chorus (for though it consists of a body of persons, it speaks, for the most part, as one), the absence of any effective action from the stage, the limited number of actors, and the tendency of any speaker to expand his remarks into a set speech of considerable length. this tendency, especially noticeable in the chorus, whose speeches commonly take the form of chants, encouraged the faculty of generalizing philosophically, so that one is constantly treated to general reflections expressive rather of broad wisdom and piety than of feelings directly and dramatically aroused; much also is made of retrospection and relation, whether the topic is ancient history, the events of a recent voyage, or a barely completed crime. the sage backward glance of the chorus is quick to discover in present ruin a punishment for past crime; so that the plot becomes in a manner a picture of the resistless laws of moral justice. speeches, a moralizing chorus, actions not performed but reported in detail, a sense of divine retribution for sin, these are perhaps the qualities which, apart from the poetry itself, we recall most readily as typical of a greek tragedy. these seneca modified by the introduction of acts and scenes, a subordination of the chorus, and an exaggerated predilection for long sententious speeches; he also added a new stage character known as the ghost. seneca's elevation, to the dogmatic position of laws, of the unities of time, place and action, rules by no means invariable among his older and greater masters, has been the subject of much debate, but, on the whole, the verdict has been hostile. according to these unities, the time represented in the play should not greatly exceed the time occupied in acting it, the scene of the action should not vary, and the plot should be concerned only with one event. this last law was generally accepted, by elizabethans, in tragedy at least. the other two, though much insisted on by english theorists, such as sir philip sidney, met with so much neglect in practice that we need devote no space to the discussion of them.
having thus hastily summarized the larger superficial characteristics of classical drama, we may return to gorboduc and inquire which of these were adopted in it and with what modifications. we find it divided into five acts and nine scenes. a chorus, though it takes no other part, sings its moralizing lyrics at the end of each act except the last. speeches of inordinate length are made--three consecutive speeches in act i, scene 2, occupy two hundred and sixty lines--the subject-matter being commonly argumentative. only through the reports of messengers and eye-witnesses do we learn of the cold-blooded murder and many violent deaths that take place. everywhere hurried action and unreasoning instinct give place to deliberation and debate. between this play and its predecessors no change can be more sweeping or more abrupt. in an instant, as it were, we pass from the unpolished cambyses, savage and reeking with blood, to the equally violent events of gorboduc, cold beneath a formal restraint which, regulating their setting in the general framework, robs them of more than half their force. had this severe discipline of the emotions been accepted as for ever binding upon the tragic stage elizabethan drama would have been forgotten. the truth is that the germ of dissension was sown in gorboduc itself. conscious that the banishment of action from the stage, while natural enough in greece, must meet with an overwhelming resistance from the popular custom in england, the authors, thomas sackville and thomas norton, invented a compromise. before each act they provided a symbolical dumb show which, by its external position, infringed no classical law, yet satisfied the demand of an english audience for real deeds and melodramatic spectacles. it was an ingenious idea, the effect of which was to keep intact the close link between stage and action until the native genius should be strong enough to cast aside its swaddling clothes and follow its own bent without hurt. as illustrating this innovation--the reader will not have forgotten that both dumb show and chorus are to be found in pericles--we may quote the directions for the dumb show before the second act.
first, the music of cornets began to play, during which came in upon the stage a king accompanied with a number of his nobility and gentlemen. and after he had placed himself in a chair of estate prepared for him, there came and kneeled before him a grave and aged gentleman, and offered up unto him a cup of wine in a glass, which the king refused. after him comes a brave and lusty young gentleman, and presents the king with a cup of gold filled with poison, which the king accepted, and drinking the same, immediately fell down dead upon the stage, and so was carried thence away by his lords and gentlemen, and then the music ceased. hereby was signified, that as glass by nature holdeth no poison, but is clear and may easily be seen through, ne boweth by any art; so a faithful counsellor holdeth no treason, but is plain and open, ne yieldeth to any indiscreet affection, but giveth wholesome counsel, which the ill advised prince refuseth. the delightful gold filled with poison betokeneth flattery, which under fair seeming of pleasant words beareth deadly poison, which destroyeth the prince that receiveth it. as befel in the two brethren, ferrex and porrex, who, refusing the wholesome advice of grave counsellors, credited these young parasites, and brought to themselves death and destruction thereby.
but it is time to set forth the plot in more detail. the importance of gorboduc as an example of english 'classical' tragedy prompts us to follow it through, scene by scene.
act i, scene 1.--queen videna discovers to her favourite and elder son, ferrex, the king's intention, grievous in her eyes, of dividing his kingdom equally between his two sons. scene 2.--king gorboduc submits his plan to the consideration of his three counsellors, whose wise and lengthy reasonings he listens to but elects to disregard.
act ii, scene 1.--the division having been carried out, ferrex, in his part of the kingdom, is prompted by evil counsel to suspect aggressive rivalry from his brother, and decides to collect forces for his own defence. scene 2.--ferrex's misguided precautions having been maliciously represented to porrex as directed against his power, that prince resolves upon an immediate invasion of his brother's realm.
act iii.--the news of these counter-moves and of the imminent probability of bloodshed is reported to the king. to restore the courage of the despairing gorboduc is now the labour of his counsellors, but the later announcement of the death of ferrex casts him lower than before. at this point the chorus, recalling the murder of a cousin in an earlier generation of the royal race, points, in true aeschylean fashion, to the hatred of an unsated revenge behind this latest blow:
thus fatal plagues pursue the guilty race, whose murderous hand, imbru'd with guiltless blood, asks vengeance still before the heaven's face, with endless mischiefs on the cursed brood.
act iv, scene 1.--videna alone, in words of passionate vehemence, laments that she has lived so long to see the death of ferrex, renounces his brother as no child of hers, and concludes with a threat of vengeance. scene 2.--bowed down with remorse, porrex makes his defence before the king, pleading the latter's own act, in dividing the kingdom, as the initial cause of the ensuing disaster. before he has been long gone from his father's presence, marcella, a lady-in-waiting, rushes into the room, in wild disorder and grief, to report his murder at his mother's hand. in anguished words she tells how, stabbed by videna in his sleep, he started up and, spying the queen by his side, called to her for help, not crediting that she, his mother, could be his murderess. again, in tones of solemn warning, the chorus reminds the audience that
blood asketh blood, and death must death requite: jove, by his just and everlasting doom, justly hath ever so requited it.
act v, scene 1.--this warning is proved true by a report of the death of the king and queen at the hands of their subjects in revolt against the blood-stained house. certain of the nobles, gathered together, resolve upon an alliance for the purpose of restoring a strong government. the duke of albany, however, thinks to snatch power to himself from this opportunity. scene 2.--report is made of the suppression of the rebellion, but this news is immediately followed by a report of albany's attempted usurpation of the throne. coalition for his defeat is agreed upon, and the play ends with the mournful soliloquy of that aged counsellor who first opposed the division of the throne and now sees, as the consequence of that fatal act, his country, torn to pieces by civil strife, left an easy prize for an ambitious conqueror.
this last quotation, interesting in itself as containing a recommendation to queen elizabeth to marry, or at least name her successor, will also serve as a specimen of the new verse, blank verse, which here, for the first time, finds its way into english drama. meeting with small favour from writers skilful in the stringing together of rhymes, it suffered comparative neglect for some years until marlowe taught its capacities to his own and future ages. with sackville's stiff lines before us we shall be better able to appreciate the later playwright's genius. but we shall also be reminded that the credit of introducing blank verse must lie with the older man.
the chief question of all remains to be asked. does gorboduc, with all its borrowed devices, and because of them, rise to a higher level of tragedy than cambyses and appius and virginia? to answer this question we must examine the effect of those devices, and understand what is precisely meant by the term tragedy. let it be first understood that the arrangement of acts and scenes is comparatively unimportant in this connexion, though most helpful in giving clearness to the action. marlowe's doctor faustus (in the earlier edition) dispenses with it; so does milton's samson agonistes; and we have just seen that the great greek dramatists knew nothing of it. what is important is the exclusion of that comic element which, in some form or another, had hitherto found a place in almost every english play; the removal of all action from the stage--for the dumb shows stand apart from the play--; and the substitution of stately speeches for natural conversation and dialogue. of all three the purpose is the same, namely, to impress the audience with a sense of greater dignity and awe than would be imparted by a more familiar style. the long speeches give importance to the decisions, and compel a belief that momentous events are about to happen or have happened. in harmony with this effect is the absence of all comic relief--although shakespeare was to prove later that this has a useful place in tragedy. a smile, a jest would be sacrilege in the prevailing gloom. two effects alone are aimed at; an impression of loftiness in the theme, and a profound melancholy. not warm gushing tears. those are the outcome of a personal sorrow, small and ignoble beside an abstract grief at 'the falls of princes', 'the tumbling down of crowns', 'the ruin of proud realms'. what does the reader or spectator know of ferrex that he should mingle his cries with videna's lamentations? the account of porrex appealing, with childlike faith in his mother, to the very woman who has murdered him, may, for the moment, bring tears to the eyes. but it is an accidental touch. the tragedy lies not there but in the great fact that with him dies the last heir to the throne, the last hope of avoiding the miseries of a disputed succession; and that in her revengeful fury the queen, as a woman, has committed the blackest of all crimes, a mother's slaughter of her child. we are not asked to weep but to gasp at the horror of it. it is in order to protect the loftier, broader aspects of the catastrophe from the influence of the particular that action is excluded. this cautions us against confusing tragedy and pathos. to perceive the difference is to recognize that english tragedy really begins with gorboduc. until its advent the stress laid on the pathetic partially obscured the tragic. this may be seen at once in the miracles, though a little thought will reveal the intensely tragic nature of the complete miracle play. in cambyses we find the same obscuration: there is tragedy in the sudden ending of those young lives, but the pathos of the mother's anguish and the sweet girl's pleadings prevent us from thinking of it. appius and virginia maintains a much truer tragic detachment, the effect being heightened by its opening picture of virtuous happiness destined to abrupt and tyrannous ruin. but it expresses itself so ill, shatters our hearing so unmercifully with its alliterative mouthing, and hurls us down so steeply with its low comedy, that we refuse to give its characters the grandeur or excellence claimed for them by the author. gorboduc alone presents tragedy unspoiled by extraneous additions. in its triple catastrophe of princes, crown and realm we perceive the awful figure of the tragic muse and shrink back in reverent fear of what more may lie hid from us in the folds of her black robe. darker, much darker and more terrible things have come since from that gloomy spirit. what has been written here should not be misinterpreted as an exaggerated appreciation of gorboduc. we wish only to insist that this play did give to english drama for the first time (if we exclude translations) an example, however weak in execution, of pure tragedy; and was able to do so largely, if not entirely, by reason of its reversion to classical principles and devices.
we have insisted on the difference between tragedy and pathos, and criticized the weakening effect of the latter upon the former. to escape the penalty that awaits general criticism we may add here that tragedy is never greater than when her handmaid is ready to do her modest service. sophocles puts into the mouth of oedipus, at the moment of his departure into blind and desolate exile, tender injunctions regarding the care of his young daughters:
shakespeare, too, knew well how to kindle the soft radiance which, fading again, makes the ensuing darkness darker still. ophelia, the sleeping duncan, cordelia rise to our minds. nor need we quote the famous words of webster's ferdinand. it is enough that the greatest scene in gorboduc is precisely that scene where pathos softens by a momentary dimness of vision our horror at a mother's crime.
the misfortunes of arthur (1587), by thomas hughes, though twenty-five years later, may be placed next to gorboduc in our discussion of the rise of tragedy. it will serve as an illustration of the kind of tragedy that was being evolved from senecan models by plodding uninspired englishmen before marlowe flung his flaming torch amongst them. to understand the story a slight introduction is necessary. igerna, the wife of gorlois, duke of cornwall, was loved by king uther, who foully slew her husband and so won her for himself. as a result of this union were born arthur and anne, who, in their youth, perpetuated the inherited taint of sin by becoming the parents of a boy, mordred. afterwards arthur married guenevera, and some years later went to france on a long campaign of conquest. in his absence mordred gained the love of guenevera. the play begins with the contemplated return of arthur, glorious from victory, the object being to concentrate attention upon the swift fall from glory and power to ruin and death. guenevera, having learnt to hate her husband, debates in her mind his death or hers, finally deciding, however, to become a nun. her interview with mordred ends in his resolving to resist arthur's landing. unsuccessful in this attempt, and defeated in battle, he spurns all thought of submission, challenging his father to a second conflict, in cornwall. arthur, feeling that his sins have found him out, would gladly make peace; but, stung by mordred's defiance, he follows him into cornwall. there both armies are destroyed and mordred is slain, though in his death he mortally wounds his father. after the battle his body is brought before arthur, in whom the sight awakens yet more fiercely the pangs of remorse. the play closes immediately before arthur's own mysterious departure.
here is all the material for a great tragedy. the point for beginning the story is well chosen, though in obvious imitation of agamemnon. attention is concentrated on the catastrophe, no alien element being admitted to detract from the melancholy effect. it is sought to intensify the gloom by recourse to seneca's stage ghost; thus, the departed spirit of the wronged gorlois opens the play with horrid imprecations of evil upon the house of uther, and, at the close, exults in the fullness of his revenge. from his mouth, as well as from the lips of arthur, and again from the chorus (which closes the acts, as in gorboduc) we learn the great purpose beneath this overwhelming ruin of a king and kingdom--to show that the day and the hour do come, however long deferred, when
wrong hath his wreak, and guilt his guerdon bears.
as before, all action is rigorously excluded from the stage, to be reported, at great length and with tremendous striving after vividness and effect, by one who was present. dumb shows before each act continue the attempt to balance matters spectacularly. clearly the only hope of dramatic advance for disciples of the senecan school lay in improved dialogue. this was possible in four directions, namely, in more stirring topics, in more personal feeling, in shorter speeches, and in a change in the style of language and verse. unfortunately for thomas hughes, it is just here that he fails, and fails lamentably. what is more, he fails because of his methods. the dominant desire of the english 'classical' school was to be impressive. hence the adoption by hughes of a ghostly introduction and conclusion. his conversations, therefore, must reflect the same idea. he saw, indeed, that long speeches, except at rare intervals, were tedious, and reduced his to reasonable proportions, even making extensive use--as, we shall see, the author of damon and pythias did before him--of the greek device of stichomythia. he was most anxious, also, to provide stirring topics for his characters to
a columbian. one of captain gilbert's crew in the pirate schooner panda. hanged at boston in 1835.
de mont, francis.
captured in south carolina in 1717. tried at charleston, and convicted of taking the turtle dove and other vessels in the previous july. hanged in june, 1717.
moody, captain christopher.
a notorious pirate. very active off the coast of carolina, 1717, with two ships under his command. in 1722 was with roberts on board the royal fortune, being one of his chief men or "lords." taken prisoner, and tried at cape coast castle, and hanged in chains at the age of 28.
a gunner aboard captain kidd's ship the adventure. when kidd's mutinous crew were all for attacking a dutch ship, kidd refused to allow them to, and moore threatened the captain, who seized a bucket and struck moore on the head with it, the blow killing him. kidd was perfectly justified in killing this mutinous sailor, but eventually it was for this act that he was hanged in london.
this pirate must not be confused with the buccaneer, sir henry morgan. little is known about him except that he was with hamlin, the french pirate, in 1683, off the coast of west africa, and helped to take several danish and english ships. soon the pirates quarrelled over the division of their plunder and separated into two companies, the english following captain morgan in one of the prizes.
morgan, colonel blodre, or bledry.
this buccaneer was probably a relation of sir henry morgan. he was an important person in jamaica between 1660 and 1670. at the taking of panama by henry morgan in 1670 the colonel commanded the rearguard of 300 men. in may, 1671, he was appointed to act as deputy governor of providence island by sir james modyford.
morgan, lieut.-colonel edward. buccaneer.
uncle and father-in-law of sir henry morgan.
in 1665, when war had been declared on holland, the governor of jamaica issued commissions to several pirates and buccaneers to sail to and attack the dutch islands of st. eustatius, saba, and curacao. morgan was put in command of ten ships and some 500 men; most of them were "reformed prisoners," while some were condemned pirates who had been pardoned in order to let them join the expedition.
before leaving jamaica the crews mutinied, but were pacified by the promise of an equal share of all the spoils that should be taken. three ships out of the fleet slipped away on the voyage, but the rest arrived at st. kitts, landed, and took the fort. colonel morgan, who was an old and corpulent man, died of the heat and exertion during the campaign.
morgan, lieut.-colonel thomas.
sailed with colonel edward morgan to attack st. eustatius and saba islands, and after these were surrendered by the dutch, thomas morgan was left in charge.
in 1686 he sailed in command of a company of buccaneers to assist governor wells, of st. kitts, against the french. the defence of the island was disgraceful, and morgan's company was the only one which displayed any courage or discipline, and most of them were killed or wounded, colonel morgan himself being shot in both legs.
often these buccaneer leaders altered their titles from colonel to captain, to suit the particular enterprise on which they were engaged, according if it took place on sea or land.
morgan, sir henry. buccaneer.
this, the greatest of all the "brethren of the coast," was a welshman, born at llanrhymmy in monmouthshire in the year 1635. the son of a well-to-do farmer, robert morgan, he early took to the seafaring life. when quite a young man morgan went to barbadoes, but afterwards he settled at jamaica, which was his home for the rest of his life.
morgan may have been induced to go to the west indies by his uncle, colonel morgan, who was for a time deputy governor of jamaica, a post sir henry morgan afterwards held.
morgan was a man of great energy, and must have possessed great power of winning his own way with people. that he could be absolutely unscrupulous when it suited his ends there can be little doubt. he was cruel at times, but was not the inhuman monster that he is made out to be by esquemeling in his "history of the bucaniers." this was largely proved by the evidence given in the suit for libel brought and won by morgan against the publishers, although morgan was, if possible, more indignant over the statement in the same book that he had been kidnapped in wales and sold, as a boy, and sent to be a slave in barbadoes. that he could descend to rank dishonesty was shown when, returning from his extraordinary and successful assault on the city of panama in 1670, to chagres, he left most of his faithful followers behind, without ships or food, while he slipped off in the night with most of the booty to jamaica. no doubt, young morgan came to jamaica with good credentials from his uncle, the colonel, for the latter was held in high esteem by modyford, then governor of barbadoes, who describes colonel morgan as "that honest privateer."
colonel morgan did not live to see his nephew reach the pinnacle of his success, for in the year 1665 he was sent at the head of an expedition to attack the dutch stronghold at st. eustatius island, but he was too old to stand the hardships of such an expedition and died shortly afterwards.
by this time morgan had made his name as a successful and resolute buccaneer by returning to port royal from a raiding expedition in central america with a huge booty.
in 1665 morgan, with two other buccaneers, jackman and morris, plundered the province of campeachy, and then, acting as vice-admiral to the most famous buccaneer of the day, captain mansfield, plundered cuba, captured providence island, sacked granada, burnt and plundered the coast of costa rica, bringing back another booty of almost fabulous wealth to jamaica. in this year morgan married a daughter of his uncle, colonel morgan.
in 1668, when 33 years of age, morgan was commissioned by the jamaican government to collect together the privateers, and by 1669 he was in command of a big fleet, when he was almost killed by a great explosion in the oxford, which happened while morgan was giving a banquet to his captains. about this time morgan calmly took a fine ship, the cour volant, from a french pirate, and made her his own flagship, christening her the satisfaction.
in 1670 the greatest event of morgan's life took place--the sacking of panama. first landing a party which took the castle of san lorenzo at the mouth of the chagres river, morgan left a strong garrison there to cover his retreat and pushed on with 1,400 men in a fleet of canoes up the river on january 9th, 1671. the journey across the isthmus, through the tropical jungle, was very hard on the men, particularly as they had depended on finding provisions to supply their wants on the way, and carried no food with them. they practically starved until the sixth day, when they found a barn full of maize, which the fleeing spaniards had neglected to destroy. on the evening of the ninth day a scout reported he had seen the steeple of a church in panama. morgan, with that touch of genius which so often brought him success, attacked the city from a direction the spaniards had not thought possible, so that their guns were all placed where they were useless, and they were compelled to do just what the buccaneer leader wanted them to do--namely, to come out of their fortifications and fight him in the open. the battle raged fiercely for two hours between the brave spanish defenders and the equally brave but almost exhausted buccaneers. when at last the spaniards turned and ran, the buccaneers were too tired to immediately follow up their success, but after resting they advanced, and at the end of three hours' street fighting the city was theirs. the first thing morgan now did was to assemble all his men and strictly forbid them to drink any wine, telling them that he had secret information that the wine had been poisoned by the spaniards before they left the city. this was, of course, a scheme of morgan's to stop his men from becoming drunk, when they would be at the mercy of the enemy, as had happened in many a previous buccaneer assault.
morgan now set about plundering the city, a large part of which was burnt to the ground, though whether this was done by his orders or by the spanish governor has never been decided. after three weeks the buccaneers started back on their journey to san lorenzo, with a troop of 200 pack-mules laden with gold, silver, and goods of all sorts, together with a large number of prisoners. the rearguard on the march was under the command of a kinsman of the admiral, colonel bledry morgan.
on their arrival at chagres the spoils were divided, amidst a great deal of quarrelling, and in march, 1671, morgan sailed off to port royal with a few friends and the greater part of the plunder, leaving his faithful followers behind without ships or provisions, and with but £10 apiece as their share of the spoils.
on may 31st, 1671, the council of jamaica passed a vote of thanks to morgan for his successful expedition, and this in spite of the fact that in july, a year before, a treaty had been concluded at madrid between spain and england for "restraining depredations and establishing peace" in the new world.
in april, 1672, morgan was carried to england as a prisoner in the welcome frigate. but he was too popular to be convicted, and after being acquitted was appointed deputy governor of jamaica, and in november, 1674, he was knighted and returned to the west indies. in 1672 major-general banister, who was commander-in-chief of the troops in jamaica, writing to lord arlington about morgan, said: "he (morgan) is a well deserving person, and one of great courage and conduct, who may, with his majesty's pleasure, perform good public service at home, or be very advantageous to this island if war should again break forth with the spaniards."
while morgan was in england he brought an action for libel against william crooke, the publisher of the "history of the bucaniers of america." the result of this trial was that crooke paid £200 damages to morgan and published a long and grovelling apology.
morgan was essentially a man of action, and a regular life on shore proved irksome to him, for we learn from a report sent home by lord vaughan in 1674 that morgan "frequented the taverns of port royal, drinking and gambling in unseemly fashion," but nevertheless the jamaican assembly had voted the lieutenant-governor a sum of £600 special salary. in 1676 vaughan brought definite charges against morgan and another member of the council, robert byndloss, of giving aid to certain jamaica pirates.
morgan made a spirited defence and, no doubt largely owing to his popularity, got off, and in 1678 was granted a commission to be a captain of a company of 100 men.
the governor to succeed vaughan was lord carlisle, who seems to have liked morgan, in spite of his jovial "goings on" with his old buccaneer friends in the taverns of port royal, and in some of his letters speaks of morgan's "generous manner," and hints that whatever allowances are made to him "he will be a beggar."
in 1681 sir thomas lynch was appointed to be governor, and trouble at once began between him and his deputy. amongst the charges the former brought against morgan was one of his having been overheard to say, "god damn the assembly!" for which he was suspended from that body.
in april, 1688, the king, at the urgent request of the duke of albemarle, ordered morgan to be reinstated in the assembly, but morgan did not live long to enjoy his restored honours, for he died on august 25th, 1688.
an extract from the journal of captain lawrence wright, commander of h.m.s. assistance, dated august, 1688, describes the ceremonies held at port royal at the burial of morgan, and shows how important and popular a man he was thought to be. it runs:
"saturday 25. this day about eleven hours noone sir henry morgan died, & the 26th was brought over from passage-fort to the king's house at port royall, from thence to the church, & after a sermon was carried to the pallisadoes & there buried. all the forts fired an equal number of guns, wee fired two & twenty & after wee & the drake had fired, all the merchant men fired."
morgan was buried in jamaica, and his will, which was filed in the record office at spanish town, makes provision for his wife and near relations.
of new providence, bahama islands.
hanged at new providence in 1718 by his lately reformed fellow-pirates, and on the gallows taxed them with "pusillanimity and cowardice" because they did not rescue him and his fellow-sufferers.
morris, captain john.
a privateer until 1665, he afterwards became a buccaneer with mansfield. took part in successful raids in central america, plundering vildemo in the bay of campeachy; he also sacked truxillo, and then, after a journey by canoe up the san juan river to take nicaragua, surprised and plundered the city of granada in march, 1666.
morris, captain thomas.
one of the pirates of new providence, bahamas, who, on pardon being offered by king george in 1717, escaped, and for a while carried on piracy in the west indian islands. caught and hanged a few years afterwards.
one of captain bartholomew roberts's crew. when the royal fortune surrendered to h.m.s. swallow, morris fired his pistol into the gunpowder in the steerage and caused an explosion that killed or maimed many of the pirates.
a scotch pirate, who lived on prince edward island.
for an account of his career, see captain nelson.
one of major stede bonnet's crew. hanged at white point, charleston, south carolina, on november 8th, 1718, and buried in the marsh below low-water mark.
gunner on board "blackbeard's" ship, the queen ann's revenge. killed on november 22nd, 1718, in north carolina, during the fight with lieutenant maynard.
mullet, james, alias millet.
one of the crew of the royal james, in which vessel major stede bonnet played havoc with the shipping along the coasts of south carolina and new england. hanged at charleston in 1718.
this irish pirate was born in the north of ireland, not many miles from londonderry. being left an orphan at the age of 18, he was sold to a planter in the west indies for a term of four years.
after the great earthquake at jamaica in 1691, mullins built himself a house at kingston and ran it as a punch-house--often a very profitable business when the buccaneers returned to port royal with good plunder. this business failing, he went to new york, where he met captain kidd, and was, according to his own story, persuaded to engage in piracy, it being urged that the robbing only of infidels, the enemies of christianity, was an act, not only lawful, but one highly meritorious.
at his trial later on in london his judges did not agree with this view of the rights of property, and mullins was hanged at execution dock on may 23rd, 1701.
an indian of mather's vineyard, new england.
tried for piracy with captain charles harris and his men, but found to be "not guilty."
hanged for piracy at newport, rhode island, on july 19th, 1723, at the age of 20.
mustapha. turkish pirate.
in 1558 he sailed, with a fleet of 140 vessels, to the island of minorca. landed, and besieged the fortified town of ciudadda, which at length surrendered. the turks slew great numbers of the inhabitants, taking the rest away as slaves.
nau, captain jean david, alias francis l'ollonais.
a frenchman born at les sables d'ollone.
in his youth he was transported as an indented labourer to the french island of dominica in the west indies. having served his time l'ollonais went to the island of hispaniola, and joined the buccaneers there, living by hunting wild cattle and drying the flesh or boucan.
he then sailed for a few voyages as a sailor before the mast, and acted with such ability and courage that the governor of tortuga island, monsieur de la place, gave him the command of a vessel and sent him out to seek his fortune.
at first the young buccaneer was very successful, and he took many spanish ships, but owing to his ferocious treatment of his prisoners he soon won a name for cruelty which has never been surpassed. but at the height of this success his ship was wrecked in a storm, and, although most of the pirates got ashore, they were at once attacked by a party of spaniards, and all but l'ollonais were killed. the captain escaped, after being wounded, by smearing blood and sand over his face and hiding himself amongst his dead companions. disguised as a spaniard he entered the city of campeachy, where bonfires and other manifestations of public relief were being held, to express the joy of the citizens at the news of the death of their terror, l'ollonais.
meeting with some french slaves, the fugitive planned with them to escape in the night in a canoe, this being successfully carried out, they eventually arrived back at tortuga, the pirate stronghold. here the enterprising captain stole a small vessel, and again started off "on the account," plundering a village called de los cagos in cuba. the governor of havana receiving word of the notorious and apparently resurrected pirate's arrival sent a well-armed ship to take him, adding to the ship's company a negro executioner, with orders to hang all the pirate crew with the exception of l'ollonais, who was to be brought back to havana alive and in chains.
instead of the spaniards taking the frenchman, the opposite happened, and everyone of them was murdered, including the negro hangman, with the exception of one man, who was sent with a written message to the governor to tell him that in future l'ollonais would kill every spaniard he met with.
joining with a famous filibuster, michael de basco, l'ollonais soon organized a more important expedition, consisting of a fleet of eight vessels and 400 men. sailing to the gulf of venezuela in 1667, they entered the lake, destroying the fort that stood to guard the entrance. thence sailing to the city of maracaibo they found all the inhabitants had fled in terror. the filibusters caught many of the inhabitants hiding in the neighbouring woods, and killed numbers of them in their attempts to force from the rest the hiding-places of their treasure. they next marched upon and attacked the town of gibraltar, which was valiantly defended by the spaniards, until the evening, when, having lost 500 men killed, they surrendered. for four weeks this town was pillaged, the inhabitants murdered, while torture and rape were daily occurrences. at last, to the relief of the wretched inhabitants, the buccaneers, with a huge booty, sailed away to corso island, a place of rendezvous of the french buccaneers. here they divided their spoil, which totalled the great sum of 260,000 pieces of eight, which, when divided amongst them, gave each man above one hundred pieces of eight, as well as his share of plate, silk, and jewels.
also, a share was allotted for the next-of-kin of each man killed, and extra rewards for those pirates who had lost a limb or an eye. l'ollonais had now become most famous amongst the "brethren of the coast," and began to make arrangements for an even more daring expedition to attack and plunder the coast of nicaragua. here he burnt and pillaged ruthlessly, committing the most revolting cruelties on the spanish inhabitants. one example of this monster's inhuman deeds will more than suffice to tell of. it happened that during an attack on the town of san pedros the buccaneers had been caught in an ambuscade and many of them killed, although the spaniards had at last turned and fled. the pirates killed most of their prisoners, but kept a few to be questioned by l'ollonais so as to find some other way to the town. as he could get no information out of these men, the frenchman drew his cutlass and with it cut open the breast of one of the spaniards, and pulling out his still beating heart he began to bite and gnaw it with his teeth like a ravenous wolf, saying to the other prisoners, "i will serve you all alike, if you show me not another way."
shortly after this, many of the buccaneers broke away from l'ollonais and sailed under the command of moses van vin, the second in command. l'ollonais, in his big ship, sailed to the coast of honduras, but ran his vessel on a sand-bank and lost her. while building a new but small craft on one of the las pertas islands, they cultivated beans and other vegetables, and also wheat, for which they baked bread in portable ovens which these french buccaneers carried about with them. it took them six months to build their long-boat, and when it was finished it would not carry more than half the number of buccaneers. lots were drawn to settle who should sail and who remain behind. l'ollonais steered the boat towards cartagena, but was caught by the indians, as described by esquemeling. "here suddenly his ill-fortune assailed him, which of a long time had been reserved for him as a punishment due to the multitude of horrible crimes, which in his licentious and wicked life he had committed. for god almighty, the time of his divine justice being now already come, had appointed the indians of darien to be the instruments and executioners thereof."
these "instruments of god," having caught l'ollonais, tore him in pieces alive, throwing his body limb by limb into the fire and his ashes into the air, to the intent "no trace nor memory might remain of such an infamous inhuman creature."
thus died a monster of cruelty, who would, had he lived to-day, have been confined in an asylum for lunatics.
a fisherman of cork.
mutinied in a french ship sailing from cork to nantes in 1721, and, under the leadership of philip roche, murdered the captain and many of the crew and became a pirate.
born at haverhill, massachusetts, in 1667.
a soldier, one of the guard at fort loyal, falmouth, maine. deserted in 1689 and went to sea with the pirate captain pound.
born on prince edward island, where his father had a grant of land for services rendered in the american war. he was a wealthy man, a member of the council and a colonel of the militia. in order to set his son up in life he bought him a captaincy in the militia and a fine farm, where young nelson married and settled down. buying a schooner, he used to sail to halifax with cargoes of potatoes and fruit. he seems to have liked these trips in which he combined business with pleasure, for we learn that on these visits to halifax he "was very wild, and drank and intrigued with the girls in an extravagant manner." getting into disgrace on prince edward island, and losing his commission, he went to live near halifax, and became a lieutenant in the nova scotia fencibles, while his wife remained on the island to look after his estates, which brought him in £300 a year. meeting with a scotchman called morrison, together they bought a "pretty little new york battleship," mounting ten guns. manning this dangerous toy with a crew of ninety desperate characters, the partners went "on the account," and began well by taking a brig belonging to mr. hill, of rotherhithe, which they took to new york, and there sold both ship and cargo.
they next cruised in the west indies, taking several english and dutch ships, the crews of which they treated with the greatest brutality.
landing on st. kitts island, they burnt and plundered two dutch plantations, murdering the owners and slaves. sailing north to newfoundland they took ten more vessels, which they sold in new york. after further successful voyages in the west indies and off the coast of brazil, nelson felt the call of home ties becoming so strong that he ventured to return to prince edward island to visit his wife and family, where no one dared to molest him.
by this time nelson had been a pirate for three years and had, by his industry, won for himself a fortune worth £150,000, but his scotch partner, morrison, being a frugal soul, had in the meantime saved an even larger sum. eventually their ship was wrecked in a fog on a small barren island near prince edward island, and morrison and most of the crew were drowned, but nelson and a few others were saved. at last he reached new york, where he lived the rest of his life in peaceful happiness with his wife and family.
nicholls, thomas, alias nicholas.
one of major stede bonnet's crew in the royal james. tried for piracy at charleston on november 8th, 1718, and found "not guilty."
hanged at kingston, jamaica, in february, 1823. at the time of execution it was observed that he was covered with the marks of deep wounds. on the scaffold he wept bitterly. an immensely heavy man, he broke the rope, and had to be hanged a second time.
norman, captain. buccaneer.
served under morgan in 1670, and after the fall of chagres fort, norman was left in charge with 500 men to hold it, while morgan crossed the isthmus to attack panama. norman soon "sent forth to sea two boats to exercise piracy." these hoisted spanish colours and met a big spanish merchant ship on the same day. they chased the ship, which fled for safety into the chagres river, only to be caught there by norman. she proved a valuable prize, being loaded with all kinds of provisions, of which the garrison was in sore need.
north, captain nathaniel.
born in bermuda, and by profession a lawyer, captain north was a man of remarkable ability, and in his later calling of piracy he gained great notoriety, and was a born leader of men. his history has been written fully, and is well worth reading. he had many ups and downs in his early seafaring life in the west indies; being no less than three times taken by the pressgang, each time escaping. he served in dutch and spanish privateers, and eventually rose to being a pirate captain, making his headquarters in madagascar. from here he sailed out to the east indies, and preyed on the ships of the east india company. several times he was wrecked, once he was the only survivor, and swam ashore at madagascar stark naked. the unusual sight of a naked englishman spread terror amongst the natives who were on the beach, and they all fled into the jungle except one, a woman, who from previous personal experience knew that this was but a human being and not a sea devil. she supplied him with clothes, of a sort, and led him to the nearest pirate settlement, some six miles away. on another occasion when the pirates were having a jollification ashore, having left their moorish prisoners on the ship at anchor, north gave the prisoners a hint to clear off in the night with the ship, otherwise they would all be made slaves. this friendly hint was acted upon, and in the morning both ship and prisoners had vanished. the pirates having lost their ship took to the peaceful and harmless life of planters, with north as their ruler. he won the confidence of the natives, who abided by his decision in all quarrels and misunderstandings. occasionally north and his men would join forces with a neighbouring friendly tribe and go to war, north leading the combined army, and victory always resulted. the call of piracy was too strong in his bones to resist, and after three years planting he was back to sea and the jolly roger once more. on one occasion he seized the opportunity, when in the neighbourhood of the mascarenhas islands, to go ashore and visit the catholic priest and confess, and at the same time made suitable arrangements for his children to be educated by the church. north evidently truly repented his former sins, for he returned to resume his simple life on his plantation. on arriving home he found the settlement in an uproar. he soon settled all the disputes, appeased the natives, and before long had this garden-city of pirates back in its previous peaceful and happy state. beyond an occasional little voyage, taking a ship or two, or burning an arab village, north's career as a pirate may be considered to have terminated, as, indeed, his life was shortly afterwards, being murdered in his bed by a treacherous native. north's friends the pirates, shocked at this cold-blooded murder, waged a ruthless war on the natives for seven years: thus in their simple way thinking to revenge the loss of this estimable man, who had always been the natives' best friend.
one of captain john quelch's crew. tried for piracy in june, 1704, at the star tavern at boston.
one of captain john phillip's original crew of five pirates in the revenge in 1723. nutt was made master or navigator.
ochali. barbary renegade.
in 1511 he sailed from algiers with a fleet of twenty-two vessels and 1,700 men to raid majorca. the moors landed at soller and pillaged it. before they could get back to their ship, the pirates were attacked by the majorcans, headed by miguel angelats, and completely routed, 500 of them being killed.
taken prisoner by the pirate captain teach on november 21st, 1718, and on the very next day retaken by lieutenant maynard. odell received no less than seventy wounds in the fight, but recovered, and was carried to virginia to stand his trial for piracy, and was acquitted.
acted as pilot in the royal fortune. took an active part in taking and plundering the king solomon on the west coast of africa in 1721.
hanged at cape coast castle in 1722.
a bahaman privateer who in 1683 turned pirate and attacked st. augustine in florida under french colours. being driven off by the spaniards, he had to content himself with looting some neighbouring settlements. on returning to new providence, the governor attempted, but without success, to arrest pain and his crew. pain afterwards appeared in rhode island, and when the authorities tried to seize him and his ship, he got off by exhibiting an old commission to hunt for pirates given him a long while before by sir thomas lynch. when the west indies became too hot for him, pain made the coast of carolina his headquarters.
paine, captain peter, alias le pain. a french buccaneer.
he brought into port royal in 1684 a merchant ship, la trompeuse. pretending to be the owner, he sold both ship and cargo, which brought about great trouble afterwards between the french and english governments, because he had stolen the ship on the high seas. he was sent from jamaica under arrest to france the same year, to answer for his crimes.
this carolina pirate retired and lived at charleston. in august, 1710, he was recommended for the position of public powder-receiver, but was rejected by the upper house. "mr. painter having committed piracy, and not having his majesties pardon for the same, its resolved he is not fit for that trust." which only goes to show how hard it was for a man to live down a thing like piracy.
pardal, captain manuel rivero.
known to the jamaicans as "the vapouring admiral of st. jago," because in july, 1670, he had nailed a piece of canvas to a tree on the jamaican coast with this curious challenge written both in english and spanish:
"i, captain manuel rivero pardal, to the chief of the squadron of privateers in jamaica. i am he who this year have done that which follows. i went on shore at caimanos, and burnt 20 houses and fought with captain ary, and took from him a catch laden with provisions and a canoe. and i am he who took captain baines and did carry the prize to cartagena, and now am arrived to this coast, and have burnt it. and i come to seek general morgan, with 2 ships of 20 guns, and having seen this, i crave he would come out upon the coast and seek me, that he might see the valour of the spaniards. and because i had no time i did not come to the mouth of port royal to speak by word of mouth in the name of my king, whom god preserve. dated the 5th of july, 1670."
parker, captain william. buccaneer.
just after the city of porto bello had been made, as the spanish thought, impregnable, by the building of the massive stone fort of san jerome, the daring parker, with but 200 english desperadoes, took the place by storm, burning part of the town and getting quickly and safely away with a huge amount of booty.
one of captain john quelch's crew in the brigantine charles. tried at boston for piracy in 1704.
one of quelch's crew, who turned king's evidence at the trial at boston in 1704, and thus escaped hanging.
one of major stede bonnet's crew in the royal james. hanged at charleston, south carolina, on november 8th, 1718, and buried in the marsh.
tried for piracy at boston in 1704.
a low down, latter-day south sea pirate. arrived in an armed ship with a malay crew at apia in samoa in june, 1870, and rescued the pirate bully hayes, who was under arrest of the english consul. he pleased the british inhabitants of the island by his display of loyalty to queen victoria by firing a salute of twenty-one guns on her majesty's birthday.
we have been able to find out nothing of this pirate except that he was at new providence island in 1718 and took the king's pardon for pirates. he seems to have returned to the old life and was killed soon after, though how this came about is not recorded.
one of quelch's crew. captured at marblehead in 1704.
tried for piracy in 1718 at charleston, south carolina, and found guilty. hanged on november 8th at white point. buried in the marsh below low-water mark.
of newport, rhode island.
in 1688 he arrived at newport in a "barkalonga" armed with ten guns and seventy men. the governor prosecuted him for piracy, but the grand jury, which consisted of friends and neighbours of peterson, threw out the bill. among other charges, peterson was accused of selling some hides and elephants' teeth to a boston merchant for £57, being part of the booty he had previously taken out of prizes in the west indies.
tried for piracy with the rest of captain quelch's crew at boston. was hanged there on june 30th, 1704. when standing on the gallows "he cryed of injustice done him and said, 'it is very hard for so many lives to be taken away for a little gold.' he said his peace was made with god, yet he found it extremely hard to forgive those who had wronged him. he told the executioner 'he was a strong man and prayed to be put out of his misery as soon as possible.'"
a swedish pirate, one of gow's crew. he was hanged at wapping in june, 1725.
petit, captain. french filibuster.
of san domingo.
in 1634 was in command of le ruze, crew of forty men and four guns.
born at deptford.
phelipp, captain william.
in 1533 a portuguese merchant, peter alves, engaged phelipp to pilot his ship, the santa maria desaie, from tenby to bastabill haven. off the welsh coast the ship was attacked by a pirate vessel called the furtuskewys, with a crew of thirty-five pirates. alves was put ashore on the welsh coast, and the two ships then sailed to cork, where the ship and her cargo were sold to the mayor for 1,524 crowns.
alves complained to the king of england, and orders were sent to the mayor of cork, richard gowllys, to give up the ship, which he refused to do, but by way of excusing his actions he explained that he thought the ship was a scotch one and not a portuguese.
in 1723 this noted pirate took a sloop, the dolphin, of cape ann, on the banks of newfoundland. the crew of the dolphin were compelled by phillips to join the pirates. amongst the prisoners was a fisherman, john fillmore. finding no opportunity to escape, fillmore with another sailor, edward cheesman, and an indian, suddenly seized and killed phillips and the two other chief pirates. the rest of the crew agreeing, the ship was taken to boston.
of the island of antigua.
formerly of the revenge, and afterwards in the royal fortune (captain roberts). when the royal fortune surrendered in 1722 to h.m.s. swallow, philips seized a lighted match and attempted to blow up the ship, swearing he would "send them all to hell together," but was prevented by the master, glasby. hanged at the age of 35.
on the night of august 29th, 1723, with four others, he stole a vessel in the harbour and sailed away. phillips was chosen captain. articles were now drawn up and were sworn to upon a hatchet, because no bible could be found on board. amongst other laws was the punishment of "40 stripes lacking one, known as moses's law, to be afflicted for striking a fellow-pirate." the last law of the nine casts a curious light on these murderers; it runs: "if at any time you meet with a prudent woman, that man that offers to meddle with her, without her consent, shall suffer present death." the pirates, fortified by these laws, met with instant success, taking several fishing vessels, from which they augmented their small crew by the addition of several likely and brisk seamen. amongst these they had the good fortune to take prisoner an old pirate called john rose archer, who had served his pirate apprenticeship under the able tuition of the famous blackbeard, and who they at once promoted to be quartermaster. this quick promotion caused trouble afterwards, for some of the original crew, particularly carpenter fern, resented it. the pirates next sailed to barbadoes, that happy hunting ground, but for three months never a sail did they meet with, so that they were almost starving for want of provisions, being reduced to a pound of dried meat a day amongst ten of them.
at last they met with a french vessel, a martinico ship, of twelve guns, and hunger drove them to attack even so big a ship as this, but the sight of the black flag so terrified the french crew that they surrendered without firing a shot. after this, they took several vessels, and matters began to look much brighter. phillips quickly developed into a most accomplished and bloody pirate, butchering his prisoners on very little or on no provocation whatever. but even this desperate pirate had an occasional "qualm of conscience come athwart his stomach," for when he captured a newfoundland vessel and was about to scuttle her, he found out that she was the property of a mr. minors of that island, from whom they stole the original vessel in which they went a-pirating, so phillips, telling his companions "we have done him enough injury already," ordered the vessel to be repaired and returned to the owner. on another occasion, they took a ship, the master of which was a "saint" of new england, by name dependance ellery, who gave them a pretty chase before being overhauled, and so, as a punishment, the "saint" was compelled to dance the deck until he fell down exhausted.
this pirate's career ended with a mutiny of his unruly crew, phillips being tripped up and then thrown overboard to drown off newfoundland in april, 1724.
during the nine months of phillips's command as a pirate captain, he accounted for more than thirty ships.
one of teach's crew. hanged in virginia in 1718.
born at lower shadwell.
at his trial at cape coast castle, he pleaded, as nearly all the prisoners did, that he was compelled to sign the pirates' articles, which were offered to him on a dish, on which lay a loaded pistol beside the copy of the articles.
found guilty and hanged in april, 1722, within the flood marks at cape coast castle, in his 29th year.
an english soldier who deserted from fort loyal, falmouth, maine, in 1689. wounded by a bullet in the head at tarpaulin cove. taken to boston prison, where he died.
pickering, captain charles.
commanded the cinque ports galley, sixteen guns, crew of sixty-three men, and accompanied dampier on his voyage in 1703. died off the coast of brazil in the same year.
tried for piracy along with the rest of the crew of the brigantine charles, at boston, in 1704.
one of captain quelch's crew. tried for piracy at boston in 1704.
poleas, pedro. spanish pirate.
co-commander with captain johnson of a pirate sloop, the two brothers. in march, 1731, took a ship, the john and jane (edward burt, master), south of jamaica, on board of which was a passenger, john cockburn, who afterwards wrote a book relating his adventures on a journey on foot of 240 miles on the mainland of america.
a west indian pirate, who commanded a sloop, and, in company with a captain tuckerman in another sloop, came one day into bennet's key in hispaniola. the two captains were but beginners at piracy, and finding the great bartholomew roberts in the bay, paid him a polite visit, hoping to pick up a few wrinkles from the "master." this scene is described by captain johnson, in his "lives of the pirates," when porter and his friend "addressed the pyrate, as the queen of sheba did solomon, to wit, that having heard of his fame and achievements, they had put in there to learn his art and wisdom in the business of pyrating, being vessels on the same honourable design with himself; and hoped with the communication of his knowledge, they should also receive his charity, being in want of necessaries for such adventures. roberts was won upon by the peculiarity and bluntness of these two men and gave them powder, arms, and what ever else they had occasion for, spent two or three merry nights with them, and at parting, said, he hoped the l---- would prosper their handy works."
pound, captain thomas.
on august 8th, 1689, this pirate, with five men and a boy, sailed out of boston harbour as passengers in a small vessel. when off lovell's island, five other armed men joined them. pound now seized the craft and took command, and declared his intention of going on a piratical cruise. the first vessel they met with they decided to take. it was a fishing boat. pound ran his craft alongside, but at the last moment his heart failed him, and he merely bought eight penn'o'th of mackerel from the surprised fishermen.
of connecticut, new england.
one of captain charles harris's crew. hanged at newport, rhode island, on july 19th, 1723, at the age of 21.
born in the west of england.
served in a slave vessel, the polly (captain fox, commander), on a voyage to the coast of west africa. while the captain was on shore, the crew ran away with the ship, turned pirates, called their vessel the bravo, and elected power to be captain and sailed to the west indies. arrived there, he tried to sell his cargo of slaves, but being suspected of having stolen them, he thought it best to sail to new york. here the pirates got ashore, but the ship's surgeon informed the authorities, and power was arrested and sent to england, where he was tried, and hanged at execution dock on march 10th, 1768.
hanged at charleston, south carolina, on november 8th, 1718. one of major stede bonnet's crew.
one of captain quelch's crew. turned king's evidence at the trial for piracy held at the star tavern, boston, in june, 1704.
prince, captain lawrence.
in 1760 this buccaneer sacked the city of granada in company with captains harris and ludbury. late in the same year, prince, with the rank of lieut.-colonel, led the vanguard in the attack on panama.
this dutch south sea pirate owned a small plantation in madagascar, and was joined there by the pirate williams after he had escaped from slavery. both were taken prisoner by an english frigate. in a fight with the natives, the pirate crew was defeated, but pro and williams managed to escape and to reach some friendly natives. procuring a boat, they sailed away to join some other pirates at methulage in madagascar.
prowse, captain lawrence.
a devon man, a noted sea captain, and a terror to the spaniards. was imprisoned by king james i. at the instance of the king of spain for piracy and was to have been executed, but english public feeling ran so high that prowse was discharged.
pulling, captain john.
commanded the fame, which set out in 1703 in company with dampier in the st. george on a plundering expedition to the south seas. their commissions were to attack only spanish and french ships. the two captains quarrelled at the very beginning of the voyage, while lying off the downs, and pulling slipped away by himself to go a-pirating amongst the canary islands.
in the sixteenth century this pirate became notorious for his piracies off the coast of wales, and with calles and clinton, two other pirates, "grew famous, till queene elizabeth of blessed memory, hanged them at wapping."
quelch, captain john.
a native of massachusetts colony.
in 1703 was one of the crew of the brigantine charles, eighty tons, owned by some leading citizens of boston, and fitted out to go privateering off the coasts of arcadia and newfoundland. on leaving marblehead the crew mutinied, locked the captain in his cabin, and elected quelch their commander. they sailed to the south, and shortly afterwards threw the captain overboard. they hoisted a flag, the "old roger," described as having "in the middle of it an anatomy with an hourglars in one hand and a dart in the heart with three drops of blood proceeding from it in the other." they took nine portuguese vessels off the coast of brazil, out of which they took plunder of very great value.
quelch now had the audacity to sail back to marblehead, where his crew landed and quickly scattered with their plunder. within a week quelch was in gaol, and was taken to boston, where his trial began on june 17th, 1704, and he was found guilty. the days between the sentence and the execution must have, indeed, been trying for the prisoner. we read in a pamphlet published at the time: "the ministers of the town used more than ordinary endeavours to instruct the prisoners and bring them to repentance. there were sermons preached in their hearing every day, and prayer daily made with them. and they were catechised, and they had many occasional exhortations. and nothing was left that could be done for their good."
on friday, june 30th, 1704, quelch and his companions marched on foot through the town of boston to scarlil's wharf with a strong armed guard of musketeers, accompanied by various officials and two ministers, while in front was carried a silver oar, the emblem of a pirate's execution. before the last act the minister gave a long and fervent harangue to the wretched culprits, in all of whom were observed suitable signs of repentance except quelch, who, stepping forward on the platform, his hat in his hand, and bowing left and right to the spectators, gave a short address, in which he warned them "they should take care how they brought money into new england to be hanged for it."
one of captain quelch's crew of the brigantine charles. tried with the rest of that crew at the star tavern at boston in june, 1704.
rackam, captain john, alias calico jack.
served as quartermaster in captain vane's company. on one occasion vane refused to fight a big french ship, and in consequence was dismissed his ship and marooned on an uninhabited island off the coast of america, while the crew elected rackam to be their captain in his place. this was on november 24th, 1718, and on the very first day of his command he had the good fortune to take and plunder several small vessels.
off the island of jamaica they took a madeira ship, and found an old friend on board as a passenger--a mr. hosea tisdell, who kept a tavern in the island, and they treated him with great respect.
christmas day coming, the pirates landed on a small island to celebrate this festival in a thorough manner, carousing and drinking as long as the liquor lasted, when they sailed away to seek more. their next prize was a strange one. on coming alongside a ship, she surrendered, and the pirates boarding her to examine her cargo, found it to consist of thieves from newgate on their way to the plantations. taking two more vessels, rackam sailed to the bahama islands, but the governor, captain woodes rogers, sent a sloop, which took away their prizes.
rackam now sailed his ship to a snug little cove he knew of in cuba, where he had more than one lady acquaintance. here the pirates were very happy until all their provisions and money was spent. just as they were about to sail, in comes a spanish guarda del costa with a small english sloop which they had recently taken. rackam was now in a very awkward position, being unable to get past the spaniard, and all he could do was to hide behind a small island. night came on, and when it was dark rackam put all his crew into a boat, rowed quietly up to the sloop, clambered aboard, threatening instant death to the spanish guards if they cried out, then cut the cables and sailed out of the bay. as soon as it was light the spanish ship commenced a furious bombardment of rackam's empty vessel, thinking he was still aboard her.
in the summer of 1720 he took numbers of small vessels and fishing boats, but nothing very rich, and was not above stealing the fishermen's nets and landing and taking cattle. in october rackam was chased near nigril bay by a government sloop commanded by a captain barret. after a short fight rackam surrendered, and was carried a prisoner to port royal.
on november 16th rackam and his crew were tried at st. jago de la vega, convicted and sentenced to death. amongst the crew were two women dressed as men, anne bonny and mary read. the former was married, in pirate fashion, to rackam.
on the morning of his execution rackam was allowed, as a special favour, to visit his anne, but all the comfort he got from her was "that she was sorry to see him there, but if he had fought like a man, he need not have been hanged like a dog."
rackam was hanged on november 17th, 1720, at gallows point, at port royal, jamaica.
much dreaded by the merchant sailors navigating the south atlantic. in 1822 he controlled a fleet of pirate vessels in the vicinity of cape antonio.
in a letter to the lords of trade, dated from philadelphia, february 28th, 1701, william penn mentions that several of captain kidd's men had settled as planters in carolina with rayner as their captain.
one of captain john quelch's crew. tried at boston in 1704.
commanded a brigantine which had its headquarters at madagascar. rescued the pirate thomas white. read died at sea.
read, mary. woman pirate.
born in london of obscure parentage; all that is known for certain is that her mother was a "young and airy widow." mary was brought up as a boy, and at the age of 13 was engaged as a footboy to wait on a french lady. having a roving spirit, mary ran away and entered herself on board a man-of-war. deserting a few years later, she enlisted in a regiment of foot and fought in flanders, showing on all occasions great bravery, but quitted the service to enlist in a regiment of horse. her particular comrade in this regiment was a fleming, with whom she fell in love and disclosed to him the secret of her sex. she now dressed as a woman, and the two troopers were married, "which made a great noise," and several of her officers attended the nuptials. she and her husband got their discharge and kept an eating house or ordinary, the three horseshoes, near the castle of breda. the husband died, and mary once again donned male attire and enlisted in a regiment in holland. soon tiring of this, she deserted, and shipped herself aboard a vessel bound for the west indies. this ship was taken by an english pirate, captain rackam, and mary joined his crew as a seaman.
she was at new providence island, bahama, when woodes rogers came there with the royal pardon to all pirates, and she shipped herself aboard a privateer sent out by rogers to cruise against the spaniards. the crew mutinied and again became pirates. she now sailed under captain rackam, who had with him another woman pirate, anne bonny. they took a large number of ships belonging to jamaica, and out of one of these took prisoner "a young fellow of engaging behaviour" with whom mary fell deeply in love. this young fellow had a quarrel with one of the pirates, and as the ship lay at anchor they were to go to fight it out on shore according to pirate law. mary, to save her lover, picked a quarrel with the same pirate, and managed to have her duel at once, and fighting with sword and pistol killed him on the spot.
she now married the young man "of engaging behaviour," and not long after was taken prisoner with captain rackam and the rest of the crew to jamaica. she was tried at st. jago de la vega in jamaica, and on november 28th, 1720, was convicted, but died in prison soon after of a violent fever.
that mary read was a woman of great spirit is shown by her reply to captain rackam, who had asked her (thinking she was a young man) what pleasure she could find in a life continually in danger of death by fire, sword, or else by hanging; to which mary replied "that as to hanging, she thought it no great hardship, for were it not for that, every cowardly fellow would turn pirate and so unfit the seas, that men of courage must starve."
tried for piracy with gow's crew at newgate in 1725, and acquitted.
of londonderry, ireland.
one of captain harris's crew. was hanged at newport, rhode island, in 1723, at the age of 35.
one of captain heidon's crew of the pirate ship john of sandwich, wrecked on alderney island in 1564. was arrested and hanged at st. martin's point, guernsey, in the same year.
rhoade, captain john.
a dutch coasting pilot of boston.
in 1674 appointed chief pilot to the curacao privateer flying horse, and sailed along the coast of maine and as far north as the st. john river. afterwards attacked and plundered several small english craft occupied in bartering furs with the indians. condemned to be hanged at cambridge, massachusetts, in june, 1675.
rice, david. welsh pirate.
taken out of the cornwall galley by captain roberts, he served in the royal fortune. tried and found guilty of piracy and condemned to death, but was reprieved and sold to the royal african company to serve for seven years in their plantations.
rice, owen. welsh pirate.
of south wales.
hanged at the age of 27 at rhode island in 1723. one of captain charles harris's crew.
lieutenant to blackbeard on board the queen ann's revenge. cruised in the west indies and along the coast of carolina and virginia.
in 1717 teach blockaded the harbour at charleston and sent richards with a party of pirates to the governor to demand a medicine chest and all necessary medical supplies, with a threat that if these were not forthcoming he would cut the throats of all his prisoners, many of them the leading merchants of the town. while waiting for the governor's reply, richards and his companions scandalized the towns-folk of charleston by their outrageous and swaggering conduct.
one of captain quelch's crew. taken out of the brigantine charles, and tried for piracy at boston in 1704.
one of major stede bonnet's crew. hanged in 1718 at charleston, south carolina.
ringrose, basil. buccaneer, pirate, and author.
sailed in 1679 to the west indies. a year later ringrose had joined the buccaneers at their rendezvous in the gulf of darien, where they were preparing for a bold enterprise on the spanish main. they landed and marched to the town of santa maria, which they plundered and burnt. thence they travelled in canoes down the river to the bay of panama. after attacking the spanish fleet and laying siege to the city, the buccaneers cruised up and down the west coast of south america for eighteen months, sacking towns and attacking spanish ships. all this while ringrose kept a very full and graphic journal, in which he recorded not only their exploits, but also their hardships and quarrels, and gave descriptions as well of the various natives and their customs, and drew charts and sketches.
in 1681 ringrose was still with captain sharp, and sailed through the straits of magellan, and on january 30th of the same year anchored off antigua. here he got a passage in a ship to england, landing safely at dartmouth on march 26th.
a year later he published an account of his voyage, as a second volume to esquemeling's, "bucaniers of america." in 1684 he went to sea again in the cygnet (captain swan), to traffic with the spanish colonies. but the spaniards refused to trade with them. in october, 1684, they met the famous captain edward davis at that favourite haunt of the buccaneers, the isle of plate. the two captains agreed to join forces and to go together "on the account," so all the cargo was thrown overboard the cygnet, and the ships set out to make war on any spanish ships they might meet with.
in february, 1686, ringrose with one hundred men took the town of santiago in mexico, but while returning with the plunder to their ship were caught by the spaniards in an ambush, and ringrose was killed.
ringrose never attained any rank among the buccaneers beyond occasionally being put in charge of a boat or a small company on shore, but as a recorder of the doings of his companions he proved both careful and painstaking. dampier had a great regard for him, and in his book he writes: "my ingenious friend ringrose had no mind to this voyage, but was necessitated to engage in it or starve."
the title of ringrose's book, first published in 1685, is "the dangerous voyage and bold assaults of captain bartholomew sharp and others."
written by mr. basil ringrose.
printed for william crooke, 1685.
when captain quelch was captured with his crew, roach escaped near the cape by snake island. he was afterwards captured and thrown into the gaol at salem. tried for piracy at the star tavern at boston, and on june 30th, 1704, was hanged. at the place of execution roach disappointed the onlooking crowd, as, instead of the expected and hoped-for repentant speech, "he seemed little concerned, and said but little or nothing at all."
one of captain gow's crew. hanged at execution dock, wapping, in june, 1724. he was not one of the original crew of the george galley, but was taken out of a prize and joined the pirates of his own free-will.
hanged in virginia in 1718 along with the rest of captain teach's crew.
one of the crew of the royal james. hanged in 1718 at charleston, south carolina.
roberts, captain bartholomew. welsh pirate.
born 1682. died 1722.
if a pirate is to be reckoned by the amount of damage he does and the number of ships he takes there can be no doubt that captain roberts should be placed at the very head of his profession, for he is said to have taken over 400 vessels. the only man who can be said to rival him is sir henry morgan, but morgan, although in some ways an unmitigated blackguard, was a man of much greater breadth of outlook than roberts ever was, and, moreover, was a buccaneer rather than a pirate.
bartholomew must have looked the very part of a pirate when dressed for action. a tall, dark man, he used to wear a rich damask waistcoat and breeches, a red feather in his cap, a gold chain round his neck with a large diamond cross dangling from it, a sword in his hand, and two pairs of pistols hanging at the end of a silk sling flung over his shoulders.
we first hear of roberts as sailing, in honest employ, as master of the princess (captain plumb), from london in november, 1719, bound for the coast of guinea to pick up a cargo of "black ivory" at anamaboe. here his ship was taken by the welsh pirate howel davis. at first roberts was disinclined for the pirate life, but soon changed his mind.
on the death of davis there were several candidates for the post of commander, all brisk and lively men, distinguished by the title of "lords," such as sympson, ashplant, anstis, and others. one of these "lords," dennis, concluded an eloquent harangue over a bowl of punch with a strong appeal for roberts to be the new chief. this proposal was acclaimed with but one dissenting voice, that of "lord" sympson, who had hopes of being elected himself, and who sullenly left the meeting swearing "he did not care who they chose captain so it was not a papist." so roberts was elected after being a pirate only six weeks; thus was true merit quickly appreciated and rewarded amongst them.
roberts's speech to his fellow-pirates was short but to the point, saying "that since he had dipped his hands in muddy water, and must be a pyrate, it was better being a commander than a common man," not perhaps a graceful nor grateful way of expressing his thanks, but one which was no doubt understood by his audience.
he then took a dutch ship, and two days later an english one, and sailed back to brazil, refitting and cleaning at the island of ferdinando.
in a work such as this is, it is impossible to recount all, or even a few, of the daring adventures, or the piratical ups and downs of one pirate. roberts sailed to the west indies devastating the commerce of jamaica and barbadoes. when things grew too hot there, he went north to newfoundland, and played the very devil with the english and french fishing fleets and settlements.
his first ship he called the fortune, his next, a bigger ship, the royal fortune, another the good fortune.
on two occasions roberts had been very roughly handled, once by a ship from barbadoes and once by the inhabitants of martinica, so when he designed his new flag, he portrayed on it a huge figure of himself standing sword in hand upon two skulls, and under these were the letters a.b.h. and a.m.h., signifying a barbadian's and a martinican's head.
in april, 1721, roberts was back again on the guinea coast, burning and plundering. amongst the prisoners he took out of one of his prizes was a clergyman. the captain dearly wished to have a chaplain on board his ship to administer to the spiritual welfare of his crew, and tried all he could to persuade the parson to sign on, promising him that his only duties should be to say prayers and make punch. but the prelate begged to be excused, and was at length allowed to go with all his belongings, except three prayer-books and a corkscrew--articles which were sorely needed aboard the royal fortune.
the end of roberts's career was now in sight. a king's ship, the swallow (captain chaloner ogle), discovered roberts's ships at parrot island, and, pretending to fly from them, was followed out to sea by one of the pirates. a fight took place, and after two hours the pirates struck, flinging overboard their black flag "that it might not rise in judgement over them." the swallow returned in a few days to parrot island to look for roberts in the royal fortune. roberts being at breakfast, enjoying a savoury dish of solomongundy, was informed of the approach of the ship, but refused to take any notice of it. at last, thoroughly alarmed, he cut his cables and sailed out, but most of his crew being drunk, even at this early hour, the pirates did not make as good a resistance as if they had been sober. early in the engagement roberts was hit in the throat by a grape-shot and killed; this being on february 10th, 1722. his body, fully dressed, with his arms and ornaments, was thrown overboard according to his repeated request made during his lifetime. thus the arch-pirate died, as he always said he wished to die, fighting. his motto had always been "a short life and a merry one." one good word can be said for roberts, that he never forced a man to become a pirate against his wish.
roberts, owen. welsh pirate.
carpenter in the queen ann's revenge, and killed on november 22nd, 1718, off the north carolina coast.
hanged at charleston, south carolina, in 1718.
roche, captain philip, alias john eustace.
in company with three other mariners--cullen, wife, and neale--this irish pirate shipped himself on board a french snow at cork in november, 1721, for a passage to nantes. owing to roche's briskness, genteel manners, and knowledge of navigation, the master used occasionally to place him in charge of the vessel. one night a few days out a pre-arranged mutiny took place, the french crew being butchered and thrown overboard. the captain, who pleaded for mercy, was also thrown into the sea. driven by bad weather to dartmouth, the new captain, roche, had the ship repainted and disguised, and renamed her the mary. then sailing to rotterdam he sold the cargo of beef and took on a fresh cargo with the owner, mr. annesly. the first night out of port they threw mr. annesly overboard, and he swam alongside for some while pleading to be taken in. on going into a french port, and hearing that an enquiry was being made about his ship, roche ran away. the crew took the ship to scotland, and there landed and disappeared, and the ship was seized and taken to the thames.
later on roche was arrested in london and committed to newgate prison, found guilty of piracy, and hanged on august 5th, 1723, at execution dock, at the age of 30. the hanging was not, from the public spectators point of view, a complete success, for the culprit "was so ill at the time that he could not make any public declaration of his abhorrence of the crime for which he suffered."
commanded a dutch vessel, the edward and thomas, that sailed from boston in 1674, and took several small english vessels along the coast of maine. tried for piracy at cambridge, massachusetts, and condemned to be hanged, but was afterwards pardoned.
rogers, captain thomas.
commanded a ship, the forlorn. routed the spaniards at venta cruz in 1671. one of morgan's captains in his attack on panama.
rogers, captain woodes.
as the life of this famous navigator and privateer is, very justly, treated fully in the "dictionary of national biography" it is unnecessary to mention more than a few incidents in his adventurous career. woodes rogers was not only a good navigator, for on many occasions he showed a remarkable gift for commanding mutinous crews in spite of having many officers on whom he could place little reliance. on leaving cork in 1708, after an incompetent pilot had almost run his ship on two rocks off kinsale called "the sovereigne's bollacks," rogers describes his crew thus: "a third were foreigners, while of her majestie's subjects many were taylors, tinkers, pedlars, fiddlers, and hay-makers, with ten boys and one negro." it was with crews such as these that many of the boldest and most remarkable early voyages were made, and they required a man of woodes rogers stamp to knock them into sailors. rogers had a gift for inspiring friendship wherever he went. on arriving at the coast of brazil, his boat was fired on when trying to land at angre de reys. this settlement had but lately received several hostile visitors in the way of french pirates. but before a week was passed woodes rogers had so won the hearts of the portuguese governor and the settlers that he and his "musick" were invited to take part in an important religious function, or "entertainment," as rogers calls it, "where," he says, "we waited on the governour, signior raphael de silva lagos, in a body, being ten of us, with two trumpets and a hautboy, which he desir'd might play us to church, where our musick did the office of an organ, but separate from the singing, which was by the fathers well perform'd. our musick played 'hey, boys, up go we!' and all manner of noisy paltry tunes. and after service, our musicians, who were by that time more than half drunk, march'd at the head of the company; next to them an old father and two fryars carrying lamps of incense, then an image dressed with flowers and wax candles, then about forty priests, fryars, etc., followed by the governor of the town, myself, and capt. courtney, with each of us a long wax candle lighted. the ceremony held about two hours; after which we were splendidly entertained by the fathers of the convent, and then by the governour. they unanimously told us they expected nothing from us but our company, and they had no more but our musick."
what a delightful picture this calls to the mind--the little brazilian town, the tropical foliage, the holy procession, "wax figure" and priests, followed by the governor with an english buccaneer on either side, and headed by a crew of drunken protestant english sailors playing "hey, boys, up go we!"
rogers, not to be outdone in hospitality, next day entertained the governor and fathers on board the duke, "when," he says, "they were very merry, and in their cups propos'd the pope's health to us. but we were quits with 'em by toasting the archbishop of canterbury; and to keep up the humour, we also proposed william pen's health, and they liked the liquor so well, that they refused neither." alas! the good governor and the fathers were not in a fit state to leave the ship when the end came to the entertainment, so slept on board, being put ashore in the morning, "when we saluted 'em with a huzza from each ship, because," as rogers says, "we were not overstocked with powder."
it was in march, 1710, that rogers brought his little fleet into the harbour of guam, one of the ladrone islands. although at war with spain, the captain soon became on his usual friendly terms with the governor of this spanish colony, and gave an entertainment on board his ship to him and four other spanish gentlemen, making them "as welcome as time and place would afford, with musick and our sailors dancing." the governor gave a return party on shore, to which rogers and all his brother officers were invited, partaking of "sixty dishes of various sorts." after this feast rogers gave his host a present, consisting of "two negro boys dress'd in liveries." one other instance of woodes rogers adaptability must suffice. in the year 1717 he was appointed governor to the bahama islands, at new providence, now called nassau. his chief duty was to stamp out the west india pirates who had made this island their headquarters for many years, and were in complete power there, and numbered more than 2,000 desperadoes, including such famous men as vane and teach. rogers's only weapon, besides the man-of-war he arrived in, was a royal proclamation from king george offering free pardon to all pirates or buccaneers who would surrender at once to the new governor. at first the pirates were inclined to resist his landing, but in the end the tactful rogers got his own way, and not only landed, but was received by an armed guard of honour, and passed between two lines of pirates who fired salutes with their muskets.
most of the pirates surrendered and received their pardons, but some, who reverted shortly afterwards to piracy and were captured and brought back to new providence, were tried and actually hanged by rogers's late buccaneer subjects.
woodes rogers eventually died in nassau in the year 1729.
he was the author of a delightful book entitled "a cruising voyage round the world, begun in 1708 and finish'd in 1711, by captain woodes rogers, commander-in-chief on this expedition, with the ships duke and duchess of bristol."
this was published in london in 1712.
captain gow's gunner in the revenge. hanged at execution dock, wapping, in june, 1725.
ross, george, or rose.
one of major stede bonnet's crew of the royal james. was hanged at charleston, south carolina, on november 8th, 1718, and buried in the marsh below low-water mark.
in june, 1717, in company with four other carolina pirates, was placed on trial for his life. convicted with de cossey, de mont, and ernandos, of piratically taking the vessels the turtle dove, the penelope, and the virgin queen in july of the previous year, and, after being sentenced to death by judge trott, rossoe and his fellow-pirates were promptly executed.
roundsivel, captain george.
of the bahama islands.
he refused to avail himself of king george's pardon to all pirates in 1717, and went off again on the "main chance" till captured.
row, captain. buccaneer.
in 1679, at the boca del toro, was with the buccaneer fleet that attacked and sacked santa maria. row commanded a small vessel of twenty tons, a crew of twenty-five men, and no guns.
one of captain gilbert's crew in the pirate schooner panda, which plundered the salem brig mexican in 1834. tried in boston and condemned to be hanged. pleading insanity, he was respited for sixty days and then hanged on september 12th, 1835.
rupert. prince of the rhine.
after an adventurous life as a soldier on the continent, he sailed from ireland in 1648 with seven ships. his own ship was the swallow. he was a man of boundless energy, who was never happy if not engaged in some enterprise, and as legitimate warfare gave him few opportunities he turned pirate. he spent five years at sea, largely in the west indies, meeting with every kind of adventure.
in 1653 he was caught in a storm in the virgin islands, and his fleet was wrecked. his brother, prince maurice, was lost with his ship, the defiance, the only ship saved being the swallow. prince rupert returned in the swallow to france in the same year. hitherto the prince had been a restless, clever man, "very sparkish in his dress," but this catastrophe to his fleet and the loss of his brother broke his spirit, and he retired to england, where he died in his bed in 1682 at spring gardens.
le sage, captain. french filibuster.
in 1684 was at san domingo, in command of the tigre, carrying thirty guns and a crew of 130 men.
hanged in virginia in 1718 with the rest of captain teach's crew.
sample, captain richard. buccaneer.
was at new providence island in 1718, and received the royal pardon from king george, offered to those pirates who surrendered themselves to governor woodes rogers. like many another, he fell again into his former wicked ways, and ended his life by being hanged.
sample, captain robert.
one of england's crew in the royal james. in 1720 they took a prize, the elizabeth and katherine, off the coast of west africa. fitting her out for a pirate, they named her the flying king, and sample was put in command. in company with captain low, he sailed to brazil and did much mischief amongst the portuguese shipping. in november of the same year the two pirate ships were attacked by a very powerful man-of-war. lane got away, but sample was compelled to run his ship ashore on the coast. of his crew of seventy men, twelve were killed and the rest taken prisoners, of whom the portuguese hanged thirty-eight. of these, thirty-two were english, three dutch, two french, and one portuguese.
an elizabethan mariner who was taken prisoner by the moors. he wrote a narrative of his life as a slave on a barbary pirate galley.
"i and sixe more of my fellowes," he wrote, "together with four-score italians and spaniards, were sent foorth in a galeot to take a greekish carmosell, which came into africa to steale negroes. we were chained three and three to an oare, and we rowed naked above the girdle, and the boteswaine of the galley walked abaft the masts, and his mate afore the maste ... and when their develish choller rose, they would strike the christians for no cause. and they allowed us but halfe a pound of bread a man in a day without any other kind of sustenance, water excepted.... we were then so cruelly manackled in such sort, that we could not put our hands the length of one foote asunder the one from the other, and every night they searched our chains three times, to see if they were fast riveted."
sawkins, captain richard. buccaneer.
the buccaneers, ever since they defeated the spanish fleet, had blockaded the harbour, and a correspondence took place between the governor of panama and sawkins, the former wishing to know what the pirates had come there for. to this message sawkins sent back answer "that we came to assist the king of darien, who was the true lord of panama and all the country thereabouts. and that since we were come so far, there was no reason but that we should have some satisfaction. so that if he pleased to send us five hundred pieces of eight for each man, and one thousand for each commander, and not any farther to annoy the indians, but suffer them to use their own power and liberty, as became the true and natural lords of the country, that then we would desist from all further hostilities, and go away peaceably; otherwise that we should stay there, and get what we could, causing to them what damage was possible."
this message was just bluff on sawkins's part, but having heard that the bishop of santa martha was in the city, sawkins sent him two loaves of sugar as a present, and reminded the prelate that he had been his prisoner five years before, when sawkins took that town. further messengers returned from panama next day, bringing a gold ring for sawkins from the well-disposed bishop, and a message from the governor, in which he inquired "from whom we had our commission and to whom he ought to complain for the damage we had already done them?" to this sawkins sent back answer "that as yet all his company were not come together; but that when they were come up we would come and visit him at panama, and bring our commissions on the muzzles of our guns, at which time he should read them as plain as the flame of gunpowder could make them."
after lying off panama for some while without meeting with any plunder, and their victuals running short, the crews began to grumble, and persuaded sawkins to sail south along the coast. this he did, and, arriving off the town of puebla nueva on may 22nd, 1679, sawkins landed a party of sixty men and led them against the town. but the spaniards had been warned in time, and had built up three strong breastworks.
sawkins, who never knew what fear meant, stormed the town at the head of his men, but was killed by a musket-ball.
basil ringrose, the buccaneer who wrote the narrative of this voyage, describes sawkins as being "a man who was as valiant and courageous as any man could be, and the best beloved of all our company"; and on another occasion he speaks of him as "a man whom nothing on earth could terrifie."
a pirate of new providence island in the bahamas. in this pirate republic this old man lived in the best hut, and was playfully known as "governor sawney."
de sayas, francisco.
a spanish pirate hanged at kingston, jamaica, in 1823.
distinguished as being the first pirate to carry on the trade on land as well as at sea. before this time pirates were never known to be anything but harmless drunkards when on shore, whatever they might be on board their ships. scot changed all this when he sacked and pillaged the city of campeachy. so successful was he that his example was quickly followed by mansfield, john davis, and other pirates.
born at bristol.
one of captain roberts's crew. tried for piracy in april, 1722, at cape coast castle, west africa, after the great defeat of the pirates by h.m.s. swallow. on this occasion no less than 267 pirates were accounted for. the finding of the honourable the president and judges of the court of admiralty for trying of pirates was as follows:
the rest were accounted for as follows:
a number of the prisoners signed a "humble petition" begging that, as they, being "unhappily and unwisely drawn into that wretched and detestable crime of piracy," they might be permitted to serve in the royal african company in the country for seven years, in remission of their crimes. this clemency was granted to twenty of the prisoners, of which scot was one.
a very impressive indenture was drawn up, according to which the prisoners were to become the slaves of the company for seven years, and this was signed by the prisoners and by the president.
one of major stede bonnet's crew in the royal james. tried for piracy in 1718 at charleston, south carolina, and hanged at white point on november 8th.
one of captain john quelch's crew. tried for piracy at the star tavern in hanover street, boston, in 1704, and hanged on charles river, boston side, on june 30th. a report of the trial and execution of these pirates, describing scudamore's conduct on the gallows, says: "he appeared very penitent since his condemnation, was very diligent to improve his time going to, and at the place of execution."
belonging to bristol.
surgeon in the mercy galley, and taken by captain roberts in 1721. it was a rule on all pirate vessels for the surgeon to be excused from signing the ship's articles. when the next prize was taken, if she carried a surgeon, he was taken in place of their present one, if the latter wished to leave. but when scudamore came on board the royal fortune he insisted on signing the pirate articles and boasted that he was the first surgeon that had ever done so, and he hoped, he said, to prove as great a rogue as any of them.
when the african company's guinea ship, the king solomon, was taken, scudamore came aboard and helped himself to their surgeon's instruments and medicines. he also took a fancy for a backgammon board, but only kept it after a violent quarrel with another pirate. it came out at his trial that on a voyage from the island of st. thomas, in a prize, the fortune, in which was a cargo of slaves, scudamore had tried to bring about a mutiny of the blacks to kill the prize crew which was on board, and he was detected in the night going about amongst the negroes, talking to them in the angolan language. he said that he knew enough about navigation to sail the ship himself, and he was heard to say that "this were better than to be taken to cape corso to be hanged and sun dried."
the same witness told how he had approached the prisoner when he was trying to persuade a wounded pirate, one james harris, to join him in his scheme, but fearing to be overheard, scudamore turned the conversation to horse-racing.
scudamore was condemned to death, but allowed three days' grace before being hanged, which he spent in incessant prayers and reading of the scriptures. on the gallows he sang, solo, the thirty-first psalm. died at the age of 35.
searles, captain robert.
in 1664 he brought in two spanish prizes to port royal, but as orders had only lately come from england to the governor to do all in his power to promote friendly relations with the spanish islands, these prizes were returned to their owners. to prevent searle's doing such things again, he was deprived of his ship's rudder and sails. in 1666, searle, in company with a captain stedman and a party of only eighty men, took the island of tobago, near trinidad, from the dutch, destroying everything they could not carry away.
selkirk, alexander. the original robinson crusoe.
born in 1676 at largo in fifeshire, he was the seventh son of john selcraig, a shoemaker. in 1695 he was cited to appear before the session for "indecent conduct in church," but ran away to sea. in 1701 he was back again in largo, and was rebuked in the face of the congregation for quarrelling with his brothers. a year later selkirk sailed to england, and in 1703 joined dampier's expedition to the south seas. appointed sailing-master to the cinque ports, commanded by captain stradling.
in september, 1704, he arrived at the uninhabited island of juan fernandez, in the south pacific. selkirk, having quarrelled with the captain, insisted on being landed on the island with all his belongings. he lived alone here for nearly four years, building himself two cabins, hunting the goats which abounded, and taming young goats and cats to be his companions.
on the night of january 31st, 1709, seeing two ships, selkirk lit a fire, and a boat was sent ashore. these ships were the duke and duchess of bristol, under the command of captain woodes rogers, while his old friend dampier was acting as pilot. selkirk was at once appointed sailing-master of the duchess, and eventually arrived back in the thames on october 14th, 1711, with booty worth £800, having been away from england for eight years. while in england he met steele, who described selkirk as a "man of good sense, with strong but cheerful expression." whether selkirk ever met defoe is uncertain, though the character of robinson crusoe was certainly founded on his adventures in juan fernandez. in 1712 he returned to largo, living the life of a recluse, and we must be forgiven for suspecting that he rather acted up to the part, since it is recorded that he made a cave in his father's garden in which to meditate. this life of meditation in an artificial cave was soon rudely interrupted by the appearance of a certain miss sophia bonce, with whom selkirk fell violently in love, and they eloped together to bristol, which must have proved indeed a sad scandal to the elders and other godly citizens of largo. beyond the fact that he was charged at bristol with assaulting one richard nettle, a shipwright, we hear no more of selkirk until his first will was drawn up in 1717, in which he leaves his fortune and house to "my loving friend sophia bonce, of the pall mall, london, spinster." shortly after this, alexander basely deserted his loving friend and married a widow, one mrs. francis candis, at oarston in devon.
in 1720 he was appointed mate to h.m.s. weymouth, on board of which he died a year later at the age of 45.
selkirk is immortalized in literature, not only by defoe, but by cowper in his "lines on solitude," beginning: "i am monarch of all i survey."
of bath town in north carolina.
one of major stede bonnet's crew. tried for piracy at charleston in 1718 and found "not guilty."
one of captain heidon's crew of the pirate ship john of sandwich, which was wrecked on the coast of alderney. shaster was arrested and hanged at st. martin's point, guernsey, in 1564.
one of captain lowther's crew. hanged at st. kitts on march 11th, 1722.
shergall, henry, or sherral. buccaneer.
a seaman with captain bartholomew sharp in his south sea voyage. one october day he fell into the sea while going into the spritsail-top and was drowned. "this incident several of our company interpreted as a bad omen, which proved not so, through the providence of the almighty."
shirley, sir anthony.
in january, 1597, headed an expedition to the island of jamaica. he met with little opposition from the spaniards, and seized and plundered st. jago de la vega.
this south sea pirate cruised in company with culliford and nathaniel north in the red sea, preying principally on moorish ships, and also sailed about the indian ocean as far as the malacca islands. he accepted the royal pardon to pirates, which was brought out to madagascar by commodore littleton, and apparently gave up his wicked ways thereafter.
hanged at rhode island in july, 1723, at the age of 40.
one of captain pound's crew. found guilty of piracy, but pardoned.
simms, henry, alias "gentleman harry." pickpocket, highwayman, pirate, and old etonian.
born in 1716 at st. martin's-in-the-fields. sent while quite young to school at eton, where he "shewed an early inclination to vice," and at the age of 14 was taken from school and apprenticed to a breeches-maker. no old etonian, either then or now, would stand that kind of treatment, so simms ran away, becoming a pickpocket and later a highwayman. after numerous adventures and escapes from prison, he was pressed on board h.m.s. rye, but he deserted his ship at leith. after an "affair" at croydon, simms was transplanted with other convicts to maryland, in the italian merchant. on the voyage he attempted, but without success, to raise a mutiny. on his arrival in america he was sold to the master of the two sisters, which was taken a few days out from maryland by a bayonne pirate. carried to spain, simms got to oporto, and there was pressed on board h.m.s. king fisher. eventually he reached bristol, where he bought, with his share of booty, a horse and two pistols, with which to go on the highway.
hanged on june 17th, 1747, for stealing an old silver watch and 5s. from mr. francis sleep at dunstable.
commanded a pirate ship, in which he sailed in company with captain spriggs. being chased by h.m.s. diamond off the coast of cuba, skipton ran his sloop on to the florida reef. escaping with his crew to an island, they were attacked by the indians, and many of them were captured and eaten. the survivors, embarking in a canoe, were caught by the man-of-war and taken prisoner.
skyrm, captain james. welsh pirate.
hanged at the advanced age--for a pirate--of 44.
commanded the ranger, one of captain roberts's ships that cruised in 1721 and 1722 off the west coast of africa. in the fight with the king's ship that took him he was very active with a drawn sword in his hand, with which he beat any of his crew who were at all backward. one of his legs was shot away in this action, but he refused to leave the deck and go below as long as the action lasted. he was condemned to death and hanged in chains.
smith, george. welsh pirate.
one of captain roberts's pirates. hanged at the age of 25.
one of the mutinous crew of the antonio. hanged at boston in 1672.
smith, john williams.
of charleston, carolina.
hanged in 1718 for piracy, at charleston.
smith, major samuel. buccaneer.
at one time a buccaneer with the famous mansfield.
in 1641 he was sent, by the governor of jamaica, with a party to reinforce the troops which under mansfield had recaptured the new providence island from the spanish. in 1660 he was taken prisoner by the spanish and carried to panama and there kept in chains in a dungeon for seventeen months.
de soto, bernado.
one of the crew of the schooner panda that took and plundered the salem brig mexican. the crew of the panda were captured by an english man-of-war and taken to boston. de soto was condemned to death, but eventually fully pardoned owing to his heroic conduct in rescuing the crew of an american vessel some time previously.
de soto, captain benito.
a most notorious pirate in and about 1830.
in 1827 he shipped at buenos ayres as mate in a slaver, named the defenser de pedro, and plotted to seize the ship off the african coast. the pirates took the cargo of slaves to the west indies, where they sold them. de soto plundered many vessels in the caribbean sea, then sailed to the south atlantic, naming his ship the black joke. the fear of the black joke became so great amongst the east indiamen homeward bound that they used to make up convoys at st. helena before heading north.
in 1832 de soto attacked the morning star, an east indiaman, and took her, when he plundered the ship and murdered the captain. after taking several more ships, de soto lost his own on the rocky coast of spain, near cadiz. his crew, although pretending to be honest shipwrecked sailors, were arrested, but de soto managed to escape to gibraltar. here he was recognized by a soldier who had seen de soto when he took the morning star, in which he had been a passenger. the pirate was arrested, and tried before sir george don, the governor of gibraltar, and sentenced to death. he was sent to cadiz to be hanged with the rest of his crew. the gallows was erected at the water's edge, and de soto, with his coffin, was conveyed there in a cart. he died bravely, arranging the noose around his own neck, stepping up into his coffin to do so; then, crying out, "adios todos," he threw himself off the cart.
this man must not be confused with one bernado de soto, who was tried for piracy at boston in 1834.
of the city of westminster.
hanged, at the age of 28, at newport, rhode island, in 1723.
a newfoundland fisherman.
in august, 1723, with john phillips and three others, ran away with a vessel to go "on the account." sparks was appointed gunner.
a member of captain avery's crew, and described by one of his shipmates as being "a true cock of the game." a thief, he robbed his fellow-shipmates, and from one, philip middleton, he stole 270 pieces of gold.
hanged at execution dock in 1696.
was one of dampier's party which in 1681 crossed the isthmus of darien, when he was left behind in the jungle with wafer. spratlin was lost when the little party attempted to ford the swollen chagres river. he afterwards rejoined wafer.
spriggs, captain francis farrington.
an uninteresting and bloody pirate without one single redeeming character.
he learnt his art with the pirate captain lowther, afterwards serving as quartermaster with captain low and taking an active part in all the barbarities committed by the latter.
about 1720 low took a prize, a man-of-war called the squirrel. this he handed over to some of the crew, who elected spriggs their captain. the ship they renamed the delight, and in the night altered their course and left low. they made a flag, bearing upon it a white skeleton, holding in one hand a dart striking a bleeding heart, and in the other an hourglass. sailing to the west indies, spriggs took several prizes, treating the crews with abominable cruelty. on one occasion the pirates chased what they believed to be a spanish ship, and after a long while they came alongside and fired a broadside into her. the ship immediately surrendered, and turned out to be a vessel the pirate had plundered only a few days previously. this infuriated spriggs and his crew, who showed their disappointment by half murdering the captain. after a narrow escape from being captured by a french man-of-war near the island of st. kitts, spriggs sailed north to the summer isles, or bermudas. taking a ship coming from rhode island, they found her cargo to consist of horses. several of the pirates mounted these and galloped up and down the deck until they were thrown. while plundering several small vessels of their cargo of logwood in the bay of honduras, spriggs was surprised and attacked by an english man-of-war, and the pirates only escaped by using their sweeps. spriggs now went for a cruise off the coast of south carolina, returning again to honduras. this was a rash proceeding on spriggs's part, for as he was sailing off the west end of cuba he again met the man-of-war which had so nearly caught him before in the bay. spriggs clapped on all sail, but ran his ship on rattan island, where she was burnt by the spence, while captain spriggs and his crew escaped to the woods.
he fought gallantly with sawkins and ringrose in the battle of perico off panama on st. george's day in 1680. he gave his name to springer's cay, one of the samballoes islands. this was the rendezvous chosen by the pirates, where dampier and his party found the french pirate ship that rescued them after their famous trudge across the isthmus of darien.
stanley, captain. buccaneer.
with a few other buccaneers in their stronghold at new providence island in 1660, withstood an attack by a spanish fleet for five days. the three english captains, stanley, sir thomas whetstone, and major smith, were carried to panama and there cast into a dungeon and bound in irons for seventeen months.
stedman, captain. buccaneer.
in 1666, with captain searle and a party of only eighty men, he took and plundered the dutch island of tobago. later on, after the outbreak of war with france, he was captured by a french frigate off the island of guadeloupe. stedman had a small vessel and a crew of only 100 men, and found himself becalmed and unable to escape, so he boldly boarded the frenchman and fought for two hours, being finally overcome.
died on january 14th, 1682, on board of captain sharp's ship a few days before their return to the barbadoes from the south seas. his death was supposed to have been caused by indulging too freely in mancanilla while ashore at golfo dulce. "next morning we threw overboard our dead man and gave him two french vollies and one english one."
sailed as an honest seaman in the onslow (captain gee) from sestos. taken in may, 1721, by the pirate captain roberts, he willingly joined the pirates. when roberts was killed on board the royal fortune, stephenson burst into tears, and declared that he wished the next shot might kill him. hanged in 1722.
hanged in virginia in 1718 with the rest of captain teach's crew.
one of william coward's crew which stole the ketch elinor in boston harbour. condemned to be hanged on january 27th, 1690, but afterwards reprieved.
st. quintin, richard.
a native of yorkshire.
o'sullivan, lord. receiver of pirate plunder.
the sulivan bere, of berehaven in ireland.
a notorious friend of the english pirates, he bought their spoils, which he stored in his castle. he helped to fit out pirate captains for their cruises, and protected them when queen elizabeth sent ships to try and arrest them.
born at berwick in 1699.
gunner in roberts's ship the royal fortune. at his trial he was proved to have been particularly active in helping to take a dutch merchantman, the gertruycht. hanged in chains at cape coast castle in april, 1722, at the age of 23.
commanded the nicholas, and met dampier when in the batchelor's delight at the island of juan fernandez in 1684. the two captains cruised together off the west coast of south america, the nicholas leaving dampier, who returned to england by way of the east indies.
swan, captain. buccaneer.
of the cygnet. left england as an honest trader. rounded the horn and sailed up to the bay of nicoya, there taking on a crew of buccaneers who had crossed the isthmus of darien on foot. dampier was appointed pilot or quartermaster to the cygnet, a post analogous to that of a navigating officer on a modern man-of-war, while ringrose was appointed supercargo. swan had an adventurous and chequered voyage, sometimes meeting with successes, but often with reverses. eventually he sailed to the philippine islands, where the crew mutinied and left swan and thirty-six of the crew behind. after various adventures the cygnet, by now in a very crazy state, just managed to reach madagascar, where she sank at her anchorage.
of boston in new england.
tried for piracy at rhode island in 1723, but found to be "not guilty."
born at north berwick.
one of roberts's crew. tried and hanged at cape coast castle in 1722. on the day of execution sympson was among the first six prisoners to be brought up from the ship's hold to have their fetters knocked off and to be fitted with halters, and it was observed that none of the culprits appeared in the least dejected, except sympson, who "spoke a little faint, but this was rather imputed to a flux that had seized him two or three days before, than fear." there being no clergyman in the colony, a kindly surgeon tried to take on the duties of the ordinary, but with ill-success, the hardened ruffians being quite unmoved by his attempts at exhortation. in fact, the spectators were considerably shocked, as indeed they well might be, by sympson, suddenly recognizing among the crowd a woman whom he knew, calling out "he had lain with that b----h three times, and now she was come to see him hanged."
sympson died at the age of 36, which was considerably above the average age to which a pirate might expect to live.
this formidable south sea pirate must indeed have looked, as well as acted, the part, since his appearance is described by captain johnson as follows: "a fellow with a terrible pair of whiskers, and a wooden leg, being stuck round with pistols, like the man in the almanack with darts."
this man taylor it was who stirred up the crew of the victory to turn out and maroon captain england, and elect himself in his place. he was a villain of the deepest dye, and burnt ships and houses and tortured his prisoners.
the pirates sailed down the west coast of india from goa to cochin, and returned to mauritius. thence sailing to the island of mascarine they found a big portuguese ship, which they took. in her they discovered the conde de eviceira, viceroy of goa, and, even better, four million dollars worth of diamonds.
taylor, now sailing in the cassandra, heard that there were four men-of-war on his tracks, so he sailed to delagoa bay and spent the winter of the year 1722 there. it was now decided that as they had a huge amount of plunder they had better give up piracy, so they sailed away to the west indies and surrendered themselves to the governor of porto bello. the crew broke up and each man, with a bag of diamonds, went whither he would; but captain taylor joined the spanish service, and was put in command of a man-of-war, which was sent to attack the english logwood cutters in the bay of honduras.
one of captain phillips's crew. wounded in the leg while attempting to desert. there being no surgeon on board, a consultation was held over the patient by the whole crew, and these learned men were unanimous in agreeing that the leg should be amputated. some dispute then arose as to who should act the part of surgeon, and at length the carpenter was chosen as the most proper person. "upon which he fetch'd up the biggest saw, and taking the limb under his arm, fell to work, and separated it from the body of the patient in as little time as he could have cut a deal board in two." this surgeon-carpenter evidently appreciated the importance of aseptics, for, "after that he had heated his ax red hot in the fire, cauteriz'd the wound but not with so much art as he perform'd the other part for he so burnt the flesh distant from the place of amputation that it had like to have mortify'd." taylor was tried and condemned to death at boston on may 12th, 1714, but for some reason not explained was reprieved.
teach, captain edward, or thatch, or thach, alias drummond, alias blackbeard. arch-pirate.
a bristol man who settled in jamaica, sailing in privateers, but not in the capacity of an officer.
the next ship he met with was the sloop of that amateur pirate and landsman, major stede bonnet. teach and bonnet became friends and sailed together for a few days, when teach, finding that bonnet was quite ignorant of maritime matters, ordered the major, in the most high-handed way, to come aboard his ship, while he put another officer in command of bonnet's vessel. teach now took ship after ship, one of which, with the curious name of the protestant cæsar, the pirates burnt out of spite, not because of her name, but because she belonged to boston, where there had lately been a hanging of pirates.
blackbeard now sailed north along the american coast, arriving off charleston, south carolina. here he lay off the bar for several days, seizing every vessel that attempted to enter or leave the port, "striking great terror to the whole province of carolina," the more so since the colony was scarcely recovered from a recent visit by another pirate, vane.
being in want of medicines, teach sent his lieutenant, richards, on shore with a letter to the governor demanding that he should instantly send off a medicine chest, or else teach would murder all his prisoners, and threatening to send their heads to government house; many of these prisoners being the chief persons of the colony.
teach, who was unprincipled, even for a pirate, now commanded three vessels, and he wanted to get rid of his crews and keep all the booty for himself and a few chosen friends. to do this, he contrived to wreck his own vessel and one of his sloops. then with his friends and all the booty he sailed off, leaving the rest marooned on a small sandy island. teach next sailed to north carolina, and with the greatest coolness surrendered with twenty of his men to the governor, charles eden, and received the royal pardon. the ex-pirate spent the next few weeks in cultivating an intimate friendship with the governor, who, no doubt, shared teach's booty with him.
a romantic episode took place at this time at bath town. the pirate fell in love, not by any means for the first time, with a young lady of 16 years of age. to show his delight at this charming union, the governor himself married the happy pair, this being the captain's fourteenth wife; though certain bath town gossips were heard to say that there were no fewer than twelve mrs. teach still alive at different ports up and down the west india islands.
in june, 1718, the bridegroom felt that the call of duty must be obeyed, so kissing good-bye to the new mrs. teach, he sailed away to the bermudas, meeting on his way half a dozen ships, which he plundered, and then hurried back to share the spoils with the governor of north carolina and his secretary, mr. knight.
for several months, blackbeard remained in the river, exacting a toll from all the shipping, often going ashore to make merry at the expense of the planters. at length, things became so unbearable that the citizens and planters sent a request to the governor of the neighbouring colony of virginia for help to rid them of the presence of teach. the governor, spotswood, an energetic man, at once made plans for taking the pirate, and commissioned a gallant young naval officer, lieutenant robert maynard, of h.m.s. pearl, to go in a sloop, the ranger, in search of him. on november 17, 1718, the lieutenant sailed for kicquetan in the james river, and on the 21st arrived at the mouth of okerecock inlet, where he discovered the pirate he was in search of. blackbeard would have been caught unprepared had not his friend, mr. secretary knight, hearing what was on foot, sent a letter warning him to be on his guard, and also any of teach's crew whom he could find in the taverns of bath town. maynard lost no time in attacking the pirate's ship, which had run aground. the fight was furious, teach boarding the sloop and a terrific hand-to-hand struggle taking place, the lieutenant and teach fighting with swords and pistols. teach was wounded in twenty-five places before he fell dead, while the lieutenant escaped with nothing worse than a cut over the fingers.
maynard now returned in triumph in his sloop to bath town, with the head of blackbeard hung up to the bolt-spit end, and received a tremendous ovation from the inhabitants.
during his meteoric career as a pirate, the name of blackbeard was one that created terror up and down the coast of america from newfoundland to trinidad. this was not only due to the number of ships teach took, but in no small measure to his alarming appearance. teach was a tall, powerful man, with a fierce expression, which was increased by a long, black beard which grew from below his eyes and hung down to a great length. this he plaited into many tails, each one tied with a coloured ribbon and turned back over his ears. when going into action, teach wore a sling on his shoulders with three pairs of pistols, and struck lighted matches under the brim of his hat. these so added to his fearful appearance as to strike terror into all beholders. teach had a peculiar sense of humour, and one that could at times cause much uneasiness amongst his friends. thus we are told that one day on the deck of his ship, being at the time a little flushed with wine, blackbeard addressed his crew, saying: "come let us make a hell of our own, and try how long we can bear it," whereupon teach, with several others, descended to the hold, shut themselves in, and then set fire to several pots of brimstone. for a while they stood it, choking and gasping, but at length had to escape to save themselves from being asphyxiated, but the last to give up was the captain, who was wont to boast afterwards that he had outlasted all the rest.
then there was that little affair in the cabin, when teach blew out the candle and in the dark fired his pistols under the table, severely wounding one of his guests in the knee, for no other reason, as he explained to them afterwards, than "if he did not shoot one or two of them now and then they'd forget who he was."
teach kept a log or journal, which unfortunately is lost, but the entries for two days have been preserved, and are worth giving, and seem to smack of robert louis stevenson in "treasure island." the entries, written in teach's handwriting, run as follows:
"1718. rum all out--our company somewhat sober--a damn'd confusion amongst us!--rogues a plotting--great talk of separation--so i look'd sharp for a prize.
"1718. took one, with a great deal of liquor on board, so kept the company hot, damned hot, then all things went well again."
a scotch pirate, one of captain gow's crew. on may 26th, 1725, the crew were tried in london and found guilty and sentenced to death, except teague and two others who were acquitted.
one of captain john quelch's crew of the ship charles. tried for piracy at boston in 1704, but, being discovered to be not yet 14 years of age and only a servant on board the pirate ship, was acquitted.
tew, captain thomas, or too.
a famous pirate, whose headquarters were at madagascar. he was mentioned by name in king william iii.'s royal warrant to captain kidd to go hunting for pirates, as a specially "wicked and ill-disposed person."
he sailed with captain dew from the barbadoes with a commission from the governor to join with the royal african company in an attack on the french factory at goori, at gambia. instead of going to west africa, tew and his crew turned pirates, and sailed to the red sea. here he met with a great indian ship, which he had the hardiness to attack, and soon took her, and each of his men received as his share £3,000, and with this booty they sailed to madagascar. he was already held in high esteem by the pirates who resided in that favourite stronghold. at one time he joined misson, the originator of "piracy-without-tears" at his garden city of libertatia. a quarrel arose between misson's french followers and tew's english pirates. a duel was arranged between the two leaders, but by the tact of another pirate--an unfrocked italian priest--all was settled amicably, tew being appointed admiral and the diplomatic ex-priest suitably chosen as secretary of state to the little republic. such a reputation for kindness had tew that ships seldom resisted him, but on knowing who their assailant was they gave themselves up freely. some of tew's men started a daughter colony on their own account, and the admiral sailed after them to try and persuade them to return to the fold at libertatia. the men refused, and while tew was arguing and trying to persuade them to change their minds, his ship was lost in a sudden storm. tew was soon rescued by the ship bijoux with misson on board, who, with a few men, had escaped being massacred by the natives. misson, giving tew an equal share of his gold and diamonds, sailed away, while tew managed to return to rhode island in new england, where he settled down for a while. to show the honesty of this man, being now affluent, he kept a promise to the friends in bermuda who originally set him up with a ship, by sending them fourteen times the original cost of the sloop as their just share of the profits.
at last, tew found the call of the sea and the lure of the "grand account" too great to resist, and he consented to take command of a pirate ship which was to go on a cruise in the red sea. arrived there, tew attacked a big ship belonging to the great mogul, and during the battle was mortally wounded.
his historian tells us "a shot carried away the rim of tew's belly, who held his bowels with his hands for some space. when he dropped, it struck such terror to his men that they suffered themselves to be taken without further resistance." thus fell fighting a fine sailor, a brave man, and a successful pirate, and one who cheated the gallows awaiting him at execution dock.
thomas, captain, alias stede bonnet.
this welsh pirate was one of major stede bonnet's crew of the royal james. hanged at charleston, south carolina, in 1718.
tried for piracy at boston in 1704.
thurston, captain. buccaneer.
of tortuga island.
refused to accept the royal offer of pardon of 1670, when all commissions to privateer on the spanish were revoked. thurston, with a mulatto, diego, using obsolete commissions issued by the late governor of jamaica, modyford, continued to prey upon spanish shipping, carrying their prizes to tortuga.
thwaites, captain joseph.
coxswain to captain hood, he was promoted in 1763 to be a midshipman in h.m.s. zealous, cruising in the mediterranean. putting into algiers, thwaites was sent ashore by the captain to buy some sheep, but did not return to the boat and, it being supposed he had been assassinated, the ship sailed without him. the fact was that young thwaites, who spoke turkish and greek, had accepted an invitation to enter the ottoman service. embracing the mohammedan religion, thwaites was put in command of a forty-four gun frigate.
his first engagement was with the flagship of the tunisian admiral, which he took and carried to algiers. he soon brought in another prize, and so pleased the dey that he presented him with a scimitar, the hilt of which was set with diamonds.
thwaites, having soiled his hands with blood, now became the pirate indeed, taking vessels of any nation, and drowning all his prisoners by tying a double-headed shot round their necks and throwing them overboard.
he stopped at no atrocity--even children were killed, and one prisoner, an english lieutenant and an old shipmate of his, called roberts, he murdered without a second thought. when thwaites happened to be near gibraltar, he would go ashore and through his agents, messrs. ross and co., transmit large sums of money to his wife and children in england. but thwaites had another home at algiers fitted with every luxury, including three armenian girls.
for several years this successful pirate plundered ships of all nations until such pressure was brought to bear on the dey of algiers that thwaites thought it best to collect what valuables he could carry away and disappear.
landing at gibraltar in 1796, dressed in european clothes, he procured a passage to new york in an american frigate, the constitution. arriving in the united states, he purchased an estate not far from new york and built himself a handsome mansion, but a year later retribution came from an unlooked-for quarter, for he was bitten by a rattlesnake and died in the most horrible agonies both of mind and body.
hanged at the age of 23 at rhode island in 1723. one of charles harris's crew.
he shipped on board the sloop buck at providence in 1718, in company with anstis and other famous pirates. was killed at the taking of a rich portuguese ship off the coast of brazil.
townley, captain. buccaneer.
a buccaneer who in the year 1684 was one of the mixed english and french fleet blockading panama. on this occasion, he commanded a ship with a crew of 180 men. by the next year the quarrels between the english had reached such a pitch that townley and swan left davis and sailed in search of their french friends. in may, 1685, townley was amongst the company that took and sacked guayaquil. in january, 1686, townley rescued the french pirate grogniet and some 350 frenchmen who, when attacking the town of quibo, were surprised by a spanish squadron, which burnt their vessels while the crews were on shore. townley then sailed north with his french comrades and sacked granada.
his next adventure was to take the town of lavelia, near to panama, where he found a rich cargo which the viceroy had placed on shore because he was afraid to send it to sea when so many pirates were about.
in august of the same year, townley's ship was attacked by three spanish men-of-war. a furious fight took place, which ended by two of the spanish ships being captured and the third burnt. in this action the gallant townley was gravely wounded, and died shortly afterwards.
tristrian, captain. french buccaneer.
in the year 1681 dampier, with other malcontents, broke away from captain sharp and marched on foot across the isthmus of darien. after undergoing terrible hardships for twenty-two days, the party arrived on the atlantic seaboard, to find captain tristrian with his ship lying in la sounds cay.
the buccaneers bought red, blue, and green beads, and knives, scissors, and looking-glasses from the french pirates to give to their faithful indian guides as parting gifts.
a carolina pirate, accused and acquitted on a charge of having captured a sloop belonging to samuel salters, of bermuda, in 1699.
of the island of jamaica.
one of major stede bonnet's crew. tried, condemned, and hanged at charleston, south carolina, on november 8th, 1718. the prisoners were not defended by counsel, because the members of the south carolina bar still deemed it "a base and vile thing to plead for money or reward." we understand that the barristers of south carolina have since persuaded themselves to overcome this prejudice. the result was that, with the famous judge trott, a veritable terror to pirates, being president of the court of vice-admiralty, the prisoners had short and ready justice, and all but four of the thirty-five pirates tried were found guilty.
sailed with captain porter in the west indies. captain johnson gives an account of the meeting between these two pirate novices and the great captain roberts at hispaniola.
turnley, captain richard.
a new providence pirate who received the general pardon from captain woodes rogers in 1718. when, a little later, the scandal of captain rackam's infatuation for anne bonny was causing such gossip among the two thousand ex-pirates who formed the population of the settlement, it was turnley who brought news of the affair to the notice of the governor. in revenge for this action, rackam and his lady, one day hearing that turnley had sailed to a neighbouring island to catch turtles, followed him. it happened that turnley was on shore hunting wild pigs and so escaped, but rackam sank his sloop and took his crew away with him as prisoners.
tyle, captain ort van.
a dutchman from new york.
a successful pirate in the days of the madagascan sea-rovers. for some time he sailed in company with captain james, taking several prizes in the indian ocean.
van tyle had a plantation at madagascar and used to put his prisoners to work there as slaves, one in particular being the notorious welsh pirate, david williams, who toiled with van tyles's other slaves for six months before making his escape to a friendly tribe in the neighbourhood.
upton, boatswain john.
born in 1679 of honest parents at deptford.
apprenticed to a waterman, he afterwards went to sea, serving on different men-of-war as a petty officer. until july, 1723, when 40 years of age, upton lived a perfectly honest life, but his wife dying, upton found she had contracted various debts and that he was in danger of being arrested by the creditors. leaving his four orphans, upton hurried to poole in dorsetshire, and was taken on as boatswain in the john and elizabeth (captain hooper), bound for bonavista in newfoundland. he seems to have continued to sail as an honest seaman until november 14th, 1725, when serving as boatswain in the perry galley, on a voyage between barbadoes and bristol, the vessel was taken by a pirate, cooper, in the night rambler. at his subsequent trial witnesses declared that upton willingly joined the pirates, signed their articles, and was afterwards one of their most active and cruel men.
upton kept a journal, which was his only witness for his defence, in which he described how he was forced to sign the pirates' articles under threats of instant death. if his journal is to be believed, upton escaped from the pirates at the first opportunity, landing on the mosquito coast. after being arrested by the spaniards as a spy, he was sent from one prison to another in central america, at last being put on board a galleon at porto bello, to be sent to spain. escaping, he got aboard a new york sloop and arrived at jamaica in december, 1726. while at port royal he was pressed on board h.m.s. nottingham, serving in her for more than two years as quartermaster, until one day he was accused of having been a pirate. under this charge he was brought a prisoner to england in 1729, tried in london, and hanged, protesting his innocence to the last.
uruj. see barbarossa.
commanded in 1831 a small gaff-topsail schooner, the general morazan, armed with a brass eight-pounder and carrying a mixed crew of forty-four men, french, italian, english, and creoles of st. domingo.
vanclein, captain moses. dutch filibuster.
was serving with l'ollonais's fleet off the coast of yucatan when a mutiny broke out, of which vanclein was the ringleader. he persuaded the malcontents to sail with him along the coast till they came to costa rica. there they landed and marched to the town of veraguas, which they seized and pillaged. the pirates got little booty, only eight pounds of gold, it proving to be a poor place.
vane, captain charles.
famous for his piratical activities off the coast of north america, specially the carolinas.
in 1718, when woodes rogers was sent by the english government to break up the pirate stronghold in the bahama islands, all the pirates at new providence island surrendered to rogers and received the king's pardon except vane, who, after setting fire to a prize he had, slipped out of the bay as rogers with his two men-of-war entered. vane sailed to the coast of carolina, as did other west indian pirates who found their old haunts too warm for them.
vane is first heard of as being actively engaged in stealing from the spaniards the silver which they were salving from a wrecked galleon in the gulf of florida. tiring of this, vane stole a vessel and ranged up and down the coast from florida to new york, taking ship after ship, until at last the governor of south carolina sent out a colonel rhet in an armed sloop to try and take him. on one occasion vane met the famous blackbeard, whom he saluted with his great guns loaded with shot. this compliment of one pirate chief to another was returned in like kind, and then "mutual civilities" followed for several days between the two pirate captains and their crews, these civilities taking the form of a glorious debauch in a quiet creek on the coast.
at last a ship put in for water, commanded by one captain holford, who happened to be an old friend of vane's. vane naturally was pleased at this piece of good fortune, and asked his dear old friend to take him off the island in his ship, to which holford replied: "charles, i shan't trust you aboard my ship, unless i carry you as a prisoner, for i shall have you caballing with my men, knock me on the head, and run away with my ship a-pirating." no promises of good behaviour from vane would prevail on his friend to rescue him; in fact, captain holford's parting remark was that he would be returning in a month, and that if he then found vane still on the island he would carry him to jamaica to be hanged.
the general course of these effusions was towards spontaneous absorption and recovery. coagulation of the blood took place early, the fluid serum separated, and tended to undergo absorption with some rapidity, leaving a small amount of coagulum at the base, which evidenced its presence for many weeks by a persistence of a certain degree of dulness on percussion. early coagulation, i think, accounted for the usual absence of gravitation ecchymosis as a sign.
the course to recovery was sometimes broken by signs of slight pleuritic inflammation, which, as affecting the amount of effusion, will be spoken of under the heading of symptoms. in some cases the amount of blood was so great as to necessitate means being taken for its removal; in these a reaccumulation often took place. occasionally an empyema followed in cases thus treated.
the nature of the blood evacuated on tapping varied much. in very early aspirations unchanged blood was often met with, but clot sometimes made evacuation difficult and necessitated a second puncture. in the tappings done at the end of a week or more a dark porter-like fluid was common, while when suppuration was imminent a brick-red-coloured grumous fluid replaced normal blood. in the cases where early incision was resorted to, blood both fluid and in clots was often mixed with a certain proportion of lymph flakes, perhaps indicating the part taken by inflammatory reaction to the irritation of the clot in producing the rise of temperature.
symptoms of hæmothorax.--in the more severe cases of primary bleeding the symptoms did not, as a rule, reach their full height until the third or fourth day after the injury. the patients then often suffered severely. the pulse and temperature rose, and to general symptoms of loss of blood were added: occasional lividity of countenance; severe dyspnoea, accompanied by inability to lie on the sound side or to assume the supine position; absence of respiratory movement on the injured side; pain, restlessness, cough, and sometimes continuance of hæmoptysis, small clots usually being expectorated.
accompanying these symptoms were the usual physical signs of fluid in the pleura in differing degrees and combination. dulness of varying extent up to complete absence of resonance on one side, often accompanied in the incomplete cases by well-marked skodaic resonance anteriorly. loss of vocal resonance, and fremitus; oegophony, tubular respiration over the root of the lung or at the upper limit of the dulness, and more or less extensive displacement of the heart. obvious increase in girth, fulness of the intercostal spaces, or gravitation ecchymosis was rare. the latter was most common in instances in which multiple fracture of the ribs existed (see fig. 83). i think the rarity of the last sign must have been due to the early coagulation of the blood, and its retention by the pleura, as i saw well-marked gravitation ecchymosis in one or two cases of mediastinal hæmorrhage.
the above complex of symptoms was common to all the cases, but in the slighter ones they gave rise to little trouble, and cleared up with great rapidity.
the most interesting feature was offered by the temperature, as this was very liable to lead one astray. a primary rise always occurred with the collection of blood in the pleura, this reaching its height on the third or fourth day, usually about 102° f. in well-marked cases; it then fell, and in favourable instances remained normal. in a large number of cases, however, where the amount of blood was considerable, this was not the case, the primary fall not reaching the normal, and a second rise occurred which reached the same height as before or higher. the second rise was accompanied by sweating, quickened pulse, and the probability of the development of an empyema had always to be considered. i believe in most cases this secondary rise was an indication of a further increase in the hæmorrhage, for the dulness usually increased in extent, and such rises were often seen when the patient had been moved or taken a journey. again, the temperature often fell to normal after paracentesis and removal of the blood, to rise again with a fresh accumulation, which was not uncommon. i have already mentioned the large proportional incidence of hæmothorax observed in the patients who had to travel down from paardeberg, and i might instance another case related to me by dr. flockemann of the german ambulance, which was very striking. a boer, wounded at colesberg, developed a hæmothorax which quieted down, and he was removed to bloemfontein; on arrival at the latter place the temperature rose, and other signs of fever suggested the development of an empyema; an exploring needle, however, only brought blood to light. after a short stay at bloemfontein the symptoms entirely subsided, and the man was sent to kroonstadt, when an exactly similar attack resulted, again quieting down with rest.
similar recurrent attacks of hæmorrhage and fever occurred, however, in patients confined to their beds without moving after the first journey. some temperature charts, in illustration of this point, are added to the cases quoted later. the explanation of the recurrent hæmorrhages is, i think, to be found in the reduction of the intra-thoracic pressure with coagulation and shrinkage of the clot in the pleura in the patients kept quiet in bed, while in the patients who had to travel it was probably the result of direct mechanical disturbance.
in many of these cases a pleural rub was audible at the upper margin of the dulness with the development of the fresh symptoms. whether this was due to actual pleurisy or to the rubbing of surfaces rough from the breaking down of slight recent adhesions which had formed a barrier to the effusion, i am unable to say, but the signs were fairly constant. in some instances the increase in the amount of fluid was, no doubt, due to pleural effusion resulting from irritation from the presence of blood-clot, or perhaps the shifting of the latter; in these the secondary rise of temperature may well be ascribed to the development of pleurisy.
it is, of course, manifest that the fever might also be ascribed to the infection of the clot or serum from without, and in the first cases i saw i was inclined to take this view, since we had in every case the primary wounds of chest-wall, and possibly of lung, and in some the addition of a puncture by an exploring needle between the first and second rise. after a wider experience, however, i abandoned the infection theory, as it seemed opposed by the very infrequent sequence of suppuration. the effect of simple removal of the blood or serum was also often so striking as to strongly suggest that it alone was responsible for the fever. exactly the same result, moreover, followed evacuation of the interstitial blood effusions already mentioned elsewhere.
the common course of all the cases of hæmothorax was to spontaneous recovery, the rapidity of the subsidence of the signs depending mainly on the quantity of the primary hæmorrhage, and the occurrence of further increases. the blood serum tended to collect at the upper limit of the original blood effusion (as was often proved on tapping), and this was first absorbed; the clot deposited on the pleural surface and at the basal part of the cavity was, however, not absorbed with the same rapidity. in the majority of the patients when they left the hospitals, at the end of six weeks on an average, some dulness and deficiency of vesicular murmur always remained, and the clot and the surrounding surface, irritated by its presence, will, no doubt, be responsible for permanent adhesions in many cases. that such adhesions do form in the majority of cases i feel certain, as, although these patients when they left the hospital were to all intents and purposes apparently well, few of them could undertake sustained exertion without getting short of breath, and sometimes suffering from transitory pain, and for this reason it became customary to invalid them home.
in a small proportion of the cases empyema followed; but i never saw this in any case that had neither been tapped nor opened, and i saw only one patient die from a chest wound uncomplicated by other injuries. this case was an interesting one of recurrent hæmorrhage followed by inflammatory troubles:--
empyema.--i may here add the little that i have to say on this subject. during the whole campaign the single case of primary empyema that i saw was the one recorded below, which deserves special mention as illustrating the disadvantage of extracting bullets on the field. under the conditions which necessarily accompanied this operation the ensurance of asepsis was impossible, and the additional wound no doubt proved the source of infection.
on the fifth day pus escaped from the extraction wound, and when the case was examined at the base, the temperature was 101°, the pulse over 100, the respirations 30, and the whole side of the chest was dull, with the exception of a patch of boxy resonance over the apex anteriorly. on the following day the chest was drained, and a considerable amount of pus evacuated, which was mixed with breaking-down blood-clot. a fortnight later a second operation had to be performed to improve the drainage, and the patient made a tedious recovery.
the following case well illustrates the symptoms in a severe case of hæmothorax, and empyema following aspiration:--
there was no great pain at the moment of the injury; the man again got up to the firing line, and later walked two miles to the field hospital without aid. he remained here a week, when he was sent down to the base, and during the first three days' journey in the wagon he began to get worse. on the fourth day cough began to be very troublesome.
when he arrived at the base, fifteen days after the original injury, there was much dyspnoea; the temperature was 102°, and the pulse 110. the left side of the chest was dull throughout; an aspirating needle was introduced, and a pint of very dark liquid blood drawn off. the whole of the blood was not removed on account of the very severe cough and pain which the evacuation occasioned. the man appeared to steadily improve until three weeks later, when the temperature, which throughout had been uneven, became consistently high, and signs of fluid at the base increased. an aspirating needle was introduced, and 16 ounces of pus were drawn off. two days later a piece of rib was resected (mr. pegg) and another pint of pus evacuated. after this, rapid improvement took place, and in ten days the man was able to be up and dressed, although a small amount of discharge still persisted. he eventually made an excellent recovery.
secondary empyemata not uncommonly followed incision of the chest, or excision of a rib for draining a hæmothorax. these operations in the early part of the campaign were more freely undertaken on the supposition that rise of temperature and other symptoms of fever pointed to incipient breaking down of the clot. subsequent experience showed this not to be the case, and early operations for drainage ceased to be undertaken. in these operations a primary difficulty was met with in effectively clearing out the clot, a drain had to be left, and suppuration occurred later in a considerable proportion. the suppurations were most troublesome; local adhesions formed, and the pus collected in small pockets, which were difficult to find and to drain, and even when the collections seemed to have been successfully dealt with at the time, residual abscesses often followed at a very late date. thus, i saw a case with a contracted chest and a fresh abscess the day before i left cape town, in whom i had advised and witnessed an operation for the evacuation of clot in the presence of signs of fever a week after my arrival in the country, nine months previously. i saw another case where general infection followed incision of a hæmothorax, but the patient fortunately recovered.
the question of pleurisy has already been mentioned in connection with hæmothorax; it no doubt accounted for secondary effusion in some cases, and beyond this i have nothing to add to what has been there said.
pneumonia was rare; there were occasionally signs of consolidation, but, i think, quite as often in the opposite lung as in the one injured. i never saw a fatal case, and i am inclined to think that when it occurred it was as often the result of cold and exposure as of the injury to the lung. abscess of the lung i only saw once, and that in a case in which the injury to the chest was complicated by paraplegia from spinal injury and septicæmia, and it was possibly pyæmic.
diagnosis.--no difficulties special to small-calibre wounds were experienced, except such as have been already dealt with. the only class of case which frequently gave rise to difficulty was hæmothorax. here two points especially needed consideration. (1) the source of the hæmorrhage as parietal or visceral. as has been already foreshadowed, this was mainly to be decided by the amount and persistence of the hæmoptysis, but naturally free hæmoptysis did not negative concurrent parietal bleeding. then the actual source of the bleeding other than from the lung had to be considered; in the great majority of cases the intercostal vessels were responsible, and attention to the course of the tracks often allowed this to be definitely decided upon.
prognosis.--the prognosis both as to life and as to subsequent ill-effects was remarkably good; in many cases of uncomplicated injury to the lung the patients rejoined their regiments at the end of a month or six weeks. in the more serious cases complicated by the collection of blood in the pleura, convalescence was more prolonged, and an average time of six to eight weeks often elapsed before the patients could be safely discharged from hospital. in the more serious a certain amount of dulness always persisted at this time over the base of the lung, and the chest was usually somewhat contracted on the injured side, with evidence in the way of decreased vesicular murmur that the lung was still not free from compression. with regard to the persistence of dulness on percussion, it is well to bear in mind that a thin layer of blood apparently produces as serious impairment of resonance as a much larger quantity of serum. the signs appeared to favour the view that the space necessary for the location of the hæmorrhage had been obtained at the expense of the lung rather than by distension of the thoracic parietes, and also, i think, denoted the presence of adhesions. possibly they will entirely disappear with the return of full excursion movements of respiration, the latter being often still somewhat restricted when the patients left hospital. all the patients with such signs were liable to attacks of pain and shortness of breath on actual bodily exertion. i happened to meet with an officer, the subject of a lee-metford wound of the thorax, sustained five years previously, and he told me that he was nine months before he could take active exercise without feeling short of breath.
as to the cases of hæmothorax and empyema which needed drainage, all did well; but expansion of the lung was much less satisfactory than would have been expected, probably on account of especially firm adhesions. the importance of concurrent injury i need hardly dwell on; but i might add that perforation of one or both arms, the most common one, did not materially affect the general statements above made.
treatment.--in the early stages of the pulmonary wounds rest was the all-important indication, and when this was assured few serious cases of hæmothorax occurred. beyond simple rest, the administration of opium with a view to checking internal hæmorrhage was used with good effect. the wounds needed simple dressing only.
the treatment of hæmothorax at a later date, however, was of much interest and difficulty. i think the following lines may be laid down for guidance in such cases:--
in such cases the collection of blood has usually been rapid and continuous; hence a fresh hæmorrhage is always probable when the local pressure has been removed. tapping therefore should not necessarily mean complete evacuation, and should be followed by careful firm binding up of the chest, the administration of opium, and the most stringent precautions for rest.
care in carrying out asepsis in tapping, which should be performed with an aspirator, need hardly be more than mentioned. it will be noted that in some of the cases quoted suppuration followed tapping, but it must be remembered that in these the two primary wounds already existed as possible channels of infection.
retained bullets of small calibre in the thoracic cavity were not common, unless the lodgment had occurred in the bodies of the vertebræ. i saw very few. shrapnel bullets and fragments of shells, however, were, in proportion to the frequency of wounds from such projectiles, more commonly retained. the rules to be followed in such cases do not materially deviate from those to be observed in the body generally.
when the bullet is causing no trouble, and is lodged in either the bone of the spine or the lung substance, no interference is advisable. when, on the other hand, the bullet as viewed by the x-rays is seen to be in the pleural cavity, and any symptoms of its presence exist, it may be justifiable to remove it. i saw this done in one case for the removal of a shrapnel bullet from the lower reflexion of the pleura on account of fixed pain and tenderness complained of by the patient. the bullet, a shrapnel, had perforated the arm, which the patient was sure was by his side at the moment of injury, and the x-rays showed it to lie at the bottom of the pleural cavity, where we assumed it had fallen. when, however, the bullet was removed by mr. watson, he found that the fixed pain and tenderness had been the result of a fracture of a rib from the inner side, not involving loss of continuity; hence the actual indication for the operation had been a delusive one, since the bullet had not fallen, but expended its last force in injuring the rib. the patient made an excellent recovery, and rejoined his regiment at the end of six weeks. i saw several cases in which the bullet was lodged in either the lung or bones of the spine do well with no interference. the great disadvantage of primary removal in inducing an artificial pneumo-thorax and in laying open a hæmothorax is obvious.
in case of lodgment of the bullet in the lung, bearing in mind the infrequency of untoward symptoms, the latter should be watched for prior to interference.
the following cases illustrate some typical instances of wound of chest accompanied by the development of hæmothorax:--
after the preliminary puncture, the man refused any further operative treatment, although a second rise of temperature commenced on the fifteenth day, culminating in a temperature of 103.2° on the eighteenth. the further treatment of the patient consisted in the ensurance of rest and the alleviation of pain. a steady fall in the temperature extended over another three weeks, together with diminution in the signs of fluid in the pleura. at the end of seventy-four days the man was sent home, some slight dulness at the left base, and contraction of the chest sufficient to influence the spine in the way of lateral curvature, being the only remaining signs.
on the tenth day after admission a pleural rub was detected at the upper margin of the dulness, and the latter shortly extended upwards over a little more than half the back. meanwhile, there was no further hæmoptysis, respiration was fairly easy, 24 per minute, but accompanied by slight dilatation of the alæ nasi, and the temperature, which had been ranging from 99° to 100°, began to rise steadily, on the fifteenth day reaching 102.5°. the patient refused even an exploratory puncture, and was treated on the expectant plan. the temperature slowly subsided, with a steady improvement in the physical signs, and at the end of about ten weeks he left for home with only slight dulness and incapacity for active exertion remaining. (now again on active service.)
on the nineteenth day the thorax was aspirated (mr. hanwell) and 50 ounces of dirty red-coloured fluid, half clot, half serum, were evacuated. considerable relief was afforded; the respirations became slightly less frequent; the heart returned to a normal position, and distant tubular respiration was audible. the temperature dropped to normal the third day after evacuation of the fluid, but on the sixth day it again commenced to rise, and meanwhile fluid again began to collect.
on the twenty-sixth day a second aspiration resulted in the evacuation of 35 ounces of bloody fluid in which flakes of lymph were found. three days later the temperature became normal. the respirations fell to 22, and the patient made an uninterrupted recovery.
the patient arrived at the base on the sixth day; he said he expectorated some blood at the end of about ten minutes after being shot, and experienced a 'half-choking sensation.' a small quantity of phlegm and occasional clots had been expectorated since. he had walked about a good deal; movement occasioned cough, and he became 'blown' very rapidly.
on admission there were signs of fluid in the lower third of the pleural cavity, but no general symptoms beyond an evening rise of temperature to an average of 99°. about the twentieth day the temperature commenced to rise, and on the twenty-third and four following evenings reached 102°. the fever was accompanied by some distress, and a well-marked increase in the physical signs of the presence of fluid in the chest. the pulse rose to 96, and the respirations considerably above the average of 24, which was at first noted. a strictly expectant attitude was maintained, and the temperature steadily fell in a curve corresponding to the rise, gradually reaching the normal at the end of a week. the physical signs at the base steadily cleared up, and at the end of six weeks the patient returned to england convalescent.
injuries to the abdomen
perhaps no chapter of military surgery was looked forward to with more eager interest than that dealing with wounds of the abdomen. in none was greater expectation indulged in with regard to probable advance in active surgical treatment, and in none did greater disappointment lie in store for us.
wounds of the solid viscera, it is true, proved to be of minor importance when produced by bullets of small calibre; but wounds of the intestinal tract, although they showed themselves capable of spontaneous recovery in a certain proportion of the cases observed, afforded but slight opportunity for surgical skill, and results generally deviated but slightly from those of past experience. such success as was met with depended rather on the mechanical genesis and nature of the wounds than upon the efforts of the surgeon, and operative surgery scored but few successes.
it is true that to the civil surgeon accustomed to surroundings replete with every modern appliance and convenience, and the possibility of exercising the most stringent precautions against the introduction of sepsis from without, abdominal operations presented difficulties only faintly appreciated in advance; but this alone scarcely accounted for the want of success attending the active treatment of wounds of the intestine when occasion demanded. failure was rather to be referred to the severity of the local injury to be dealt with, or to the operations being necessarily undertaken at too late a date. many fatalities, again, were due to the association of other injuries, a large proportion of the wound tracks involving other organs or parts beyond the boundaries of the abdominal cavity.
the frequent association of wounds of the thoracic cavity with those of the abdomen afforded many of the most striking examples of immunity from serious consequences as a result of wound of the pleura. it must be conceded that in a large number of such injuries only the extreme limits of the pleural sac were encroached upon, yet in some the tracks passed through the lungs, although without serious consequences. under the heading of injury to the large intestine a somewhat special form of pleural septicæmia will be referred to.
it may at once be stated that such favourable results as occurred in abdominal injuries were practically limited to wounds caused by bullets of small calibre, and that, although in the short chapter dealing with shell injuries a few recoveries from visceral wounds will be mentioned, i never met with a penetrating visceral injury from a martini-henry or large sporting bullet which did not prove fatal.
wounds of the abdominal wall.--it is somewhat paradoxical to say that these injuries possessed special interest from their comparative rarity of occurrence, since they were not of intrinsic importance. their infrequency depended on the difficulty of striking the body in such a plane as to implicate the belly wall alone, and their interest in the diagnostic difficulty which they gave rise to.
in many cases the position of the openings and the strongly oval or gutter character possessed by them were sufficient proof of the superficial passage of the bullet; in others we had to bear in mind that the position of the patient when struck was rarely that of rest in the supine position, in which the surgical examination was made, and considerable difficulty arose. some superficial tracks crossing the belly wall have already been referred to in the chapter on wounds in general and in that dealing with injuries to the chest, in which the above characters sufficed to indicate that penetration of the abdominal cavity had not occurred. in other instances a definite subcutaneous gutter could be traced, and often in these a well-marked cord in the abdominal wall corresponding to the track could be felt at a later date. again, limitation to the abdominal wall was sometimes proved by the position of the retained bullet, or sometimes by the presence in the track of foreign bodies carried in with the projectile. see case 160.
fig. 84 illustrates an example where the limitation to the abdominal wall was evident on inspection. here the division of the thick muscles of the abdominal wall had led to the formation of a swelling exactly similar to that seen after the subcutaneous rupture of a muscle, and two soft fluctuating tumours bounded by contracted muscle existed in the substance of the oblique and rectus muscles.
in a certain proportion of the injuries the peritoneal cavity was no doubt perforated without the infliction of any further visceral injury, and in these also the doubt as to the occurrence of penetration was never solved.
no signs of intra-peritoneal injury were noted, but free suppuration occurred in left loin; the ilium was tunnelled.
the same patient was wounded by a jeffrey bullet in the hand; the third metacarpal was pulverised, although the bullet, which was longitudinally flanged, was retained.
penetration of the intestinal area without definite evidence of visceral injury.--this accident occurred with a sufficient degree of frequency to obtain the greatest importance, both from the point of view of diagnosis and prognosis, and as affecting the question of operative interference. amongst the cases reported below a number occurred in which it was impossible to settle the question whether injury to the bowel had occurred or not, and i will here shortly give what explanation i can for the apparent escape of the intestine from serious injury.
we may first recall the general question of the escape of structures lying to one or other side of the track of the bullet. i believe that there can be no doubt as to the accuracy of the remarks already made as to the escape of such structures as the nerves by means of displacement, and that the occurrence of such escapes is manifestly dependent on the degree of fixity of the nerve or the special segment of it implicated. the general tendency of the tissues around the tracks to escape extensive destruction from actual contusion has also been referred to, and is, i think, indisputable.
if these observations be accepted, i think there can be no difficulty in allowing that the small intestine is exceptionally well arranged to escape injury. first of all, it is very moveable; secondly, it is so arranged that in certain directions a bullet may pass almost parallel to the long axis of the coils; thirdly, it is elastic, capable of compression, and light, and hence offers but a small degree of resistance to the passage of the bullet across the abdominal cavity.
certain evidence both clinical and pathological supports the contention that the small intestine may escape injury from the passing bullet.
first of all, the fact may be broadly stated that injuries to the small intestine were fatal in the great majority of certainly diagnosed cases, while, on the other hand, many tracks crossed the area occupied by the small intestine without serious symptoms of any kind resulting. secondly, experience showed that when the bullet crossed the line of the fixed portions of the large intestine the gut rarely escaped, and that, although a considerable proportion of these cases recovered spontaneously, in a large number of them immediate symptoms, or secondary complications, clearly substantiated the nature of the original injury. as far as my experience went, however, i never saw any instance in which an undoubted injury of the small intestine was followed by the development of a local peritoneal suppuration and recovery, a sequence by no means uncommon in the case of wounds of the large intestine. although, therefore, i am not prepared to deny the possibility of spontaneous recovery from an injury to the small intestine, under certain conditions which will be stated later, i believe that in the immense majority of cases in which a bullet crossed the small intestine area without the supervention of serious symptoms, the small intestine escaped perforating injury.
beyond the clinical evidence offered above, certain pathological observations support the view that the intestine escapes perforation by displacement. most of my knowledge on this subject was derived from the limited number of abdominal sections i performed on cases of injury to the small intestine, and may be summed up as follows.
the implication and perforation of the small intestine are to some extent influenced by the direction of the wound. a striking case is included below, no. 201, in which a bullet passed from the loin to the iliac fossa on each side of the body, approximately parallel to the course of the inner margin of the colon, and i also saw some other wounds in this direction in which no evidence of injury to the small intestine was detected, and which got well. again wounds from flank to flank were, as a rule, very fatal; but i saw more than one instance where these wounds were situated immediately below the crest of the ilium, in which the intestine escaped injury (see case 171). a very striking observation was made by mr. cheatle in such a wound. the patient died as a result of a double perforation of both cæcum and sigmoid flexure; none the less the bullet had crossed the small intestine area without inflicting any injury.
the sum of my experience, in fact, was to encourage the belief that, unless the intestine was struck in such a direction as to render lateral displacement an impossibility, the gut often escaped perforation.
as a rule, the wounds of the abdomen which from their position proved the most dangerous to the intestine were--
1. wounds passing from one flank to the other were very dangerous, as crossing complicated coils of the small intestine, and two fixed portions of the colon. this danger was most marked when the wounds were situated between the eighth rib in the mid axillary line and the crest of the ilium; above this level the liver, or possibly liver and stomach, were sometimes alone implicated, and the cases did well. again, when the wounds crossed the false pelvis the patients sometimes escaped all injury to viscera.
2. antero-posterior wounds in the small intestine area were very fatal if the course was direct; in such the small intestine seldom escaped injury.
3. wounds with a certain degree of obliquity from anterior wall to flank, or from flank to loin, were on the other hand comparatively favourable, as the small intestine often escaped, and if any gut was wounded, it was often the colon.
4. vertical wounds implicating the chest and abdomen, or the abdomen and pelvis, were on the whole not very unfavourable. for instance, when the bullet entered by the buttock and emerged below the umbilicus, a number of patients escaped fatal injury; this depended on the comparatively good prognosis in wounds of the rectum and bladder. a good many patients in whom the bullet entered by the upper part of the loin, and escaped 1-1/2 inch within the anterior superior spine of the ilium, also did well. the same holds good when the wounds either entered or emerged under the anterior costal margin of the thorax, either prior to or after traversing the thorax.
wounds passing directly backward from the iliac regions were in my experience very unfavourable; but i believe mainly as a result of hæmorrhage from the iliac arteries.
the occurrence of wounds of the abdomen of an 'explosive' character.--the vast majority of the abdominal wounds observed in the stationary or base hospitals were of the type dimensions. a certain number of the abdominal injuries which proved fatal on the field or shortly afterwards were described as explosive in character, and were referred by the observers to the employment of expanding bullets.
a few words on this subject seem necessary, because it seems doubtful whether such injuries could be produced by any of the forms of expanding bullet of small calibre in use, unless the track crossed one of the bones in the abdominal or pelvic wall. that this was sometimes the case there is no doubt: thus i saw two cases in which the splenic flexure of the colon was wounded, in which the external opening was large, and a comminuted fracture of the ribs of the left side existed. one can well believe that bullets passing through the pelvic bones might 'set up' to a considerable extent, and although i never happened to see such a case, an explanation of some of the wounds described by others might be found in this occurrence.
in instances in which the soft parts alone were perforated, i am disinclined to believe that bullets of small calibre, either regulation or soft-nosed, were responsible for the injuries. i had the opportunity of examining two mauser bullets of the jeffreys variety which crossed the abdomen and caused death. in the first (figured on page 94, fig. 40) very little alteration beyond slight shortening had occurred. in the second the deformity was almost the same, except that the side of the bullet was indented, probably from impact with some object prior to its entry into the body. in each case the bullet was of course travelling at a low rate of velocity; hence no very strong inference can be drawn from either. in the case of the second specimen, which was removed by mr. cheatle, a remarkable observation was made, which tends to throw some light on one possible mode of production of large exit apertures. this bullet crossed the cæcum, making two small type openings; but later, when it crossed the sigmoid flexure, it tore two large irregular openings in the gut. this might be explained on the ground that the velocity was so small as only just to allow of perforation, which therefore took the nature of a tear. i am inclined to suggest, as a more likely explanation, that the spent bullet turned head over heels in its course across the abdomen, and made lateral or irregular impact with the last piece of bowel it touched. a slightly greater degree of force would have allowed a similar large and irregular opening to be made in the abdominal wall also.
in this relation the question will naturally be raised as to how far the explosive appearances may have been due to high velocity alone on the part of the bullet. i am disinclined from my general experience to believe that explosive injuries of the soft parts were to be thus explained. on the other hand, i believe that the possession of a low degree of velocity very greatly increased the danger in abdominal wounds. i believe that the bowel was, under these circumstances, less likely to escape by displacement, and was more widely torn when wounded; again, that inexact impact led to increase of size in the external apertures, and the bullet was of course more often retained.
i believe the majority of the wounds designated as explosive were the result of the passage of large leaden bullets, either of the martini-henry or express type. the small opportunity of observing such injuries in the hospitals of course depended on the fact that the majority were rapidly fatal.
nature of the anatomical lesion in wounds of the intestine.--the openings in the parietal peritoneum tended to assume the slit or star forms, probably on account of the elasticity of the membrane. a diagram of one of these forms is appended to fig. 89. in this instance the opening in the peritoneum was made from the abdominal aspect, prior to the escape of the bullet from the cavity, and on the impact of the tip, the long axis of the bullet was oblique to the surface of the abdominal wall.
in the intestinal wall the openings varied in character according to the mode of impact.
in some cases the gut was merely contused by lateral contact of the passing bullet. the result of this was evidenced later by the presence of localised oval patches of ecchymosis. these were identical in appearance with the patches shown surrounding the wounds in fig. 87.
more forcible lateral impact produced a split of the peritoneum, or of this together with the muscular coat. such a lateral slit is shown in fig. 85, although the clearness of outline is somewhat impaired by the presence of a considerable amount of inflammatory lymph.
fig. 86 exhibits a lateral injury of a more pronounced form. the bullet here struck the most prominent portion of the under surface of the bowel, and produced a circular perforation not very unlike one produced by rectangular impact, except in the lesser degree of eversion of the mucous membrane. here again the appearance is somewhat altered by the presence of a considerable amount of lymph, but this is of less importance in this figure because the lymph is localised to the portion of the bowel in the immediate neighbourhood of the opening which had suffered contusion and erasion.
fig. 87, a b, illustrates a symmetrical perforation of the small intestine; the aperture of entry (a) is roughly circular, and a ring of mucous membrane protrudes and partially closes the opening. the aperture of exit is a curved slit, again partially occluded by the mucous membrane. the same amount of difference between the two apertures did not always exist; in many cases both were circular, and apparently symmetrical. beyond this i have seen three apertures in close proximity, two lying on the same aspect of the bowel, and the first of these was no doubt an opening due to lateral impact similar to that seen in fig. 86. in the recent condition little difference existed between the three apertures.
the localised ecchymosis surrounding the apertures is quite characteristic of this form of injury, and is a valuable aid to finding the openings during an operation.
fig. 88 shows the interior of the same segment of bowel, as fig. 87. it shows the localised ecchymosis as seen from the inner surface, here rather more extensive from the fact that the blood spreads more readily in the submucous tissue.
it will be noted that the main feature of the form of injury is the regular outline and the small size of the wounds. another feature not illustrated by the figures should also be mentioned. in the ruptures of intestine with which we are acquainted in civil practice the wound in the gut is almost without exception situated at the free border of the bowel, but in these injuries it was just as frequently at the mesenteric margin. the importance of this factor is considerable, since wounds near the mesenteric edge are much more likely to be accompanied by hæmorrhage, and thus the opportunity for diffusion of infection is considerably multiplied, to say nothing of the danger from loss of blood.
beyond these more or less pure perforations, long slits or gutters were occasionally cut. i saw instances of these in the case of the ascending colon, and in the small curvature of the stomach. the comparative fixity of the portion of bowel struck is a matter of great importance in the production of this form of injury.
it may be well to add that, although the figures inserted are all taken from small-intestine wounds, the nature of the wounds of the peritoneum-clad part of the large intestine in no way differed from them, except in so far as fixity of the bowel exposed it to a more extensive wound when the bullet took a parallel course to its long axis.
wounds of the mesentery.--i had little experience of this injury; in fact, case 169, on which i operated, was my sole observation. it stands to reason, however, that injuries to the mesentery would be much more frequent proportionately to wounds of the gut than is the case in the ruptures seen in civil practice, since the whole area of the mesentery is equally open to injury. viewing the extreme danger of hæmorrhage into the peritoneal cavity in these injuries, i should be inclined to expect that a considerable proportion of those deaths from abdominal wounds which took place on the field of battle were due to this source.
wounds of the omentum.--here, again, i am unable to express any opinion, although the supposition that hæmorrhage from this source took place is natural.
prolapse of omentum was comparatively rare, except in cases with large wounds; it was apparently seen with some frequency among patients who died rapidly on the field of battle. i only saw it twice, and on each occasion in shell wounds. the wounds from small-calibre bullets were as a rule too small to allow of external prolapse.
fig. 89, however, illustrates a very interesting observation. a patient in the german ambulance in heilbron, under dr. flockemann, died as a result of suppuration and hæmorrhage secondary to an injury to the colon. at the autopsy a portion of the omentum was found adherent in the wound of exit, but it had not reached the external surface. the chief interest of the observation lies in the light it throws on the mechanism of these injuries. it is impossible to conceive that a small-calibre bullet coming into direct contact with the omentum could do anything but perforate it. it, therefore, appears clear that in a displacement like that figured, only lateral impact occurred with the omentum, which was carried along by the spin and rush of the bullet into the canal of exit, where it lodged.
results of injury to the intestine. 1. escape of contents and infection of the peritoneal cavity.--i think there is little special to be said on this subject. the escape of contents into the peritoneal cavity was by no means free, unless the injury was multiple. thus in one case of injury to the small intestine, no. 166, on which i operated, there was absolutely no gross escape until the bowel was removed from the abdominal cavity, when the contents spurted out freely. in one case of very oblique injury to the colon there was a considerable quantity of fæcal matter in a localised space, but as a rule the ordinary condition best described as 'peritoneal infection' from the wound was found. the bad effect of anything like free escape was well shown in multiple perforations; in these suppurative peritonitis rapidly developed and the patients died at the end of thirty-six hours or less. a typical case is quoted in no. 168.
2. peritoneal infection, and general septicæmia.--as is evident from the results quoted among the cases, the degree which this reached varied greatly. it may of course be assumed that in some measure it occurred in every case in which the bowel was perforated, but it was sometimes so slight as to be scarcely noticeable. this may be said to have been most common in injuries to the large intestine. wounds of the cæcum, ascending and descending colon, the sigmoid flexure, or the rectum, were sometimes followed by no serious symptoms, either local or general. again in these portions of the bowel the development of local signs, and the later formation of an abscess, were by no means uncommon.
in the case of the small intestine i never observed this sequence, and the same may be said of the transverse colon, which in its anatomical arrangement and position so nearly approximates to the small bowel. in suspected wounds of these portions of the bowel either the symptoms were so slight as to render it doubtful whether a perforation had occurred, or marked signs of general peritoneal septicæmia developed, and death resulted.
the condition of the peritoneum in fatal cases varied much. in some a dry peritonitis, or one in which a considerable quantity of slightly turbid fluid was effused, was found. in others a rapid suppurative process, accompanied by the effusion of large quantities of plastic lymph, was met with. my experience suggested that the latter condition was the result of free infection from multiple wounds of the gut, the former the accompaniment of single wounds. hence i should ascribe the difference mainly to the extent of the primary infection.
this is perhaps a suitable place to further discuss the explanation of the escape of a considerable number of the patients who received wounds of the abdomen, possibly implicating the bowel. although this was not, i think, so common an occurrence as has been sometimes assumed, yet many examples were met with. several reasons have been advanced.
some of the men did, however, drink freely, and in one case which terminated fatally a comrade gave a man wounded through the belly an immediate dose of beecham's pills.
i should be inclined to ascribe the escape from serious infection in these injuries to the same cause which accounts for their comparative insignificance in other regions--namely, the small calibre of the bullet and consequent small size of the lesion: in point of fact to the minimal nature of the primary infection. i very much doubt if any patient who had more than one complete perforation of the small intestine got well during the whole campaign. this opinion is, moreover, supported by the fact that the prognosis was so far better in cases of injury to the large than to the small intestine, in which former segment of the bowel we have the advantages of a position beyond the region in which intestinal movement is most free, the unlikelihood of multiple injury, and a drier and more solid type of fæcal contents.
in the instances in which recovery followed perforating injuries without any bad signs we can only assume a minimal infection, and sufficient irritation and reaction on the part of the bowel to produce rapid adhesion between contiguous coils, and thus provisional closure.
the other mode of spontaneous recovery which i saw several times take place in the injuries to the large bowel consisted in the limitation of the spread of infection by early adhesions and the development of a local abscess. the non-observance of this process in any case of injury to the small intestine raises very great doubts in my mind as to the frequent recovery of patients in whom the small intestine was perforated.
injuries to the intestinal tract
1. wounds of the stomach.--a considerable number of wounds in such a situation as to have possibly implicated the stomach were observed, and of these a certain number recovered spontaneously. the only two instances that came under my own observation are recorded below. it will be noted that in each the special symptoms were the classic ones of vomiting and hæmatemesis. in the first case blood was also passed per anum, and in the second the diagnosis was reinforced by the escape of stomach contents from the external wound.
i believe that the secondary hæmorrhage was the main element in robbing us of a success in this case, and that this depended on the digestion of the wound by the gastric secretion. the early troubles which arose in the treatment of this patient well illustrate the difficulties by which the military surgeon is at times met; but the patient was admirably attended to and nursed by my friend mr. pershouse, and an orderly who was specially put on duty for the purpose.
ten days after the injury the temperature was still rising to 100°, and did not become normal till the fourteenth day. the pulse averaged 80. the abdomen, meanwhile, moved fairly well, respirations 18 to 20. some tenderness was present in the epigastrium and towards the spleen. resonance throughout. ordinary diet was now resumed, and beyond slight epigastric pain on deep inspiration, no further symptoms were observed, and the patient left for england at the end of the month. the spleen may have been traversed in this patient, as well as the lower margin of the right lung.
on the commencement of the third day the patient's expression was extremely anxious, and he was suffering great pain. pulse 96, temperature 100°. tongue moist, occasional vomiting, bowels open yesterday. has taken fluid nourishment since injury. the abdomen moved with respiration, but was moderately distended, especially in the line of the transverse colon; it was tympanitic on percussion, there was no dulness in the flanks, and only moderate rigidity of the wall on palpation. frothy fluid stained with bile and fæcal in odour was escaping from the wound of exit, and the everted margins of the latter were bile-stained.
a vertical incision was carried downwards from the wound for 4 inches. a rugged furrow was found on the under surface of the left lobe of the liver; the stomach was contracted and firmly adherent by recent lymph to the under surface of the liver and the diaphragm. the transverse colon was much distended. on separating the stomach a slit wound was found at the lesser curvature, immediately to the right of the oesophagus. this wound was closed with some difficulty with two tiers of sutures; the cavity was mopped out, and then irrigated with boiled water; a plug was introduced along the line of the furrow in the liver, and the lower part of the abdominal incision closed.
on the second day after operation there was some improvement; the pulse still numbered 116, and the temperature was raised to 100°, but the belly moved fairly, and pain was moderate. abundant foul-smelling, bile-stained discharge came from the wound when the plug was removed. rectal feeding was supplemented by small quantities of milk and soda by the mouth.
the condition did not materially change, but on the fourth day it was evident that the suturing of the stomach wound had given way, and liquid food escaped readily when taken. the discharge remained bile-stained and very foul. no extension of inflammation to the general peritoneal cavity occurred, but it was evident that the patient was suffering from constitutional infection from the foul wound, the lower part of which opened up somewhat after the removal of the stitches on the seventh day. the wound was irrigated three times daily with 1-300 creolin lotion, but remained very foul. the man slowly lost strength, although escape from the stomach considerably decreased. on the tenth day a sudden severe hæmorrhage occurred, presumably from a large branch of the coeliac axis. the bleeding was readily controlled by a plug, and did not recur; but the patient rapidly sank, and died on the twelfth day after the operation, and fourteen days after reception of the injury. no post-mortem examination was made.
2. wounds of the small intestine.--these were comparatively common, but offered little that was special either in their symptoms or the results attending them. wounds were met with in every part of the small gut; but i saw no case in which an injury to the duodenum could be specially diagnosed.
as to the symptoms which attended these injuries, it is somewhat difficult to speak with precision, and it must be left to my readers to form an opinion as to how many of the cases recounted below were really instances of perforating wounds. my own view is that in the majority of the cases that got well spontaneously, the injury was not of a perforating nature, and that for reasons which have been already set forth. it will, however, be at once noted that in all the five cases in which the injury was certainly diagnosed in hospital death occurred.
the cases of injury to the small intestine are perhaps best arranged in three classes.
1. those who died upon the field, or shortly after removal from it. in these the external wounds were often large, the omentum was not rarely prolapsed, and escape of fæces sometimes occurred early. shock from the severity of the lesion, and hæmorrhage, were no doubt important factors in the early lethal issue in this class. many of the injuries were no doubt produced by bullets striking irregularly, by ricochets, by bullets of the expanding forms, or by bullets of large calibre. as being beyond the bounds of surgical aid, this class possessed the least interest.
2. cases brought into the field, or even the stationary hospitals, with symptoms of moderate severity, or even of an insignificant character, in which evidence of septic peritonitis suddenly developed and death ensued.
3. cases in which the position of the wounds raised the possibility of injury to the intestine, but in which the symptoms were slight or of moderate severity, and which recovered spontaneously.
the whole crux in diagnosis lay in the attempt to separate the two latter classes, and, personally, i must own to having been no nearer a position of being able to form an opinion on this point, in the late than in the early stage of my stay in south africa. the advent of peritoneal septicæmia was in many instances the only determining moment. on this matter i can only add that, in civil practice, an exploratory abdominal section is often the only means of determination of a rupture of the bowel wall.
with regard to the cases of suspected injury to the bowel which recovered spontaneously, the symptoms were somewhat special in their comparative slightness, and in the limited nature of the local signs. thus the pulse seldom rose to as much as 100 in rate, 80 was a common average. respiration was never greatly quickened, 24 was a common rate. the temperature rarely exceeded 100°. vomiting was occasionally severe, but usually not persistent, ceasing on the second day. a good quantity of urine was passed. as to the local signs, these again were of a limited nature; distension did not occur, or was slight; movement of the abdominal wall was only restricted in the neighbourhood of the wound, the affected area amounted to a quarter, or at most half, the abdominal wall, and rigidity was localised to a similar segment. local tenderness usually existed; but, as a rule, there was little or no dulness to point to the occurrence either of fluid effusion or a considerable deposition of lymph.
again many of the patients suffered with very slight symptoms of constitutional shock, although there was considerable variation in this particular.
the abdomen was opened at 5 a.m. on the fourth day, as the local signs had become more pronounced, and the patient had passed a restless night in great abdominal pain. a local incision was chosen, as the wound was presumably in the sigmoid flexure. the sigmoid flexure was adherent to the abdominal wall opposite the wound of exit, and a dark ecchymosed patch was found, but no perforation could be detected. foul pus and gas escaped freely from the pelvis, but no wound of the large bowel could be discovered here. on enlarging the incision upwards three openings were found in a coil of jejunum, probably that about five feet from the duodenal junction usually provided with the longest mesentery. no fourth opening could be found. the openings were circular, about 1/3 inch in diameter, clean cut, with a ring of everted mucous membrane, and the wall of the bowel in the neighbourhood was thickened. all three openings were included within a length of 2-1/2 inches. there was no surrounding ecchymosis of the bowel wall. very little escaped intestinal contents were found in the situation of the bowel. the latter had apparently been retracted upwards, and lay to the left of the lumbar spine. the wounds were readily closed by five lembert's sutures, three crossing the openings, and one at each end. the belly was then washed out with boiled water and closed. the delay in finding the wounds due to the mistaken impression that they would be found in the pelvis materially prolonged the operation, which lasted an hour and a half. the patient never rallied, and died seventeen hours later. it is possible that a wound in the sigmoid flexure was present which had already closed at the time of operation.
abdominal section. median incision. a considerable quantity of bloody effusion was evacuated. intestine generally congested and distended. no lymph. two wounds were found in the ileum on the opposite sides of one coil; the openings were circular, with the mucous membrane everted. no escape of fæcal matter was visible until the intestine was delivered, when intestinal contents spurted freely across the room. the openings were sutured with five lembert's stitches. the bowel was punctured in two places to relieve distension, and then returned into the belly, after washing with boiled water.
four pints of saline solution were infused into the median basilic vein, and 1/30 grain strychnine sulph. was injected hypodermically.
the patient did not rally, and died twelve hours after the operation.
in the evening the patient was apparently dying. face blue and sunken and covered with sweat, eyes dull, speechless, pulse imperceptible, restlessness extreme, bowels acting involuntarily, no urine in bladder.
the man was placed in a tent by himself, and to my surprise was alive and better the next morning; the expression was still anxious, but the face brighter and not sweating; the pulse only numbered 100, but was very weak, and the hands and feet were cold. the condition of the abdomen was unaltered, but the thoracic respiration had decreased in rapidity from 48 to 28.
his condition still seemed to preclude any chance of successful intervention, but none the less life was retained until the morning of the seventh day, the state alternating between a moribund one and one of slight improvement. he was lucid at times, although for the most part wandering, and was so restless that no covering could be kept upon him. vomiting was continuous, so that no nourishment could be retained; the bowels acted frequently involuntarily, and little or no urine was passed. meanwhile, the abdomen became flat, then sunken, an area of induration and tenderness about 6 inches in diameter developing around the wound of entry. slight variations in the pulse, and from normal to subnormal in the temperature, were noted, and death eventually occurred from septicæmia and inanition.
post-mortem condition.--belly not distended, dull anteriorly in patches, and right flank dull throughout. when the belly was opened, extensive adhesion of omentum and intestine enclosing numerous collections of pus were disclosed, and on disturbing the adhesions a large collection of turbid blood-stained fluid was set free from the right loin. the great omentum was much thickened and matted, with deposition of thick patches of lymph; very firm recent adhesions also united numerous coils of small intestine. the pus was foetid, but no appreciable quantity of intestinal contents was detected in it. the lower half or more of the small intestine was injected, reddened, and thickened. the wounds which were situated in the lower part of the jejunum and ileum were multiple, and seven perforations were detected; besides these the intestine was marked by bruises, and some gutter slits affecting the serous and muscular coats only. considerable ecchymosis surrounded these latter. the clean perforations were circular, less than 1/4 inch in diameter, and for the most part closed by eversion of the mucous membrane. intestinal contents were not apparent, but escaped freely on manipulation of the bowel.
the next morning the patient was comfortable; temperature 100.2°, pulse 100. tongue clean and moist; he vomited once during the night.
some bloody discharge had collected in the dressing, and at the lower angle of wound there was a local swelling, apparently in the abdominal wall. the flank was resonant.
death was apparently due to renewal of the previous hæmorrhage. no post-mortem examination was made.
no further signs, however, developed under an expectant treatment, and he remained some two months in hospital, while the wound in the thigh and a third injury to the elbow-joint were healing.
two days later the temperature rose to 104°, and enteric fever was diagnosed, no local signs pointing to the injury existing. the patient made a good recovery.
when the patient came under observation on the third day the condition was as follows:--complains of little pain, temperature normal, pulse 72, respirations 24, tongue moist, bowels confined. rigidity of abdominal wall and deficient mobility of nearly whole right half of belly, the whole lower half of which moves little with respiration. no track palpable in abdominal parietes. no dulness, no distension. the temperature rose to 99.5° at night. on the fourth day the bowels acted freely, the pulse fell to 60, the respirations were 24, and the temperature normal.
tenderness and rigidity persisted in the right flank to the end of a week, after which time no further signs persisted.
the next day the pulse fell to 60 and the bowels acted, but there was no change in the local condition. the man looked somewhat ill until the end of a week, but was then sent to the base, and at the expiration of a month was sent home well.
forty-six hours after the injury the condition was as follows: face slightly anxious and pale; skin moist, temperature 100.4°; pulse 116, regular and of fair strength; respirations 24; abdomen slightly tumid; tenderness over lower half, especially on left side; the lower half moves little with respiration.
99°. pulse 104. respirations 24. abdomen flatter; general respiratory movement; tenderness now mainly localised to an area 2-1/2 inches in diameter, to the left of the umbilicus, above exit wound.
the patient continued to improve, and on the fifth day travelled six hours in a bullock wagon to bloemfontein. soon after arrival his temperature was normal: pulse 80, respirations 16, with good abdominal movement. local tenderness persisted in the same area, but was less in degree. tongue rather dry, bowels confined. micturition normal. two drachms of castor oil and an enema were given.
on the ninth day patient was practically well, except for slight deep tenderness. he remained in bed on ordinary light diet, but at the end of the third week he was seized by a sudden attack of pain, the temperature rising to 103° and the pulse to 140, the abdomen becoming swollen and tender. he was then under the charge of mr. bowlby, who ordered some opium, and the symptoms rapidly subsided. although this wound crossed the small intestine area, it is probable that the symptoms may have been due to an injury of the rectum or sigmoid flexure.
3. wounds of the large intestine.--injuries to every part of the large bowel were observed, and spontaneous recoveries were seen in all parts except the transverse colon, which, as already remarked, is near akin to the small intestine with regard to its position and anatomical arrangement.
the only case of perforation of the vermiform appendix that i heard of, one under the care of mr. stonham, died of peritoneal septicæmia. several cases of recovery from wounds of the cæcum and ascending colon are recounted below. the only points of importance in the nature of the signs of these injuries were their primary insignificance, and the comparative frequency with which local peritoneal suppuration followed them. the absence of a similar sequence in some of the cases in which wounds of the small intestine were assumed, was, in my opinion, one of the strongest reasons for doubting the correctness of the diagnosis. it is also a significant fact that injuries of the ascending colon--that is to say, of the portion of the large bowel which perhaps lies most free from the area occupied by the small intestine--were those which most frequently recovered.
the following cases afford examples of the course followed in a number of injuries to the large intestine, and illustrate both the uncomplicated and the complicated modes of spontaneous recovery.
no. 180 affords a good example of an extra-peritoneal injury, and of the especially fatal character of such lesions. this case was also one of my surgical disappointments.
nos. 182, 183 are of great interest in several particulars. first, the aperture of exit was large and allowed the escape of fæces, not a very common feature in wounds not proving immediately fatal. secondly, in neither were any peritoneal signs observed. thirdly, in each the exit wound communicated with the pleura, and the patients died from septicæmia mainly due to absorption from the surface of that membrane (pleural septicæmia).
no. 190 is a most striking instance of spontaneous cure, since no doubt can exist that both rectum and bladder were perforated.
entry (lee-metford), in right thigh, 3 inches below and 1 inch within anterior superior spine of ilium; exit, in back, on a level with the fourth lumbar spinous process and 3 inches from that point.
half an hour after the wound the patient commenced to suffer severe stabbing pain; he lay on the field one hour; later he was taken to a field hospital, and on the second day was sent by train a distance of twenty-five miles.
when seen at the end of fifty hours the condition was as follows. face anxious, complexion dusky. great abdominal pain, especially about the umbilicus. vomiting frequent and distressing; bowels confined since the accident; tongue dry and furred. urine scanty. pulse full and strong, 125; respirations, entirely thoracic, 30.
abdomen generally distended and tympanitic, wall rigid and motionless. dulness in right flank, together with superficial oedema and emphysema.
during the succeeding six days progress was not unsatisfactory: the abdomen became soft, moved with respiration, there was no sickness, and the bowels acted. the pulse fell to 90, respirations to 20, and the temperature did not exceed 102° f. the wound suppurated freely, however, and although there were no further signs of peritoneal septicæmia, it was evident that general infection had taken place, and on the sixth day a parotid bubo developed on the right side, which was opened.
on the seventh day the patient suddenly commenced to fail rapidly; vomiting was almost continuous--at first curdled milk, later frothy watery fluid--and on the eighth day he died. the abdomen remained soft, sunken, and flaccid, and death no doubt resulted from general septicæmia rather than from peritoneal infection, absorption taking place from the large foul cavity behind the colon. as the cavity in part surrounded the descending duodenum, this possibly accounted for the attack of vomiting which preceded death.
the injury was followed by little abdominal pain, but a strange sensation of local gurgling was noted. the bowels acted as soon as the patient reached camp, some hours after being wounded. there was no sickness and nothing abnormal was noted in the motions, except that they were loose and light-coloured.
on the evening of the third day the patient came under observation in the ambulance train for capetown. he looked somewhat anxious and ill, but he complained of little pain; the temperature was 102°, pulse 88, fair strength, soft and regular. there was local dulness, tenderness, and deficiency of movement in the right iliac region. as it was night, he was removed from the train and an operation was performed the next morning.
the after-treatment of the case gave rise to no anxiety, but healing of the resulting sinus was slow; fæcal-smelling pus escaped for some days, and a number of small sloughs came away. on the twelfth day the patient was sent down to wynberg, where he remained twelve weeks. a counter-incision was needed in the loin to drain the suppurating cavity three weeks after the primary operation, and five weeks after the operation an escape of gas and fæces took place from the anterior wound, while the bowels were acting, as a result of a dose of castor oil. no further escape of fæces occurred, and he left for england with a small sinus only. no extension of inflammation into the original wound track ever occurred, both openings and the canal healing by primary union.
the sinus remained open, and occasionally discharged for a further period of six months, and then healed firmly; since when the patient has been in perfect health.
when seen on the sixth day the condition was as follows:--patient cheerful and not in great pain. temperature 99.2°; pulse 120; respirations 48, very shallow. abdomen soft, moving freely, no distension or general tenderness. fluid fæces escaping in abundance from the wound in loin. redness of skin and swelling below level of wound, and cellular emphysema above. fæcal-smelling fluid was also escaping from the thoracic wound.
the wound was enlarged, but the patient rapidly sank, and died of septicæmia on the seventh day.
no post-mortem examination was made in either case, but i believe in both the extra-peritoneal aspect of the colon was implicated and that the septicæmia was in great part due to absorption from the pleural rather than the peritoneal cavity, since in neither case were the abdominal symptoms a prominent feature.
the injury was followed by pain in the left half of the abdomen and vomiting, which continued for two days. the bowels acted on the third day; no nourishment was taken for two days, but a small quantity of water was allowed. no further symptoms were noted, and at the end of a fortnight the patient was well, except for slight local tenderness. the bullet could not be detected with the x-rays.
on the tenth day he arrived at the base, when he was lying on his back suffering considerable pain. the temperature ranged to 101°. there was diarrhoea and cystitis, with a considerable amount of pus in the urine, which was very offensive. a small fluctuating spot existed on the back, just to the right of the original exit wound which was firmly healed. the abdomen moved fairly with respiration in its upper part, but was motionless below, especially in the right iliac fossa; some induration was to be felt here. the right thigh was kept flexed.
during the next few days the pus disappeared from the urine, and with this change the induration in the right iliac fossa increased. an incision (mr. gairdner) was made into the fluctuating spot behind, and pus evacuated. the patient recovered.
a time came when after one answer to a supreme shock there was a sudden end of the plant's power to give any response. this supreme shock was the shock of death. even in this crisis, there was no immediate change in the placid appearance of the plant. in man at the critical moment, a spasm passed through the whole body, and similarly in the plant the lecturer had discovered that a great contractile spasm took place. this was accompanied by an electrical spasm also. in the script of the death recorder the line that up to this point was being drawn became suddenly reversed, and then ended. this was the last answer of the plants.
thus the responsiveness of the plant world was one. there was no difference of any kind between sunshine plants, and those which had hitherto been regarded as insensitive or ordinary. it had also been shown that all the varied and complex responses of the animal were foreshadowed in the plant. an impressive spectacle was thus revealed of that vast unity in which all living organisms, from the simplest plant to the highest animal, were linked together and made one.
--amrita bazar patrika, 5-3-1913.
evidence before the public services commission
the following is the evidence given by dr. j. c. bose, c. s. i., c. i. e., professor of physics, presidency college, calcutta, on the 18th december, 1913, before the royal commission on the public services in india, presided over by lord islington, and published, in the minutes of evidence relating to the education department, at pages 135 to 137, in volume xx, appendix to the report of the commissioners:
written statement relating to the education department
83, 627 (i) method of recruitment.--the first question on which i have been asked to give my opinion is as regards the method of recruitment. i think that a high standard of scholarship should be the only qualification insisted on. graduates of well-known universities, distinguished for a particular line of study, should be given the preference. i think the prospects of the indian educational service are sufficiently high to attract the very best material. in colonial universities they manage to get very distinguished men without any extravagantly high pay. possibly the present departmental method of election does not admit of sufficiently wide publicity of notice to attract the best candidates.
83, 628 (ii) system of training and probation.--as regards probation and training, educational officers should first win a reputation as good teachers before the appointment is confirmed as they are transferred to important colleges.
83, 629 (iv) conditions of salary.--as regards conditions of salary, the pay should be moderately high, but not extravagant, and settled once for all under some simple and well-defined rules. it is not only very humiliating but degrading to a true scholar to be scrambling for money. the difference between the pay of the higher and lower services should be minimised.
83, 630 (vi) conditions of pension.--with reference to pension, i think it is very unfair that more favourable terms are offered, when the pensioner elects to retire in england.
83, 631 (vii) such limitations as exist in the employment of non-europeans.--passing on to the question of limitations that exist in the employment of indians in the higher service, i should like to give expression to an injustice which is very keenly felt. it is unfortunate that indian graduates of european universities who have distinguished themselves in a remarkable manner do not for one reason or other find facilities for entering the higher educational service.
as teachers and workers it is an incontestable fact that indian officers have distinguished themselves very highly, and anything which discriminates between europeans and indians in the way of pay and prospects is most undesirable. a sense of injustice is ill-calculated to bring about that harmony which is so necessary among all the members of an educational institution, professors and students alike.
83, 632 (viii) relations of the service with the indian civil service and with other services.--as regards the relations with the indian civil service, i am under the impression that they are somewhat strained, but of this i have no personal experience.
83, 633 (ix) other points.--i have endeavoured to give my opinion on the definite questions which have been asked. there is another aspect of educational work in india which i think of the highest importance, though i am not exactly sure whether it falls within the terms of reference to the royal commission. i think that all the machinery to improve the higher education in india would be altogether ineffectual unless india enters the world movement for the advancement of knowledge. and for this it is absolutely necessary to touch the imagination of the people so as to rouse them to give their best energies to the work of research and discovery, in which all the nations of the world are now engaged. to aim at anything less will only end in a lifeless and mechanical system from which the soul of reality has passed away. on this subject i could have said much, but i will confine myself to one point which i think at the present juncture to be of importance. the government of bengal has been foremost in a tentative way in encouraging research. what is necessary is the extension and continuity of this enlightened policy.
83, 634. supplementary note.--i would like to add a few remarks to make the meaning of paragraphs 83, 627 and 83, 631 in my note more explicit.
at the present recruitment in the indian educational service is made in england and is practically confined to englishmen. such racial preference is in my opinion, prejudicial to the interest of education. the best man available, english or indian should be selected impartially, and high scholarship should be the only test.
in paragraph 83,631 i have stated that even these indians who have distinguished themselves in european universities have little chance of entering the higher educational service. i should like to add that these highly qualified indians need only opportunities to render service which would greatly advance the cause of higher education. as regards graduates of indian universities, i have known men among them whose works have been highly appreciated. if promising indian graduates are given the opportunity of visiting foreign universities, i have no doubt that they would stand comparison with the best recruits that can be obtained from the west.
dr. j. c. bose called and examined
83,635. (chairman). the witness favoured an arrangement by which indians would enter the higher ranks of the service, either through the provincial service or by direct recruitment in india. the latter class of officers, after completing their education in india, should ordinarily go to europe with a view to widening their experience. by this he did not wish to decry the training given in the indian universities, which produced some of the very best men, and he would not make the rule absolute. it was not necessary for men of exceptional ability to go to england in order to occupy a high chair. unfortunately, on account of there being no openings for men of genius in the educational service, distinguished men were driven to the profession of law. in the present condition of india a larger number of distinguished men were needed to give their lives to the education of the people.
83,636. the witness himself had spent part of his career in europe, and looking back he could say that this had been of great profit to him, not so much on account of the training he got, as by being brought into personal contact with eminent men whose influence extorted his admiration, and create in him a feeling of emulation. in this way he owed a great deal to lord rayleigh under whom he worked, but he did not see why that advantage should not eventually be secured by indians in india under an indian lord rayleigh.
83,637. there should be only one educational service, but men who were distinguished in any subject should not start from its very lowest rung but should be placed somewhere in the middle of it.
83,638. there were men in the provincial service who were very distinguished; it was all a question of genius. the educational service ought to be regarded not as a profession, but as a calling. some men were born to be teachers. it was not a question of race, of course; in order to have an efficient educational system, there must be an efficient organisation, but this should not be allowed to become fossilised, and thus stand in the way of healthy growth.
83,639. in the presidency college a young man fresh from an english university was at once appointed a professor regardless of his lack of experience, whereas an indian who passed in highest examination with honours in india was appointed as an assistant professor. this grounding often made him more efficient as a teacher than the professor recruited from england. there were now several professors in the college, in the provincial service, who were highly qualified, and who lectured to the highest classes with very great success.
83,640. in the physics department he had under his direction several assistants who were so well qualified that they were allowed to give lectures to several classes. these assistants, after their experience at the presidency college, would be best fitted to become professors in the mofussil at colleges. he would like to see them promoted to the higher service after they had had experience. but before he gave them the highest positions, he would make it compulsory for them to go to europe.
83,641. a proportion of europeans in the service was needed, but only as experts and not as ordinary teachers. only the very best men should be obtained from europe, and for exceptional cases. the general educational work should be done entirely by indians, who understood the difficulties of the country much better than any outsider.
83,642. he advocated the direct recruitment of indians in india by the local government in consultation with the secretary of state, rather than by the secretary of state alone. indians were under a great difficulty, in that they could not remain indefinitely in england after taking their degrees and being away from the place of recruitment their claims were overlooked.
83,643. there was no reason why a european should be paid a higher rate of salary than an indian on account of the distance he came. an indian felt a sense of inferiority if a difference was made as regards pay. the very slight saving which government made by differentiating between the two did not compensate for the feeling of wrong done. this feeling would remain even if the pay was the same, but an additional grant in the shape of a foreign service allowance was made to europeans. all workers in the field of education should feel a sense of solidarity, because they were all serving one great cause, namely, education.
83,644. the term "professor", as at present used in india, was undoubtedly a comprehensive one, but it was equally comprehensive in the west.
83,645. (sir murray hammick). the witness did not wish to recruit definite proportions of the service in england and in india respectively. he would for various reasons prefer a large number of indians engaged in education.
83,646. even in calcutta he would not make any difference between the pay of the indian and the pay of the european.
83,647. (sir valentine chirol). the witness attached great value to the influence of the teacher upon the student in the earlier stages of his education, and it was in these stages that that influence could best be exercised. at the same time he desired to limit the appointment of non-indians to men of very great distinction.
83,648. if a foreign professor would not come and serve in india for the same remuneration as he obtained in his own country, the witness would certainly not force him to come.
83,649. (mr. abdur rahim). recruitment for the educational service should be made in the first place in india, if suitable men were available; but if not then he would allow the best outsiders to be brought in. in the present state of the country it would be very easy to fill up many of the chairs by selecting the best men in india.
83,650. the aim of the universities should be to promote two classes of work--first, research; and secondly, an all-round sound education. men of different types would be required for these two duties.
83,651. (mr. madge). any idea that the educational system of india was so far inferior to that of england, that indians, who had made their mark, had done so, not because of the educational system of the country, but in spite of it, was quite unfounded. the standard of education prevailing in india was quite up to the mark of several british universities. it was as true of any other country in the world as of india that education was valued as a means for passing examinations, and not only for itself, and there was no more cramming in india than elsewhere.
83,652. the west certainly brought to the east a modern spirit, which was very valuable, but it would be dearly purchased by the loss of an honorable career for competent indians in their own country.
83,653. the educational system in india had in the past been too mechanical, but a turn for the better was now taking place and the universities were recognising the importance of research work, and were willing to give their highest degrees to encourage it.
83,654. (mr. macdonald). the witness did not think it was necessary to have a non-indian element in the service in order to stiffen it up, but he accepted the principle that there should be a certain small proportion of non-indians.
83,655. the title of professor at a college or university should carry with it dignity and honour, and ought not to be so freely used as at present. all he asked was that it should not be abolished at the expense of such indians as were doing as good work as their european colleagues.
83,656. if the calcutta university continued to develop its teaching side, there would be no objection to recruiting university professors from aided colleges. this would have certain advantages.
83,657. (mr. fisher). the witness desired to secure for india europeans who had european reputations in their different branches of study. if it was necessary to go outside india or england to procure good men, he would prefer to go to germany. this was the practice in america where they were annexing all the great intellects of europe.
83,658. the witness would like to see india entering the world movement in the advance and march of knowledge. it was of the highest importance that there should be an intellectual atmosphere in india. it would be of advantage if there were many indians in the educational service. for they came more in contact with the people, and influenced their intellectual activity. besides, on retirement they would live in india and their life experience would be at their countrymen's service.
83,659. there was very little in the complaint made in certain quarters that the work of the professors in the colleges in india was hampered by the government regulations as to curricula. a good teacher was not troubled by such matters.
83,660. (mr. sly). there was no scope for the employment of non-indians in the high schools as apart from the colleges. it was in the professorial line that more help from the west was required.
83,661. (mr. gokhale). the witness knew of three instances in which the colonies had secured distinguished men on salaries which were lower than these given to officers of the indian educational service. one was at toronto, another was in new zealand and the third at yale university. the salaries on the two latter cases were £600 and £500 a year. the same held good as regards japan. the facts there had been stated in a government of india publication as follows: "subsequent to 1895 there were 67 professors recruited in europe and america, of those, 20 came from germany, 16 from england and 16 from the united states. the average pay was £384. in the highest imperial university the average pay is £684. as soon as japanese could be found to do the work, even tolerably well, the foreigner was dropped."
83,662. when the witness first started work in india, he found that there was no physical laboratory, or any grant made for a practical experimental course. he had to construct instruments with the help of local mechanics, whom he had to train. all this took him ten years. he then undertook original investigation at his own expense. the royal society became specially interested in his work and desired to give him a parliamentary grant for its continuation. it was after this that the government of bengal came forward and offered him facilities for research.
83,663. in the educational service he would take men of achievement from anywhere; but men of promise he would take from his own country.
83,664. (mr. chaubal). he did not know whether the salaries he had mentioned as having been paid in japan, new zealand and yale were on an incremental scale or not.
83,665. there was a difference of kind between the way in which students were taught in schools and the way in which they were taught in colleges. he did not agree with the witnesses who had said that during the first year or two years at college the instruction given was similar to that given in a school. it was very difficult to disprove or to prove such statements. there would be no advantage in keeping boys to a school course up the intermediate standard and making the colleges deal with only those students who had passed the intermediate examination.
83,666. (sir theodore morison). there should be one scale of pay for all persons in the higher educational department. the rate of salary, rs. 200 rising to rs. 1,500 per month, was suitable, subject to the proviso that the man of great distinction, instead of beginning at the lowest rate of pay, should start some where in the middle of the list, say, at rs. 400 or rs. 500. he would make no reference in regard to europeans or indians in that respect. in effect this no doubt amounted to making indians eligible for higher educational posts both by direct recruitment and by promotion.
83,667. he would not favour the handing over of all the government institutions in bengal to private agencies; there must be one or two government colleges in order to keep up the standard. he should be sorry to see the government dissociating itself from one of its primary duties, which was education.
83,668. privately managed colleges paid less in salary than the government colleges. they paid about the same as was given in the provincial service, and they obtained fairly good men. it would not be right for a great government to grant a minimum pay to indian professors and an extravagantly high pay to their european colleagues, for doing the same kind of work.
83,669. at the presidency college the facilities for scientific work were now greater than in many institutions in england. india was now becoming a great country for biological research. again, the physical and chemical laboratories at the presidency college were finer than many in england. if young men of science in england thought they obtained better opportunities in pursuing their subjects in new zealand and toronto than in india, the india office ought to remove that impression at once.
83,670. (lord ronaldshay). when an indian graduate under the witnesses' scheme was appointed direct to the higher service in india he would not compel him to go to england for a period of training. the person who would be appointed in india directly from the indian universities would have to have previously served with distinction in subordinate positions; a visit to europe would be an advantage but not absolutely necessary.
83,671. (mr. biss). the cost of living in calcutta to an indian professor or lecturer would all depend as the style in which he lived. in each service there is always a standard of living to which every member is expected to conform. an indian professor had to go to europe from time to time to keep himself in touch with the developments of his subject. an indian officer had to support a large number of relations. the question of a man's private expenses should not be raised in fixing his pay. one might as well inquire whether the candidate for admission to the service was a bachelor or married, or as to how many children he had. he had known europeans who had led a simple life, and had been all the better for it.
83,672. he could not understand why men went to japan and canada instead of coming to india on better terms. it was a mystery to him. he thought it was either sheer ignorance or the spread of the commercial spirit.
83,673. all the students coming to his side of the university, were, as a rule, keen and anxious to learn; he could not wish for better students.
83,674. (mr. gupta). he desired one service, because he thought it was most degrading that certain men, although they were doing the same work, should be classed in a provincial service, while others should be classed in an imperial service. the prospect of the members of the provincial service were not at all what they ought to be, and that was the reason why the best men were not attracted to it.
prof. j. c. bose at madura
on his way back to calcutta from the fourth scientific deputation to the west, prof. j. c. bose visited madura, 14th june 1915. the tamil sangam presented him with an address. in reply dr. bose made an important speech, in course of which he said:--
i am no longer a representative of bengal nor have i come to a strange place, but as an indian addressing the mighty india and her people. when we realise that unity of our destiny then a great future opens out for us.
it may be we may theorise and attribute to the plants all the characteristics of the animals; but that will be merely theory: there will be no proof. there are certain classes of people who think that plants are utterly unlike animals and some hold that they are like animals. the mere theory is absolutely worthless in order to find out the truth. we have to find by investigation, by means of researches, by means of proofs, that one is identical with the other. we have not only to drop all theory but we have to make the plant itself write down the answers to the questions that we have to put to them. that was the great problem,--how to make the plant itself answer and write down answers to the question....
if the plants are acted on by various medicines and drugs like ourselves, then we can create an agent or a spokesman on which we can carry out all future investigations on the action of drugs. then there is opened out a great vista for the scientific study of medicine. and let me tell you medicine is not yet an exact science. it is merely a phase of tradition. we have not been able to make medicine scientific. now by the data of the influence of drugs on the fundamental basis of life, as is seen in the plant, we shall be able to make the science of medicine purely scientific.
in travelling all over the world, which i have done several times, i was struck by two great characteristics of different nations. one characteristic of certain nations is living for the future. all the modern nations are striving to win force and power from nature. there is another class of men who live on the glory of the past. now, what is to be the future of our nation? are we to live only on the glory of the past and die off from the face of the earth, to show that we are worthy descendants of the glorious past and to show by our work, by our intellect and by our service that we are not a decadent nation? we have still a great and mighty future before us, a future that will justify our ancestry. in talking about ancestry, do we ever realise that the only way in which we can do honour to our past is not to boast of what our ancestors have done but to carry out in the future something as great, if not greater than they. are we to be a living nation, to be proud of our ancestry and to try to win renown by continuous achievements? these mighty monuments that i see around me tell us what has been done till very recent times. i have travelled over some of the greatest ruins of the universities of india. i have been to the ruins of the university of taxilla in the farthest corner of india which attracted the people of the west and the east. i had been to the ruins of nalanda, a university which invited all the west to gain knowledge under its intellectual fostering. i had been all there and seen them. i have come here also and want to visit conjeevaram. but are you to foster the dead honours or to try to bring back your university in india and drag once more from the rest of the world people who would come down and derive knowledge from india? it is in that way and that way alone we can win our self-respect and make our life and the life of the nation worthy. the present era is the era of temples of learning. in order to erect temples of learning we require all the offerings of our mighty people. we want to erect temples and "viharas" which are so indispensable to the study of nature and her secrets. it is a problem which appeals to every thoughtful indian. it is by the effort of the people and by their generosity that all these mighty temples arose; and now are we to worship the dead stones or are we to erect living temples so that the knowledge that has been made in india shall be perpetuated in india? i received requests from the different universities in america and germany to allow students from those countries to come and learn the science that has been initiated in india. now, is this knowledge to pass beyond our boundaries to that again in future time we may have to go to the west to get back this knowledge or are we to keep this flame of learning burning all the time?
dr. j. c. bose entertained
party at ram mohan library
on saturday, 24th july, 1915, the members of the ram mohan library and reading room received dr. j. c. bose, the president of the library in a right royal fashion, on his return to india from his scientific deputation to the west.
there was a large and influential gathering, and the spacious hall was tastefully decorated.
babu bhupendra nath bose, vice-president of the library, made a brilliant speech welcoming dr. bose and detailing the great services done to the country by him.
dr. bose's reply
dr. bose in reply expressed his thanks for the great interest shown in different parts of this country in the success of his work. this was the fourth occasion on which he had been deputed to the west by the government of india on a scientific mission, and the success that has attended his visit to foreign countries has exceeded all his expectations. in vienna, in paris, in oxford, cambridge and london, in harvard, washington, chicago and columbia, in tokio and in many other places his work has uniformly been received with high appreciation. in spite of the fact that his researches called into question some of the existing theories, his results have notwithstanding received the fullest acceptance. this was due to a great extent to the convincing character of the demonstration afforded by the very delicate instruments he had been able to invent and which worked under extremely difficult tests with extraordinary perfection. even the most critical savants in vienna felt themselves constrained to make a most generous admission. in these new investigations on the border land between physics and physiology, they held that europe has been left behind by india, to which country they would now have to come for inspiration. it has also been fully recognised that science will derive benefit when the synthetic intellectual methods of the east co-operate with the severe analytical methods of the west. these opinions have also been fully endorsed in other centres of learning and dr. bose had received applications from distinguished universities in europe and america for admission of foreign post graduate scholars to be trained in his laboratory in the new scientific methods that have been initiated in india.
research laboratory for india
this recognition that the advance of human knowledge will be incomplete without india's special contributions, must be a source of great inspiration for future workers in india. his countrymen had the keen imagination which could extort truth out of a mass of disconnected facts and the habit of meditation without allowing the mind to dissipate itself. inspired by his visits to the ancient universities, at taxila, at nalanda and at conjevaram, dr. bose had the strongest confidence that india would soon see a revival of those glorious traditions. there will soon rise a temple of learning where the teacher cut off from worldly distractions would go on with his ceaseless pursuit after truth, and dying, hand on his work to his disciples. nothing would seem laborious in his inquiry; never is he to lose sight of his quest, never is he to let it go obscured by any terrestrial temptation. for he is the sanyasin spirit, and india is the only country where so far from there being a conflict between science and religion. knowledge is regarded as religion itself. such a misuse of science as is now unfortunately in evidence in the west would be impossible here. had the conquest of air been achieved in india, her very first impulse would be to offer worship at every temple for such a manifestation of the divinity in man.
economic danger of india
one of the most interesting events in his tour round the world was his stay in japan, where he had ample opportunity of becoming acquainted with the efforts of the people and their aspirations towards a great future. no one can help being filled with admiration for what they have achieved. in materialistic efficiency, which in a mechanical era is regarded as an index of civilisation, they have even surpassed their german teachers. a few decades ago they had no foreign shipping and no manufacture. but within an incredibly short time their magnificent lines of steamers have proved so formidable a competitor that the great american line in the pacific will soon be compelled to stop their sailings. their industries again, through the wise help of the state and other adventitious aids are capturing foreign markets. but far more admirable is their foresight to save their country from any embroilment with other nations with whom they want to live in peace. and they realise any predominant interest of a foreign country in their trade or manufacture is sure to lead to misunderstanding and friction. actuated by this idea they have practically excluded all foreign manufactured articles by prohibitive tariffs.
revival of indian industries
is our country slow to realise the danger that threatens her by the capture of her market and the total destruction of her industries? does she not realise that it is helpless passivity that directly provokes aggression? has not the recent happenings in china served as an object lesson? there is, therefore, no time to be lost and the utmost effort is demanded of the government and the people for the revival of our own industries. the various attempts that have hitherto been made have not been as successful as the necessity of the case demands. the efforts of the government and of the people have hitherto been spasmodic and often worked at cross purposes. the government should have an advisory body of indian members. there should be some modification of rules as regards selection of industrial scholars. before being sent out to foreign countries they should be made to study the conditions of manufacture in this country and its difficulties. for a particular industry there should be a co-ordinated group of three scholars, two for the industrial and one for the commercial side. difficulties would arise in adapting foreign knowledge to indian conditions. this can only be overcome by the devoted labour of men of originality, who have been trained in our future research laboratory. the government could also materially help (i) by offering facilities for the supply of raw materials (ii) by offering expert advice (iii) by starting experimental industries. he had reason to think that the government is full alive to the crucial importance of the subject and is determined to take every step necessary. in this matter the aims of the people and the government are one. in facing a common danger and in co-operation there must arise mutual respect and understanding. and perhaps through the very catastrophe that is threatening the world there may grow up in india a realisation of community of interest and solidarity as between government and people.
a call for nobler patriotism
a very serious danger is thus seen to be threatening the future of india, and to avert it will require the utmost effort of the people. they have not only to meet the economic crisis but also to protect the ideals of ancient aryan civilisation from the destructive forces that are threatening it. nothing great can be conserved except through constant effort and sacrifice. there is a danger of, regarding the mechanical efficiency as the sole end of life; there is also the opposite danger of a life of dreaming, bereft of struggle and activity, degenerating into parasitic habits of dependence. only through the nobler call of patriotism can our nation realise her highest ideals in thought and in action; to that call the nation will always respond. he had the inestimable privilege of winning the intimate friendship of mr. g. k. gokhale. before leaving england, our foremost indian statesman whose loss we so deeply mourn, had come to stay with the speaker for a few days at eastbourne. he knew that this was to be their last meeting. almost his parting question to dr. bose was whether science had anything to say about future incarnations. for himself, however he was certain that as soon as he would cast off his worn out frame he was to be born once more in the country he loved, and bear all the country that may be laid on him in her service. there can be no doubt that there must be salvation for a country which can count on sons as devoted as gopal krishna gokhale.
--amrita bazar patrika, 26-7-1915.
history of a discovery
at the tournament held before the court at hastinapur, more than twenty-five centuries ago, karna, the reputed son of a charioteer, had challenged the supremacy of prince arjuna. to this challenge arjuna had returned a scornful answer; a prince could not cross swords with one who could claim no nobility of descent. "i am my own ancestor," replied karna, and this perhaps the earliest assertion of the right of man to choose and determine his own destiny. in the realm of knowledge also the great achievements have been won only by men with determined purpose and without any adventitious aids. undismayed by human limitations they had struggled in spite of many a failure. in their inquiry after truth they regarded nothing as too laborious, nothing too insignificant, nothing too painful. this is the process which all must follow; there is no easier path.
the lecturer's research on the properties of electric waves was begun just twenty-one years ago. in this he was greatly encouraged by the appreciation shown by the royal society, which not only published his researches, but also offered a parliamentary grant for the continuance of his work. the greatest difficulty lay in the construction of a receiver to detect invisible ether disturbances. for this a most laborious investigation had to be undertaken to find the action of electric radiation on all kinds of matter. as a result of this long and very patient work a new type of receiver was invented, so perfect in its action that the electrician suggested its use in ships and electro-magnetic high houses for the communication and transmission of danger signals at sea through space. this was in 1895, several years in advance of the present wireless system. practical application of the result of dr. bose's investigations appear so important that great britain and the united states granted him patents for his invention of a certain crystal receiver which proved to be the most sensitive detector of wireless signals.
universal sensitiveness of matter
in the course of his investigations dr. bose found that the uncertainty of the early type of his receiver was brought on by fatigue, and that the curve of fatigue of his instrument closely resembled the fatigue curve of animal muscle. he was soon able to remove the 'tiredness' of his receiver by application of suitable stimulants; application of certain poisons, on the other hand, permanently abolished its sensitiveness. dr. bose was thus amazed at the discovery that inorganic matter was anything but inert, but that its particles were a thrill under the action of multitudinous forces that were playing on it. the lecturer was at this time constrained to choose whether to go on with the practical applications of his work, the success of which appeared to be assured, or to throw himself into a vortex of conflict for the establishment of some truth the glimmerings of which he was then but dimly beginning to perceive. it is very curious that the human mind is sometimes so constituted that it rejects lines of least resistance in favour of the more difficult path. dr. bose chose the more difficult path, and entered into a phase of activity which was to test all his strength.
caste in science
dr. bose's discovery of universal sensitiveness of matter was communicated to the royal society on may 7th, 1901, when he himself gave a successful experimental demonstration. his communication was, however, strongly assailed by sir john burden-sanderson, the leading physiologist, and one or two of his followers. they had nothing to urge against his experiments but objected to a physicist straying into the preserve that had been specially reserved for the physiologist. he had unwittingly strayed into the domain of a new and unfamiliar caste system and offended its etiquette. in consequence of this opposition his paper, which was already in print, was not published. this is not by any means to be regarded as an injustice done to a stranger. even lord rayleigh, who occupies an unique position in the world of science, was subjected to fierce attacks from the chemists, because he, a physicist, had ventured to predict that the air would be found to contain new elements not hitherto discovered.
it is natural that there should be prejudice against all innovations, and the attitude of sir john burden-sanderson is easily explained. unfortunately there was another incident about which similar explanation could not be urged. dr. bose's paper had been placed in the archives of the royal society, so that technically there was no publication. and it came about that eight months after the reading of his paper, another communication found publication in the journal of a different society which was practically the same as dr. bose's but without any acknowledgment. the author of this communication was a gentleman who had previously opposed him at the royal society. the plagiarism was subsequently discovered and led to much unpleasantness. it is not necessary to refer any more to the subject except as explanation of the fact that the determined hostility and misrepresentations of one man succeeded for more than ten years to bar all avenues of publication for his discoveries. but every cloud has its silver lining; this incident secured for him many true friends in england who stood for fair play, and whose friendship has proved to be a source of great encouragement to him.
dr. bose's next work in 1903 was the discovery of the identity of response and of automatic activity in plant and animal and of the nervous impulse in plant. these new contributions were regarded as of such great importance that the royal society showed its special appreciation by recommending it to be published in their philosophical transactions. but the same influence which had hitherto stood in his way triumphed once more, and it was at the very last moment that the publication was withheld. the royal society, however, informed him that his results were of fundamental importance, but as they were so wholly unexpected and so opposed to the existing theories, that they would reserve their judgment until, at some future time, plants themselves could be made to record their answers to questions put to them. this was interpreted in certain quarters here as the final rejection of dr. bose's theories by the royal society, and the limited facilities which he had in the prosecution of his researches were in danger of being withdrawn. and everything was dark for him for the next ten years. the only thought that possessed him was how to make the plant give testimony by means of its own autograph.
long delayed success
and when the night was at its darkest, light gradually appeared, and after innumerable difficulties had been overcome his resonant recorder was perfected, which enabled the plant to tell its own story. and in the meantime something still more wonderful came to pass. hitherto all gates had been barred and he had to produce his passports everywhere. he now found friends who never asked him for credentials. his time had come at last. the royal society found his new methods most convincing and honoured him by publication of his researches in the philosophical transactions. and his discoveries, which had so long remained in obscurity, found enthusiastic acceptance.
though his theories had thus received acceptance from the leading scientific men of the royal society, there was yet no general conviction of the identity of life reactions in plant and animal. no amount of controversy can remove the tendency of the human mind to follow precedents. the only thing left was to make the plant itself bear witness before the scientific bodies in the west, by means of self-records. at the recommendation of the minister of education, and of the government of bengal, the secretary of state sanctioned his scientific deputation to europe and america.
journey of indian plant round the world
the special difficulty which he had to contend against lay in the fact that the only time during which the plant flourished at all in the west, was in the months of july and august, when the universities and scientific societies were in vacation. the only thing left was to take the bold step of carrying growing plants from india and trust to human ingenuity to keep them alive during the journey. four plants, two mimosas and two telegraph plants, were taken in a portable box with glass cover, and never let out of sight. in the mediterranean they encountered bitter cold for the first time and nearly succumbed. they were unhappier still in the bay of biscay, and when they reached london there was a sharp frost. they had to be kept in a drawing room lighted by gas, the deadly influence of which was discovered the next morning when all the plants were found to be apparently killed. two had been killed, and the other two were brought round after much difficulty. the plants were at once transferred to the hot-house in regents park. for every demonstration in dr. bose's private laboratory at maida vale, the plant had to be brought and returned in a taxicab with closed doors so that no sudden chill might kill them. when travelling, the large box in which they were, could not be trusted out of sight in the luggage van. they had practically to be carried in a reserved compartment. the unusual care taken of the box always roused the greatest curiosity, and in an incredibly short time large crowds would gather. when travelling long distances, for example from london to vienna, the carriage accommodation had to be secured in advance. it was this that saved dr. bose from being interned in germany, where he was to commence his lectures on the 4th august. he was to start for the university of bonn on the 2nd, but on account of hasty mobilisation of troops in germany he could not secure the reserved accommodation. two days after came the proclamation of war!
outcome of his work
the success of his scientific mission exceeded his most sanguine expectations. the work in which he long persevered in isolation and under most depressing difficulties, bore fruit at last. apart from the full recognition that the progress of the world's science would be incomplete without india's special contributions, mutual appreciation and better understanding resulted from his visit. one of the greatest of medical institutions, the royal society of medicine, has been pleased to regard his address before the society as one of the most important in their history and they expected that their science of medicine would be materially benefited by the researches that are being carried out by him in india. india has also been drawn closer to the great seats of learning in the west, to the universities of oxford and cambridge; for there also the methods of inquiry initiated here have found the most cordial welcome. many indian students find their way to america, strangers in a strange land; hitherto they found few to advise and befriend them. it will perhaps be different now, since their leading universities have begged from india the courtesy of hospitality for their post graduate scholars. some of these universities again have asked for a supply of apparatus specially invented at dr. bose's laboratory which in their opinion will mark an epoch in scientific advance.
the ineffable wonder behind the veil
as for the research itself, he said its bearings are not exclusively specialistic, but touch the foundation of various branches of science. to mention only a few; in medicine it had to deal with the fundamental reaction of protoplasm to various drugs, the solution of the problem why an identical agent brings about diametrically opposite effects in different constitutions; in the science of life it dealt with the new comparative physiology by which any specific characteristic of a tissue is traced from the simplest type in plant to the most complex in the animal; the study of the mysterious phenomenon of death and the accurate determination of the death point and the various conditions by which this point may be dislocated backwards and forwards; in psychology it had to deal with the unravelling of the great mystery that underlies memory and tracing it backwards to latent impressions even in the inorganic bodies which are capable of subsequent revival; and finally, the determination of the special characteristic of that vehicle through which sensiferous impulses are transmitted and the possibility of changing the intensity and the tone of sensation. all these investigations, dr. bose said, are to be carried out by new physical methods of the utmost delicacy. he had in these years been able to remove the obstacles in the path and had lifted the veil so as to catch a glimpse of the ineffable wonder that had hitherto been hidden from view. the real work, he said, had only just begun.
a social gathering
at the social gathering held on the 16th december 1915, in the compound of the calcutta presidency college, to meet him after his highly successful tour through europe, america and japan, dr. bose spoke as follows:--
he said that it was his rare good fortune to have been amply rewarded for the hardships and struggles that he had gone through by the generous and friendly feelings of his colleagues and the love and trust of his pupils. he would say a few words regarding his experience in the presidency college for more than three decades, which he hoped would serve to bring all who loved the presidency college--present and past pupils and their teachers--in closer bonds of union. he would speak to them what he had learnt after years of patient labour, that the impossible became possible by persistent and determined efforts and adherence to duty and entire selflessness. the greatest obstacle often arises out of foolish misunderstanding of each other's ideals, such as the differing points of view, first of the indian teacher, then of his western colleague, and last but not least, the point of view of the indian pupils themselves. in all these respects his experience had been wide and varied. he had both been an undergraduate and a graduate of the calcutta university with vivid realization of an indian student's aspirations; he had then become a student of conservative cambridge and democratic london. and during his frequent visits to europe and america he had become acquainted with the inner working of the chief universities of the world. finally he had the unique privilege of being connected with the presidency college for thirty-one years, from which no temptation could sever him. he had the deepest sense of the sacred vocation of the teacher. they may well be proud of a consecrated life--consecrated to what? to the guidance of young lives, to the making of men, to the shaping and determining of souls in the dawn of their existence, with their dreams yet to be realised.
education in the west and in the east showed how different customs and ways might yet express a common ideal. in india the teacher was, like the head of a family, reverenced by his pupils so deeply as to show itself by touching the feet of their master. this in no servile act if we come to think of it; since it is the expression of the pupils' desire for his master's blessings, called down from heaven in an almost religious communion of souls. this consecration is renewed every day, calling forth patient foresight of the teacher. as the father shows no special favour, but lets his love and compassion go out to the weakest, so it is with the indian teacher and his pupil. there is the relation something very human, something very ennobling. he would say it was essentially human rather than distinctively eastern. for do we not find something very like it in mediaeval europe? there too before the coming of the modern era with its lack of leisure and its adherence to system and machinery, there was a bond as sacred between the master and his pupils. luther used to salute his class every morning with lifted hat, "i bow to you, great men of the future, famous administrators yet to be, men of learning, men of character who will take on themselves the burden of the world." such is the prophetic vision given to the greatest of teachers. the modern teacher from england will set before him an ideal not less exalted--regarding his pupils as his comrades, he as an englishman will instill into them greater virility and a greater public spirit. this will be his special contribution to the forming of our indian youths.
turning to the indian students he could say that it was his good fortune never to have had the harmonious relation between teacher and pupils in any way ruffled during his long connection with them for more than three decades. the real secret of success was in trying at times to see things from the student's point of view and to cultivate a sense of humour enabling him to enjoy the splendid self-assurance of youth with a feeling not unmixed with envy. in essential matters, however, one could not wish to meet a better type or one more quickly susceptible to finer appeals to right conduct and duty as indian students. their faults are rather of omission than of commission, since in his experience he formed that the moment they realised their teachers to be their friends, they responded instantly and did not flinch from any test, however severe, that could be laid on them.
--the presidency college magazine. vol. ii, pages 339-341.
light visible and invisible
on the 14th january 1916, dr. j. c. bose delivered a public lecture, on light visible and invisible, at the third indian science congress held at lucknow, before a crowded audience which included the lieutenant-governor (sir james meston).
dr. bose, in course of his lecture, spoke of the imperfection of our senses. our ear, for example, fails to respond to all sounds. there are many sounds to which we are deaf. this was because our ear was tuned to answer to the narrow range of eleven octaves of sound vibrations. he showed a remarkable experiment of an artificial ear which remained irresponsive to various sounds, but when a particular note, to which it was tuned, was sounded even at the distant end of the hall, this ear picked it up and responded violently. as there were sounds audible and inaudible, so there were lights visible and invisible. the imperfection of our eye as a detector of ether vibrations was, however, far more serious. the eye could detect ether vibrations lying within a single octave--between 400 to 800 billion vibrations per second. comparatively slow vibrations of ether did not affect our eye and the disturbances they give rise to well-known as electric waves. the electric waves, predicted by maxwell, were discovered by hertz. these waves were about three metres long. they were about ten million times larger than the beams of visible light. dr. bose showed that the three short electric waves have the same property as a beam of light, exhibiting reflections, refraction, even total reflection, through a black crystal, double refraction, polarisation, and rotation of the plane of polarisation. the thinnest film of air was sufficient to produce total reflection of visible light with its extremely short wave lengths. but with the new electric waves which he produced, dr. bose showed that the critical thickness of air space determined by the refracting power of the prison and by the wave length of electric oscillations. dr. bose determined the index of refraction of electric waves for different materials, and eliminated a difficulty which presented itself in maxwell's theory as to the relation between the index of refraction of light and the di-electric constant of insulators. he also measured the wave lengths of various oscillations. the order to produce short electric oscillations, to detect them and study their optical properties, he had to construct a large number of instruments. it was a hard task to produce very short electric waves which had enough energy to be detected, but dr. bose overcame this difficulty by constructing radiators or oscillators of his own type, which emitted the shortest waves with sufficient energy. as a receiver he used a sensitive metallic coherer, which in itself led to new and important discoveries. when electric waves fall on a loose contact between two pieces of metals, the resistance of the contact changes and a current passes through the contact indicating the existence of electrical oscillations. dr. bose discovered the surprising fact that with potassium metal the resistance of the contact increases under the action of electric waves and that this contact exhibits an automatic recovery. he found further that the change of the metallic contact resistance when acted upon by electric waves, is a function of the atomic weight. these phenomena led to a new theory of metallic coherers. before these discoveries it was assumed that the particles of the two metallic pieces in contact are, as it were, fused together, so that the resistance decreases. but the increasing resistance appearing for some elements, led to the theory that the electric forces in the waves produced a peculiar molecular action or a re-arrangement of the molecules, which may either increase or decrease the contact resistance.
hindu university address
the foundation of the hindu university was laid by lord hardinge on the 4th february 1916. "many striking addresses were delivered on the occasion. professor j.c. bose in his masterly address went to the root of the matter and pointed in an inspiring manner what should be done to make the hindu university worthy of its name. he deprecated a repetition of the universities of the west." he said:--
in tracing the characteristic phenomenon of life from simple beginnings in that vast region which may be called unvoiced, as exemplified in the world of plants, to its highest expression in the animal kingdom, one is repeatedly struck by the one dominant fact that in order to maintain an organism at the height of its efficiency something more than a mechanical perfection of its structure is necessary. every living organism, in order to maintain its life and growth, must be in free communion with all the forces of the universe about it.
stimulus within and without
further, it must not only constantly receive stimulus from without, but must also give out something from within, and the healthy life of the organism will depend on these two fold activities of inflow and outflow. when there is any interference with these activities, then morbid symptoms appear, which ultimately must end in disaster and death. this is equally true of the intellectual life of a nation. when through narrow conceit a nation regards itself self-sufficient and cuts itself from the stimulus of the outside world, then intellectual decay must inevitably follow.
special function of a nation
so far as regards the receptive function. then there is another function in the intellectual life of a nation, that of spontaneous outflow, that giving out of its life by which the world is enriched. when the nation has lost this power, when it merely receives, but cannot give out, then its healthy life is over, and it sinks into a degenerate existence which is purely parasitic.
how india can teach
how can our nation give out of the fulness of the life that is in it, and how can a new indian university help in the realisation of this object? it is clear that its power of directing and inspiring will depend on its world status. this can be secured to it by no artificial means, nor by any strength in the past; and what is the weakness that has been paralysing her activities for the accomplishment of any great scientific work? there must be two different elements, and these must be evenly balanced. any excess of either will injure it.
how to secure this status
this world status can only be won by the intrinsic value of the great contributions to be made by its own indian scholars for the advancement of the world's knowledge. to be organic and vital our new university must stand primarily for self-expression, and for winning for india a place she has lost. knowledge is never the exclusive possession of any particular race, nor does it recognise geographical limitations. the whole world is interdependent, and a constant stream of thought had been carried out throughout the ages enriching the common heritage of mankind. although science was neither of the east nor of the west but international, certain aspects of it gained richness by reason of their place of origin.
in any case if india need to make any contribution to the world it should be as great as the hope they cherished for her. let them not talk of the glories of the past till they have secured for her, her true place among the intellectual nations of the world. let them find out how she had fallen from her high estate and ruthlessly put an end to all that self satisfied and little-minded vanity which had been the cause of their fatal weakness. what was it that stood in her way? was her mind paralysed by weak superstitious fears? that was not so; for her great thinkers, the rishis, always stood for freedom of intellect and while galileo was imprisoned and bruno burnt for their opinions, they boldly declared that even the vedas were to be rejected if they did not conform to truth. they urged in favour of persistent efforts for the discovery of physical causes yet unknown, since to them nothing was extra-physical but merely mysterious because of a hitherto unascertained cause. were they afraid that the march of knowledge was dangerous to true faith? not so. for their knowledge and religion were one.
these are the hopes that animate us. for there is something in the hindu culture which is possessed of extraordinary latent strength by which it has resisted the ravages of time and the destructive changes which have swept over the earth. and indeed a capacity to endure through infinite transformations must be innate in that mighty civilisation which has seen the intellectual culture of the nile valley, of assyria and of babylon war and wane and disappear and which to-day gazes on the future with the same invincible faith with which it met the past.
--modern review, vol. xix, pages 277, 278.
the history of a failure that was great
it is the obvious, the insistent, the blatant that often blinds us to the essential. and in solving the mystery that underlies life, the enlightenment will come not by the study of the complex man, but through the simpler plant. it is the unsuspected forces, hidden to the eyes of men,--the forces imprisoned in the soil and the stimuli of alternating flash of light and the gloomings of darkness these and many others will be found to maintain the ceaseless activity which we know as the fulness of throbbing life.
this is likewise true of the congeries of life which we call a society or a nation. the energy which moves this great mass in ceaseless effort to realise some common aspiration, often has its origin in the unknown solitudes of a village life. and thus the history of some efforts, not forgotten, which emanated from faridpore, may be found not unconnected with which india is now meeting her problems to-day. how did these problems first dawn in the minds of some men who forecast themselves by half a century? how fared their hopes, how did their dreams become buried in oblivion? where lies the secret of that potency which makes certain efforts apparently doomed to failure, rise renewed from beneath the smouldering ashes? are these dead failures, so utterly unrelated to some great success that we may acclaim to day? when we look deeper we shall find that this is not so, that as inevitable as in the sequence of cause and effect, so unrelenting must be the sequence of failure and success. we shall find that the failure must be the antecedent power to lie dormant for the long subsequent dynamic expression in what we call success. it is then and then only that we shall begin to question ourselves which is the greater of the two, a noble failure or a vulgar success.
as a concrete example, i shall relate the history of a noble failure which had its setting in this little corner of the earth. and if some of the audience thought that the speaker has been blessed with life that has been unusually fruitful, they will soon realise that the power and strength that nerved me to meet the shocks of life were in reality derived at this very place, where i witnessed the struggle which overpowered a far greater life.
stimulus of contact with western culture
in educational matters he had very definite ideas which is now becoming more fully appreciated. english schools were at that time not only regarded as the only efficient medium for instruction. while my father's subordinates sent their children to the english schools intended for gentle folks, i was sent to the vernacular school where my comrades were hardy sons of toilers and of others who, it is now the fashion to regard, were belonging to the depressed classes. from these who tilled the ground and made the land blossom with green verdure and ripening corn, and the sons of the fisher folk, who told stories of the strange creatures that frequented the unknown depths of mighty rivers and stagnant pools, i first derived the lesson of that which constitutes true manhood. from them too i drew my love of nature. when i came home accompanied by my comrades i found my mother waiting for us. she was an orthodox hindu, yet the "untouchableness" of some of my school fellows did not produce any misgivings in her. she welcomed and fed all these as her own children; for it is only true of the mother heart to go out and enfold in her protecting care all those who needed succour and a mother's affection. i now realise the object of my being sent at the most plastic period of my life to the vernacular school, where i was to learn my own language, to think my own thoughts and to receive the heritage of our national culture through the medium of our own literature. i was thus to consider myself one with the people and never to place myself in an equivocal position of assumed superiority. this i realised more particularly when later i wished to go to europe and to compete for the indian civil service, his refusal as regards that particular career was absolute. i was to rule nobody but myself, i was to be a scholar not an administrator.
the history of a failure that was great
there has been some complaint that the experiment of meeting out cut and dried moral texts as a part of school routine has not proved to be so effective as was expected by their promulgators. the moral education which we received in our childhood was very indirect and came from listening to stories recited by the 'kathas' on various incidents connected with our great epics. their effect on our minds was very great; this may be because our racial memory makes us more prone to respond to certain ideals that have been impressed on the consciousness of the nation. these early appeals to our emotions have remained persistent; the only difference is that which was there as a narrative of incidents more or less historical, is now realised as eternally true, being an allegory of the unending struggle of the human soul in its choice between what is material and that other something which transcends it. the only pictures now in my study are a few frescoes done for me by abanindra nath tagore and nanda lal bose. the first fresco represents her, who is the sustainer of the universe. she stands pedestalled on the lotus of our heart. the world was at peace; but a change has come. and she under whose veil of compassion we had been protected so long, suddenly flings us to the world of conflict. our great epic, the mahabharata, deals with this great conflict, and the few frescoes delineate some of the fundamental incidents. the coming of the discord is signalled by the rattle of dice, thrown by yudhisthira, the pawn at stake, being the crown. two hostile arrays are set in motion, mighty kaurava armaments meeting in shock of battle the pandava host with arjuna as the leader, and krishna as his divine charioteer. at the supreme moment arjuna had flung down his earthly weapon, gandiva. it was then that the eternal conflict between matter and spirit was decided. the next panel shows the outward or the material aspect of victory. behind a foreground of waving flags is seen the battle field of kurukshetra with procession of white-clad mourning women seen by fitful lights of funeral pyres. in the last panel is seen yudhisthira renouncing the fruits of his victory setting out on his last journey. in front of him lies the vast and sombre plain and mountain peaks, faintly visible by gleams of unearthly light, unlocalised but playing here and there. his wife and his brothers had fallen behind and dropped one by one. there is to be no human companion in his last journey. the only thing that stood by him and from which he had never been really separated is dharma or the spirit of righteousness.
life of action
faridpur at that time enjoyed a notoriety of being the stronghold of desperate characters, dacoits by land and water. my father had captured single-handed one of the principal leaders, whom he sentenced to a long term of imprisonment. after release he came to my father and demanded some occupation, since the particular vocation in which he had specialised was now rendered impossible. my father took the unusual course to employ him as my special attendant to carry me, a child of four, on his back to the distant village school. no nurse could be tenderer than this ex-leader of lawless men, whose profession had been to deal out wounds and deaths. he had accepted a life of peace but he could not altogether wipe out his old memories. he used to fill my infant mind with the stories of his bold adventures, the numerous fights in which he had taken part, the death of his companions and his hair-breadth escapes. numerous were the decorations he bore. the most conspicuous was an ugly mark on his breast left by an arrow and a hole on the thigh caused by a spear thrust. the trust imposed on this marauder proved to be not altogether ill placed for once in a river journey we were pursued by several long boats filled with armed dacoits. when these boats came too near for us to effect an escape the erstwhile dacoit leader, my attendant, stood up and gave a peculiar cry, which was evidently understood. for the pursuing boats vanished at the signal.
i come now to another period of his life fifty years from now, when he foresaw the economic danger that threatened his country. this agricultural and industrial exhibition was one of the first means he thought of to avert the threatened danger. here also he attempted to bring together other activities. evening entertainments were given by the performances of "jatras," which have been the expression of our national drama and which have constantly enriched our bengali literature by the contributions of village bards and composers. there were athletic tournaments also and display of physical strength and endurance. he also established here the people's bank, which is now in a most flourishing condition. he established industrial and technical schools, and it was there that the inventive bend of my mind received its first impetus. i remember the deep impression made on my mind by the form of worship rendered by the artisans to viswakarma god in his aspect as the great artificer: his hand it was that was moulding the whole creation; and it seemed that we were the instruments in his hand, through whom he intended to fashion some great design.
in practical agriculture my father was among indians one of the first to start a tea industry in assam, now regarded as one of the most flourishing. he gave practically everything in the starting of some weaving mills. he stood by this and many other efforts in industrial developments. the success of which i spoke did not come till long after--too late for him to see it. he had come before the country was ready, and it happened to him as it must happen to all pioneers. every one of his efforts failed and the crash came. and a great burden fell on us which was only lifted by our united effects just before his work here was over.
a failure? yes but not ignoble or altogether futile. since it was through the witnessing of this struggle that the son learned to look on success or failure as one, to realise that some defeat was greater than victory. and if my life in any way proved to be fruitful, then that came through the realisation of this lesson.
to me his life had been one of blessing and daily thanksgiving. nevertheless every one had said that he wrecked his life which was meant for far greater things. few realise that out of the skeletons of myriad lives have been built vast continents. and it is on the wreck of a life like his and of many such lives there will be built the greater india yet to be. we do not know why it should be so, but we do know that the earth mother is hungry for sacrifice.
quest of truth and duty
in your congratulations for the recent honour, you have overlooked a still greater that came to me a year ago, when i was gazetted as your perpetual professor, so that the tie which binds me to you is never to be severed. thirty-two years ago i sought to be your teacher. for the trust that you imposed on me could i do anything less than place before you the highest that i knew? i never appealed to your weaknesses but your strength. i never set before you that was easy but used all the compulsion for the choice of the most difficult. and perhaps as a reward for these years of effort i find all over india those who have been my pupils occupying positions of the highest trust and responsibility in different walks of life. i do not merely count those who have won fame and success but i also claim many others who have taken up the burden of life manfully and whose life of purity and unselfishness has brought gleams of joy in suffering lives.
the law universal
through science i was able to teach you how the seeming veils the real; how though the garish lights dazzle and blind us, there are lights invisible, which glow persistently after the brief flare burns out. one came to realise how all matter was one, how unified all life was. in the various expressions of life even in the realm of thought the same universal law prevails. there was no such thing as brute matter, but that spirit suffused matter in which it was enshrined. one also realised dimly a mysterious cyclic law of change, seen not merely in inorganic matter but also in organised life and its highest manifestations. one saw how inertness passes into the climax of activity and how that climax is perilously near its antithetic decline. this basic change puzzles us by its seeming caprice not merely in our physical instruments but also in the cycle of individual life and death and in the great cycle of the life and death of nations. we fail to see things in their totality and we erect barriers that keep kindreds apart. even science which attempts to rise above common limitations, has not escaped the doom which limited vision imposes. we have caste in science as in religion and in politics, which divides one into conflicting many. the law of cyclic change follows us relentlessly even in the realm of thought. when we have raised ourselves to the highest pinnacle, through some oversight we fall over the precipice. men have offered their lives for the establishment of truth. a climax is reached after which the custodians of knowledge themselves bar further advance. men who have fought for liberty impose on themselves and on others the bond of slavery. through centuries have men striven to erect a mighty edifice in which humanity might be enshrined; through want of vigilance the structure crumbled into dust. many cycles must yet be run and defeats must yet be borne before man will establish a destiny which is above change.
and through science i was able to teach you to seek for truth and help to discover it yourself. this attitude of detachment may possess some advantage in the proper understanding of your duties. you will have, besides, the heritage of great ideals that have been handed down to you. the question which you have to decide is duty to yourself, to the king and to your country. i shall speak to you of the ideals which we cherish about these duties.
duty to self
as regards duty to self, can there be anything so inclusive as being true to your manhood? stand upright and do not be either cringing or vulgarly self-assertive. be righteous. let your words and deeds correspond. lead no double life. proclaim what you think right.
ideal of kingship
the indian ideal of kingship will be clear to you if i recite the invocation with which we crowned our kings from the vedic times:
which is more potent, matter or spirit? is the power with which the people endow their king identical with the power of wealth with which we enrich him by paying him his royal dues? we make him irresistible not by wealth but by the strength of our lives, the strength of our mind, may, we have to pay him more according to our ancient lawgivers, in as much as the eighth part of our deeds and virtues, and the merit we have ourselves acquired. we can only make him irresistible by the strength of our lives, the strength of our minds, and the strength that comes out of righteousness.
duty to our country
and lastly, what are our duties to our country? these are essentially to win honour for it and also win for it security and peace. as regards winning honour for our country, it is true that while india has offered from the earliest times welcome and hospitality to all peoples and nationalities her children have been subjected to intolerable humiliations in other countries even under the flag of our king.
there can be no question of the fundamental duty of every indian to stand up and uphold the honour of his country and strove for the removal of wrong.
the general task of redressing wrong is not a problem of india alone, but one in which the righteous men are interested the world over. for wrong cries for redress everywhere, in the clashings interests of the rich and poor, between capital and labour, between those who hold the power and those from whom it has been withheld,--in a word in the struggle of the disinherited.
when any man is rendered unable to uphold his manhood and self-respect and woman are deprived of the chivalrous protection and consideration of men and subjected to degradation, the general level of manhood or womanhood in the world is lowered. it then becomes an outrage to humanity and a challenge to all men to safeguard the sacredness of our common human nature.
what is the machinery which sets a going a world movement for the redress of wrong? for this i need not cite instances from the history of other countries but take one which is known to you and in which the living actors are still among us. in the midst of the degradation of his countrymen in south africa, there stood up a man himself nurtured in luxury, to take up the burden of the disinherited. his wife too stood by him, a lady of gentle birth. we all know who that man is--he is gandhi,--and what humiliations and suffering he went through. do you think he suffered in vain and that his voice remained unheard? it was not so, for in the great vortex of passion for justice, there were caught others--men like polak and andrews. are they your countrymen? not in the narrow sense of the word but truly in a larger sense, that these who choose to bear and suffer belong to one clan the clan from which kshatriya chivalry is recruited. the removal of suffering and of the cause of suffering is the dharma of the strong kshatriya. the earth is the wide and universal theatre of man's woeful pageant. the question is who is to suffer more than his share. is the burden to fall on the weak or the strong? is it to be under hopeless compulsion or of voluntary acceptance?
defence of homeland
in your services for your country there is no higher at the present moment than to ensure for her security and peace. we have so long enjoyed the security of peace without being called upon to maintain it. but this is no longer so.
at no time within the recent history of india has there been so quick a readjustment and appreciation as regards proper understanding of the aspiration of the indian people. this has been due to what india has been able to offer not merely in the regions of thought but also in the fields of battle.
and remember that when the world is in conflagration, this corner which has hitherto escaped it, will not evade the peril which threatens it. the march of disaster will then be terribly rapid. you have soon to prepare yourself against any hostile sides. you can only withstand it if the whole people realise the imminent danger. you can by your thought and by your action awaken and influence the multitude. do not have any misgivings about the want of long previous preparations. have you not already seen how mind triumphs over matter and have not some of you with only a few months' preparation stood fearless at your post in mesopotamia and won recognition by your calm collectedness and true heroism? they may say that you are but a small handful, what of the vast illiterate millions? illiterate in what sense? have not the ballads of these illiterates rendered into english by our poet touched profoundly the hearts of the very elect of the west? have not the stories of their common life appealed to the common kinship of humanity? if you still have some doubts about the power of the multitude to respond instantly to the call of duty, i shall relate an incident which came within my own personal experience. i had gone on a scientific expedition to the borders of the himalayan terrai of kumaun; a narrow ravine was between me and the plateau on the other side. terror prevailed among the villagers on the other side of the ravine; for a tigress had come down from the forest. and numerous had been the toll in human lives exacted. petitions had been sent up to the government and questions had been asked in parliament. a reward of rs. 500 had been offered. various captains in the army with battery of guns came many a time, but the reward remained unclaimed. the murderess of the forest would come out even in broad day-light and leisurely take her victims from away their companions. nothing could circumvent her demoniac cunning. when all hopes had nearly vanished, the villagers went to kaloo singh, who possessed an old matchlock. at the special sanction of the magistrate he was allowed to buy a quantity of gunpowder; the bullets he himself made by melting bits of lead. with his primitive weapon with the entreaties of his villagers ringing in his ears kaloo singh started on his perilous journey. at midday i was startled by the groanings of some animals in pain. the tigress had sprung among a herd of buffalo and with successive strokes of its mighty paws had killed two buffaloes and left them in the field. kaloo singh waited there for the return of the tigress to the kill. there was not a tree near by; only there was a low bush behind which he lay crouched. after hours of waiting as the sun was going down he was taken aback by the sudden apparition of the tigress which stood within six feet of him. his limbs had become half paralysed from cold and his crouching position. trying to raise his gun he could take no aim as his arm was shaking with involuntary fear. kaloo singh explained to me afterwards how he succeeded in shaking off his mortal terror. "i quietly said to myself, kaloo singh, kaloo singh, who sent you here? did not the villagers put their trust on you! i could then no longer lie in hiding, and i stood up and something strange and invigorating crept up strength into my body. all the trembling went and i became as hard as steel. the tigress had seen me and with eyes blazing crouched for the spring lashing its tail. only six feet lay between. she sprang and my gun also went off at the same time and she missed her aim and fell dead close to me." that was how a common villager went off to meet death at the call of something for which he could give no name and the mother and wife of kaloo singh had also bidden him go. there are millions of kaloo singhs with mother and sisters and wife to send them forth. and you too have many loved ones who would themselves bid you arm for the defence of your homes.
difference of temperament
the concessions made by a modern form of government safeguarded by necessary limitations may appear almost as grudging gifts. the indian wants something which comes with unhesitating frankness and warmth and strikes his ideality and imagination. but ancient and modern kingship are sometimes at one in direct and spontaneous pronouncement of the royal sympathy. such was the proclamation of queen victoria which stirred to its depths the popular heart.
"in the prosperity of our subjects will be our strength, in their contentment our security, in their gratitude our best reward."
that there are increasingly frequent reflexes in our government to popular needs and wishes is happily illustrated at a most opportune moment from the statements in the recent gazette of india and cables received from london. in the former we find that the viceroy and his council had recommended the abolition of the system of indentured labour. in the telegram from london mr. chamberlain states that the viceroy has informed him that indians will be eligible for commissions in the new defence of india army.
march of world tragedy
in the meantime the embodiment of world tragedy is marching with giant strides. brief will be his hesitation whether he will choose to step first to the east or to the west. already across the atlantic, they are preparing for the dreaded visitation. in the farthest east they have long been prepared. we alone are not ready. pity for our helplessness will not stay the impending disaster, rather provoke it. when that comes, as assuredly it will unless we are prepared to resist, havoc will be let loose and horrors perpetrated before which the imagination quails back in dismay.
i have tried to lay before you as dispassionately as i could the issues involved. but some of you may cry out and say, we can not live in cold scientific and philosophic abstractions. emotion is more to us than pure reasoning. we cannot stay in this indecision which is paralysing our wills and crushing the soul out of us. the world is offering their best and behold them marching to be immolated so that by the supreme offering of death they might win safety and honor for their motherland. there is no time for wavering. we too will throw in our lot with those who are fighting. they say that by our lives we shall win for our birth-land an honoured place in their federation. we shall trust them. we shall stand by their side and fight for our home and homeland. and let providence shape the issue.
the voice of life
the following is the inaugural address delivered by sir j. c. bose, on the 30th november 1917, in dedicating the bose institute to the nation.
i dedicate to-day this institute--not merely a laboratory but a temple. the power of physical methods applies for the establishment of that truth which can be realised directly through our senses, or through the vast expansion of the perceptive range by means of artificially created organs. we still gather the tremulous message when the note of the audible reaches the unheard. when human sight fails, we continue to explore the region of the invisible. the little that we can see is as nothing compared to the vastness of that which we cannot. out of the very imperfection of his senses man has built himself a raft of thought by which he makes daring adventures on the great seas of the unknown. but there are other truths which will remain beyond even the supersensitive methods known to science. for these we require faith, tested not in a few years but by an entire life. and a temple is erected as a fit memorial for the establishment of that truth for which faith was needed. the personal, yet general, truth and faith whose establishment this institute commemorates is this: that when one dedicates himself wholly for a great object, the closed doors shall open, and the seemingly impossible will become possible for him.
thirty-two years ago i chose teaching of science as my vocation. it was held that by its very peculiar constitution, the indian mind would always turn away from the study of nature to metaphysical speculations. even had the capacity for inquiry and accurate observation been assumed present, there were no opportunities for their employment; there were no well-equipped laboratories nor skilled mechanicians. this was all too true. it is for man not to quarrel with circumstances but bravely accept them; and we belong to that race and dynasty who had accomplished great things with simple means.
failure and success
this day twenty-three years ago, i resolved that as far as the whole-hearted devotion and faith of one man counted, that would not be wanting and within six months it came about that some of the most difficult problems connected with electric waves found their solution in my laboratory and received high appreciation from lord kelvin, lord rayleigh and other leading physicists. the royal society honoured me by publishing my discoveries and offering, of their own accord, an appropriation from the special parliamentary grant for the advancement of knowledge. that day the closed gates suddenly opened and i hoped that the torch that was then lighted would continue to burn brighter, and brighter. but man's faith and hope require repeated testing. for five years after this, the progress was interrupted; yet when the most generous and wide appreciation of my work had reached almost the highest point there came a sudden and unexpected change.
living and non-living
in the pursuit of my investigations i was unconsciously led into the border region of physics and physiology and was amazed to find boundary lines vanishing and points of contact emerge between the realms of the living and non-living. inorganic matter was found anything but inert; it also was a thrill under the action of multitudinous forces that played on it. a universal reaction seemed to bring together metal, plant and animal under a common law. they all exhibited essentially the same phenomena of fatigue and depression, together with possibilities of recovery and of exaltation, yet also that of permanent irresponsiveness which is associated with death. i was filled with awe at this stupendous generalisation; and it was with great hope that i announced my results before the royal society,--results demonstrated by experiments. but the physiologists present advised me, after my address, to confine myself to physical investigations in which my success had been assured, rather than encroach on their preserve. i had thus unwittingly strayed into the domain of a new and unfamiliar caste system and so offended its etiquette. an unconscious theological bias was also present which confounds ignorance with faith. it is forgotten that he, who surrounded us with this ever-evolving mystery of creation, the ineffable wonder that lies hidden in the microcosm of the dust particle, enclosing within the intricacies of its atomic form all the mystery of the cosmos, has also implanted in us the desire to question and understand. to the theological bias was added the misgivings about the inherent bent of the indian mind towards mysticism and unchecked imagination. but in india this burning imagination which can extort new order out of a mass of apparently contradictory facts, is also held in check by the habit of meditation. it is this restraint which confers the power to hold the mind in pursuit of truth, in infinite patience, to wait, and reconsider, to experimentally test and repeatedly verify.
it is but natural that there should be prejudice, even in science, against all innovations; and i was prepared to wait till the first incredulity could be overcome by further cumulative evidence. unfortunately there were other incidents and misrepresentations which it was impossible to remove from this insulating distance. thus no conditions could have been more desperately hopeless than those which confronted me for the next twelve years. it is necessary to make this brief reference to this period of my life; for one who would devote himself to the search of truth must realise that for him there awaits no easy life, but one of unending struggle. it is for him to cast his life as an offering, regarding gain and loss, success and failure, as one. yet in my case this long persisting gloom was suddenly lifted. my scientific deputation in 1914, from the government of india, gave the opportunity of giving demonstrations of my discoveries before the leading scientific societies of the world. this led to the acceptance of my theories and results, and the recognition of the importance of the indian contribution to the advancement of the world's science. my own experience told me how heavy, sometimes even crushing, are the difficulties which confront an inquirer here in india; yet it made me stronger in my determination, that i shall make the path of those who are to follow me less arduous, and that india, is never to relinquish what has been won for her after years of struggle.
the two ideals
what is it that india is to win and maintain? can anything small or circumscribed ever satisfy the mind of india? has her own history and the teaching of the past prepared her for some temporary and quite subordinate gain? there are at this moment two complementary and not antagonistic ideals before the country. india is drawn into the vortex of international competition. she has to become efficient in every way,--through spread of education, through performance of civic duties and responsibilities, through activities both industrial and commercial. neglect of these essentials of national duty will imperil her very existence; and sufficient stimulus for these will be found in success and satisfaction of personal ambition.
but these alone do not ensure the life of a nation. such material activities have brought in the west their fruit, in accession of power and wealth. there has been a feverish rush even in the realm of science, for exploiting applications of knowledge, not so often for saving as for destruction. in the absence of some power of restraint, civilisation is trembling in an unstable poise on the brink of ruin. some complementary ideal there must be to save man from that mad rush which must end in disaster. he has followed the lure and excitement of some insatiable ambition, never pausing for a moment to think of the ultimate object for which success was to serve as a temporary incentive. he forgot that far more potent than competition was mutual help and co-operation in the scheme of life. and in this country through milleniums, there always have been some who, beyond the immediate and absorbing prize of the hour, sought for the realisation of the highest ideal of life--not through passive renunciation, but through active struggle. the weakling who has refused the conflict, having acquired nothing has nothing to renounce. he alone who has striven and won, can enrich the world by giving away the fruits of his victorious experience. in india such examples of constant realisation of ideals through work have resulted in the formation of a continuous living tradition. and by her latent power of rejuvenescence she has readjusted herself through infinite transformations. thus while the soul of babylon and the nile valley have transmigrated, ours still remains vital and with capacity of absorbing what time has brought, and making it one with itself.
the ideal of giving, of enriching, in fine, of self-renunciation in response to the highest call of humanity is the other and complementary ideal. the motive power for this is not to be found in personal ambition but in the effacement of all littlenesses, and uprooting of that ignorance which regards anything as gain which is to be purchased at others' loss. this i know, that no vision of truth can come except in the absence of all sources of distraction, and when the mind has reached the point of rest.
public life, and the various professions will be the appropriate spheres of activity for many aspiring young men. but for my disciples, i call on those very few, who, realising inner call, will devote their whole life with strengthened character and determined purpose to take part in that infinite struggle to win knowledge for its own sake and see truth face to face.
advancement and diffusion of knowledge
the work already carried out in my laboratory on the response of matter, and the unexpected revelations in plant life, foreshadowing the wonders of the highest animal life, have opened out very extended regions of inquiry in physics, in physiology in medicine, in agriculture and even in psychology. problems, hitherto regarded as insoluble, have now been brought within the sphere of experimental investigation. these inquiries are obviously more extensive than those customary either among physicists or physiologists, since demanding interests and aptitudes hitherto more or less divided between them. in the study of nature, there is a necessity of the dual view point, this alternating yet rhythmically unified interaction of biological thought with physical studies, and physical thought with biological studies. the future worker with his freshened grasp of physics, his fuller conception of the inorganic world, as indeed thrilling with "the promise and potency of life" will redouble his former energies of work and thought. thus he will be in a position to win now the old knowledge with finer sieves, to research it with new enthusiasm and subtler instruments. and thus with thought and toil and time he may hope to bring fresher views into the old problems. his handling of these will be at once more vital and more kinetic, more comprehensive and unified.
the farther and fuller investigation of the many and ever-opening problems of the nascent science which includes both life and non-life are among the main purposes of the institute i am opening to-day; in these fields i am already fortunate in having a devoted band of disciples, whom i have been training for the last ten years. their number is very limited, but means may perhaps be forthcoming in the future to increase them. an enlarging field of young ability may thus be available, from which will emerge, with time and labour, individual originality of research, productive invention and some day even creative genius.
but high success is not to be obtained without corresponding experimental exactitude, and this is needed to-day more than ever, and to-morrow yet more again. hence the long battery of supersensitive instruments and apparatus, designed here, which stand before in their cases in our entrance hall. they will tell you of the protracted struggle to get behind the deceptive seeming into the reality that remained unseen;--of the continuous toil and persistence and of ingenuity called forth for overcoming human limitations. in these directions through the ever-increasing ingenuity of device for advancing science, i see at no distant future an advance of skill and of invention among our workers; and if this skill be assured, practical applications will not fail to follow in many fields of human activity.
the advance of science is the principal object of this institute and also the diffusion of knowledge. we are here in the largest of all the many chambers of this house of knowledge--its lecture room. in adding this feature, and on a scale hitherto unprecedented in a research institute, i have sought permanently to associate the advancement of knowledge with the widest possible civic and public diffusion of it; and this without any academic limitations, henceforth to all races and languages, to both men and women alike, and for all time coming.
the lectures given here will not be mere repetitions of second-hand knowledge. they will announce to an audience of some fifteen hundred people, the new discoveries made here, which will be demonstrated for the first time before the public. we shall thus maintain continuously the highest aim of a great seat of learning by taking active part in the advancement and diffusion of knowledge. through the regular publication of the transactions of the institute, these indian contributions will reach the whole world. the discoveries made will thus become public property. no patents will ever be taken. the spirit of our national culture demands that we should for ever be free from the desecration of utilising knowledge for personal gain. besides the regular staff there will be a selected number of scholars, who by their work have shown special aptitude, and who would devote their whole life to the pursuit of research. they will require personal training and their number must necessarily be limited. but it is not the quantity but quality that is of essential importance.
it is my further wish, that as far as the limited accommodation would permit, the facilities of this institute should be available to workers from all countries. in this i am attempting to carry out the traditions of my country, which so far back as twenty-five centuries ago, welcomed all scholars from different parts of the world, within the precincts of its ancient seats of learning, at nalanda and at taxilla.
the surge of life
with this widened outlook, we shall not only maintain the highest traditions of the past but also serve the world in nobler ways. we shall be at one with it in feeling the common surgings of life, the common love for the good, the true and the beautiful. in this institute, this study and garden of life, the claim of art has not been forgotten, for the artist has been working with us, from foundation to pinnacle, and from floor to ceiling of this very hall. and beyond that arch the laboratory merges imperceptibly into the garden, which is the true laboratory for the study of life. there the creepers, the plants and the trees are played upon by their natural environments,--sunlight and wind, and the chill at midnight under the vault of starry space. there are other surroundings also, where they will be subjected to chromatic action of different lights, to invisible rays, to electrified ground or thunder-charged atmosphere. everywhere they will transcribe in their own script the history of their experience. from this lofty point of observation, sheltered by the trees, the student will watch this panorama of life. isolated from all distractions, he will learn to attune himself with nature; the obscuring veil will be lifted and he will gradually come to see how community throughout the great ocean of life outweighs apparent dissimilarity. out of discord he will realise the great harmony.
these are the dreams that wove a network round my wakeful life for many years past. the outlook is endless, for the goal is at infinity. the realisation cannot be through one life or one fortune but through the co-operation of many lives and many fortunes. the possibility of a fuller expansion will depend on very large endowments. but a beginning must be made, and this is the genesis of the foundation of this institute. i came with nothing and shall return as i came; if something is accomplished in the interval, that would indeed be a privilege. what i have i will offer, and one who had shared with me the struggles and hardships that had to be faced, has wished to bequeath all that is hers for the same object. in all my struggling efforts i have not been altogether solitary while the world doubted, there had been a few, now in the city of silence, who never wavered in their trust.
till a few weeks ago it seemed that i shall have to look to the future for securing the necessary expansion of scope and for permanence of the institute. but response is being awakened in answer to the need. the government have most generously intimated their desire to sanction grants towards placing the institute on a permanent basis the extent of which will be proportionate to the public interest in this national undertaking. out of many who would feel an interest in securing adequate endowment, the very first donations have come from two of the merchant princes of bombay, to whom i had been personally unknown.
a note that touched me deeply came from some girl students of the western province, enclosing their little contribution "for the service of our common motherland." it is only the instinctive mother-heart that can truly realise the bond that draws together the nurselings of the common homeland. there can be no real misgiving for the future when at the country's call man offers the strength of his life and woman her active devotion, she most of all, who has the greater insight and larger faith because of the life of austerity and self-abnegation. even a solitary wayfarer in the himalayas has remembered to send me message of cheer and good hope. what is it that has bridged over the distance and blotted out all differences? that i will come gradually to know; till then it will remain enshrined as a feeling. and i go forward to my appointed task, undismayed by difficulties, companioned by the kind thoughts of my well-wishers, both far and near.
india's special aptitudes in contribution to science
the excessive specialisation of modern science in the west has led to the danger of losing sight of the fundamental fact that there can be but one truth, one science which includes all the branches of knowledge. how chaotic appear the happenings in nature? is nature a cosmos! in which the human mind is some day to realise the uniform march of sequence, order and law? india through her habit of mind is peculiarly fitted to realise the idea of unity, and to see in the phenomenal world an orderly universe. this trend of thought led me unconsciously to the dividing frontiers of different sciences and shaped the course of my work in its constant alternations between the theoretical and the practical, from the investigation of the inorganic world to that of organised life and its multifarious activities of growth, of movement, and even of sensation. on looking over a hundred and fifty different lines of investigations carried on during the last twenty-three years, i now discover in them a natural sequence. the study of electric waves led to the devising of methods for the production of the shortest electric waves known and these bridged over the gulf between visible and invisible light; from this followed accurate investigation on the optical properties of invisible waves, the determination of the erasmus, and professor of divinity at louvain, had, in 1514, in the name of his faculty, rebuked erasmus in a letter for the audacity of the praise of folly, his derision of divines and also his temerity in correcting the text of the new testament. erasmus had defended himself elaborately. at present war was being waged in a much wider field: for or against reuchlin, the great hebrew scholar, for whom the authors of the epistolae obscurorum virorum had so sensationally taken up the cudgels. at louvain erasmus was regarded with the same suspicion with which he distrusted dorp and the other louvain divines. he stayed during the remainder of 1516 and the first half of 1517 at antwerp, brussels and ghent, often in the house of peter gilles. in february 1517, there came tempting offers from france. budaeus, cop, étienne poncher, bishop of paris, wrote to him that the king, the youthful francis i, would present him with a generous prebend if he would come to paris. erasmus, always shy of being tied down, only wrote polite, evasive answers, and did not go.
in the meantime he received the news of the papal absolution. in connection with this he had, once more, to visit england, little dreaming that it would be the last time he should set foot on british soil. in ammonius's house of saint stephen's chapel at westminster on 9 april 1517, the ceremony of absolution took place, ridding erasmus for good of the nightmare which had oppressed him since his youth. at last he was free!
invitations and specious promises now came to him from all sides. mountjoy and wolsey spoke of high ecclesiastical honours which awaited him in england. budaeus kept pressing him to remove to france. cardinal ximenes wanted to attach him to the university of alcalá, in spain. the duke of saxony offered him a chair at leipzig. pirckheimer boasted of the perfections of the free imperial city of nuremberg. erasmus, meanwhile, overwhelmed again with the labour of writing and editing, according to his wont, did not definitely decline any of these offers; neither did he accept any. he always wanted to keep all his strings on his bow at the same time. in the early summer of 1517 he was asked to accompany the court of the youthful charles, who was on the point of leaving the netherlands for spain. but he declined. his departure to spain would have meant a long interruption of immediate contact with the great publishing centres, basle, louvain, strassburg, paris, and that, in turn, would have meant postponement of his life-work. when, in the beginning of july, the prince set out for middelburg, there to take ship for spain, erasmus started for louvain.
he was thus destined to go to this university environment, although it displeased him in so many respects. there he would have academic duties, young latinists would follow him about to get their poems and letters corrected by him and all those divines, whom he distrusted, would watch him at close quarters. but it was only to be for a few months. 'i have removed to louvain', he writes to the archbishop of canterbury, 'till i shall decide which residence is best suited to old age, which is already knocking at the gate importunately.'
the years 1516-18 may be called the culmination of erasmus's career. applauding crowds surrounded him more and more. the minds of men were seemingly prepared for something great to happen and they looked to erasmus as the man! at brussels, he was continually bothered with visits from spaniards, italians and germans who wanted to boast of their interviews with him. the spaniards, with their verbose solemnity, particularly bored him. most exuberant of all were the eulogies with which the german humanists greeted him in their letters. this had begun already on his first journey to basle in 1514. 'great rotterdamer', 'ornament of germany', 'ornament of the world' were some of the simplest effusions. town councils waited upon him, presents of wine and public banquets were of common occurrence. no one expresses himself so hyperbolically as the jurist ulrich zasius of freiburg. 'i am pointed out in public', he asserts, 'as the man who has received a letter from erasmus.' 'thrice greatest hero, you great jove' is a moderate apostrophe for him. 'the swiss', zwingli writes in 1516, 'account it a great glory to have seen erasmus.' 'i know and i teach nothing but erasmus now,' writes wolfgang capito. ulrich von hutten and henry glareanus both imagine themselves placed beside erasmus, as alcibiades stood beside socrates. and beatus rhenanus devotes to him a life of earnest admiration and helpfulness that was to prove of much more value than these exuberant panegyrics. there is an element of national exaltation in this german enthusiasm for erasmus: it is the violently stimulated mood into which luther's word will fall anon.
the other nations also chimed in with praise, though a little later and a little more soberly. colet and tunstall promise him immortality, étienne poncher exalts him above the celebrated italian humanists, germain de brie declares that french scholars have ceased reading any authors but erasmus, and budaeus announces that all western christendom resounds with his name.
this increase of glory manifested itself in different ways. almost every year the rumour of his death was spread abroad, malignantly, as he himself thinks. again, all sorts of writings were ascribed to him in which he had no share whatever, amongst others the epistolae obscurorum virorum.
but, above all, his correspondence increased immensely. the time was long since past when he asked more to procure him more correspondents. letters now kept pouring in to him, from all sides, beseeching him to reply. a former pupil laments with tears that he cannot show a single note written by erasmus. scholars respectfully sought an introduction from one of his friends, before venturing to address him. in this respect erasmus was a man of heroic benevolence, and tried to answer what he could, although so overwhelmed by letters every day that he hardly found time to read them. 'if i do not answer, i seem unkind,' says erasmus, and that thought was intolerable.
we should bear in mind that letter-writing, at that time, occupied more or less the place of the newspaper at present, or rather of the literary monthly, which arose fairly directly out of erudite correspondence. it was, as in antiquity--which in this respect was imitated better and more profitably, perhaps, than in any other sphere--an art. even before 1500 erasmus had, at paris, described that art in the treatise, de conscribendis epistolis, which was to appear in print in 1522. people wrote, as a rule, with a view to later publication, for a wider circle, or at any rate, with the certainty that the recipient would show the letter to others. a fine latin letter was a gem, which a man envied his neighbour. erasmus writes to budaeus: 'tunstall has devoured your letter to me and re-read it as many as three or four times; i had literally to tear it from his hands.'
unfortunately fate did not always take into consideration the author's intentions as to publicity, semi-publicity or strict secrecy. often letters passed through many hands before reaching their destination, as did servatius's letter to erasmus in 1514. 'do be careful about letters,' he writes more than once; 'waylayers are on the lookout to intercept them.' yet, with the curious precipitation that characterizes him, erasmus was often very careless as to what he wrote. from an early age he preserved and cared for his letters, yet nevertheless, through his itinerant life, many were lost. he could not control their publication. as early as 1509 a friend sent him a manuscript volume of his own (erasmus's) letters, that he had picked up for sale at rome. erasmus had it burnt at once. since 1515 he himself superintended the publication of his letters; at first only a few important ones; afterwards in 1516 a selection of letters from friends to him, and after that ever larger collections till, at the end of his life, there appeared a new collection almost every year. no article was so much in demand on the book market as letters by erasmus, and no wonder. they were models of excellent style, tasteful latin, witty expression and elegant erudition.
the semi-private, semi-public character of the letters often made them compromising. what one could say to a friend in confidence might possibly injure when many read it. erasmus, who never was aware how injuriously he expressed himself, repeatedly gave rise to misunderstanding and estrangement. manners, so to say, had not yet adapted themselves to the new art of printing, which increased the publicity of the written word a thousandfold. only gradually under this new influence was the separation effected between the public word, intended for the press, and the private communication, which remains in writing and is read only by the recipient.
meanwhile, with the growth of erasmus's fame, his earlier writings, too, had risen in the public estimation. the great success of the enchiridion militis christiani had begun about 1515, when the times were much riper for it than eleven years before. 'the moria is embraced as the highest wisdom,' writes john watson to him in 1516. in the same year we find a word used, for the first time, which expresses better than anything else how much erasmus had become a centre of authority: erasmiani. so his german friends called themselves, according to johannes sapidus. more than a year later dr. johannes eck employs the word still in a rather friendly sense, as a generally current term: 'all scholars in germany are erasmians,' he says. but erasmus did not like the word. 'i find nothing in myself', he replies, 'why anyone should wish to be an erasmicus, and, altogether, i hate those party names. we are all followers of christ, and to his glory we all drudge, each for his part.' but he knows that now the question is: for or against him! from the brilliant latinist and the man of wit of his prime he had become the international pivot on which the civilization of his age hinged. he could not help beginning to feel himself the brain, the heart and the conscience of his times. it might even appear to him that he was called to speak the great redeeming word or, perhaps, that he had already spoken it. the faith in an easy triumph of pure knowledge and christian meekness in a near future speaks from the preface of erasmus's edition of the new testament.
how clear did the future look in those years! in this period erasmus repeatedly reverts to the glad motif of a golden age, which is on the point of dawning. perennial peace is before the door. the highest princes of the world, francis i of france, charles, king of spain, henry viii of england, and the emperor maximilian have ensured peace by the strongest ties. uprightness and christian piety will flourish together with the revival of letters and the sciences. as at a given signal the mightiest minds conspire to restore a high standard of culture. we may congratulate the age, it will be a golden one.
but erasmus does not sound this note long. it is heard for the last time in 1519; after which the dream of universal happiness about to dawn gives place to the usual complaint about the badness of the times everywhere.
erasmus's mind: ethical and aesthetic tendencies, aversion to all that is unreasonable, silly and cumbrous--his vision of antiquity pervaded by christian faith--renascence of good learning--the ideal life of serene harmony and happy wisdom--love of the decorous and smooth--his mind neither philosophic nor historical, but strongly philological and moralistic--freedom, clearness, purity, simplicity--faith in nature--educational and social ideas
what made erasmus the man from whom his contemporaries expected their salvation, on whose lips they hung to catch the word of deliverance? he seemed to them the bearer of a new liberty of the mind, a new clearness, purity and simplicity of knowledge, a new harmony of healthy and right living. he was to them as the possessor of newly discovered, untold wealth which he had only to distribute.
what was there in the mind of the great rotterdamer which promised so much to the world?
the negative aspect of erasmus's mind may be defined as a heartfelt aversion to everything unreasonable, insipid, purely formal, with which the undisturbed growth of medieval culture had overburdened and overcrowded the world of thought. as often as he thinks of the ridiculous text-books out of which latin was taught in his youth, disgust rises in his mind, and he execrates them--mammetrectus, brachylogus, ebrardus and all the rest--as a heap of rubbish which ought to be cleared away. but this aversion to the superannuated, which had become useless and soulless, extended much farther. he found society, and especially religious life, full of practices, ceremonies, traditions and conceptions, from which the spirit seemed to have departed. he does not reject them offhand and altogether: what revolts him is that they are so often performed without understanding and right feeling. but to his mind, highly susceptible to the foolish and ridiculous things, and with a delicate need of high decorum and inward dignity, all that sphere of ceremony and tradition displays itself as a useless, nay, a hurtful scene of human stupidity and selfishness. and, intellectualist as he is, with his contempt for ignorance, he seems unaware that those religious observances, after all, may contain valuable sentiments of unexpressed and unformulated piety.
through his treatises, his letters, his colloquies especially, there always passes--as if one was looking at a gallery of brueghel's pictures--a procession of ignorant and covetous monks who by their sanctimony and humbug impose upon the trustful multitude and fare sumptuously themselves. as a fixed motif (such motifs are numerous with erasmus) there always recurs his gibe about the superstition that a person was saved by dying in the gown of a franciscan or a dominican.
fasting, prescribed prayers, the observance of holy days, should not be altogether neglected, but they become displeasing to god when we repose our trust in them and forget charity. the same holds good of confession, indulgence, all sorts of blessings. pilgrimages are worthless. the veneration of the saints and of their relics is full of superstition and foolishness. the people think they will be preserved from disasters during the day if only they have looked at the painted image of saint christopher in the morning. 'we kiss the shoes of the saints and their dirty handkerchiefs and we leave their books, their most holy and efficacious relics, neglected.'
erasmus's dislike of what seemed antiquated and worn out in his days, went farther still. it comprised the whole intellectual scheme of medieval theology and philosophy. in the syllogistic system he found only subtlety and arid ingenuity. all symbolism and allegory were fundamentally alien to him and indifferent, though he occasionally tried his hand at an allegory; and he never was mystically inclined.
now here it is just as much the deficiencies of his own mind as the qualities of the system which made him unable to appreciate it. while he struck at the abuse of ceremonies and of church practices both with noble indignation and well-aimed mockery, a proud irony to which he was not fully entitled preponderates in his condemnation of scholastic theology which he could not quite understand. it was easy always to talk with a sneer of the conservative divines of his time as magistri nostri.
his noble indignation hurt only those who deserved castigation and strengthened what was valuable, but his mockery hurt the good as well as the bad in spite of him, assailed both the institution and persons, and injured without elevating them. the individualist erasmus never understood what it meant to offend the honour of an office, an order, or an establishment, especially when that institution is the most sacred of all, the church itself.
erasmus's conception of the church was no longer purely catholic. of that glorious structure of medieval-christian civilization with its mystic foundation, its strict hierarchic construction, its splendidly fitting symmetry he saw hardly anything but its load of outward details and ornament. instead of the world which thomas aquinas and dante had described, according to their vision, erasmus saw another world, full of charm and elevated feeling, and this he held up before his compatriots.
it was the world of antiquity, but illuminated throughout by christian faith. it was a world that had never existed as such. for with the historical reality which the times of constantine and the great fathers of the church had manifested--that of declining latinity and deteriorating hellenism, the oncoming barbarism and the oncoming byzantinism--it had nothing in common. erasmus's imagined world was an amalgamation of pure classicism (this meant for him, cicero, horace, plutarch; for to the flourishing period of the greek mind he remained after all a stranger) and pure, biblical christianity. could it be a union? not really. in erasmus's mind the light falls, just as we saw in the history of his career, alternately on the pagan antique and on the christian. but the warp of his mind is christian; his classicism only serves him as a form, and from antiquity he only chooses those elements which in ethical tendency are in conformity with his christian ideal.
and because of this, erasmus, although he appeared after a century of earlier humanism, is yet new to his time. the union of antiquity and the christian spirit which had haunted the mind of petrarch, the father of humanism, which was lost sight of by his disciples, enchanted as they were by the irresistible brilliance of the antique beauty of form, this union was brought about by erasmus.
in order to understand erasmus's mind and the charm which it had for his contemporaries, one must begin with the ideal of life that was present before his inward eye as a splendid dream. it is not his own in particular. the whole renaissance cherished that wish of reposeful, blithe, and yet serious intercourse of good and wise friends in the cool shade of a house under trees, where serenity and harmony would dwell. the age yearned for the realization of simplicity, sincerity, truth and nature. their imagination was always steeped in the essence of antiquity, though, at heart, it is more nearly connected with medieval ideals than they themselves were aware. in the circle of the medici it is the idyll of careggi, in rabelais it embodies itself in the fancy of the abbey of thélème; it finds voice in more's utopia and in the work of montaigne. in erasmus's writings that ideal wish ever recurs in the shape of a friendly walk, followed by a meal in a garden-house. it is found as an opening scene of the antibarbari, in the numerous descriptions of meals with colet, and the numerous convivia of the colloquies. especially in the convivium religiosum erasmus has elaborately pictured his dream, and it would be worth while to compare it, on the one hand with thélème, and on the other with the fantastic design of a pleasure garden which bernard palissy describes. the little dutch eighteenth-century country-seats and garden-houses in which the national spirit took great delight are the fulfilment of a purely erasmian ideal. the host of the convivium religiosum says: 'to me a simple country-house, a nest, is pleasanter than any palace, and, if he be king who lives in freedom and according to his wishes, surely i am king here'.
life's true joy is in virtue and piety. if they are epicureans who live pleasantly, then none are more truly epicureans than they who live in holiness and piety.
the ideal joy of life is also perfectly idyllic in so far that it requires an aloofness from earthly concerns and contempt for all that is sordid. it is foolish to be interested in all that happens in the world; to pride oneself on one's knowledge of the market, of the king of england's plans, the news from rome, conditions in denmark. the sensible old man of the colloquium senile has an easy post of honour, a safe mediocrity, he judges no one and nothing and smiles upon all the world. quiet for oneself, surrounded by books--that is of all things most desirable.
on the outskirts of this ideal of serenity and harmony numerous flowers of aesthetic value blow, such as erasmus's sense of decorum, his great need of kindly courtesy, his pleasure in gentle and obliging treatment, in cultured and easy manners. close by are some of his intellectual peculiarities. he hates the violent and extravagant. therefore the choruses of the greek drama displease him. the merit of his own poems he sees in the fact that they pass passion by, they abstain from pathos altogether--'there is not a single storm in them, no mountain torrent overflowing its banks, no exaggeration whatever. there is great frugality in words. my poetry would rather keep within bounds than exceed them, rather hug the shore than cleave the high seas.' in another place he says: 'i am always most pleased by a poem that does not differ too much from prose, but prose of the best sort, be it understood. as philoxenus accounted those the most palatable fishes that are no true fishes and the most savoury meat what is no meat, the most pleasant voyage, that along the shores, and the most agreeable walk, that along the water's edge; so i take especial pleasure in a rhetorical poem and a poetical oration, so that poetry is tasted in prose and the reverse.' that is the man of half-tones, of fine shadings, of the thought that is never completely expressed. but he adds: 'farfetched conceits may please others; to me the chief concern seems to be that we draw our speech from the matter itself and apply ourselves less to showing off our invention than to present the thing.' that is the realist.
from this conception results his admirable, simple clarity, the excellent division and presentation of his argument. but it also causes his lack of depth and the prolixity by which he is characterized. his machine runs too smoothly. in the endless apologiae of his later years, ever new arguments occur to him; new passages to point, or quotations to support, his idea. he praises laconism, but never practises it. erasmus never coins a sentence which, rounded off and pithy, becomes a proverb and in this manner lives. there are no current quotations from erasmus. the collector of the adagia has created no new ones of his own.
the true occupation for a mind like his was paraphrasing, in which, indeed, he amply indulged. soothing down and unfolding was just the work he liked. it is characteristic that he paraphrased the whole new testament except the apocalypse.
erasmus's mind was neither philosophic nor historic. his was neither the work of exact, logical discrimination, nor of grasping the deep sense of the way of the world in broad historical visions in which the particulars themselves, in their multiplicity and variegation, form the image. his mind is philological in the fullest sense of the word. but by that alone he would not have conquered and captivated the world. his mind was at the same time of a deeply ethical and rather strong aesthetic trend and those three together have made him great.
the foundation of erasmus's mind is his fervent desire of freedom, clearness, purity, simplicity and rest. it is an old ideal of life to which he gave new substance by the wealth of his mind. without liberty, life is no life; and there is no liberty without repose. the fact that he never took sides definitely resulted from an urgent need of perfect independence. each engagement, even a temporary one, was felt as a fetter by erasmus. an interlocutor in the colloquies, in which he so often, spontaneously, reveals his own ideals of life, declares himself determined neither to marry, nor to take holy orders, nor to enter a monastery, nor into any connection from which he will afterwards be unable to free himself--at least not before he knows himself completely. 'when will that be? never, perhaps.' 'on no other account do i congratulate myself more than on the fact that i have never attached myself to any party,' erasmus says towards the end of his life.
liberty should be spiritual liberty in the first place. 'but he that is spiritual judgeth all things, yet he himself is judged of no man,' is the word of saint paul. to what purpose should he require prescriptions who, of his own accord, does better things than human laws require? what arrogance it is to bind by institutions a man who is clearly led by the inspirations of the divine spirit!
in erasmus we already find the beginning of that optimism which judges upright man good enough to dispense with fixed forms and rules. as more, in utopia, and rabelais, erasmus relies already on the dictates of nature, which produces man as inclined to good and which we may follow, provided we are imbued with faith and piety.
in this line of confidence in what is natural and desire of the simple and reasonable, erasmus's educational and social ideas lie. here he is far ahead of his times. it would be an attractive undertaking to discuss erasmus's educational ideals more fully. they foreshadow exactly those of the eighteenth century. the child should learn in playing, by means of things that are agreeable to its mind, from pictures. its faults should be gently corrected. the flogging and abusive schoolmaster is erasmus's abomination; the office itself is holy and venerable to him. education should begin from the moment of birth. probably erasmus attached too much value to classicism, here as elsewhere: his friend peter gilles should implant the rudiments of the ancient languages in his two-year-old son, that he may greet his father with endearing stammerings in greek and latin. but what gentleness and clear good sense shines from all erasmus says about instruction and education!
the same holds good of his views about marriage and woman. in the problem of sexual relations he distinctly sides with the woman from deep conviction. there is a great deal of tenderness and delicate feeling in his conception of the position of the girl and the woman. few characters of the colloquies have been drawn with so much sympathy as the girl with the lover and the cultured woman in the witty conversation with the abbot. erasmus's ideal of marriage is truly social and hygienic. let us beget children for the state and for christ, says the lover, children endowed by their upright parents with a good disposition, children who see the good example at home which is to guide them. again and again he reverts to the mother's duty to suckle the child herself. he indicates how the house should be arranged, in a simple and cleanly manner; he occupies himself with the problem of useful children's dress. who stood up at that time, as he did, for the fallen girl, and for the prostitute compelled by necessity? who saw so clearly the social danger of marriages of persons infected with the new scourge of europe, so violently abhorred by erasmus? he would wish that such a marriage should at once be declared null and void by the pope. erasmus does not hold with the easy social theory, still quite current in the literature of his time, which casts upon women all the blame of adultery and lewdness. with the savages who live in a state of nature, he says, the adultery of men is punished, but that of women is forgiven.
here it appears, at the same time, that erasmus knew, be it half in jest, the conception of natural virtue and happiness of naked islanders in a savage state. it soon crops up again in montaigne and the following centuries develop it into a literary dogma.
erasmus's mind: intellectual tendencies--the world encumbered by beliefs and forms--truth must be simple--back to the pure sources--holy scripture in the original languages--biblical humanism--critical work on the texts of scripture--practice better than dogma--erasmus's talent and wit--delight in words and things--prolixity--observation of details--a veiled realism--ambiguousness--the 'nuance'--inscrutability of the ultimate ground of all things
simplicity, naturalness, purity, and reasonableness, those are to erasmus the dominant requirements, also when we pass from his ethical and aesthetic concepts to his intellectual point of view; indeed, the two can hardly be kept apart.
the world, says erasmus, is overloaded with human constitutions and opinions and scholastic dogmas, and overburdened with the tyrannical authority of orders, and because of all this the strength of gospel doctrine is flagging. faith requires simplification, he argued. what would the turks say of our scholasticism? colet wrote to him one day: 'there is no end to books and science. let us, therefore, leave all roundabout roads and go by a short cut to the truth.'
truth must be simple. 'the language of truth is simple, says seneca; well then, nothing is simpler nor truer than christ.' 'i should wish', erasmus says elsewhere, 'that this simple and pure christ might be deeply impressed upon the mind of men, and that i deem best attainable in this way, that we, supported by our knowledge of the original languages, should philosophize at the sources themselves.'
here a new watchword comes to the fore: back to the sources! it is not merely an intellectual, philological requirement; it is equally an ethical and aesthetic necessity of life. the original and pure, all that is not yet overgrown or has not passed through many hands, has such a potent charm. erasmus compared it to an apple which we ourselves pick off the tree. to recall the world to the ancient simplicity of science, to lead it back from the now turbid pools to those living and most pure fountain-heads, those most limpid sources of gospel doctrine--thus he saw the task of divinity. the metaphor of the limpid water is not without meaning here; it reveals the psychological quality of erasmus's fervent principle.
'how is it', he exclaims, 'that people give themselves so much trouble about the details of all sorts of remote philosophical systems and neglect to go to the sources of christianity itself?' 'although this wisdom, which is so excellent that once for all it put the wisdom of all the world to shame, may be drawn from these few books, as from a crystalline source, with far less trouble than is the wisdom of aristotle from so many thorny books and with much more fruit.... the equipment for that journey is simple and at everyone's immediate disposal. this philosophy is accessible to everybody. christ desires that his mysteries shall be spread as widely as possible. i should wish that all good wives read the gospel and paul's epistles; that they were translated into all languages; that out of these the husbandman sang while ploughing, the weaver at his loom; that with such stories the traveller should beguile his wayfaring.... this sort of philosophy is rather a matter of disposition than of syllogisms, rather of life than of disputation, rather of inspiration than of erudition, rather of transformation than of logic.... what is the philosophy of christ, which he himself calls renascentia, but the insaturation of nature created good?--moreover, though no one has taught us this so absolutely and effectively as christ, yet also in pagan books much may be found that is in accordance with it.'
such was the view of life of this biblical humanist. as often as erasmus reverts to these matters, his voice sounds clearest. 'let no one', he says in the preface to the notes to the new testament, 'take up this work, as he takes up gellius's noctes atticae or poliziano's miscellanies.... we are in the presence of holy things; here it is no question of eloquence, these matters are best recommended to the world by simplicity and purity; it would be ridiculous to display human erudition here, impious to pride oneself on human eloquence.' but erasmus never was so eloquent himself as just then.
what here raises him above his usual level of force and fervour is the fact that he fights a battle, the battle for the right of biblical criticism. it revolts him that people should study holy scripture in the vulgate when they know that the texts show differences and are corrupt, although we have the greek text by which to go back to the original form and primary meaning.
he is now reproached because he dares, as a mere grammarian, to assail the text of holy scripture on the score of futile mistakes or irregularities. 'details they are, yes, but because of these details we sometimes see even great divines stumble and rave.' philological trifling is necessary. 'why are we so precise as to our food, our clothes, our money-matters and why does this accuracy displease us in divine literature alone? he crawls along the ground, they say, he wearies himself out about words and syllables! why do we slight any word of him whom we venerate and worship under the name of the word? but, be it so! let whoever wishes imagine that i have not been able to achieve anything better, and out of sluggishness of mind and coldness of heart or lack of erudition have taken this lowest task upon myself; it is still a christian idea to think all work good that is done with pious zeal. we bring along the bricks, but to build the temple of god.'
he does not want to be intractable. let the vulgate be kept for use in the liturgy, for sermons, in schools, but he who, at home, reads our edition, will understand his own the better in consequence. he, erasmus, is prepared to render account and acknowledge himself to have been wrong when convicted of error.
erasmus perhaps never quite realized how much his philological-critical method must shake the foundations of the church. he was surprised at his adversaries 'who could not but believe that all their authority would perish at once when the sacred books might be read in a purified form, and when people tried to understand them in the original'. he did not feel what the unassailable authority of a sacred book meant. he rejoices because holy scripture is approached so much more closely, because all sorts of shadings are brought to light by considering not only what is said but also by whom, for whom, at what time, on what occasion, what precedes and what follows, in short, by the method of historical philological criticism. to him it seemed so especially pious when reading scripture and coming across a place which seemed contrary to the doctrine of christ or the divinity of his nature, to believe rather that one did not understand the phrase or that the text might be corrupt. unperceived he passed from emendation of the different versions to the correction of the contents. the epistles were not all written by the apostles to whom they are attributed. the apostles themselves made mistakes, at times.
the foundation of his spiritual life was no longer a unity to erasmus. it was, on the one hand, a strong desire for an upright, simple, pure and homely belief, the earnest wish to be a good christian. but it was also the irresistible intellectual and aesthetic need of the good taste, the harmony, the clear and exact expression of the ancients, the dislike of what was cumbrous and involved. erasmus thought that good learning might render good service for the necessary purification of the faith and its forms. the measure of church hymns should be corrected. that christian expression and classicism were incompatible, he never believed. the man who in the sphere of sacred studies asked every author for his credentials remained unconscious of the fact that he acknowledged the authority of the ancients without any evidence. how naïvely he appeals to antiquity, again and again, to justify some bold feat! he is critical, they say? were not the ancients critical? he permits himself to insert digressions? so did the ancients, etc.
erasmus is in profound sympathy with that revered antiquity by his fundamental conviction that it is the practice of life which matters. not he is the great philosopher who knows the tenets of the stoics or peripatetics by rote--but he who expresses the meaning of philosophy by his life and his morals, for that is its purpose. he is truly a divine who teaches, not by artful syllogisms, but by his disposition, by his face and his eyes, by his life itself, that wealth should be despised. to live up to that standard is what christ himself calls renascentia. erasmus uses the word in the christian sense only. but in that sense it is closely allied to the idea of the renaissance as a historical phenomenon. the worldly and pagan sides of the renaissance have nearly always been overrated. erasmus is, much more than aretino or castiglione, the representative of the spirit of his age, one over whose christian sentiment the sweet gale of antiquity had passed. and that very union of strong christian endeavour and the spirit of antiquity is the explanation of erasmus's wonderful success.
the mere intention and the contents of the mind do not influence the world, if the form of expression does not cooperate. in erasmus the quality of his talent is a very important factor. his perfect clearness and ease of expression, his liveliness, wit, imagination, gusto and humour have lent a charm to all he wrote which to his contemporaries was irresistible and captivates even us, as soon as we read him. in all that constitutes his talent, erasmus is perfectly and altogether a representative of the renaissance. there is, in the first place, his eternal à propos. what he writes is never vague, never dark--it is always plausible. everything seemingly flows of itself like a fountain. it always rings true as to tone, turn of phrase and accent. it has almost the light harmony of ariosto. and it is, like ariosto, never tragic, never truly heroic. it carries us away, indeed, but it is never itself truly enraptured.
the more artistic aspects of erasmus's talent come out most clearly--though they are everywhere in evidence--in those two recreations after more serious labour, the moriae encomium and the colloquia. but just those two have been of enormous importance for his influence upon his times. for while jerome reached tens of readers and the new testament hundreds, the moria and colloquies went out to thousands. and their importance is heightened in that erasmus has nowhere else expressed himself so spontaneously.
in each of the colloquies, even in the first purely formulary ones, there is the sketch for a comedy, a novelette or a satire. there is hardly a sentence without its 'point', an expression without a vivid fancy. there are unrivalled niceties. the abbot of the abbatis et eruditae colloquium is a molière character. it should be noticed how well erasmus always sustains his characters and his scenes, because he sees them. in 'the woman in childbed' he never forgets for a moment that eutrapelus is an artist. at the end of 'the game of knucklebones', when the interlocutors, after having elucidated the whole nomenclature of the latin game of knuckle-bones, are going to play themselves, carolus says: 'but shut the door first, lest the cook should see us playing like two boys'.
as holbein illustrated the moria, we should wish to possess the colloquia with illustrations by brueghel, so closely allied is erasmus's witty clear vision of incidents to that of this great master. the procession of drunkards on palm sunday, the saving of the shipwrecked crew, the old men waiting for the travelling cart while the drivers are still drinking, all these are dutch genre pieces of the best sort.
we like to speak of the realism of the renaissance. erasmus is certainly a realist in the sense of having an insatiable hunger for knowledge of the tangible world. he wants to know things and their names: the particulars of each thing, be it never so remote, such as those terms of games and rules of games of the romans. read carefully the description of the decorative painting on the garden-house of the convivium religiosum: it is nothing but an object lesson, a graphic representation of the forms of reality.
in its joy over the material universe and the supple, pliant word, the renaissance revels in a profusion of imagery and expressions. the resounding enumerations of names and things, which rabelais always gives, are not unknown to erasmus, but he uses them for intellectual and useful purposes. in de copia verborum ac rerum one feat of varied power of expression succeeds another--he gives fifty ways of saying: 'your letter has given me much pleasure,' or, 'i think that it is going to rain'. the aesthetic impulse is here that of a theme and variations: to display all the wealth and mutations of the logic of language. elsewhere, too, erasmus indulges this proclivity for accumulating the treasures of his genius; he and his contemporaries can never restrain themselves from giving all the instances instead of one: in ratio verae theologiae, in de pronuntiatione, in lingua, in ecclesiastes. the collections of adagia, parabolae, and apophthegmata are altogether based on this eagerness of the renaissance (which, by the way, was an inheritance of the middle ages themselves) to luxuriate in the wealth of the tangible world, to revel in words and things.
the senses are open for the nice observation of the curious. though erasmus does not know that need of proving the secrets of nature, which inspired a leonardo da vinci, a paracelsus, a vesalius, he is also, by his keen observation, a child of his time. for peculiarities in the habits and customs of nations he has an open eye. he notices the gait of swiss soldiers, how dandies sit, how picards pronounce french. he notices that in old pictures the sitters are always represented with half-closed eyes and tightly shut lips, as signs of modesty, and how some spaniards still honour this expression in life, while german art prefers lips pouting as for a kiss. his lively sense of anecdote, to which he gives the rein in all his writings, belongs here.
and, in spite of all his realism, the world which erasmus sees and renders, is not altogether that of the sixteenth century. everything is veiled by latin. between the author's mind and reality intervenes his antique diction. at bottom the world of his mind is imaginary. it is a subdued and limited sixteenth-century reality which he reflects. together with its coarseness he lacks all that is violent and direct in his times. compared with the artists, with luther and calvin, with the statesmen, the navigators, the soldiers and the scientists, erasmus confronts the world as a recluse. it is only the influence of latin. in spite of all his receptiveness and sensitiveness, erasmus is never fully in contact with life. all through his work not a bird sings, not a wind rustles.
but that reserve or fear of directness is not merely a negative quality. it also results from a consciousness of the indefiniteness of the ground of all things, from the awe of the ambiguity of all that is. if erasmus so often hovers over the borderline between earnestness and mockery, if he hardly ever gives an incisive conclusion, it is not only due to cautiousness, and fear to commit himself. everywhere he sees the shadings, the blending of the meaning of words. the terms of things are no longer to him, as to the man of the middle ages, as crystals mounted in gold, or as stars in the firmament. 'i like assertions so little that i would easily take sides with the sceptics whereever it is allowed by the inviolable authority of holy scripture and the decrees of the church.' 'what is exempt from error?' all subtle contentions of theological speculation arise from a dangerous curiosity and lead to impious audacity. what have all the great controversies about the trinity and the virgin mary profited? 'we have defined so much that without danger to our salvation might have remained unknown or undecided.... the essentials of our religion are peace and unanimity. these can hardly exist unless we make definitions about as few points as possible and leave many questions to individual judgement. numerous problems are now postponed till the oecumenical council. it would be much better to put off such questions till the time when the glass shall be removed and the darkness cleared away, and we shall see god face to face.'
'there are sanctuaries in the sacred studies which god has not willed that we should probe, and if we try to penetrate there, we grope in ever deeper darkness the farther we proceed, so that we recognize, in this manner, too, the inscrutable majesty of divine wisdom and the imbecility of human understanding.'
erasmus's character: need of purity and cleanliness-- delicacy--dislike of contention, need of concord and friendship--aversion to disturbance of any kind--too much concerned about other men's opinions--need of self- justification--himself never in the wrong--correlation between inclinations and convictions--ideal image of himself--dissatisfaction with himself--self-centredness--a solitary at heart--fastidiousness--suspiciousness--morbid mistrust--unhappiness--restlessness--unsolved contradictions of his being--horror of lies--reserve and insinuation
erasmus's powerful mind met with a great response in the heart of his contemporaries and had a lasting influence on the march of civilization. but one of the heroes of history he cannot be called. was not his failure to attain to still loftier heights partly due to the fact that his character was not on a level with the elevation of his mind?
and yet that character, a very complicated one, though he took himself to be the simplest man in the world, was determined by the same factors which determined the structure of his mind. again and again we find in his inclinations the correlates of his convictions.
at the root of his moral being we find--a key to the understanding of his character--that same profound need of purity which drove him to the sources of sacred science. purity in the material and the moral sense is what he desires for himself and others, always and in all things. few things revolt him so much as the practices of vintners who doctor wine and dealers who adulterate food. if he continually chastens his language and style, or exculpates himself from mistakes, it is the same impulse which prompts his passionate desire for cleanliness and brightness, of the home and of the body. he has a violent dislike of stuffy air and smelly substances. he regularly takes a roundabout way to avoid a malodorous lane; he loathes shambles and fishmongers' shops. fetors spread infection, he thinks. erasmus had, earlier than most people, antiseptic ideas about the danger of infection in the foul air of crowded inns, in the breath of confessants, in baptismal water. throw aside common cups, he pleaded; let everybody shave himself, let us be cleanly as to bed-sheets, let us not kiss each other by way of greeting. the fear of the horrible venereal disease, imported into europe during his lifetime, and of which erasmus watched the unbridled propagation with solicitude, increases his desire for purity. too little is being done to stop it, he thinks. he cautions against suspected inns; he wants to have measures taken against the marriages of syphilitic persons. in his undignified attitude towards hutten his physical and moral aversion to the man's evil plays an unmistakable part.
his hygienics amount to temperance, cleanliness and fresh air, this last item in moderation: he takes the vicinity of the sea to be unwholesome and is afraid of draughts. his friend gilles, who is ill, he advises: 'do not take too much medicine, keep quiet and do not get angry'. though there is a 'praise of medicine' among his works, he does not think highly of physicians and satirizes them more than once in the colloquies.
also in his outward appearance there were certain features betraying his delicacy. he was of medium height, well-made, of a fair complexion with blond hair and blue eyes, a cheerful face, a very articulate mode of speech, but a thin voice.
in the moral sphere erasmus's delicacy is represented by his great need of friendship and concord, his dislike of contention. with him peace and harmony rank above all other considerations, and he confesses them to be the guiding principles of his actions. he would, if it might be, have all the world as a friend. 'wittingly i discharge no one from my friendship,' he says. and though he was sometimes capricious and exacting towards his friends, yet a truly great friend he was: witness the many who never forsook him, or whom he, after a temporary estrangement, always won back--more, peter gilles, fisher, ammonius, budaeus, and others too numerous to mention. 'he was most constant in keeping up friendships,' says beatus rhenanus, whose own attachment to erasmus is a proof of the strong affection he could inspire.
at the root of this desire of friendship lies a great and sincere need of affection. remember the effusions of almost feminine affection towards servatius during his monastic period. but at the same time it is a sort of moral serenity that makes him so: an aversion to disturbance, to whatever is harsh and inharmonious. he calls it 'a certain occult natural sense' which makes him abhor strife. he cannot abide being at loggerheads with anyone. he always hoped and wanted, he says, to keep his pen unbloody, to attack no one, to provoke no one, even if he were attacked. but his enemies had not willed it, and in later years he became well accustomed to bitter polemics, with lefèvre d'étaples, with lee, with egmondanus, with hutten, with luther, with beda, with the spaniards, and the italians. at first it is still noticeable how he suffers by it, how contention wounds him, so that he cannot bear the pain in silence. 'do let us be friends again,' he begs lefèvre, who does not reply. the time which he had to devote to his polemics he regards as lost. 'i feel myself getting more heavy every day,' he writes in 1520, 'not so much on account of my age as because of the restless labour of my studies, nay more even by the weariness of disputes than by the work, which, in itself, is agreeable.' and how much strife was still in store for him then!
if only erasmus had been less concerned about public opinion! but that seemed impossible: he had a fear of men, or, we may call it, a fervent need of justification. he would always see beforehand, and usually in exaggerated colours, the effect his word or deed would have upon men. of himself, it was certainly true as he once wrote: that the craving for fame has less sharp spurs than the fear of ignominy. erasmus is with rousseau among those who cannot bear the consciousness of guilt, out of a sort of mental cleanliness. not to be able to repay a benefit with interest, makes him ashamed and sad. he cannot abide 'dunning creditors, unperformed duty, neglect of the need of a friend'. if he cannot discharge the obligation, he explains it away. the dutch historian fruin has quite correctly observed: 'whatever erasmus did contrary to his duty and his rightly understood interests was the fault of circumstances or wrong advice; he is never to blame himself'. and what he has thus justified for himself becomes with him universal law: 'god relieves people of pernicious vows, if only they repent of them,' says the man who himself had broken a vow.
there is in erasmus a dangerous fusion between inclination and conviction. the correlations between his idiosyncrasies and his precepts are undeniable. this has special reference to his point of view in the matter of fasting and abstinence from meat. he too frequently vents his own aversion to fish, or talks of his inability to postpone meals, not to make this connection clear to everybody. in the same way his personal experience in the monastery passes into his disapproval, on principle, of monastic life.
the distortion of the image of his youth in his memory, to which we have referred, is based on that need of self-justification. it is all unconscious interpretation of the undeniable facts to suit the ideal which erasmus had made of himself and to which he honestly thinks he answers. the chief features of that self-conceived picture are a remarkable, simple sincerity and frankness, which make it impossible to him to dissemble; inexperience and carelessness in the ordinary concerns of life and a total lack of ambition. all this is true in the first instance: there is a superficial erasmus who answers to that image, but it is not the whole erasmus; there is a deeper one who is almost the opposite and whom he himself does not know because he will not know him. possibly because behind this there is a still deeper being, which is truly good.
does he not ascribe weaknesses to himself? certainly. he is, in spite of his self-coddling, ever dissatisfied with himself and his work. putidulus, he calls himself, meaning the quality of never being content with himself. it is that peculiarity which makes him dissatisfied with any work of his directly after it has appeared, so that he always keeps revising and supplementing. 'pusillanimous' he calls himself in writing to colet. but again he cannot help giving himself credit for acknowledging that quality, nay, converting that quality itself into a virtue: it is modesty, the opposite of boasting and self-love.
this bashfulness about himself is the reason that he does not love his own physiognomy, and is only persuaded with difficulty by his friends to sit for a portrait. his own appearance is not heroic or dignified enough for him, and he is not duped by an artist who flatters him: 'heigh-ho,' he exclaims, on seeing holbein's thumbnail sketch illustrating the moria: 'if erasmus still looked like that, he would take a wife at once'. it is that deep trait of dissatisfaction that suggests the inscription on his portraits: 'his writings will show you a better image'.
erasmus's modesty and the contempt which he displays of the fame that fell to his lot are of a somewhat rhetorical character. but in this we should not so much see a personal trait of erasmus as a general form common to all humanists. on the other hand, this mood cannot be called altogether artificial. his books, which he calls his children, have not turned out well. he does not think they will live. he does not set store by his letters: he publishes them because his friends insist upon it. he writes his poems to try a new pen. he hopes that geniuses will soon appear who will eclipse him, so that erasmus will pass for a stammerer. what is fame? a pagan survival. he is fed up with it to repletion and would do nothing more gladly than cast it off.
sometimes another note escapes him. if lee would help him in his endeavours, erasmus would make him immortal, he had told the former in their first conversation. and he threatens an unknown adversary, 'if you go on so impudently to assail my good name, then take care that my gentleness does not give way and i cause you to be ranked, after a thousand years, among the venomous sycophants, among the idle boasters, among the incompetent physicians'.
the self-centred element in erasmus must needs increase accordingly as he in truth became a centre and objective point of ideas and culture. there really was a time when it must seem to him that the world hinged upon him, and that it awaited the redeeming word from him. what a widespread enthusiastic following he had, how many warm friends and venerators! there is something naïve in the way in which he thinks it requisite to treat all his friends, in an open letter, to a detailed, rather repellent account of an illness that attacked him on the way back from basle to louvain. his part, his position, his name, this more and more becomes the aspect under which he sees world-events. years will come in which his whole enormous correspondence is little more than one protracted self-defence.
yet this man who has so many friends is nevertheless solitary at heart. and in the depth of that heart he desires to be alone. he is of a most retiring disposition; he is a recluse. 'i have always wished to be alone, and there is nothing i hate so much as sworn partisans.' erasmus is one of those whom contact with others weakens. the less he has to address and to consider others, friends or enemies, the more truly he utters his deepest soul. intercourse with particular people always causes little scruples in him, intentional amenities, coquetry, reticences, reserves, spiteful hits, evasions. therefore it should not be thought that we get to know him to the core from his letters. natures like his, which all contact with men unsettles, give their best and deepest when they speak impersonally and to all.
after the early effusions of sentimental affection he no longer opens his heart unreservedly to others. at bottom he feels separated from all and on the alert towards all. there is a great fear in him that others will touch his soul or disturb the image he has made of himself. the attitude of warding off reveals itself as fastidiousness and as bashfulness. budaeus hit the mark when he exclaimed jocularly: 'fastidiosule! you little fastidious person!' erasmus himself interprets the dominating trait of his being as maidenly coyness. the excessive sensitiveness to the stain attaching to his birth results from it. but his friend ammonius speaks of his subrustica verecundia, his somewhat rustic gaucherie. there is, indeed, often something of the small man about erasmus, who is hampered by greatness and therefore shuns the great, because, at bottom, they obsess him and he feels them to be inimical to his being.
it seems a hard thing to say that genuine loyalty and fervent gratefulness were strange to erasmus. and yet such was his nature. in characters like his a kind of mental cramp keeps back the effusions of the heart. he subscribes to the adage: 'love so, as if you may hate one day, and hate so, as if you may love one day'. he cannot bear benefits. in his inmost soul he continually retires before everybody. he who considers himself the pattern of simple unsuspicion, is indeed in the highest degree suspicious towards all his friends. the dead ammonius, who had helped him so zealously in the most delicate concerns, is not secure from it. 'you are always unfairly distrustful towards me,' budaeus complains. 'what!' exclaims erasmus, 'you will find few people who are so little distrustful in friendship as myself.'
when at the height of his fame the attention of the world was indeed fixed on all he spoke or did, there was some ground for a certain feeling on his part of being always watched and threatened. but when he was yet an unknown man of letters, in his parisian years, we continually find traces in him of a mistrust of the people about him that can only be regarded as a morbid feeling. during the last period of his life this feeling attaches especially to two enemies, eppendorf and aleander. eppendorf employs spies everywhere who watch erasmus's correspondence with his friends. aleander continually sets people to combat him, and lies in wait for him wherever he can. his interpretation of the intentions of his assailants has the ingenious self-centred element which passes the borderline of sanity. he sees the whole world full of calumny and ambuscades threatening his peace: nearly all those who once were his best friends have become his bitterest enemies; they wag their venomous tongues at banquets, in conversation, in the confessional, in sermons, in lectures, at court, in vehicles and ships. the minor enemies, like troublesome vermin, drive him to weariness of life, or to death by insomnia. he compares his tortures to the martyrdom of saint sebastian, pierced by arrows. but his is worse, for there is no end to it. for years he has daily been dying a thousand deaths and that alone; for his friends, if such there are, are deterred by envy.
he mercilessly pillories his patrons in a row for their stinginess. now and again there suddenly comes to light an undercurrent of aversion and hatred which we did not suspect. where had more good things fallen to his lot than in england? which country had he always praised more? but suddenly a bitter and unfounded reproach escapes him. england is responsible for his having become faithless to his monastic vows, 'for no other reason do i hate britain more than for this, though it has always been pestilent to me'.
he seldom allows himself to go so far. his expressions of hatred or spite are, as a rule, restricted to the feline. they are aimed at friends and enemies, budaeus, lypsius, as well as hutten and beda. occasionally we are struck by the expression of coarse pleasure at another's misfortune. but in all this, as regards malice, we should not measure erasmus by our ideas of delicacy and gentleness. compared with most of his contemporaries he remains moderate and refined.
erasmus never felt happy, was never content. this may perhaps surprise us for a moment, when we think of his cheerful, never-failing energy, of his gay jests and his humour. but upon reflection this unhappy feeling tallies very well with his character. it also proceeds from his general attitude of warding off. even when in high spirits he considers himself in all respects an unhappy man. 'the most miserable of all men, the thrice-wretched erasmus,' he calls himself in fine greek terms. his life 'is an iliad of calamities, a chain of misfortunes. how can anyone envy me?' to no one has fortune been so constantly hostile as to him. she has sworn his destruction, thus he sang in his youth in a poetical complaint addressed to gaguin: from earliest infancy the same sad and hard fate has been constantly pursuing him. pandora's whole box seems to have been poured out over him.
that immoderate love of liberty had indeed been as fate to him. he had always been the great seeker of quiet and liberty who found liberty late and quiet never. by no means ever to bind himself, to incur no obligations which might become fetters--again that fear of the entanglements of life. thus he remained the great restless one. he was never truly satisfied with anything, least of all with what he produced himself. 'why, then, do you overwhelm us with so many books', someone at louvain objected, 'if you do not really approve of any of them?' and erasmus answers with horace's word: 'in the first place, because i cannot sleep'.
a sleepless energy, it was that indeed. he cannot rest. still half seasick and occupied with his trunks, he is already thinking about an answer to dorp's letter, just received, censuring the moria. we should fully realize what it means that time after time erasmus, who, by nature, loved quiet and was fearful, and fond of comfort, cleanliness and good fare, undertakes troublesome and dangerous journeys, even voyages, which he detests, for the sake of his work and of that alone.
he is not only restless, but also precipitate. helped by an incomparably retentive and capacious memory he writes at haphazard. he never becomes anacoluthic; his talent is too refined and sure for that; but he does repeat himself and is unnecessarily circumstantial. 'i rather pour out than write everything,' he says. he compares his publications to parturitions, nay, to abortions. he does not select his subjects, he tumbles into them, and having once taken up a subject he finishes without intermission. for years he has read only tumultuarie, up and down all literature; he no longer finds time really to refresh his mind by reading, and to work so as to please himself. on that account he envied budaeus.
'do not publish too hastily,' more warns him: 'you are watched to be caught in inexactitudes.' erasmus knows it: he will correct all later, he will ever have to revise and to polish everything. he hates the labour of revising and correcting, but he submits to it, and works passionately, 'in the treadmill of basle', and, he says, finishes the work of six years in eight months.
in that recklessness and precipitation with which erasmus labours there is again one of the unsolved contradictions of his being. he is precipitate and careless; he wants to be careful and cautious; his mind drives him to be the first, his nature restrains him, but usually only after the word has been written and published. the result is a continual intermingling of explosion and reserve.
the way in which erasmus always tries to shirk definite statements irritates us. how carefully he always tries to represent the colloquies, in which he had spontaneously revealed so much of his inner convictions, as mere trifling committed to paper to please his friends. they are only meant to teach correct latin! and if anything is said in them touching matters of faith, it is not i who say it, is it? as often as he censures classes or offices in the adagia, princes above all, he warns the readers not to regard his words as aimed at particular persons.
erasmus was a master of reserve. he knew, even when he held definite views, how to avoid direct decisions, not only from caution, but also because he saw the eternal ambiguity of human issues.
erasmus ascribes to himself an unusual horror of lies. on seeing a liar, he says, he was corporeally affected. as a boy he already violently disliked mendacious boys, such as the little braggart of whom he tells in the colloquies. that this reaction of aversion is genuine is not contradicted by the fact that we catch erasmus himself in untruths. inconsistencies, flattery, pieces of cunning, white lies, serious suppression of facts, simulated sentiments of respect or sorrow--they may all be pointed out in his letters. he once disavowed his deepest conviction for a gratuity from anne of borselen by flattering her bigotry. he requested his best friend batt to tell lies in his behalf. he most sedulously denied his authorship of the julius dialogue, for fear of the consequences, even to more, and always in such a way as to avoid saying outright, 'i did not write it'. those who know other humanists, and know how frequently and impudently they lied, will perhaps think more lightly of erasmus's sins.
for the rest, even during his lifetime he did not escape punishment for his eternal reserve, his proficiency in semi-conclusions and veiled truths, insinuations and slanderous allusions. the accusation of perfidy was often cast in his teeth, sometimes in serious indignation. 'you are always engaged in bringing suspicion upon others,' edward lee exclaims. 'how dare you usurp the office of a general censor, and condemn what you have hardly ever tasted? how dare you despise all but yourself? falsely and insultingly do you expose your antagonist in the colloquia.' lee quotes the spiteful passage referring to himself, and then exclaims: 'now from these words the world may come to know its divine, its censor, its modest and sincere author, that erasmian diffidence, earnest, decency and honesty! erasmian modesty has long been proverbial. you are always using the words "false accusations". you say: if i was consciously guilty of the smallest of all his (lee's) false accusations, i should not dare to approach the lord's table!--o man, who are you, to judge another, a servant who stands or falls before his lord?'
this was the first violent attack from the conservative side, in the beginning of 1520, when the mighty struggle which luther's action had unchained kept the world in ever greater suspense. six months later followed the first serious reproaches on the part of radical reformers. ulrich von hutten, the impetuous, somewhat foggy-headed knight, who wanted to see luther's cause triumph as the national cause of germany, turns to erasmus, whom, at one time, he had enthusiastically acclaimed as the man of the new weal, with the urgent appeal not to forsake the cause of the reformation or to compromise it. 'you have shown yourself fearful in the affair of reuchlin; now in that of luther you do your utmost to convince his adversaries that you are altogether averse from it, though we know better. do not disown us. you know how triumphantly certain letters of yours are circulated, in which, to protect yourself from suspicion, you rather meanly fasten it on others ... if you are now afraid to incur a little hostility for my sake, concede me at least that you will not allow yourself, out of fear for another, to be tempted to renounce me; rather be silent about me.'
those were bitter reproaches. in the man who had to swallow them there was a puny erasmus who deserved those reproaches, who took offence at them, but did not take them to heart, who continued to act with prudent reserve till hutten's friendship was turned to hatred. in him was also a great erasmus who knew how, under the passion and infatuation with which the parties combated each other, the truth he sought, and the love he hoped would subdue the world, were obscured; who knew the god whom he professed too high to take sides. let us try ever to see of that great erasmus as much as the petty one permits.
erasmus at louvain, 1517--he expects the renovation of the church as the fruit of good learning--controversy with lefèvre d'étaples--second journey to basle, 1518--he revises the edition of the new testament--controversies with latomus, briard and lee--erasmus regards the opposition of conservative theology merely as a conspiracy against good learning
when erasmus established himself at louvain in the summer of 1517 he had a vague presentiment that great changes were at hand. 'i fear', he writes in september, 'that a great subversion of affairs is being brought about here, if god's favour and the piety and wisdom of princes do not concern themselves about human matters.' but the forms which that great change would assume he did not in the least realize.
he regarded his removal as merely temporary. it was only to last 'till we shall have seen which place of residence is best fit for old age, which is already knocking'. there is something pathetic in the man who desires nothing but quiet and liberty, and who through his own restlessness, and his inability not to concern himself about other people, never found a really fixed abode or true independence. erasmus is one of those people who always seem to say: tomorrow, tomorrow! i must first deal with this, and then ... as soon as he shall be ready with the new edition of the new testament and shall have extricated himself from troublesome and disagreeable theological controversies, in which he finds himself entangled against his wish, he will sleep, hide himself, 'sing for himself and the muses'. but that time never came.
where to live when he shall be free? spain, to which cardinal ximenes called him, did not appeal to him. from germany, he says, the stoves and the insecurity deter him. in england the servitude which was required of him there revolted him. but in the netherlands themselves, he did not feel at his ease, either: 'here i am barked at a great deal, and there is no remuneration; though i desired it ever so much, i could not bear to stay there long'. yet he remained for four years.
erasmus had good friends in the university of louvain. at first he put up with his old host johannes paludanus, rhetor of the university, whose house he exchanged that summer for quarters in the college of the lily. martin dorp, a dutchman like himself, had not been estranged from him by their polemics about the moria; his good will was of great importance to erasmus, because of the important place dorp occupied in the theological faculty. and lastly, though his old patron, adrian of utrecht, afterwards pope, had by that time been called away from louvain to higher dignities, his influence had not diminished in consequence, but rather increased; for just about that time he had been made a cardinal.
erasmus was received with great complaisance by the louvain divines. their leader, the vice-chancellor of the university, jean briard of ath, repeatedly expressed his approval of the edition of the new testament, to erasmus's great satisfaction. soon erasmus found himself a member of the theological faculty. yet he did not feel at his ease among the louvain theologians. the atmosphere was a great deal less congenial to him than that of the world of the english scholars. here he felt a spirit which he did not understand and distrusted in consequence.
in the years in which the reformation began, erasmus was the victim of a great misunderstanding, the result of the fact that his delicate, aesthetic, hovering spirit understood neither the profoundest depths of the faith nor the hard necessities of human society. he was neither mystic nor realist. luther was both. to erasmus the great problem of church and state and society, seemed simple. nothing was required but restoration and purification by a return to the original, unspoilt sources of christianity. a number of accretions to the faith, rather ridiculous than revolting, had to be cleared away. all should be reduced to the nucleus of faith, christ and the gospel. forms, ceremonies, speculations should make room for the practice of true piety. the gospel was easily intelligible to everybody and within everybody's reach. and the means to reach all this was good learning, bonae literae. had he not himself, by his editions of the new testament and of jerome, and even earlier by the now famous enchiridion, done most of what had to be done? 'i hope that what now pleases the upright, will soon please all.' as early as the beginning of 1517 erasmus had written to wolfgang fabricius capito, in the tone of one who has accomplished the great task. 'well then, take you the torch from us. the work will henceforth be a great deal easier and cause far less hatred and envy. we have lived through the first shock.'
budaeus writes to tunstall in may 1517: 'was anyone born under such inauspicious graces that the dull and obscure discipline (scholasticism) does not revolt him, since sacred literature, too, cleansed by erasmus's diligence, has regained its ancient purity and brightness? but it is still much greater that he should have effected by the same labour the emergence of sacred truth itself out of that cimmerian darkness, even though divinity is not yet quite free from the dirt of the sophist school. if that should occur one day, it will be owing to the beginnings made in our times.' the philologist budaeus believed even more firmly than erasmus that faith was a matter of erudition.
it could not but vex erasmus that not everyone accepted the cleansed truth at once. how could people continue to oppose themselves to what, to him, seemed as clear as daylight and so simple? he, who so sincerely would have liked to live in peace with all the world, found himself involved in a series of polemics. to let the opposition of opponents pass unnoticed was forbidden not only by his character, for ever striving to justify himself in the eyes of the world, but also by the custom of his time, so eager for dispute.
there were, first of all, his polemics with jacques lefèvre d'étaples, or in latinized form, faber stapulensis, the parisian theologian, who as a preparer of the reformation may, more than anyone else, be ranked with erasmus. at the moment when erasmus got into the travelling cart which was to take him to louvain, a friend drew his attention to a passage in the new edition of faber's commentary on st. paul's epistles, in which he controverted erasmus's note on the second epistle to the hebrews, verse 7. erasmus at once bought faber's book, and soon published an apologia. it concerned christ's relation to god and the angels, but the dogmatic point at issue hinged, after all, on a philological interpretation of erasmus.
not yet accustomed to much direct wrangling, erasmus was violently agitated by the matter, the more as he esteemed faber highly and considered him a congenial spirit. 'what on earth has occurred to the man? have others set him on against me? all theologians agree that i am right,' he asserts. it makes him nervous that faber does not reply again at once. badius has told peter gilles that faber is sorry about it. erasmus in a dignified letter appeals to their friendship; he will suffer himself to be taught and censured. then again he growls: let him be careful. and he thinks that his controversy with faber keeps the world in suspense: there is not a meal at which the guests do not side with one or the other of them. but finally the combat abated and the friendship was preserved.
towards easter 1518, erasmus contemplated a new journey to basle, there to pass through the press, during a few months of hard labour, the corrected edition of the new testament. he did not fail to request the chiefs of conservative divinity at louvain beforehand to state their objections to his work. briard of ath declared he had found nothing offensive in it, after he had first been told all sorts of bad things about it. 'then the new edition will please you much better,' erasmus had said. his friend dorp and james latomus, also one of the chief divines, had expressed themselves in the same sense, and the carmelite nicholas of egmond had said that he had never read erasmus's work. only a young englishman, edward lee, who was studying greek at louvain, had summarized a number of criticisms into ten conclusions. erasmus had got rid of the matter by writing to lee that he had not been able to get hold of his conclusions and therefore could not make use of them. but his youthful critic had not put up with being slighted so, and worked out his objections in a more circumstantial treatise.
thus erasmus set out for basle once more in may 1518. he had been obliged to ask all his english friends (of whom ammonius had been taken from him by death in 1517) for support to defray the expenses of the journey; he kept holding out to them the prospect that, after his work was finished, he would return to england. in a letter to martin lypsius, as he was going up the rhine, he answered lee's criticism, which had irritated him extremely. in revising his edition he not only took it but little into account, but ventured, moreover, this time to print his own translation of the new testament of 1506 without any alterations. at the same time he obtained for the new edition a letter of approval from the pope, a redoubtable weapon against his cavillers.
at basle erasmus worked again like a horse in a treadmill. but he was really in his element. even before the second edition of the new testament, the enchiridion and the institutio principis christiani were reprinted by froben. on his return journey, erasmus, whose work had been hampered all through the summer by indisposition, and who had, on that account, been unable to finish it, fell seriously ill. he reached louvain with difficulty (21 september 1518). it might be the pestilence, and erasmus, ever much afraid of contagion himself, now took all precautions to safeguard his friends against it. he avoided his quarters in the college of the lily, and found shelter with his most trusted friend, dirck maertensz, the printer. but in spite of rumours of the plague and his warnings, first dorp and afterwards also ath came, at once, to visit him. evidently the louvain professors did not mean so badly by him, after all.
but the differences between erasmus and the louvain faculty were deeply rooted. lee, hurt by the little attention paid by erasmus to his objections, prepared a new critique, but kept it from erasmus, for the present, which irritated the latter and made him nervous. in the meantime a new opponent arose. directly after his return to louvain, erasmus had taken much trouble to promote the establishment of the collegium trilingue, projected and endowed by jerome busleiden, in his testament, to be founded in the university. the three biblical languages, hebrew, greek and latin, were to be taught there. now when james latomus, a member of the theological faculty and a man whom he esteemed, in a dialogue about the study of those three languages and of theology, doubted the utility of the former, erasmus judged himself concerned, and answered latomus in an apologia. about the same time (spring 1519) he got into trouble with the vice-chancellor himself. erasmus thought that ath had publicly censured him with regard to his 'praise of marriage', which had recently appeared. though ath withdrew at once, erasmus could not abstain from writing an apologia, however moderate. meanwhile the smouldering quarrel with lee assumed ever more hateful forms. in vain did erasmus's english friends attempt to restrain their young, ambitious compatriot. erasmus on his part irritated him furtively. he reveals in this whole dispute a lack of self-control and dignity which shows his weakest side. usually so anxious as to decorum he now lapses into invectives: the british adder, satan, even the old taunt ascribing a tail to englishmen has to serve once more. the points at issue disappear altogether behind the bitter mutual reproaches. in his unrestrained anger, erasmus avails himself of the most unworthy weapons. he eggs his german friends on to write against lee and to ridicule him in all his folly and brag, and then he assures all his english friends: 'all germany is literally furious with lee; i have the greatest trouble in keeping them back'.
alack! germany had other causes of disturbance: it is 1520 and the three great polemics of luther were setting the world on fire.
though one may excuse the violence and the petty spitefulness of erasmus in this matter, as resulting from an over-sensitive heart falling somewhat short in really manly qualities, yet it is difficult to deny that he failed completely to understand both the arguments of his adversaries and the great movements of his time.
it was very easy for erasmus to mock the narrow-mindedness of conservative divines who thought that there would be an end to faith in holy scripture as soon as the emendation of the text was attempted. '"they correct the holy gospel, nay, the pater noster itself!" the preacher exclaims indignantly in the sermon before his surprised congregation. as if i cavilled at matthew and luke, and not at those who, out of ignorance and carelessness, have corrupted them. what do people wish? that the church should possess holy scripture as correct as possible, or not?' this reasoning seemed to erasmus, with his passionate need of purity, a conclusive refutation. but instinct did not deceive his adversaries, when it told them that doctrine itself was at stake if the linguistic judgement of a single individual might decide as to the correct version of a text. and erasmus wished to avoid the inferences which assailed doctrine. he was not aware of the fact that his conceptions of the church, the sacraments and the dogmas were no longer purely catholic, because they had become subordinated to his philological insight. he could not be aware of it because, in spite of all his natural piety and his fervent ethical sentiments, he lacked the mystic insight which is the foundation of every creed.
it was this personal lack in erasmus which made him unable to understand the real grounds of the resistance of catholic orthodoxy. how was it possible that so many, and among them men of high consideration, refused to accept what to him seemed so clear and irrefutable! he interpreted the fact in a highly personal way. he, the man who would so gladly have lived in peace with all the world, who so yearned for sympathy and recognition, and bore enmity with difficulty, saw the ranks of haters and opponents increase about him. he did not understand how they feared his mocking acrimony, how many wore the scar of a wound that the moria had made. that real and supposed hatred troubled erasmus. he sees his enemies as a sect. it is especially the dominicans and the carmelites who are ill-affected towards the new scientific theology. just then a new adversary had arisen at louvain in the person of his compatriot nicholas of egmond, prior of the carmelites, henceforth an object of particular abhorrence to him. it is remarkable that at louvain erasmus found his fiercest opponents in some compatriots, in the narrower sense of the word: vincent dirks of haarlem, william of vianen, ruurd tapper. the persecution increases: the venom of slander spreads more and more every day and becomes more deadly; the greatest untruths are impudently preached about him; he calls in the help of ath, the vice-chancellor, against them. but it is no use; the hidden enemies laugh; let him write for the erudite, who are few; we shall bark to stir up the people. after 1520 he writes again and again: 'i am stoned every day'.
but erasmus, however much he might see himself, not without reason, at the centre, could, in 1519 and 1520, no longer be blind to the fact that the great struggle did not concern him alone. on all sides the battle was being fought. what is it, that great commotion about matters of spirit and of faith?
the answer which erasmus gave himself was this: it is a great and wilful conspiracy on the part of the conservatives to suffocate good learning and make the old ignorance triumph. this idea recurs innumerable times in his letters after the middle of 1518. 'i know quite certainly', he writes on 21 march 1519 to one of his german friends, 'that the barbarians on all sides have conspired to leave no stone unturned till they have suppressed bonae literae.' 'here we are still fighting with the protectors of the old ignorance'; cannot wolsey persuade the pope to stop it here? all that appertains to ancient and cultured literature is called 'poetry' by those narrow-minded fellows. by that word they indicate everything that savours of a more elegant doctrine, that is to say all that they have not learned themselves. all the tumult, the whole tragedy--under these terms he usually refers to the great theological struggle--originates in the hatred of bonae literae. 'this is the source and hot-bed of all this tragedy; incurable hatred of linguistic study and the bonae literae.' 'luther provokes those enemies, whom it is impossible to conquer, though their cause is a bad one. and meanwhile envy harasses the bonae literae, which are attacked at his (luther's) instigation by these gadflies. they are already nearly insufferable, when things do not go well with them; but who can stand them when they triumph? either i am blind, or they aim at something else than luther. they are preparing to conquer the phalanx of the muses.'
this was written by erasmus to a member of the university of leipzig in december 1520. this one-sided and academic conception of the great events, a conception which arose in the study of a recluse bending over his books, did more than anything else to prevent erasmus from understanding the true nature and purport of the reformation.
first years of the reformation
about the close of 1516, erasmus received a letter from the librarian and secretary of frederick, elector of saxony, george spalatinus, written in the respectful and reverential tone in which the great man was now approached. 'we all esteem you here most highly; the elector has all your books in his library and intends to buy everything you may publish in future.' but the object of spalatinus's letter was the execution of a friend's commission. an augustinian ecclesiastic, a great admirer of erasmus, had requested him to direct his attention to the fact that in his interpretation of st. paul, especially in that of the epistle to the romans, erasmus had failed to conceive the idea of justitia correctly, had paid too little attention to original sin: he might profit by reading augustine.
the nameless austin friar was luther, then still unknown outside the circle of the wittenberg university, in which he was a professor, and the criticism regarded the cardinal point of his hardly acquired conviction: justification by faith.
erasmus paid little attention to this letter. he received so many of that sort, containing still more praise and no criticism. if he answered it, the reply did not reach spalatinus, and later erasmus completely forgot the whole letter.
nine months afterwards, in september 1517, when erasmus had been at louvain for a short time, he received an honourable invitation, written by the first prelate of the empire, the young archbishop of mayence, albert of brandenburg. the archbishop would be pleased to see him on an occasion: he greatly admired his work (he knew it so little as to speak of erasmus's emendation of the old testament, instead of the new) and hoped that he would one day write some lives of saints in elegant style.
the young hohenzoller, advocate of the new light of classical studies, whose attention had probably been drawn to erasmus by hutten and capito, who sojourned at his court, had recently become engaged in one of the boldest political and financial transactions of his time. his elevation to the see of mayence, at the age of twenty-four, had necessitated a papal dispensation, as he also wished to keep the archbishopric of magdeburg and the see of halberstadt. this accumulation of ecclesiastical offices had to be made subservient to the brandenburg policy which opposed the rival house of saxony. the pope granted the dispensation in return for a great sum of money, but to facilitate its payment he accorded to the archbishop a liberal indulgence for the whole archbishopric of mayence, magdeburg and the brandenburg territories. albert, to whom half the proceeds were tacitly left, raised a loan with the house of fugger, and this charged itself with the indulgence traffic.
when in december 1517, erasmus answered the archbishop, luther's propositions against indulgences, provoked by the archbishop of mayence's instructions regarding their colportage, had already been posted up (31 october 1517), and were circulated throughout germany, rousing the whole church. they were levelled at the same abuses which erasmus combated, the mechanical, atomistical, and juridical conception of religion. but how different was their practical effect, as compared with erasmus's pacific endeavour to purify the church by lenient means!
during the greater part of 1518, erasmus was too much occupied by his own affairs--the journey to basle and his red-hot labours there, and afterwards his serious illness--to concern himself much with luther's business. in march he sends luther's theses to more, without comment, and, in passing, complains to colet about the impudence with which rome disseminates indulgences. luther, now declared a heretic and summoned to appear at augsburg, stands before the legate cajetanus and refuses to recant. seething enthusiasm surrounds him. just about that time erasmus writes to one of luther's partisans, john lang, in very favourable terms about his work. the theses have pleased everybody. 'i see that the monarchy of the pope at rome, as it is now, is a pestilence to christendom, but i do not know if it is expedient to touch that sore openly. that would be a matter for princes, but i fear that these will act in concert with the pope to secure part of the spoils. i do not understand what possessed eck to take up arms against luther.' the letter did not find its way into any of the collections.
the year 1519 brought the struggle attending the election of an emperor, after old maximilian had died in january, and the attempt of the curia to regain ground with lenity. germany was expecting the long-projected disputation between johannes eck and andreas karlstadt which, in truth, would concern luther. how could erasmus, who himself was involved that year in so many polemics, have foreseen that the leipzig disputation, which was to lead luther to the consequence of rejecting the highest ecclesiastical authority, would remain of lasting importance in the history of the world, whereas his quarrel with lee would be forgotten?
on 28 march 1519 luther addressed himself personally to erasmus for the first time. 'i speak with you so often, and you with me, erasmus, our ornament and our hope; and we do not know each other as yet.' he rejoices to find that erasmus displeases many, for this he regards as a sign that god has blessed him. now that his, luther's, name begins to get known too, a longer silence between them might be wrongly interpreted. 'therefore, my erasmus, amiable man, if you think fit, acknowledge also this little brother in christ, who really admires you and feels friendly disposed towards you, and for the rest would deserve no better, because of his ignorance, than to lie, unknown, buried in a corner.'
there was a very definite purpose in this somewhat rustically cunning and half ironical letter. luther wanted, if possible, to make erasmus show his colours, to win him, the powerful authority, touchstone of science and culture, for the cause which he advocated. in his heart luther had long been aware of the deep gulf separating him from erasmus. as early as march 1517, six months before his public appearance, he wrote about erasmus to john lang: 'human matters weigh heavier with him than divine,' an opinion that so many have pronounced about erasmus--obvious, and yet unfair.
the attempt, on the part of luther, to effect a rapprochement was a reason for erasmus to retire at once. now began that extremely ambiguous policy of erasmus to preserve peace by his authority as a light of the world and to steer a middle course without committing himself. in that attitude the great and the petty side of his personality are inextricably intertwined. the error because of which most historians have seen erasmus's attitude towards the reformation either in far too unfavourable a light or--as for instance the german historian kalkoff--much too heroic and far-seeing, is that they erroneously regard him as psychologically homogeneous. just that he is not. his double-sidedness roots in the depths of his being. many of his utterances during the struggle proceed directly from his fear and lack of character, also from his inveterate dislike of siding with a person or a cause; but behind that is always his deep and fervent conviction that neither of the conflicting opinions can completely express the truth, that human hatred and purblindness infatuate men's minds. and with that conviction is allied the noble illusion that it might yet be possible to preserve the peace by moderation, insight, and kindliness.
in april 1519 erasmus addressed himself by letter to the elector frederick of saxony, luther's patron. he begins by alluding to his dedication of suetonius two years before; but his real purpose is to say something about luther. luther's writings, he says, have given the louvain obscurants plenty of reason to inveigh against the bonae literae, to decry all scholars. he himself does not know luther and has glanced through his writings only cursorily as yet, but everyone praises his life. how little in accordance with theological gentleness it is to condemn him offhand, and that before the indiscreet vulgar! for has he not proposed a dispute, and submitted himself to everybody's judgement? no one has, so far, admonished, taught, convinced him. every error is not at once heresy.
the best of christianity is a life worthy of christ. where we find that, we should not rashly suspect people of heresy. why do we so uncharitably persecute the lapses of others, though none of us is free from error? why do we rather want to conquer than cure, suppress than instruct?
but he concludes with a word that could not but please luther's friends, who so hoped for his support. 'may the duke prevent an innocent man from being surrendered under the cloak of piety to the impiety of a few. this is also the wish of pope leo, who has nothing more at heart than that innocence be safe.'
on the same day he writes to john lang, one of luther's friends and followers, a short note, not meant for publication: 'i hope that the endeavours of yourself and your party will be successful. here the papists rave violently.... all the best minds are rejoiced at luther's boldness: i do not doubt he will be careful that things do not end in a quarrel of parties!... we shall never triumph over feigned christians unless we first abolish the tyranny of the roman see, and of its satellites, the dominicans, the franciscans and the carmelites. but no one could attempt that without a serious tumult.'
as the gulf widens, erasmus's protestations that he has nothing to do with luther become much more frequent. relations at louvain grow ever more disagreeable and the general sentiment about him ever more unkind. in august 1519 he turns to the pope himself for protection against his opponents. he still fails to see how wide the breach is. he still takes it all to be quarrels of scholars. king henry of england and king francis of france in their own countries have imposed silence upon the quarrellers and slanderers; if only the pope would do the same!
in october he was once more reconciled with the louvain faculty. it was just at this time that colet died in london, the man who had, better perhaps than anyone else, understood erasmus's standpoint. kindred spirits in germany still looked up to erasmus as the great man who was on the alert to interpose at the right moment and who had made moderation the watchword, until the time should come to give his friends the signal.
but in the increasing noise of the battle his voice already sounded less powerfully than before. a letter to cardinal albert of mayence, 19 october 1519, of about the same content as that of frederick of saxony written in the preceding spring, was at once circulated by luther's friends; and by the advocates of conservatism, in spite of the usual protestation, 'i do not know luther', it was made to serve against erasmus.
it became more and more clear that the mediating and conciliatory position which erasmus wished to take up would soon be altogether untenable. the inquisitor jacob hoogstraten had come from cologne, where he was a member of the university, to louvain, to work against luther there, as he had worked against reuchlin. on 7 november 1519 the louvain faculty, following the example of that of cologne, proceeded to take the decisive step: the solemn condemnation of a number of luther's opinions. in future no place could be less suitable to erasmus than louvain, the citadel of action against reformers. it is surprising that he remained there another two years.
the expectation that he would be able to speak the conciliating word was paling. for the rest he failed to see the true proportions. during the first months of 1520 his attention was almost entirely taken up by his own polemics with lee, a paltry incident in the great revolution. the desire to keep aloof got more and more the upper hand of him. in june he writes to melanchthon: 'i see that matters begin to look like sedition. it is perhaps necessary that scandals occur, but i should prefer not to be the author.' he has, he thinks, by his influence with wolsey, prevented the burning of luther's writings in england, which had been ordered. but he was mistaken. the burning had taken place in london, as early as 12 may.
the best proof that erasmus had practically given up his hope to play a conciliatory part may be found in what follows. in the summer of 1520 the famous meeting between the three monarchs, henry viii, francis i and charles v, took place at calais. erasmus was to go there in the train of his prince. how would such a congress of princes--where in peaceful conclave the interests of france, england, spain, the german empire, and a considerable part of italy, were represented together--have affected erasmus's imagination, if his ideal had remained unshaken! but there are no traces of this. erasmus was at calais in july 1520, had some conversation with henry viii there, and greeted more, but it does not appear that he attached any other importance to the journey than that of an opportunity, for the last time, to greet his english friends.
it was awkward for erasmus that just at this time, when the cause of faith took so much harsher forms, his duties as counsellor to the youthful charles, now back from spain to be crowned as emperor, circumscribed his liberty more than before. in the summer of 1520 appeared, based on the incriminating material furnished by the louvain faculty, the papal bull declaring luther to be a heretic, and, unless he should speedily recant, excommunicating him. 'i fear the worst for the unfortunate luther,' erasmus writes, 9 september 1520, 'so does conspiracy rage everywhere, so are princes incensed with him on all sides, and, most of all, pope leo. would luther had followed my advice and abstained from those hostile and seditious actions!... they will not rest until they have quite subverted the study of languages and the good learning.... out of the hatred against these and the stupidity of monks did this tragedy first arise.... i do not meddle with it. for the rest, a bishopric is waiting for me if i choose to write against luther.'
indeed, erasmus had become, by virtue of his enormous celebrity, as circumstances would have it, more and more a valuable asset in the great policy of emperor and pope. people wanted to use his name and make him choose sides. and that he would not do for any consideration. he wrote evasively to the pope about his relations with luther without altogether disavowing him. how zealously he defends himself from the suspicion of being on luther's side as noisy monks make out in their sermons, who summarily link the two in their scoffing disparagement.
but by the other side also he is pressed to choose sides and to speak out. towards the end of october 1520 the coronation of the emperor took place at aix-la-chapelle. erasmus was perhaps present; in any case he accompanied the emperor to cologne. there, on 5 november, he had an interview about luther with the elector frederick of saxony. he was persuaded to write down the result of that discussion in the form of twenty-two axiomata concerning luther's cause. against his intention they were printed at once.
at cologne erasmus also met the man with whom, as a promising young humanist, fourteen years younger than himself, he had, for some months, shared a room in the house of aldus's father-in-law, at venice: hieronymus aleander, now sent to the emperor as a papal nuncio, to persuade him to conform his imperial policy to that of the pope, in the matter of the great ecclesiastical question, and give effect to the papal excommunication by the imperial ban.
it must have been somewhat painful for erasmus that his friend had so far surpassed him in power and position, and was now called to bring by diplomatic means the solution which he himself would have liked to see achieved by ideal harmony, good will and toleration. he had never trusted aleander, and was more than ever on his guard against him. as a humanist, in spite of brilliant gifts, aleander was by far erasmus's inferior, and had never, like him, risen from literature to serious theological studies; he had simply prospered in the service of church magnates (whom erasmus had given up early). this man was now invested with the highest mediating powers.
to what degree of exasperation erasmus's most violent antagonists at louvain had now been reduced is seen from the witty and slightly malicious account he gives thomas more of his meeting with egmondanus before the rector of the university, who wanted to reconcile them. still things did not look so black as ulrich von hutten thought, when he wrote to erasmus: 'do you think that you are still safe, now that luther's books are burned? fly, and save yourself for us!'
ever more emphatic do erasmus's protestations become that he has nothing to do with luther. long ago he had already requested him not to mention his name, and luther promised it: 'very well, then, i shall not again refer to you, neither will other good friends, since it troubles you'. ever louder, too, are erasmus's complaints about the raving of the monks at him, and his demands that the mendicant orders be deprived of the right to preach.
in april 1521 comes the moment in the world's history to which christendom has been looking forward: luther at the diet of worms, holding fast to his opinions, confronted by the highest authority in the empire. so great is the rejoicing in germany that for a moment it may seem that the emperor's power is in danger rather than luther and his adherents. 'if i had been present', writes erasmus, 'i should have endeavoured that this tragedy would have been so tempered by moderate arguments that it could not afterwards break out again to the still greater detriment of the world.'
the imperial sentence was pronounced: within the empire (as in the burgundian netherlands before that time) luther's books were to be burned, his adherents arrested and their goods confiscated, and luther was to be given up to the authorities. erasmus hopes that now relief will follow. 'the luther tragedy is at an end with us here; would it had never appeared on the stage.' in these days albrecht dürer, on hearing the false news of luther's death, wrote in the diary of his journey that passionate exclamation: 'o erasmus of rotterdam, where will you be? hear, you knight of christ, ride forth beside the lord christ, protect the truth, obtain the martyr's crown. for you are but an old manikin. i have heard you say that you have allowed yourself two more years, in which you are still fit to do some work; spend them well, in behalf of the gospel and the true christian faith.... o erasmus, be on this side, that god may be proud of you.'
it expresses confidence in erasmus's power, but at bottom is the expectation that he will not do all this. dürer had rightly understood erasmus.
the struggle abated nowise, least of all at louvain. latomus, the most dignified and able of louvain divines, had now become one of the most serious opponents of luther and, in so doing, touched erasmus, too, indirectly. to nicholas of egmond, the carmelite, another of erasmus's compatriots had been added as a violent antagonist, vincent dirks of haarlem, a dominican. erasmus addresses himself to the faculty, to defend himself against the new attacks, and to explain why he has never written against luther. he will read him, he will soon take up something to quiet the tumult. he succeeds in getting aleander, who arrived at louvain in june, to prohibit preaching against him. the pope still hopes that aleander will succeed in bringing back erasmus, with whom he is again on friendly terms, to the right track.
but erasmus began to consider the only exit which was now left to him: to leave louvain and the netherlands to regain his menaced independence. the occasion to depart had long ago presented itself: the third edition of his new testament called him to basle once more. it would not be a permanent departure, and he purposed to return to louvain. on 28 october (his birthday) he left the town where he had spent four difficult years. his chambers in the college of the lily were reserved for him and he left his books behind. on 15 november he reached basle.
soon the rumour spread that out of fear of aleander he had saved himself by flight. but the idea, revived again in our days in spite of erasmus's own painstaking denial, that aleander should have cunningly and expressly driven him from the netherlands, is inherently improbable. so far as the church was concerned, erasmus would at almost any point be more dangerous than at louvain, in the headquarters of conservatism, under immediate control of the strict burgundian government, where, it seemed, he could sooner or later be pressed into the service of the anti-lutheran policy.
it was this contingency, as dr. allen has correctly pointed out, which he feared and evaded. not for his bodily safety did he emigrate; erasmus would not have been touched--he was far too valuable an asset for such measures. it was his mental independence, so dear to him above all else, that he felt to be threatened; and, to safeguard that, he did not return to louvain.
erasmus at basle
basle his dwelling-place for nearly eight years: 1521-9--political thought of erasmus--concord and peace--anti-war writings--opinions concerning princes and government--new editions of several fathers--the colloquia--controversies with stunica, beda, etc.--quarrel with hutten--eppendorff
it is only towards the evening of life that the picture of erasmus acquires the features with which it was to go down to posterity. only at basle--delivered from the troublesome pressure of parties wanting to enlist him, transplanted from an environment of haters and opponents at louvain to a circle of friends, kindred spirits, helpers and admirers, emancipated from the courts of princes, independent of the patronage of purifying yourself from the lust of life, you will come unto that lake where all desire shall be washed away.
'sooner shall the cleft rock reunite so as to make a whole, than may he who kills any living being be admitted into our society.'--acceptance into the monkhood.
it is very noticeable throughout the bazaars of burma that all the beef butchers are natives of india. no burman will kill a cow or a bullock, and no burman will sell its meat. it is otherwise with pork and fowls. burmans may sometimes be found selling these; and fish are almost invariably sold by the wives of the fishermen. during the king's time, any man who was even found in possession of beef was liable to very severe punishment. the only exception, as i have explained elsewhere, was in the case of the queen when expecting an addition to her family, and it was necessary that she should be strengthened in all ways. none, not even foreigners, were allowed to kill beef, and this law was very stringently observed. other flesh and fish might, as far as the law of the country went, be sold with impunity. you could not be fined for killing and eating goats, or fowls, or pigs, and these were sold occasionally. it is now ten years since king thibaw was overthrown, and there is now no law against the sale of beef. and yet, as i have said, no respectable burman will even now kill or sell beef. the law was founded on the beliefs of the people, and though the law is dead, the beliefs remain.
it is true that the taking of life is against buddhist commands. no life at all may be taken by him who adheres to buddhistic teaching. neither for sport, nor for revenge, nor for food, may any animal be deprived of the breath that is in it. and this is a command wonderfully well kept. there are a few exceptions, but they are known and accepted as breaches of the law, for the law itself knows no exceptions. fish, as i have said, can be obtained almost everywhere. they are caught in great quantities in the river, and are sold in most bazaars, either fresh or salted. it is one of the staple foods of the burmese. but although they will eat fish, they despise the fisherman. not so much, perhaps, as if he killed other living things, but still, the fisherman is an outcast from decent society. he will have to suffer great and terrible punishment before he can be cleansed from the sins that he daily commits. notwithstanding this, there are many fishermen in burma.
a fish is a very cold-blooded beast. one must be very hard up for something to love to have any affection to spare upon fishes. they cannot be, or at all events they never are, domesticated, and most of them are not beautiful. i am not aware that they have ever been known to display any attachment to anyone, which accounts, perhaps, for the comparatively lenient eye with which their destruction is contemplated.
for with warm-blooded animals it is very different. cattle, as i have said, can never be killed nor their meat sold by a burman, and with other animals the difficulty is not much less.
i was in upper burma for some months before the war, and many a time i could get no meat at all. living in a large town among prosperous people, i could get no flesh at all, only fish and rice and vegetables. when, after much trouble, my indian cook would get me a few fowls, he would often be waylaid and forced to release them. an old woman, say, anxious to do some deed of merit, would come to him as he returned triumphantly home with his fowls and tender him money, and beg him to release the fowls. she would give the full price or double the price of the fowls; she had no desire to gain merit at another person's expense, and the unwilling cook would be obliged to give up the fowls. public opinion was so strong he dare not refuse. the money was paid, the fowls set free, and i dined on tinned beef.
and yet the villages are full of fowls. why they are kept i do not know. certainly not for food. i do not mean to say that an accidental meeting between a rock and a fowl may not occasionally furnish forth a dinner, but this is not the object with which they are kept--of this i am sure.
you would not suppose that fowls were capable of exciting much affection, yet i suppose they are. certainly in one case ducks were. there is a burman lady i know who is married to an englishman. he kept ducks. he bought a number of ducklings, and had them fed up so that they might be fat and succulent when the time came for them to be served at table. they became very fine ducks, and my friend had promised me one. i took an interest in them, and always noticed their increasing fatness when i rode that way. imagine, then, my disappointment when one day i saw that all the ducks had disappeared.
i stopped to inquire. yes, truly they were all gone, my friend told me. in his absence his wife had gone up the river to visit some friends, and had taken the ducks with her. she could not bear, she said, that they should be killed, so she took them away and distributed them among her friends, one here and one there, where she was sure they would be well treated and not killed. when she returned she was quite pleased at her success, and laughed at her husband and me.
this same lady was always terribly distressed when she had to order a fowl to be killed for her husband's breakfast, even if she had never seen it before. i have seen her, after telling the cook to kill a fowl for breakfast, run away and sit down in the veranda with her hands over her ears, and her face the very picture of misery, fearing lest she should hear its shrieks. i think that this was the one great trouble to her in her marriage, that her husband would insist on eating fowls and ducks, and that she had to order them to be killed.
as she is, so are most burmans. if there is all this trouble about fowls, it can be imagined how the trouble increases when it comes to goats or any larger beasts. in the jungle villages meat of any kind at all is never seen: no animals of any kind are allowed to be killed. an officer travelling in the district would be reduced to what he could carry with him, if it were not for an act of government obliging villages to furnish--on payment, of course--supplies for officers and troops passing through. the mere fact of such a law being necessary is sufficient proof of the strength of the feeling against taking life.
of course, all shooting, either for sport or for food, is looked upon as disgraceful. in many jungle villages where deer abound there are one or two hunters who make a living by hunting. but they are disgraced men. they are worse than fishermen, and they will have a terrible penalty to pay for it all. it will take much suffering to wash from their souls the cruelty, the blood-thirstiness, the carelessness to suffering, the absence of compassion, that hunting must produce. 'is there no food in the bazaar, that you must go and take the lives of animals?' has been said to me many a time. and when my house-roof was infested by sparrows, who dropped grass and eggs all over my rooms, so that i was obliged to shoot them with a little rifle, this was no excuse. 'you should have built a sparrow-cote,' they told me. 'if you had built a sparrow-cote, they would have gone away and left you in peace. they only wanted to make nests and lay eggs and have little ones, and you went and shot them.' there are many sparrow-cotes to be seen in the villages.
i might give example after example of this sort, for they happen every day. we who are meat-eaters, who delight in shooting, who have a horror of insects and reptiles, are continually coming into collision with the principles of our neighbours; for even harmful reptiles they do not care to kill. truly i believe it is a myth, the story of the burmese mother courteously escorting out of the house the scorpion which had just bitten her baby. a burmese mother worships her baby as much as the woman of any other nation does, and i believe there is no crime she would not commit in its behalf. but if she saw a scorpion walking about in the fields, she would not kill it as we should. she would step aside and pass on. 'poor beast!' she would say, 'why should i hurt it? it never hurt me.'
the burman never kills insects out of sheer brutality. if a beetle drone annoyingly, he will catch it in a handkerchief and put it outside, and so with a bee. it is a great trouble often to get your burmese servants to keep your house free of ants and other annoying creatures. if you tell them to kill the insects they will, for in that case the sin falls on you. without special orders they would rather leave the ants alone.
in this district no burman hesitates a moment in killing a viper when he has the chance. usually he has to do it in self-defence. this viper is terribly feared, as over a hundred persons a year die here by his bite. he is so hated and feared that he has become an outcast from the law that protects all life.
but with other snakes it is not so. there is the hamadryad, for instance. he is a great snake about ten to fourteen feet long, and he is the only snake that will attack you first. he is said always to do so, certainly he often does. one attacked me once when out quail-shooting. he put up his great neck and head suddenly at a distance of only five or six feet, and was just preparing to strike, when i literally blew his head off with two charges of shot.
you would suppose he was vicious enough to be included with the russell's viper in the category of the exceptions, but no. perhaps he is too rare to excite such fierce and deadly hate as makes the burman forget his law and kill the viper. however it may be, the burman is not ready to kill the hamadryad. a few weeks ago a friend of mine and myself came across two little burman boys carrying a jar with a piece of broken tile over it. the lads kept lifting up the tile and peeping in, and then putting the tile on again in a great hurry, and their actions excited our curiosity. so we called them to come to us, and we looked into the jar. it was full of baby hamadryads. the lads had found a nest of them in the absence of the mother, who would have killed them if she had been there, and had secured all the little snakes. there were seven of them.
we asked the boys what they intended to do with the snakes, and they answered that they would show them to their friends in the village. 'and then?' we asked. and then they would let them go in the water. my friend killed all the hamadryads on the spot, and gave the boys some coppers, and we went on. can you imagine this happening anywhere else? can you think of any other schoolboys sparing any animal they caught, much less poisonous snakes? the extraordinary hold that this tenet of their religion has upon the burmese must be seen to be understood. what i write will sound like some fairy story, i fear, to my people at home. it is far beneath the truth. the belief that it is wrong to take life is a belief with them as strong as any belief could be. i do not know anywhere any command, earthly or heavenly, that is acted up to with such earnestness as this command is amongst the burmese. it is an abiding principle of their daily life.
where the command came from i do not know. i cannot find any allusion to it in the life of the great teacher. we know that he ate meat. it seems to me that it is older even than he. it has been derived both by the burmese buddhists and the hindus from a faith whose origin is hidden in the mists of long ago. it is part of that far older faith on which buddhism was built, as was christianity on judaism.
but if not part of his teaching--and though it is included in the sacred books, we do not know how much of them are derived from the buddha himself--it is in strict accordance with all his teaching. that is one of the most wonderful points of buddhism, it is all in accordance; there are no exceptions.
i have heard amongst europeans a very curious explanation of this refusal of buddhists to take life. 'buddhists,' they say, 'believe in the transmigration of souls. they believe that when a man dies his soul may go into a beast. you could not expect him to kill a bull, when perchance his grandfather's soul might inhabit there.' this is their explanation, this is the way they put two and two together to make five. they know that buddhists believe in transmigration, they know that buddhists do not like to take life, and therefore one is the cause of the other.
i have mentioned this explanation to burmans while talking of the subject, and they have always laughed at it. they had never heard of it before. it is true that it is part of their great theory of life that the souls of men have risen from being souls of beasts, and that we may so relapse if we are not careful. many stories are told of cases that have occurred where a man has been reincarnated as an animal, and where what is now the soul of a man used to live in a beast. but that makes no difference. whatever a man may have been, or may be, he is a man now; whatever a beast may have been, he is a beast now. never suppose that a burman has any other idea than this. to him men are men, and animals are animals, and men are far the higher. but he does not deduce from this that man's superiority gives him permission to illtreat or to kill animals. it is just the reverse. it is because man is so much higher than the animal that he can and must observe towards animals the very greatest care, feel for them the very greatest compassion, be good to them in every way he can. the burman's motto should be noblesse oblige; he knows the meaning, if he knows not the words.
for the burman's compassion towards animals goes very much farther than a mere reluctance to kill them. although he has no command on the subject, it seems to him quite as important to treat animals well during their lives as to refrain from taking those lives. his refusal to take life he shares with the hindu; his perpetual care and tenderness to all living creatures is all his own. and here i may mention a very curious contrast, that whereas in india the hindu will not take life and the mussulman will, yet the mussulman is by reputation far kinder to his beasts than the hindu. here the burman combines both qualities. he has all the kindness to animals that the mahommedan has, and more, and he has the same horror of taking life that the hindu has.
the burman is full of the greatest sympathy towards animals of all kinds, of the greatest understanding of their ways, of the most humorously good-natured attitude towards them. looking at them from his manhood, he has no contempt for them; but the gentle toleration of a father to very little children who are stupid and troublesome often, but are very lovable. he feels himself so far above them that he can condescend towards them, and forbear with them.
so all the drivers of gharries, as we call them, are natives of india or half-breeds, and it is amongst them that the work of the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals principally lies. while i was in rangoon i tried a number of cases of over-driving, of using ponies with sore withers and the like. i never tried a burman. even in rangoon, which has become almost indianized, his natural humanity never left the burman. as far as burmans are concerned, the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals need not exist. they are kinder to their animals than even the members of the society could be. instances occur every day; here is one of the most striking that i remember.
there is a town in burma where there are some troops stationed, and which is the headquarters of the civil administration of the district. it is, or was then, some distance from a railway-station, and it was necessary to make some arrangement for the carriage of the mails to and from the town and station. the post-office called for tenders, and at length it was arranged through the civil authorities that a coach should run once a day each way to carry the mails and passengers. a native of india agreed to take the contract--for burmans seldom or never care to take them--and he was to comply with certain conditions and receive a certain subsidy.
so an inquiry was made, and the burmese were asked why they did not ride on the coach. were the fares too high?--was it uncomfortable? but no, it was for neither of these reasons that they left the coach to the soldiers and natives of india. it was because of the ponies. no burman would care to ride behind ponies who were treated as these ponies were--half fed, overdriven, whipped. it was a misery to see them; it was twice a misery to drive behind them. 'poor beasts!' they said; 'you can see their ribs, and when they come to the end of a stage they are fit to fall down and die. they should be turned out to graze.'
the opinion was universal. the burmans preferred to spend twice or thrice the money and hire a bullock-cart and go slowly, while the coach flashed past them in a whirl of dust, or they preferred to walk. many and many times have i seen the roadside rest-houses full of travellers halting for a few minutes' rest. they walked while the coach came by empty; and nearly all of them could have afforded the fare. it was a very striking instance of what pure kind-heartedness will do, for there would have been no religious command broken by going in the coach. it was the pure influence of compassion towards the beasts and refusal to be a party to such hard-heartedness. and yet, as i have said, i do not think the law could have interfered with success. surely a people who could act like this have the very soul of religion in their hearts, although the act was not done in the name of religion.
all the animals--the cattle, the ponies, and the buffaloes--are so tame that it is almost an unknown thing for anyone to get hurt.
the cattle are sometimes afraid of the white face and strange attire of a european, but you can walk through the herds as they come home in the evening with perfect confidence that they will not hurt you. even a cow with a young calf will only eye you suspiciously; and with the burmans even the huge water buffaloes are absolutely tame. you can see a herd of these great beasts, with horns six feet across, come along under the command of a very small boy or girl perched on one of their broad backs. he flourishes a little stick, and issues his commands like a general. it is one of the quaintest imaginable sights to see this little fellow get off his steed, run after a straggler, and beat him with his stick. the buffalo eyes his master, whom he could abolish with one shake of his head, submissively, and takes the beating, which he probably feels about as much as if a straw fell on him, good-humouredly. the children never seem to come to grief. buffaloes occasionally charge europeans, but the only place where i have known of burmans being killed by buffaloes is in the kalè valley. there the buffaloes are turned out into the jungle for eight months in the year, and are only caught for ploughing and carting. naturally they are quite wild; in fact, many of them are the offspring of wild bulls.
the burmans, too, are very fond of dogs. their villages are full of dogs; but, as far as i know, they never use them for anything, and they are never trained to do anything. they are supposed to be useful as watch-dogs, but i do not think they are very good even at that. i have surrounded a village before dawn, and never a dog barked, and i have heard them bark all night at nothing.
but when a burman sees a fox-terrier or any english dog his delight is unfeigned. when we first took upper burma, and such sights were rare, half a village would turn out to see the little 'tail-less' dog trotting along after its master. and if the terrier would 'beg,' then he would win all hearts. i am not only referring to children, but to grown men and women; and then there is always something peculiarly childlike and frank in these children of the great river.
only to-day, as i was walking up the bank of the river in the early dawn, i heard some burman boatmen discussing my fox-terrier. they were about fifteen yards from the shore, poling their boat up against the current, which is arduous work; and as i passed them my little dog ran down the bank and looked at them across the water, and they saw her.
'see now,' said one man to another, pausing for a moment with his pole in his hand--'see the little white dog with the brown face, how wise she looks!'
'and how pretty!' said a man steering in the stern. 'come!' he cried, holding out his hand to it.
but the dog only made a splash in the water with her paws, and then turned and ran after me. the boatmen laughed and resumed their poling, and i passed on. in the still morning across the still water i could hear every word, but i hardly took any note; i have heard it so often. only now when i come to write on this subject do i remember.
it has been inculcated in us from childhood that it is a manly thing to be indifferent to pain--not to our own pain only, but to that of all others. to be sorry for a hunted hare, to compassionate the wounded deer, to shrink from torturing the brute creation, has been accounted by us as namby-pamby sentimentalism, not fit for man, fit only for a squeamish woman. to the burman it is one of the highest of all virtues. he believes that all that is beautiful in life is founded on compassion and kindness and sympathy--that nothing of great value can exist without them. do you think that a burmese boy would be allowed to birds'-nest, or worry rats with a terrier, or go ferreting? not so. these would be crimes.
that this kindness and compassion for animals has very far-reaching results no one can doubt. if you are kind to animals, you will be kind, too, to your fellow-man. it is really the same thing, the same feeling in both cases. if to be superior in position to an animal justifies you in torturing it, so it would do with men. if you are in a better position than another man, richer, stronger, higher in rank, that would--that does often in our minds--justify ill-treatment and contempt. our innate feeling towards all that we consider inferior to ourselves is scorn; the burman's is compassion. you can see this spirit coming out in every action of their daily life, in their dealings with each other, in their thoughts, in their speech. 'you are so strong, have you no compassion for him who is weak, who is tempted, who has fallen?' how often have i heard this from a burman's lips! how often have i seen him act up to it! it seems to them the necessary corollary of strength that the strong man should be sympathetic and kind. it seems to them an unconscious confession of weakness to be scornful, revengeful, inconsiderate. courtesy, they say, is the mark of a great man, discourtesy of a little one. no one who feels his position secure will lose his temper, will persecute, will be disdainful. their word for a fool and for a hasty-tempered man is the same. to them it is the same thing, one infers the other. and so their attitude towards animals is but an example of their attitude to each other. that an animal or a man should be lower and weaker than you is the strongest claim he can have on your humanity, and your courtesy and consideration for him is the clearest proof of your own superiority. and so in his dealings with animals the buddhist considers himself, consults his own dignity, his own strength, and is kind and compassionate to them out of the greatness of his own heart. nothing is more beautiful than the burman in his ways with his children, and his beasts, with all who are lesser than himself.
even to us, who think so very differently from him on many points, there is a great and abiding charm in all this, to which we can find only one exception; for to our ideas there is one exception, and it is this: no burman will take any life if he can help it, and therefore, if any animal injure itself, he will not kill it--not even to put it out of its pain, as we say. i have seen bullocks split on slippery roads, i have seen ponies with broken legs, i have seen goats with terrible wounds caused by accidental falls, and no one would kill them. if, when you are out shooting, your beaters pick up a wounded hare or partridge, do not suppose that they wring its neck; you must yourself do that, or it will linger on till you get home. under no circumstances will they take the life even of a wounded beast. and if you ask them, they will say: 'if a man be sick, do you shoot him? if he injure his spine so that he will be a cripple for life, do you put him out of his pain?'
if you reply that men and beasts are different, they will answer that in this point they do not recognise the difference. 'poor beast! let him live out his little life.' and they will give him grass and water till he dies.
this is the exception that i meant, but now, after i have written it, i am not so sure. is it an exception?
all life is one
'i heard a voice that cried, "balder the beautiful is dead, is dead," and through the misty air passed like the mournful cry of sunward-sailing cranes.' tegner's drapa.
all romance has died out of our woods and hills in england, all our fairies are dead long ago. knowledge so far has brought us only death. later on it will bring us a new life. it is even now showing us how this may be, and is bringing us face to face again with nature, and teaching us to know and understand the life that there is about us. science is telling us again what we knew long ago and forgot, that our life is not apart from the life about us, but of it. everything is akin to us, and when we are more accustomed to this knowledge, when we have ceased to regard it as a new, strange teaching, and know that we are but seeing again with clearer eyes what a half-knowledge blinded us to, then the world will be bright and beautiful to us as it was long ago.
but now all is dark. there are no dryads in our trees, nor nymphs among the reeds that fringe the river; even our peaks hold for us no guardian spirit, that may take the reckless trespasser and bind him in a rock for ever. and because we have lost our belief in fairies, because we do not now think that there are goblins in our caves, because there is no spirit in the winds nor voice in the thunder, we have come to think that the trees and the rocks, the flowers and the storm, are all dead things. they are made up, we say, of materials that we know, they are governed by laws that we have discovered, and there is no life anywhere in nature.
and yet this cannot be true. far truer is it to believe in fairies and in spirits than in nothing at all; for surely there is life all about us. who that has lived out alone in the forest, that has lain upon the hillside and seen the mountains clothe themselves in lustrous shadows shot with crimson when the day dies, who that has heard the sigh come up out of the ravines where the little breezes move, that has watched the trees sway their leaves to and fro, beckoning to each other with wayward amorous gestures, but has known that these are not dead things?
watch the stream coming down the hill with a flash and a laugh in the sunlight, look into the dark brown pools in the deep shadows beneath the rocks, or voyage a whole night upon the breast of the great river, drifting past ghostly monasteries and silent villages, and then say if there be no life in the waters, if they, too, are dead things. there is no consolation like the consolation of nature, no sympathy like the sympathy of the hills and streams; and sympathy comes from life. there is no sympathy with the dead.
when you are alone in the forest all this life will come and talk to you, if you are quiet and understand. there is love deep down in the passionate heart of the flower, as there is in the little quivering honeysucker flitting after his mate, as there was in romeo long ago. there is majesty in the huge brown precipice greater than ever looked from the face of a king. all life is one. the soul that moves within you when you hear the deer call to each other far above in the misty meadows of the night is the same soul that moves in everything about you. no people who have lived much with nature have failed to descry this. they have recognised the life, they have felt the sympathy of the world about them, and to this life they have given names and forms as they would to friends whom they loved. fairies and goblins, fauns and spirits, these are but names and personifications of a real life. but to him who has never felt this life, who has never been wooed by the trees and hills, these things are but foolishness, of course.
to the burman, not less than to the greek of long ago, all nature is alive. the forest and the river and the mountains are full of spirits, whom the burmans call nats. there are all kinds of nats, good and bad, great and little, male and female, now living round about us. some of them live in the trees, especially in the huge fir-tree that shades half an acre without the village; or among the fernlike fronds of the tamarind; and you will often see beneath such a tree, raised upon poles or nestled in the branches, a little house built of bamboo and thatch, perhaps two feet square. you will be told when you ask that this is the house of the tree-nat. flowers will be offered sometimes, and a little water or rice maybe, to the nat, never supposing that he is in need of such things, but as a courteous and graceful thing to do; for it is not safe to offend these nats, and many of them are very powerful. there is a nat of whom i know, whose home is in a great tree at the crossing of two roads, and he has a house there built for him, and he is much feared. he is such a great nat that it is necessary when you pass his house to dismount from your pony and walk to a respectful distance. if you haughtily ride past, trouble will befall you. a friend of mine riding there one day rejected all the advice of his burmese companions and did not dismount, and a few days later he was taken deadly sick of fever. he very nearly died, and had to go away to the straits for a sea-trip to take the fever out of his veins. it was a very near thing for him. that was in the burmese times, of course. after that he always dismounted. but all nats are not so proud nor so much to be feared as this one, and it is usually safe to ride past.
even as i write i am under the shadow of a tree where a nat used to live, and the headman of the village has been telling me all about it. this is a government rest-house on a main road between two stations, and is built for government officials travelling on duty about their districts. to the west of it is a grand fig-tree of the kind called nyaungbin by the burmese. it is a very beautiful tree, though now a little bare, for it is just before the rains; but it is a great tree even now, and two months hence it will be glorious. it was never planted, the headman tells me, but came up of itself very many years ago, and when it was grown to full size a nat came to live in it. the nat lived in the tree for many years, and took great care of it. no one might injure it or any living creature near it, so jealous was the nat of his abode. and the villagers built a little nat-house, such as i have described, under the branches, and offered flowers and water, and all things went well with those who did well. but if anyone did ill the nat punished him. if he cut the roots of the tree, the nat hurt his feet; and if he injured the branches, the nat injured his arms; and if he cut the trunk, the nat came down out of the tree, and killed the sacrilegious man right off. there was no running away, because, as you know, the headman said, nats can go a great deal faster than any man. many men, careless strangers, who camped under the tree and then abused the hospitality of the nat by hunting near his home, came to severe grief.
but the nat has gone now, alas! the tree is still there, but the nat has fled away these many years.
'i suppose he didn't care to stay,' said the headman. 'you see that the english government officials came and camped here, and didn't fear the nats. they had fowls killed here for their dinner, and they sang and shouted; and they shot the green pigeons who ate his figs, and the little doves that nested in his branches.'
all these things were an abomination to the nat, who hated loud, rough talk and abuse, and to whom all life was sacred.
so the nat went away. the headman did not know where he was gone, but there are plenty of trees.
'he has gone somewhere to get peace,' the headman said. 'somewhere in the jungle, where no one ever comes save the herd-boy and the deer, he will be living in a tree, though i do not think he will easily find a tree so beautiful as this.'
the headman seemed very sorry about it, and so did several villagers who were with him; and i suggested that if the nat-houses were rebuilt, and flowers and water offered, the nat might know and return. i even offered to contribute myself, that it might be taken as an amende honorable on behalf of the english government. but they did not think this would be any use. no nat would come where there was so much going and coming, so little care for life, such a disregard for pity and for peace. if we were to take away our rest-house, well then, perhaps, after a time, something could be done, but not under present circumstances.
and so, besides dethroning the burmese king, and occupying his golden palace, we are ousting from their pleasant homes the guardian spirits of the trees. they flee before the cold materialism of our belief, before the brutality of our manners. the headman did not say this; he did not mean to say this, for he is a very courteous man and a great friend of all of us; but that is what it came to, i think.
the trunk of this tree is more than ten feet through--not a round bole, but like the pillar in a gothic cathedral, as of many smaller boles growing together; and the roots spread out into a pedestal before entering the ground. the trunk does not go up very far. at perhaps twenty-five feet above the ground it divides into a myriad of smaller trunks, not branches, till it looks more like a forest than a single tree; it is full of life still. though the pigeons and the doves come here no longer, there are a thousand other birds flitting to and fro in their aerial city and chirping to each other. two tiny squirrels have just run along a branch nearly over my head, in a desperate hurry apparently, their tails cocked over their backs, and a sky blue chameleon is standing on the trunk near where it parts. there is always a breeze in this great tree; the leaves are always moving, and there is a continuous rustle and murmur up there. a mango-tree and tamarind near by are quite still. not a breath shakes their leaves; they are as still as stone, but the shadow of the fig-tree is chequered with ever-changing lights. is the nat really gone? perhaps not; perhaps he is still there, still caring for his tree, only shy now and distrustful, and therefore no more seen.
whole woods are enchanted sometimes, and no one dare enter them. such a wood i know, far away north, near the hills, which is full of nats. there was a great deal of game in it, for animals sought shelter there, and no one dared to disturb them; not the villagers to cut firewood, nor the girls seeking orchids, nor the hunter after his prey, dared to trespass upon that enchanted ground.
'what would happen,' i asked once, 'if anyone went into that wood? would he be killed, or what?'
and i was told that no one could tell what would happen, only that he would never be seen again alive. 'the nats would confiscate him,' they said, 'for intruding on their privacy.' but what they would do to him after the confiscation no one seemed to be quite sure. i asked the official who was with me, a fine handsome burman who had been with us in many fights, whether he would go into the wood with me, but he declined at once. enemies are one thing, nats are quite another, and a very much more dreadful thing. you can escape from enemies, as witness my companion, who had been shot at times without number and had only once been hit, in the leg, but you cannot escape nats. once, he told me, there were two very sacrilegious men, hunters by profession, only more abandoned than even the majority of hunters, and they went into this wood to hunt 'they didn't care for nats,' they said. they didn't care for anything at all apparently. 'they were absolutely without reverence, worse than any beast,' said my companion.
so they went into the wood to shoot, and they never came out again. a few days later their bare bones were found, flung out upon the road near the enchanted wood. the nats did not care to have even the bones of such scoundrels in their wood, and so thrust them out. that was what happened to them, and that was what might happen to us if we went in there. we did not go.
though the nats of the forest will not allow even one of their beasts to be slain, the nats of the rivers are not so exclusive. i do not think fish are ever regarded in quite the same light as animals. it is true that a fervent buddhist will not kill even a fish, but a fisherman is not quite such a reprobate as a hunter in popular estimation. and the nats think so too, for the nat of a pool will not forbid all fishing. you must give him his share; you must be respectful to him, and not offend him; and then he will fill your nets with gleaming fish, and all will go well with you. if not, of course, you will come to grief; your nets will be torn, and your boat upset; and finally, if obstinate, you will be drowned. a great arm will seize you, and you will be pulled under and disappear for ever.
a nat is much like a human being; if you treat him well he will treat you well, and conversely. courtesy is never wasted on men or nats, at least, so a burman tells me.
the highest nats live in the mountains. the higher the nat the higher the mountain; and when you get to a very high peak indeed, like mainthong peak in wuntho, you encounter very powerful nats.
they tell a story of mainthong peak and the nats there, how all of a sudden, one day in 1885, strange noises came from the hill. high up on his mighty side was heard the sound of great guns firing slowly and continuously; there was the thunder of falling rocks, cries as of someone bewailing a terrible calamity, and voices calling from the precipices. the people living in their little hamlets about his feet were terrified. something they knew had happened of most dire import to them, some catastrophe which they were powerless to prevent, which they could not even guess. but when a few weeks later there came even into those remote villages the news of the fall of mandalay, of the surrender of the king, of the 'great treachery,' they knew that this was what the nats had been sorrowing over. all the nats everywhere seem to have been distressed at our arrival, to hate our presence, and to earnestly desire our absence. they are the spirits of the country and of the people, and they cannot abide a foreign domination.
but the greatest place for nats is the popa mountain, which is an extinct volcano standing all alone about midway between the river and the shan mountains. it is thus very conspicuous, having no hills near it to share its majesty; and being in sight from many of the old capitals, it is very well known in history and legend. it is covered with dense forest, and the villages close about are few. at the top there is a crater with a broken side, and a stream comes flowing out of this break down the mountain. probably it was the denseness of its forests, the abundance of water, and its central position, more than its guardian nats, that made it for so many years the last retreating-place of the half-robber, half-patriot bands that made life so uneasy for us. but the nats of popa mountains are very famous.
when any foreigner was taken into the service of the king of burma he had to swear an oath of fidelity. he swore upon many things, and among them were included 'all the nats in popa.' no burman would have dared to break an oath sworn in such a serious way as this, and they did not imagine that anyone else would. it was and is a very dangerous thing to offend the popa nats; for they are still there in the mountain, and everyone who goes there must do them reverence.
a friend of mine, a police officer, who was engaged in trying to catch the last of the robber chiefs who hid near popa, told me that when he went up the mountain shooting he, too, had to make offerings. some way up there is a little valley dark with overhanging trees, and a stream flows slowly along it. it is an enchanted valley, and if you look closely you will see that the stream is not as other streams, for it flows uphill. it comes rushing into the valley with a great display of foam and froth, and it leaves in a similar way, tearing down the rocks, and behaving like any other boisterous hill rivulet; but in the valley itself it lies under a spell. it is slow and dark, and has a surface like a mirror, and it flows uphill. there is no doubt about it; anyone can see it. when they came here, my friend tells me, they made a halt, and the burmese hunters with him unpacked his breakfast. he did not want to eat then, he said, but they explained that it was not for him, but for the nats. all his food was unpacked, cold chicken and tinned meats, and jam and eggs and bread, and it was spread neatly on a cloth under a tree. then the hunters called upon the nats to come and take anything they desired, while my friend wondered what he should do if the nats took all his food and left him with nothing. but no nats came, although the burmans called again and again. so they packed up the food, saying that now the nats would be pleased at the courtesy shown to them, and that my friend would have good sport. presently they went on, leaving, however, an egg or two and a little salt, in case the nats might be hungry later, and true enough it was that they did have good luck. at other times, my friend says, when he did not observe this ceremony, he saw nothing to shoot at all, but on this day he did well.
the former history of all nats is not known. whether they have had a previous existence in another form, and if so, what, is a secret that they usually keep carefully to themselves, but the history of the popa nats is well known. everyone who lives near the great hill can tell you that, for it all happened not so long ago. how long exactly no one can say, but not so long that the details of the story have become at all clouded by the mists of time.
they were brother and sister, these popa nats, and they had lived away up north. the brother was a blacksmith, and he was a very strong man. he was the strongest man in all the country; the blow of his hammer on the anvil made the earth tremble, and his forge was as the mouth of hell. no one was so much feared and so much sought after as he. and as he was strong, so his sister was beautiful beyond all the maidens of the time. their father and mother were dead, and there was no one but those two, the brother and sister, so they loved each other dearly, and thought of no one else. the brother brought home no wife to his house by the forge. he wanted no one while he had his sister there, and when lovers came wooing to her, singing amorous songs in the amber dusk, she would have nothing to do with them. so they lived there together, he growing stronger and she more beautiful every day, till at last a change came.
the old king died, and a new king came to the throne, and orders were sent about to all the governors of provinces and other officials that the most beautiful maidens were to be sent down to the golden city to be wives to the great king. so the governor of that country sent for the blacksmith and his sister to his palace, and told them there what orders he had received, and asked the blacksmith to give his sister that she might be sent as queen to the king. we are not told what arguments the governor used to gain his point, but only this, that when he failed, he sent the girl in unto his wife, and there she was persuaded to go. there must have been something very tempting, to one who was but a village girl, in the prospect of being even one of the lesser queens, of living in the palace, the centre of the world. so she consented at last, and her brother consented, and the girl was sent down under fitting escort to find favour in the eyes of her king. but the blacksmith refused to go. it was no good the governor saying such a great man as he must come to high honour in the golden city, it was useless for the girl to beg and pray him to come with her--he always refused. so she sailed away down the great river, and the blacksmith returned to his forge.
as the governor had said, the girl was acceptable in the king's sight, and she was made at last one of the principal queens, and of all she had most power over the king. they say she was most beautiful, that her presence was as soothing as shade after heat, that her form was as graceful as a young tree, and the palms of her hands were like lotus blossoms. she had enemies, of course. most of the other queens were her enemies, and tried to do her harm. but it was useless telling tales of her to the king, for the king never believed; and she walked so wisely and so well, that she never fell into any snare. but still the plots never ceased.
there was one day when she was sitting alone in the garden pavilion, with the trees making moving shadows all about her, that the king came to her. they talked for a time, and the king began to speak to her of her life before she came to the palace, a thing he had never done before. but he seemed to know all about it, nevertheless, and he spoke to her of her brother, and said that he, the king, had heard how no man was so strong as this blacksmith, the brother of the queen. the queen said it was true, and she talked on and on and praised her brother, and babbled of the days of her childhood, when he carried her on his great shoulder, and threw her into the air, catching her again. she was delighted to talk of all these things, and in her pleasure she forgot her discretion, and said that her brother was wise as well as strong, and that all the people loved him. never was there such a man as he. the king did not seem very pleased with it all, but he said only that the blacksmith was a great man, and that the queen must write to him to come down to the city, that the king might see him of whom there was such great report.
then the king got up and went away, and the queen began to doubt; and the more she thought the more she feared she had not been acting wisely in talking as she did, for it is not wise to praise anyone to a king. she went away to her own room to consider, and to try if she could hear of any reason why the king should act as he had done, and desire her brother to come to him to the city; and she found out that it was all a plot of her enemies. herself they had failed to injure, so they were now plotting against her through her brother. they had gone to the king, and filled his ear with slanderous reports. they had said that the queen's brother was the strongest man in all the kingdom. 'he was cunning, too,' they said, 'and very popular among all the people; and he was so puffed up with pride, now that his sister was a queen, that there was nothing he did not think he could do.' they represented to the king how dangerous such a man was in a kingdom, that it would be quite easy for him to raise such rebellion as the king could hardly put down, and that he was just the man to do such a thing. nay, it was indeed proved that he must be disloyally plotting something, or he would have come down with his sister to the city when she came. but now many months had passed, and he never came. clearly he was not to be trusted. any other man whose sister was a queen would have come and lived in the palace, and served the king and become a minister, instead of staying up there and pretending to be a blacksmith.
the king's mind had been much disturbed by this, for it seemed to him that it must be in part true; and he went to the queen, as i have said, and his suspicions had not been lulled by what she told him, so he had ordered her to write to her brother to come down to the palace.
the queen was terrified when she saw what a mistake she had made, and how she had fallen into the trap of her enemies; but she hoped that the king would forget, and she determined that she would send no order to her brother to come. but the next day the king came back to the subject, and asked her if she had yet sent the letter, and she said 'no!' the king was very angry at this disobedience to his orders, and he asked her how it came that she had not done as he had commanded, and sent a letter to her brother to call him to the palace.
then the queen fell at the king's feet and told him all her fears that her brother was sent for only to be imprisoned or executed, and she begged and prayed the king to leave him in peace up there in his village. she assured the king that he was loyal and good, and would do no evil.
the king was rather abashed that his design had been discovered, but he was firm in his purpose. he assured the queen that the blacksmith should come to no harm, but rather good; and he ordered the queen to obey him, threatening her that if she refused he would be sure that she was disloyal also, and there would be no alternative but to send and arrest the blacksmith by force, and punish her, the queen, too. then the queen said that if the king swore to her that her brother should come to no harm, she would write as ordered. and the king swore.
so the queen wrote to her brother, and adjured him by his love to her to come down to the golden city. she said she had dire need of him, and she told him that the king had sworn that no harm should come to him.
the letter was sent off by a king's messenger. in due time the blacksmith arrived, and he was immediately seized and thrown into prison to await his trial.
when the queen saw that she had been deceived, she was in despair. she tried by every way, by tears and entreaties and caresses, to move the king, but all without avail. then she tried by plotting and bribery to gain her brother's release, but it was all in vain. the day for trial came quickly, and the blacksmith was tried, and he was condemned and sentenced to be burnt alive by the river on the following day.
on the evening of the day of trial the queen sent a message to the king to come to her; and when the king came reluctantly, fearing a renewal of entreaties, expecting a woman made of tears and sobs, full of grief, he found instead that the queen had dried her eyes and dressed herself still more beautifully than ever, till she seemed to the king the very pearl among women. and she told the king that he was right, and she was wrong. she said, putting her arms about him and caressing him, that she had discovered that it was true that her brother had been plotting against the king, and therefore his death was necessary. it was terrible, she said, to find that her brother, whom she had always held as a pattern, was no better than a traitor; but it was even so, and her king was the wisest of all kings to find it out.
the king was delighted to find his queen in this mood, and he soothed her and talked to her kindly and sweetly, for he really loved her, though he had given in to bad advice about the brother. and when the king's suspicions were lulled, the queen said to him that she had now but one request to make, and that was that she might have permission to go down with her maids to the river-shore in the early morning, and see herself the execution of her traitor brother. the king, who would now have granted her anything--anything she asked, except just that one thing, the life of her brother--gave permission; and then the queen said that she was tired and wished to rest after all the trouble of the last few days, and would the king leave her. so the king left her to herself, and went away to his own chambers.
very early in the morning, ere the crimson flush upon the mountains had faded in the light of day, a vast crowd was gathered below the city, by the shore of the great river. very many thousands were there, of many countries and peoples, crowding down to see a man die, to see a traitor burnt to death for his sins, for there is nothing men like so much as to see another man die.
upon a little headland jutting out into the river the pyre was raised, with brushwood and straw, to burn quickly, and an iron post in the middle to which the man was to be chained. at one side was a place reserved, and presently down from the palace in a long procession came the queen and her train of ladies to the place kept for her. guards were put all about to prevent the people crowding; and then came the soldiers, and in the midst of them the blacksmith; and amid many cries of 'traitor, traitor!' and shouts of derision, he was bound to the iron post within the wood and the straw, and the guards fell back.
the queen sat and watched it all, and said never a word. fire was put to the pyre, and it crept rapidly up in long red tongues with coils of black smoke. it went very quickly, for the wood was very dry, and a light breeze came laughing up the river and helped it. the flames played about the man chained there in the midst, and he made never a sign; only he looked steadily across at the purple mountain where his home lay, and it was clear that in a few more moments he would be dead. there was a deep silence everywhere.
then of a sudden, before anyone knew, before a hand could be held out to hinder her, the queen rose from her seat and ran to the pyre. in a moment she was there and had thrown herself into the flames, and with her arms about her brother's neck she turned and faced the myriad eyes that glared upon them--the queen, in all the glory of her beauty, glittering with gems, and the man with great shackled bare limbs, dressed in a few rags, his muscles already twisted with the agony of the fire. a great cry of horror came from the people, and there was the movement of guards and officers rushing to stop the fire; but it was all of no use. a flash of red flames came out of the logs, folding these twain like an imperial cloak, a whirl of sparks towered into the air, and when one could see again the woman and her brother were no longer there. they were dead and burnt, and the bodies mingled with the ashes of the fire. she had cost her brother his life, and she went with him into death.
some days after this a strange report was brought to the palace. by the landing-place near the spot where the fire had been was a great fig-tree. it was so near to the landing-place, and was such a magnificent tree, that travellers coming from the boats, or waiting for a boat to arrive, would rest in numbers under its shade. but the report said that something had happened there. to travellers sleeping beneath the tree at night it was stated that two nats had appeared, very large and very beautiful, a man nat and a woman nat, and had frightened them very much indeed. noises were heard in the tree, voices and cries, and a strange terror came upon those who approached it. nay, it was even said that men had been struck by unseen hands and severely hurt, and others, it was said, had disappeared. children who went to play under the tree were never seen again: the nats took them, and their parents sought for them in vain. so the landing-place was deserted, and a petition was brought to the king, and the king gave orders that the tree should be hewn down. so the tree was cut down, and its trunk was thrown into the river; it floated away out of sight, and nothing happened to the men who cut the tree, though they were deadly afraid.
the tree floated down for days, until at last it stranded near a landing-place that led to a large town, where the governor of these parts lived; and at this landing-place the portents that had frightened the people at the great city reappeared and terrified the travellers here too, and they petitioned the governor.
the governor sought out a great monk, a very holy man learned in these matters, and sent him to inquire, and the monk came down to the tree and spoke. he said that if any nats lived in the tree, they should speak to him and tell him what they wanted. 'it is not fit,' he said, 'for great nats to terrify the poor villagers at the landing-place. let the nats speak and say what they require. all that they want shall be given.' and the nats spake and said that they wanted a place to live in where they could be at peace, and the monk answered for the governor that all his land was at their disposal. 'let the nats choose,' he said; 'all the country is before them.' so the nats chose, and said that they would have popa mountain, and the monk agreed.
the nats then left the tree and went away, far away inland, to the great popa mountain, and took up their abode there, and all the people there feared and reverenced them, and even made to their honour two statues with golden heads and set them up on the mountain.
this is the story of the popa nats, the greatest nats of all the country of burma, the guardian spirits of the mysterious mountain. the golden heads of the statues are now in one of our treasuries, put there for safe custody during the troubles, though it is doubtful if even then anyone would have dared to steal them, so greatly are the nats feared. and the hunters and the travellers there must offer to the nats little offerings, if they would be safe in these forests, and even the young man must obtain permission from the nats before he marry.
i think these stories that i have told, stories selected from very many that i have heard, will show what sort of spirits these are that the burmese have peopled their trees and rivers with; will show what sort of religion it is that underlies, without influencing, the creed of the buddha that they follow. it is of the very poetry of superstition, free from brutality, from baseness, from anything repulsive, springing, as i have said, from their innate sympathy with nature and recognition of the life that works in all things. it always seems to me that beliefs such as these are a great key to the nature of a people, are, apart from all interest in their beauty, and in their akinness to other beliefs, of great value in trying to understand the character of a nation.
for to beings such as nats and fairies the people who believe in them will attribute such qualities as are predominant in themselves, as they consider admirable; and, indeed, all supernatural beings are but the magnified shadows of man cast by the light of his imagination upon the mists of his ignorance.
therefore, when you find that a people make their spirits beautiful and fair, calm and even tempered, loving peace and the beauty of the trees and rivers, shrinkingly averse from loud words, from noises, and from the taking of life, it is because the people themselves think that these are great qualities. if no stress be laid upon their courage, their activity, their performance of great deeds, it is because the people who imagine them care not for such things. there is no truer guide, i am sure, to the heart of a young people than their superstitions; these they make entirely for themselves, apart from their religion, which is, to a certain extent, made for them. that is why i have written this chapter on nats: not because i think it affects buddhism very much one way or another, but because it seems to me to reveal the people themselves, because it helps us to understand them better, to see more with their eyes, to be in unison with their ideas--because it is a great key to the soul of the people.
death, the deliverer
'the end of my life is near at hand; seven days hence, like a man who rids himself of a heavy load, i shall be free from the burden of my body.'--death of the buddha.
there is a song well known to all the burmese, the words of which are taken from the sacred writings. it is called the story of ma pa da, and it was first told to me by a burmese monk, long ago, when i was away on the frontier.
it runs like this:
in the time of the buddha, in the city of thawatti, there was a certain rich man, a merchant, who had many slaves. slaves in those days, and, indeed, generally throughout the east, were held very differently to slaves in europe. they were part of the family, and were not saleable without good reason, and there was a law applicable to them. they were not hors de la loi, like the slaves of which we have conception. there are many cases quoted of sisters being slaves to sisters, and of brothers to brothers, quoted not for the purpose of saying that this was an uncommon occurrence, but merely of showing points of law in such cases.
one day in the market the merchant bought another slave, a young man, handsome and well mannered, and took him to his house, and kept him there with his family and the other slaves. the young man was earnest and careful in his work, and the merchant approved of him, and his fellow-slaves liked him. but ma pa da, the merchant's daughter, fell in love with him. the slave was much troubled at this, and he did his best to avoid her; but he was a slave and under orders, and what could he do? when she would come to him secretly and make love to him, and say, 'let us flee together, for we love each other,' he would refuse, saying that he was a slave, and the merchant would be very angry. he said he could not do such a thing. and yet when the girl said, 'let us flee, for we love each other,' he knew that it was true, and that he loved her as she loved him; and it was only his honour to his master that held him from doing as she asked.
but because his heart was not of iron, and there are few men that can resist when a woman comes and woos them, he at last gave way; and they fled away one night, the girl and the slave, taking with them her jewels and some money. they travelled rapidly and in great fear, and did not rest till they came to a city far away where the merchant would never, they thought, think of searching for them.
here, in this city where no one knew of their history, they lived in great happiness, husband and wife, trading with the money they had with them.
and in time a little child was born to them.
about two or three years after this it became necessary for the husband to take a journey, and he started forth with his wife and child. the journey was a very long one, and they were unduly delayed; and so it happened that while still in the forest the wife fell ill, and could not go on any further. so the husband built a hut of branches and leaves, and there, in the solitude of the forest, was born to them another little son.
ma pa da waited and waited for him, but he never came back.
the sun set and the dark rose out of the ground, and the forest became full of whispers, but he never came. all night she watched and waited, caring for her little ones, fearful to leave them alone, till at last the gray light came down, down from the sky to the branches, and from the branches to the ground, and she could see her way. then, with her new-born babe in her arms and the elder little fellow trotting by her side, she went out to search for her husband. soon enough she found him, not far off, stiff and cold beside his half-cut bundle of firewood. a snake had bitten him on the ankle, and he was dead.
so ma pa da was alone in the great forest, but a girl still, with two little children to care for.
but she was brave, despite her trouble, and she determined to go on and gain some village. she took her baby in her arms and the little one by the hand, and started on her journey.
and for a time all went well, till at last she came to a stream. it was not very deep, but it was too deep for the little boy to wade, for it came up to his neck, and his mother was not strong enough to carry both at once. so, after considering for a time, she told the elder boy to wait. she would cross and put the baby on the far side, and return for him.
'be good,' she said; 'be good, and stay here quietly till i come back;' and the boy promised.
the stream was deeper and swifter than she thought; but she went with great care and gained the far side, and put the baby under a tree a little distance from the bank, to lie there while she went for the other boy. then, after a few minutes' rest, she went back.
she had got to the centre of the stream, and her little boy had come down to the margin to be ready for her, when she heard a rush and a cry from the side she had just left; and, looking round, she saw with terror a great eagle sweep down upon the baby, and carry it off in its claws. she turned round and waved her arms and cried out to the eagle, 'he! he!' hoping it would be frightened and drop the baby. but it cared nothing for her cries or threats, and swept on with long curves over the forest trees, away out of sight.
then the mother turned to gain the bank once more, and suddenly she missed her son who had been waiting for her. he had seen his mother wave her arms; he had heard her shout, and he thought she was calling him to come to her. so the brave little man walked down into the water, and the black current carried him off his feet at once. he was gone, drowned in the deep water below the ford, tossing on the waves towards the sea.
no one can write of the despair of the girl when she threw herself under a tree in the forest. the song says it was very terrible.
at last she said to herself, 'i will get up now and return to my father in thawatti; he is all i have left. though i have forsaken him all these years, yet now that my husband and his children are dead, my father will take me back again. surely he will have pity on me, for i am much to be pitied.'
so she went on, and at length, after many days, she came to the gates of the great city where her father lived.
at the entering of the gates she met a large company of people, mourners, returning from a funeral, and she spoke to them and asked them:
'who is it that you have been burying to-day so grandly with so many mourners?'
and the people answered her, and told her who it was. and when she heard, she fell down upon the road as one dead: for it was her father and mother who had died yesterday, and it was their funeral train that she saw. they were all dead now, husband and sons and father and mother; in all the world she was quite alone.
so she went mad, for her trouble was more than she could bear. she threw off all her clothes, and let down her long hair and wrapped it about her naked body, and walked about raving.
at last she came to where the buddha was teaching, seated under a fig-tree. she came up to the buddha, and told him of her losses, and how she had no one left; and she demanded of the buddha that he should restore to her those that she had lost. and the buddha had great compassion upon her, and tried to console her.
'all die,' he said; 'it comes to everyone, king and peasant, animal and man. only through many deaths can we obtain the great peace. all this sorrow,' he said, 'is of the earth. all this is passion which we must get rid of, and forget before we reach heaven. be comforted, my daughter, and turn to the holy life. all suffer as you do. it is part of our very existence here, sorrow and trouble without any end.'
but she would not be comforted, but demanded her dead of the buddha. then, because he saw it was no use talking to her, that her ears were deaf with grief, and her eyes blinded with tears, he said to her that he would restore to her those who were dead.
'you must go,' he said, 'my daughter, and get some mustard-seed, a pinch of mustard-seed, and i can bring back their lives. only you must get this seed from the garden of him near whom death has never come. get this, and all will be well.'
so the woman went forth with a light heart. it was so simple, only a pinch of mustard-seed, and mustard grew in every garden. she would get the seed and be back very quickly, and then the lord buddha would give her back those she loved who had died. she clothed herself again and tied up her hair, and went cheerfully and asked at the first house, 'give me a pinch of mustard-seed,' and it was given readily. so with her treasure in her hand she was going forth back to the buddha full of delight, when she remembered.
'has ever anyone died in your household?' she asked, looking round wistfully.
the man answered 'yes,' that death had been with them but recently. who could this woman be, he thought, to ask such a question? and the woman went forth, the seed dropping from her careless fingers, for it was of no value. so she would try again and again, but it was always the same. death had taken his tribute from all. father or mother, son or brother, daughter or wife, there was always a gap somewhere, a vacant place beside the meal. from house to house throughout the city she went, till at last the new hope faded away, and she learned from the world, what she had not believed from the buddha, that death and life are one.
this is the teaching of the buddha, that death is inevitable; this is the consolation he offers, that all men must know death; no one can escape death; no one can escape the sorrow of the death of those whom he loves. death, he says, and life are one; not antagonistic, but the same; and the only way to escape from one is to escape from the other too. only in the great peace, when we have found refuge from the passion and tumult of life, shall we find the place where death cannot come. life and death are one.
this is the teaching of the buddha, repeated over and over again to his disciples when they sorrowed for the death of thariputra, when they were in despair at the swift-approaching end of the great teacher himself. hear what he says to ananda, the beloved disciple, who is mourning over thariputra.
'ananda,' he said, 'often and often have i sought to bring shelter to your soul from the misery caused by such grief as this. there are two things alone that can separate us from father and mother, from brother and sister, from all those who are most cherished by us, and those two things are distance and death. think not that i, though the buddha, have not felt all this even as any other of you; was i not alone when i was seeking for wisdom in the wilderness?
'and yet what would i have gained by wailing and lamenting either for myself or for others? would it have brought to me any solace from my loneliness? would it have been any help to those whom i had left? there is nothing that can happen to us, however terrible, however miserable, that can justify tears and lamentations and make them aught but a weakness.'
and so, we are told, in this way the buddha soothed the affliction of ananda, and filled his soul with consolation--the consolation of resignation.
for there is no other consolation possible but this, resignation to the inevitable, the conviction of the uselessness of sorrow, the vanity and selfishness of grief.
there is no meeting again with the dead. nowhere in the recurring centuries shall we meet again those whom we have loved, whom we love, who seem to us to be parts of our very soul. that which survives of us, the part which is incarnated again and again, until it be fit for heaven, has nothing to do with love and hate.
even if in the whirlpool of life our paths should cross again the paths of those whom we have loved, we are never told that we shall know them again and love them.
a friend of mine has just lost his mother, and he is very much distressed. he must have been very fond of her, for although he has a wife and children, and is happy in his family, he is in great sorrow. he proposes even to build a pagoda over her remains, a testimony of respect which in strict buddhism is reserved to saints. he has been telling me about this, and how he is trying to get a sacred relic to put in the pagoda, and i asked him if he never hoped again to meet the soul of his mother on earth or in heaven, and he answered:
'no. it is very hard, but so are many things, and they have to be borne. far better it is to face the truth than to escape by a pleasant falsehood. there is a burmese proverb that tells us that all the world is one vast burial-ground; there are dead men everywhere.'
'one of our great men has said the same,' i answered.
he was not surprised.
'as it is true,' he said, 'i suppose all great men would see it.'
thus there is no escape, no loophole for a delusive hope, only the cultivation of the courage of sorrow.
there are never any exceptions to the laws of the buddha. if a law is a law, that is the end of it. just as we know of no exceptions to the law of gravitation, so there are no exceptions to the law of death.
but although this may seem to be a religion of despair, it is not really so. this sorrow to which there is no relief is the selfishness of sorrow, the grief for our own loneliness; for of sorrow, of fear, of pity for the dead, there is no need. we know that in time all will be well with them. we know that, though there may be before them vast periods of suffering, yet that they will all at last be in nebhan with us. and if we shall not know them there, still we shall know that they are there, all of them--not one will be wanting. purified from the lust of life, white souls steeped in the great peace, all living things will attain rest at last.
there is this remarkable fact in buddhism, that nowhere is any fear expressed of death itself, nowhere any apprehension of what may happen to the dead. it is the sorrow of separation, the terror of death to the survivors, that is always dwelt upon with compassion, and the agony of which it is sought to soothe.
that the dying man himself should require strengthening to face the king of terrors is hardly ever mentioned. it seems to be taken for granted that men should have courage in themselves to take leave of life becomingly, without undue fears. buddhism is the way to show us the escape from the miseries of life, not to give us hope in the hour of death.
it is true that to all orientals death is a less fearful thing than it is to us. i do not know what may be the cause of this, courage certainly has little to do with it; but it is certain that the purely physical fear of death, that horror and utter revulsion that seizes the majority of us at the idea of death, is absent from most orientals. and yet this cannot explain it all. for fear of death, though less, is still there, is still a strong influence upon their lives, and it would seem that no religion which ignored this great fact could become a great living religion.
religion is made for man, to fit his necessities, not man for religion, and yet the faith of buddhism is not concerned with death.
consider our faith, how much of its teaching consists of how to avoid the fear of death, how much of its consolation is for the death-bed. how we are taught all our lives that we should live so as not to fear death; how we have priests and sacraments to soothe the dying man, and give him hope and courage, and how the crown and summit of our creed is that we should die easily. and consider that in buddhism all this is absolutely wanting. buddhism is a creed of life, of conduct; death is the end of that life, that is all.
we have all seen death. we have all of us watched those who, near and dear to us, go away out of our ken. there is no need for me to recall the last hours of those of our faith, to bring up again the fading eye and waning breath, the messages of hope we search for in our scriptures to give hope to him who is going, the assurances of religion, the cross held before the dying eyes.
many men, we are told, turn to religion at the last after a life of wickedness, and a man may do so even at the eleventh hour and be saved.
that is part of our belief; that is the strongest part of our belief; and that is the hope that all fervent christians have, that those they love may be saved even at the end.
i think it may truly be said that our western creeds are all directed at the hour of death, as the great and final test of that creed.
and now think of buddhism; it is a creed of life. in life you must win your way to salvation by urgent effort, by suffering, by endurance. on your death-bed you can do nothing. if you have done well, then it is well; if ill, then you must in future life try again and again till you succeed. a life is not washed, a soul is not made fit for the dwelling of eternity, in a moment.
repentance to a buddhist is but the opening of the eyes to see the path to righteousness; it has no virtue in itself. to have seen that we are sinners is but the first step to cleansing our sin; in itself it cannot purify.
as well ask a robber of the poor to repent, and suppose thereby that those who have suffered from his guilt are compensated for the evil done to them by his repentance, as to ask a buddhist to believe that a sinner can at the last moment make good to his own soul all the injuries caused to that soul by the wickedness of his life.
or suppose a man who has destroyed his constitution by excess to be by the very fact of acknowledging that excess restored to health.
the buddhist will not have that at all. a man is what he makes himself; and that making is a matter of terrible effort, of unceasing endeavour towards the right, of constant suppression of sin, till sin be at last dead within him. if a man has lived a wicked life, he dies a wicked man, and no wicked man can obtain the perfect rest of the sinless dead. heaven is shut to him. but if heaven is shut it is not shut for ever; if hell may perhaps open to him it is only for a time, only till he is purified and washed from the stain of his sins; and then he can begin again, and have another chance to win heaven. if there is no immediate heaven there is no eternal hell, and in due time all will reach heaven; all will have learnt, through suffering, the wisdom the buddha has shown to us, that only by a just life can men reach the great peace even as he did.
so that if buddhism has none of the consolation for the dying man that christianity holds out, in the hope of heaven, so it has none of the threats and terrors of our faith. there is no fear of an angry judge--of a judge who is angry.
and yet when i came to think over the matter, it seemed to me that surely there must be something to calm him in the face of death. if buddhism does not furnish this consolation, he must go elsewhere for it. and i was not satisfied, because i could find nothing in the sacred books about a man's death, that therefore the creed of the people had ignored it. a living creed must, i was sure, provide for this somehow.
so i went to a friend of mine, a burman magistrate, and i asked him:
'when a man is dying, what does he try to think of? what do you say to comfort him that his last moments may be peace? the monks do not come, i know.'
'the monks!' he said, shaking his head; 'what could they do?'
i did not know.
'can you do anything,' i asked, 'to cheer him? do you speak to him of what may happen after death, of hopes of another life?'
'no one can tell,' said my friend, 'what will happen after death. it depends on a man's life, if he has done good or evil, what his next existence will be, whether he will go a step nearer to the peace. when the man is dying no monks will come, truly; but an old man, an old friend, father, perhaps, or an elder of the village, and he will talk to the dying man. he will say, "think of your good deeds; think of all that you have done well in this life. think of your good deeds."'
'what is the use of that?' i asked. 'suppose you think of your good deeds, what then? will that bring peace?'
the burman seemed to think that it would.
'nothing,' he said, 'was so calming to a man's soul as to think of even one deed he had done well in his life.'
think of the man dying. the little house built of bamboo and thatch, with an outer veranda, where the friends are sitting, and the inner room, behind a wall of bamboo matting, where the man is lying. a pot of flowers is standing on a shelf on one side, and a few cloths are hung here and there beneath the brown rafters. the sun comes in through little chinks in roof and wall, making curious lights in the semi-darkness of the room, and it is very hot.
from outside come the noises of the village, cries of children playing, grunts of cattle, voices of men and women clearly heard through the still clear air of the afternoon. there is a woman pounding rice near by with a steady thud, thud of the lever, and there is a clink of a loom where a girl is weaving ceaselessly. all these sounds come into the house as if there were no walls at all, but they are unheeded from long custom.
the man lies on a low bed with a fine mat spread under him for bedding. his wife, his grown-up children, his sister, his brother are about him, for the time is short, and death comes very quickly in the east. they talk to him kindly and lovingly, but they read to him no sacred books; they give him no messages from the world to which he is bound; they whisper to him no hopes of heaven. he is tortured with no fears of everlasting hell. yet life is sweet and death is bitter, and it is hard to go; and as he tosses to and fro in his fever there comes in to him an old friend, the headman of the village perhaps, with a white muslin fillet bound about his kind old head, and he sits beside the dying man and speaks to him.
'remember,' he says slowly and clearly, 'all those things that you have done well. think of your good deeds.'
and as the sick man turns wearily, trying to move his thoughts as he is bidden, trying to direct the wheels of memory, the old man helps him to remember.
'think,' he says, 'of your good deeds, of how you have given charity to the monks, of how you have fed the poor. remember how you worked and saved to build the little rest-house in the forest where the traveller stays and finds water for his thirst. all these are pleasant things, and men will always be grateful to you. remember your brother, how you helped him in his need, how you fed him and went security for him till he was able again to secure his own living. you did well to him, surely that is a pleasant thing.'
i do not think it difficult to see how the sick man's face will lighten, how his eyes will brighten at the thoughts that come to him at the old man's words. and he goes on:
'remember when the squall came up the river and the boat upset when you were crossing here; how it seemed as if no man could live alone in such waves, and yet how you clung to and saved the boy who was with you, swimming through the water that splashed over your head and very nearly drowned you. the boy's father and mother have never forgotten that, and they are even now mourning without in the veranda. it is all due to you that their lives have not been full of misery and despair. remember their faces when you brought their little son to them saved from death in the great river. surely that is a pleasant thing. remember your wife who is now with you; how you have loved her and cherished her, and kept faithful to her before all the world. you have been a good husband to her, and you have honoured her. she loves you, and you have loved her all your long life together. surely that is a pleasant thing.'
yes, surely these are pleasant things to have with one at the last. surely a man will die easier with such memories as these before his eyes, with love in those about him, and the calm of good deeds in his dying heart. if it be a different way of soothing a man's end from those which other nations use, is it the worse for that?
think of your good deeds. it seems a new idea to me that in doing well in our life we are making for ourselves a pleasant death, because of the memory of those things. and if we have none? or if evil so outnumbered the good deeds as to hide and overwhelm them, what then? a man's death will be terrible indeed if he cannot in all his days remember one good deed that he has done.
'all a man's life comes before him at the hour of death,' said my informant; 'all, from the earliest memory to the latest breath. like a whole landscape called by a flash of lightning out of the dark night. it is all there, every bit of it, good and evil, pleasure and pain, sin and righteousness.'
a man cannot escape from his life even in death. in our acts of to-day we are determining what our death will be; if we have lived well, we shall die well; and if not, then not. as a man lives so shall he die, is the teaching of buddhism as of other creeds.
so what buddhism has to offer to the dying believer is this, that if he live according to its tenets he will die happily, and that in the life that he will next enter upon he will be less and less troubled by sin, less and less wedded to the lust of life, until sometime, far away, he shall gain the great deliverance. he shall have perfect peace, perfect rest, perfect happiness, he and his, in that heaven where his teacher went before him long ago.
and if we should say that this deliverance from life, this great peace, is death, what matter, if it be indeed peace?
1. not to take life. 2. to be honest. 3. to tell the truth. 4. to abstain from intoxicants. 5. chastity.
the potter's wheel
'life is like a great whirlpool wherein we are dashed to and fro by our passions.'--saying of the buddha.
it is a hard teaching, this of the buddha about death. it is a teaching that may appeal to the reason, but not to the soul, that when life goes out, this thing which we call 'i' goes out with it, and that love and remembrance are dead for ever.
it is so hard a teaching that in its purity the people cannot believe it. they accept it, but they have added on to it a belief which changes the whole form of it, a belief that is the outcome of that weakness of humanity which insists that death is not and cannot be all.
though to the strict buddhist death is the end of all worldly passion, to the burmese villager that is not so. he cannot grasp, he cannot endure that it should be so, and he has made for himself out of buddhism a belief that is opposed to all buddhism in this matter.
he believes in the transmigration of souls, in the survival of the 'i.' the teaching that what survives is not the 'i,' but only the result of its action, is too deep for him to hold. true, if a flame dies the effects that it has caused remain, and the flame is dead for ever. a new flame is a new flame. but the 'i' of man cannot die, he thinks; it lives and loves for all time.
he has made out of the teaching a new teaching that is very far from that of the buddha, and the teaching is this: when a man dies his soul remains, his 'i' has only changed its habitation. still it lives and breathes on earth, not the effect, but the soul itself. it is reborn among us, and it may even be recognised very often in its new abode.
and that we should never forget this, that we should never doubt that this is true, it has been so ordered that many can remember something of these former lives of theirs. this belief is not to a burman a mere theory, but is as true as anything he can see. for does he not daily see people who know of their former lives? nay, does he not himself, often vaguely, have glimpses of that former life of his? no man seems to be quite without it, but of course it is clearer to some than others. just as we tell stories in the dusk of ghosts and second sight, so do they, when the day's work is over, gossip of stories of second birth; only that they believe in them far more than we do in ghosts.
a friend of mine put up for the night once at a monastery far away in the forest near a small village. he was travelling with an escort of mounted police, and there was no place else to sleep but in the monastery. the monk was, as usual, hospitable, and put what he had, bare house-room, at the officer's disposal, and he and his men settled down for the night.
after dinner a fire was built on the ground, and the officer went and sat by it and talked to the headman of the village and the monk. first they talked of the dacoits and of crops, unfailing subjects of interest, and gradually they drifted from one subject to another till the englishman remarked about the monastery, that it was a very large and fine one for such a small secluded village to have built. the monastery was of the best and straightest teak, and must, he thought, have taken a very long time and a great deal of labour to build, for the teak must have been brought from very far away; and in explanation he was told a curious story.
it appeared that in the old days there used to be only a bamboo and grass monastery there, such a monastery as most jungle villages have; and the then monk was distressed at the smallness of his abode and the little accommodation there was for his school--a monastery is always a school. so one rainy season he planted with great care a number of teak seedlings round about, and he watered them and cared for them. 'when they are grown up,' he would say, 'these teak-trees shall provide timber for a new and proper building; and i will myself return in another life, and with those trees will i build a monastery more worthy than this.' teak-trees take a hundred years to reach a mature size, and while the trees were still but saplings the monk died, and another monk taught in his stead. and so it went on, and the years went by, and from time to time new monasteries of bamboo were built and rebuilt, and the teak-trees grew bigger and bigger. but the village grew smaller, for the times were troubled, and the village was far away in the forest. so it happened that at last the village found itself without a monk at all: the last monk was dead, and no one came to take his place.
it is a serious thing for a village to have no monk. to begin with, there is no one to teach the lads to read and write and do arithmetic; and there is no one to whom you can give offerings and thereby get merit, and there is no one to preach to you and tell you of the sacred teaching. so the village was in a bad way.
then at last one evening, when the girls were all out at the well drawing water, they were surprised by the arrival of a monk walking in from the forest, weary with a long journey, footsore and hungry. the villagers received him with enthusiasm, fearing, however, that he was but passing through, and they furbished up the old monastery in a hurry for him to sleep in. but the curious thing was that the monk seemed to know it all. he knew the monastery and the path to it, and the ways about the village, and the names of the hills and the streams. it seemed, indeed, as if he must once have lived there in the village, and yet no one knew him or recognised his face, though he was but a young man still, and there were villagers who had lived there for seventy years. next morning, instead of going on his way, the monk came into the village with his begging-bowl, as monks do, and went round and collected his food for the day; and in the evening, when the villagers went to see him at the monastery, he told them he was going to stay. he recalled to them the monk who had planted the teak-trees, and how he had said that when the trees were grown he would return. 'i,' said the young monk, 'am he that planted these trees. lo, they are grown up, and i am returned, and now we will build a monastery as i said.'
when the villagers, doubting, questioned him, and old men came and talked to him of traditions of long-past days, he answered as one who knew all. he told them he had been born and educated far away in the south, and had grown up not knowing who he had been; and that he had entered a monastery, and in time became a pongyi. the remembrance came to him, he went on, in a dream of how he had planted the trees and had promised to return to that village far away in the forest.
the very next day he had started, and travelled day after day and week upon week, till at length he had arrived, as they saw. so the villagers were convinced, and they set to work and cut down the great boles, and built the monastery such as my friend saw. and the monk lived there all his life, and taught the children, and preached the marvellous teaching of the great buddha, till at length his time came again and he returned; for of monks it is not said that they die, but that they return.
this is the common belief of the people. into this has the mystery of dharma turned, in the thoughts of the burmese buddhists, for no one can believe the incomprehensible. a man has a soul, and it passes from life to life, as a traveller from inn to inn, till at length it is ended in heaven. but not till he has attained heaven in his heart will he attain heaven in reality.
many children, the burmese will tell you, remember their former lives. as they grow older the memories die away and they forget, but to the young children they are very clear. i have seen many such.
about fifty years ago in a village named okshitgon were born two children, a boy and a girl. they were born on the same day in neighbouring houses, and they grew up together, and played together, and loved each other. and in due course they married and started a family, and maintained themselves by cultivating their dry, barren fields about the village. they were always known as devoted to each other, and they died as they had lived--together. the same death took them on the same day; so they were buried without the village and were forgotten; for the times were serious.
it was the year after the english army had taken mandalay, and all burma was in a fury of insurrection. the country was full of armed men, the roads were unsafe, and the nights were lighted with the flames of burning villages. it was a bad time for peace-loving men, and many such, fleeing from their villages, took refuge in larger places nearer the centres of administration.
okshitgon was in the midst of one of the worst of all the distressed districts, and many of its people fled, and one of them, a man named maung kan, with his young wife went to the village of kabyu and lived there.
now, maung kan's wife had born to him twin sons. they were born at okshitgon shortly before their parents had to run away, and they were named, the eldest maung gyi, which is brother big-fellow, and the younger maung ngè, which means brother little-fellow. these lads grew up at kabyu, and soon learned to talk; and as they grew up their parents were surprised to hear them calling to each other at play, and calling each other, not maung gyi and maung ngè, but maung san nyein and ma gywin. the latter is a woman's name, and the parents remembered that these were the names of the man and wife who had died in okshitgon about the time the children were born.
so the parents thought that the souls of the man and wife had entered into the children, and they took them to okshitgon to try them. the children knew everything in okshitgon; they knew the roads and the houses and the people, and they recognised the clothes they used to wear in a former life; there was no doubt about it. one of them, the younger, remembered, too, how she had borrowed two rupees once of a woman, ma thet, unknown to her husband, and left the debt unpaid. ma thet was still living, and so they asked her, and she recollected that it was true she had lent the money long ago.
shortly afterwards i saw these two children. they are now just over six years old. the elder, into whom the soul of the man entered, is a fat, chubby little fellow, but the younger twin is smaller, and has a curious dreamy look in his face, more like a girl than a boy. they told me much about their former lives. after they died they said they lived for some time without a body at all, wandering in the air and hiding in the trees. this was for their sins. then, after some months, they were born again as twin boys. 'it used,' said the elder boy, 'to be so clear, i could remember everything; but it is getting duller and duller, and i cannot now remember as i used to do.'
of children such as this you may find any number. only you have to look for them, as they are not brought forward spontaneously. the burmese, like other people, hate to have their beliefs and ideas ridiculed, and from experience they have learned that the object of a foreigner in inquiring into their ways is usually to be able to show by his contempt how very much cleverer a man he is than they are. therefore they are very shy. but once they understand that you only desire to learn and to see, and that you will always treat them with courtesy and consideration, they will tell you all that they think.
a fellow officer of mine has a burmese police orderly, a young man about twenty, who has been with him since he came to the district two years ago. yet my friend only discovered accidentally the other day that his orderly remembers his former life. he is very unwilling to talk about it. he was a woman apparently in that former life, and lived about twenty miles away. he must have lived a good life, for it is a step of promotion to be a man in this life; but he will not talk of it. he forgets most of it, he says, though he remembered it when he was a child.
sometimes this belief leads to lawsuits of a peculiarly difficult nature. in 1883, two years before the annexation of upper burma, there was a case that came into the local court of the oil district, which depended upon this theory of transmigration.
opposite yenangyaung there are many large islands in the river. these islands during the low water months are joined to the mainland, and are covered with a dense high grass in which many deer live.
when the river rises, it rises rapidly, communication with the mainland is cut off, and the islands are for a time, in the higher rises, entirely submerged. during the progress of the first rise some hunters went to one of these islands where many deer were to be found and set fire to the grass to drive them out of cover, shooting them as they came out. some deer, fleeing before the fire, swam across and escaped, others fell victims, but one fawn, barely half grown, ran right down the island, and in its blind terror it leaped into a boat at anchor there. this boat was that of a fisherman who was plying his trade at some distance, and the only occupant of the boat was his wife. now this woman had a year or so before lost her son, very much loved by her, but who was not quite of the best character, and when she saw the deer leaping into the boat, she at once fancied that she saw the soul of her erring son looking at her out of its great terrified eyes. so she got up and took the poor panting beast in her arms and soothed it, and when the hunters came running to her to claim it she refused. 'he is my son,' she said, 'he is mine. shall i give him up to death?' the hunters clamoured and threatened to take the deer by force, but the woman was quite firm. she would never give him up except with her life. 'you can see,' she said, 'that it is true that he is my son. he came running straight to me, as he always did in his trouble when he was a boy, and he is now quite quiet and contented, instead of being afraid of me as an ordinary deer would be.' and it was quite true that the deer took to her at once, and remained with her willingly. so the hunters went off to the court of the governor and filed a suit for the deer.
the case was tried in open court, and the deer was produced with a ribbon round its neck. evidence there was naturally but little. the hunters claimed the deer because they had driven it out of the island by their fire. the woman resisted the claim on the ground that it was her son.
the decision of the court was this:
'the hunters are not entitled to the deer because they cannot prove that the woman's son's soul is not in the animal. the woman is not entitled to the deer because she cannot prove that it is. the deer will therefore remain with the court until some properly authenticated claim is put in.'
so the two parties were turned out, the woman in bitter tears, and the hunters angry and vexed, and the deer remained the property of the judge.
but this decision was against all burmese ideas of justice. he should have given the deer to the woman. 'he wanted it for himself,' said a burman, speaking to me of the affair. 'he probably killed it and ate it. surely it is true that officials are of all the five evils the greatest.' then my friend remembered that i was myself an official, and he looked foolish, and began to make complimentary remarks about english officials, that they would never give such an iniquitous decision. i turned it off by saying that no doubt the judge was now suffering in some other life for the evil wrought in the last, and the burman said that probably he was now inhabiting a tiger.
it is very easy to laugh at such beliefs; nothing is, indeed, easier than to be witty at the expense of any belief. it is also very easy to say that it is all self-deception, that the children merely imagine that they remember their former lives, or are citing conversation of their elders.
how this may be i do not know. what is the explanation of this, perhaps the only belief of which we have any knowledge which is at once a living belief to-day and was so as far back as we can get, i do not pretend to say. for transmigration is no theory of buddhism at all, but was a leading tenet in the far older faith of brahmanism, of which buddhism was but an offshoot, as was christianity of judaism.
i have not, indeed, always attempted to reach the explanation of things i have seen. when i have satisfied myself that a belief is really held by the people, that i am not the subject of conscious deception, either by myself or others, i have conceived that my work was ended.
there are those who, in investigating any foreign customs and strange beliefs, can put their finger here and say, 'this is where they are right'; and there and say, 'this belief is foolishly wrong and idiotic.' i am not, unfortunately, one of these writers. i have no such confident belief in my own infallibility of judgment as to be able to sit on high and say, 'here is truth, and here is error.'
i will leave my readers to make their own judgment, if they desire to do so; only asking them (as they would not like their own beliefs to be scoffed and sneered at) that they will treat with respect the sincere beliefs of others, even if they cannot accept them. it is only in this way that we can come to understand a people and to sympathize with them.
it is hardly necessary to emphasize the enormous effect that a belief in transmigration such as this has upon the life and intercourse of the people. of their kindness to animals i have spoken elsewhere, and it is possible this belief in transmigration has something to do with it, but not, i think, much. for if you wished to illtreat an animal, it would be quite easy, even more easy, to suppose that an enemy or a murderer inhabited the body of the animal, and that you were but carrying out the decrees of fate by ill-using it. but when you love an animal, it may increase that love and make it reasonable, and not a thing to be ashamed of; and it brings the animal world nearer to you in general, it bridges over the enormous void between man and beast that other religions have made. nothing humanizes a man more than love of animals.
i do not know if this be a paradox, i know that it is a truth.
there was one point that puzzled me for a time in some of these stories of transmigration, such as the one i told about the man and wife being reborn twins. it was this: a man dies and leaves behind children, let us say, to whom he is devoutly attached. he is reborn in another family in the same village, maybe. it would be natural to suppose that he would love his former family as much as, or even more than, his new one. complications might arise in this way which it is easy to conceive would cause great and frequent difficulties.
i explained this to a burman one day, and asked him what happened, and this is what he said: 'the affection of mother to son, of husband to wife, of brother to sister, belongs entirely to the body in which you may happen to be living. when it dies, so do these affections. new affections arise from the new body. the flesh of the son, being of one with his father, of course loves him; but as his present flesh has no sort of connection with his former one, he does not love those to whom he was related in his other lives. these affections are as much a part of the body as the hand or the eyesight; with one you put off the other.'
when we have put off all bodies, when we have attained nirvana, love and hate, desire and repulsion, will have fallen from us for ever.
meanwhile, in each life, we are obliged to endure the affections of the body into which we may be born. it is the first duty of a monk, of him who is trying to lead the purer life, to kill all these affections, or rather to blend them into one great compassion to all the world alike. 'gayüna,' compassion, that is the only passion that will be left to us. so say the learned.
i met a little girl not long ago, a wee little maiden about seven years old, and she told me all about her former life when she was a man. her name was maung mon, she said, and she used to work the dolls in a travelling marionette show. it was through her knowledge and partiality for marionettes that it was first suspected, her parents told me, whom she had been in her former life. she could even as a sucking-child manipulate the strings of a marionette-doll. but the actual discovery came when she was about four years old, and she recognised a certain marionette booth and dolls as her own. she knew all about them, knew the name of each doll, and even some of the words they used to say in the plays. 'i was married four times,' she told me. 'two wives died, one i divorced; one was living when i died, and is living still. i loved her very much indeed. the one i divorced was a dreadful woman. see,' pointing to a scar on her shoulder, 'this was given me once in a quarrel. she took up a chopper and cut me like this. then i divorced her. she had a dreadful temper.'
it was immensely quaint to hear this little thing discoursing like this. the mark was a birth-mark, and i was assured that it corresponded exactly with one that had been given to the man by his wife in just such a quarrel as the one the little girl described.
the divorced wife and the much-loved wife are still alive and not yet old. the last wife wanted the little girl to go and live with her. i asked her why she did not go.
'you loved her so much,' i said. 'she was such a good wife to you. surely you would like to live with her again.'
'but all that,' she replied, 'was in a former life.'
now she loved only her present father and mother. the last life was like a dream. broken memories of it still remained, but the loves and hates, the passions and impulses, were all dead.
another little boy told me once that the way remembrance came to him was by seeing the silk he used to wear made into curtains, which are given to the monks and used as partitions in their monasteries, and as walls to temporary erections made at festival times. he was taken when some three years old to a feast at the making of a lad, the son of a wealthy merchant, into a monk. there he recognised in the curtain walling in part of the bamboo building his old dress. he pointed it out at once.
this same little fellow told me that he passed three months between his death and his next incarnation without a body. this was because he had once accidentally killed a fowl. had he killed it on purpose, he would have been punished very much more severely. most of this three months he spent dwelling in the hollow shell of a palm-fruit. the nuisance was, he explained, that this shell was close to the cattle-path, and that the lads as they drove the cattle afield in the early morning would bang with a stick against the shell. this made things very uncomfortable for him inside.
it is not an uncommon thing for a woman when about to be delivered of a baby to have a dream, and to see in that dream the spirit of someone asking for permission to enter the unborn child; for, to a certain extent, it lies within a woman's power to say who is to be the life of her child.
there was a woman once who loved a young man, not of her village, very dearly. and he loved her, too, as dearly as she loved him, and he demanded her in marriage from her parents; but they refused. why they refused i do not know, but probably because they did not consider the young man a proper person for their daughter to marry. then he tried to run away with her, and nearly succeeded, but they were caught before they got clear of the village.
the young man had to leave the neighbourhood. the attempted abduction of a girl is an offence severely punishable by law, so he fled; and in time, under pressure from her people, the girl married another man; but she never forgot. she lived with her husband quite happily; he was good to her, as most burmese husbands are, and they got along well enough together. but there were no children.
after some years, four or five, i believe, the former lover returned to his village. he thought that after this lapse of time he would be safe from prosecution, and he was, moreover, very ill.
he was so ill that very soon he died, without ever seeing again the girl he was so fond of; and when she heard of his death she was greatly distressed, so that the desire of life passed away from her. it so happened that at this very time she found herself enceinte with her first child, and not long before the due time came for the child to be born she had a dream.
she dreamt that her soul left her body, and went out into space and met there the soul of her lover who had died. she was rejoiced to meet him again, full of delight, so that the return of her soul to her body, her awakening to a world in which he was not, filled her with despair. so she prayed her lover, if it was now time for him again to be incarnated, that he would come to her--that his soul would enter the body of the little baby soon about to be born, so that they two might be together in life once more.
and in the dream the lover consented. he would come, he said, into the child of the woman he loved.
when the woman awoke she remembered it all, and the desire of life returned to her again, and all the world was changed because of the new life she felt within her. but she told no one then of the dream or of what was to happen.
only she took the greatest care of herself; she ate well, and went frequently to the pagoda with flowers, praying that the body in which her lover was about to dwell might be fair and strong, worthy of him who took it, worthy of her who gave it.
in due time the baby was born. but alas and alas for all her hopes! the baby came but for a moment, to breathe a few short breaths, to cry, and to die; and a few hours later the woman died also. but before she went she told someone all about it, all about the dream and the baby, and that she was glad to go and follow her lover. she said that her baby's soul was her lover's soul, and that as he could not stay, neither would she; and with these words on her lips she followed him out into the void.
the story was kept a secret until the husband died, not long afterwards; but when i came to the village all the people knew it.
i must confess that this story is to me full of the deepest reality, full of pathos. it seems to me to be the unconscious protestation of humanity against the dogmas of religion and of the learned. however it may be stated that love is but one of the bodily passions that dies with it; however, even in some of the stories themselves, this explanation is used to clear certain difficulties; however opposed eternal love may be to one of the central doctrines of buddhism, it seems to me that the very essence of this story is the belief that love does not die with the body, that it lives for ever and ever, through incarnation after incarnation. such a story is the very cry of the agony of humanity.
'love is strong as death; many waters cannot quench love;' ay, and love is stronger than death. not any dogmas of any religion, not any philosophy, nothing in this world, nothing in the next, shall prevent him who loves from the certainty of rejoining some time the soul he loves.
the forest of time
'the gate of that forest was death.'
there was a great forest. it was full of giant trees that grew so high and were so thick overhead that the sunshine could not get down below. and there were huge creepers that ran from tree to tree climbing there, and throwing down great loops of rope. under the trees, growing along the ground, were smaller creepers full of thorns, that tore the wayfarer and barred his progress. the forest, too, was full of snakes that crept along the ground, so like in their gray and yellow skins to the earth they travelled on that the traveller trod upon them unawares and was bitten; and some so beautiful with coral red and golden bars that men would pick them up as some dainty jewel till the snake turned upon them.
here and there in this forest were little glades wherein there were flowers. beautiful flowers they were, with deep white cups and broad glossy leaves hiding the purple fruit; and some had scarlet blossoms that nodded to and fro like drowsy men, and there were long festoons of white stars. the air there was heavy with their scent. but they were all full of thorns, only you could not see the thorns till after you had plucked the blossom.
this wood was pierced by roads. many were very broad, leading through the forest in divers ways, some of them stopping now and then in the glades, others avoiding them more or less, but none of them were straight. always, if you followed them, they bent and bent until after much travelling you were where you began; and the broader the road, the softer the turf beneath it; the sweeter the glades that lined it, the quicker did it turn.
one road there was that went straight, but it was far from the others. it led among the rocks and cliffs that bounded one side of the valley. it was very rough, very far from all the glades in the lowlands. no flowers grew beside it, there was no moss or grass upon it, only hard sharp rocks. it was very narrow, bordered with precipices.
there were many lights in this wood, lights that flamed out like sunsets and died, lights that came like lightning in the night and were gone. this wood was never quite dark, it was so full of these lights that flickered aimlessly.
there were men in this wood who wandered to and fro. the wood was full of them.
they did not know whither they went; they did not know whither they wished to go. only this they knew, that they could never keep still; for the keeper of this wood was time. he was armed with a keen whip, and kept driving them on and on; there was no rest.
many of these when they first came loved the wood. the glades, they said, were very beautiful, the flowers very sweet. they wandered down the broad roads into the glades, and tried to lie upon the moss and love the flowers; but time would not let them. just for a few moments they could have peace, and then they must on and on. but they did not care. 'the forest is full of glades,' they said; 'if we cannot live in one, we can find another.' and so they went on finding others and others, and each one pleased them less.
some few there were who did not go to the glades at all. 'they are very beautiful,' they said, 'but these roads that pass through them, whither do they lead? round and round and round again. there is no peace there. time rules in those glades, time with his whip and goad, and there is no peace. what we want is rest. and those lights,' they said, 'they are wandering lights, like the summer lightning far down in the south, moving hither and thither. we care not for such lights. our light is firm and clear. what we desire is peace; we do not care to wander for ever round this forest, to see for ever those shifting lights.'
and so they would not go down the winding roads, but essayed the path upon the cliffs. 'it is narrow,' they said, 'it has no flowers, it is full of rocks, but it is straight. it will lead us somewhere, not round and round and round again--it will take us somewhere. and there is a light,' they said, 'before us, the light of a star. it is very small now, but it is always steady; it never flickers or wanes. it is the star of truth. under that star we shall find that which we seek.'
and so they went upon their road, toiling upon the rocks, falling now and then, bleeding with wounds from the sharp points, sore-footed, but strong-hearted. and ever as they went they were farther and farther from the forest, farther and farther from the glades and the flowers with deadly scents; they heard less and less the crack of the whip of time falling upon the wanderers' shoulders.
the star grew nearer and nearer, the light grew greater and greater, the false lights died behind them, until at last they came out of the forest, and there they found the lake that washes away all desire under the sun of truth.
they had won their way. time and life and fight and struggle were behind them, could not follow them, as they came, weary and footsore, into the great peace.
and of those who were left behind, of those who stayed in the glades to gather the deadly flowers, to be driven ever forward by the whip of time--what of them? surely they will learn. the kindly whip of time is behind: he will never let them rest in such a deadly forest; they must go ever forward; and as they go they grow more and more weary, the glades are more and more distasteful, the heavy-scented blossoms more and more repulsive. they will find out the thorns too. at first they forgot the thorns in the flowers. 'the blossoms are beautiful,' they said; 'what care we for the thorns? nay, the thorns are good. it is a pleasure to fight with them. what would the forest be without its thorns? if we could gather the flowers and find no thorns, we should not care for them. the more the thorns, the more valuable the blossoms.'
so they said, and they gathered the blossoms, and they faded. but the thorns did not fade; they were ever there. the more blossoms a man had gathered, the more thorns he had to wear, and time was ever behind him. they wanted to rest in the glades, but time willed that ever they must go forward; no going back, no rest, ever and ever on. so they grew very weary.
'these flowers,' they said at last, 'are always the same. we are tired of them; their smell is heavy; they are dead. this forest is full of thorns only. how shall we escape from it? ever as we go round and round we hate the flowers more, we feel the thorns more acutely. we must escape! we are sick of time and his whip, our feet are very, very weary, our eyes are dazzled and dim. we, too, would seek the peace. we laughed at those before who went along the rocky path; we did not want peace; but now it seems to us the most beautiful thing in the world. will time never cease to drive us on and on? will these lights never cease to flash to and fro?'
each man at last will turn to the straight road. he will find out. every man will find out at last that the forest is hateful, that the flowers are deadly, that the thorns are terrible; every man will learn to fear time.
then, when the longing for peace has come, he will go to the straight way and find it; no man will remain in the forest for ever. he will learn. when he is very, very weary, when his feet are full of thorns, and his back scarred with the lashes of time--great, kindly time, the schoolmaster of the world--he will learn.
not till he has learnt will he desire to enter into the straight road.
but in the end all men will come. we at the last shall all meet together where time and life shall be no more.
this is a burman allegory of buddhism. it was told me long ago. i trust i have not spoilt it in the retelling.
this is the end of my book. i have tried always as i wrote to remember the principles that i laid down for myself in the first chapter. whether i have always done so i cannot say. it is so difficult, so very difficult, to understand a people--any people--to separate their beliefs from their assents, to discover the motives of their deeds, that i fear i must often have failed.
my book is short. it would have been easy to make a book out of each chapter, to write volumes on each great subject that i have touched on; but i have not done so--i have always been as brief as i could.
i have tried always to illustrate only the central thought, and not the innumerable divergencies, because only so can a great or strange thought be made clear. later, when the thought is known, then it is easy to stray into the byways of thought, always remembering that they are byways, wandering from a great centre.
for the burman's life and belief is one great whole.
i thought before i began to write, and i have become more and more certain of it as i have taken up subject after subject, that to all the great differences of thought between them and us there is one key. and this key is that they believe the world is governed by eternal laws, that have never changed, that will never change, that are founded on absolute righteousness; while we believe in a personal god, altering laws, and changing moralities according to his will.
if i were to rewrite this book, i should do so from this standpoint of eternal laws, making the book an illustration of the proposition.
perhaps it is better as it is, in that i have discovered the key at the end of my work instead of at the beginning. i did not write the book to prove the proposition, but in writing the book this truth has become apparent to me.
the more i have written, the clearer has this teaching become to me, until now i wonder that i did not understand long ago--nay, that it has not always been apparent to all men.
surely it is the beginning of all wisdom.
not until we had discarded atlas and substituted gravity, until we had forgotten enceladus and learned the laws of heat, until we had rejected thor and his hammer and searched after the laws of electricity, could science make any strides onward.
an irresponsible spirit playing with the world as his toy killed all science.
but now science has learned a new wisdom, to look only at what it can see, to leave vain imaginings to children and idealists, certain always that the truth is inconceivably more beautiful than any dream.
science with us has gained her freedom, but the soul is still in bonds.
only in buddhism has this soul-freedom been partly gained. how beautiful this is, how full of great thoughts, how very different to the barren materialism it has often been said to be, i have tried to show.
i believe myself that in this teaching of the laws of righteousness we have the grandest conception, the greatest wisdom, the world has known.
i believe that in accepting this conception we are opening to ourselves a new world of unimaginable progress, in justice, in charity, in sympathy, and in love.
i believe that as our minds, when freed from their bonds, have grown more and more rapidly to heights of thought before undreamed of, to truths eternal, to beauty inexpressible, so shall our souls, when freed, as our minds now are, rise to sublimities of which now we have no conception.
let each man but open his eyes and see, and his own soul shall teach him marvellous things.
billing and sons, printers, guildford.
by arthur symons
second edition revised and enlarged
london: leonard smithers effingham house: arundel street strand: mdcccxcvi
to katherine willard, now katherine baldwin.
paris: may, 1892. london: february, 1896.
being a word on behalf of patchouli.
an ingenuous reviewer once described some verses of mine as “unwholesome,” because, he said, they had “a faint smell of patchouli about them.” i am a little sorry he chose patchouli, for that is not a particularly favourite scent with me. if he had only chosen peau d’espagne, which has a subtle meaning, or lily of the valley, with which i have associations! but patchouli will serve. let me ask, then, in republishing, with additions, a collection of little pieces, many of which have been objected to, at one time or another, as being somewhat deliberately frivolous, why art should not, if it please, concern itself with the artificially charming, which, i suppose, is what my critic means by patchouli? all art, surely, is a form of artifice, and thus, to the truly devout mind, condemned already, if not as actively noxious, at all events as needless. that is a point of view which i quite understand, and its conclusion i hold to be absolutely logical. i have the utmost respect for the people who refuse to read a novel, to go to the theatre, or to learn dancing. that is to have convictions and to live up to them. i understand also the point of view from which a work of art is tolerated in so far as it is actually militant on behalf of a religious or a moral idea. but what i fail to understand are those delicate, invisible degrees by which a distinction is drawn between this form of art and that; the hesitations, and compromises, and timorous advances, and shocked retreats, of the puritan conscience once emancipated, and yet afraid of liberty. however you may try to convince yourself to the contrary, a work of art can be judged only from two standpoints: the standpoint from which its art is measured entirely by its morality, and the standpoint from which its morality is measured entirely by its art.
here, for once, in connection with these “silhouettes,” i have not, if my recollection serves me, been accused of actual immorality. i am but a fair way along the “primrose path,” not yet within singeing distance of the “everlasting bonfire.” in other words, i have not yet written “london nights,” which, it appears (i can scarcely realize it, in my innocent abstraction in aesthetical matters), has no very salutary reputation among the blameless moralists of the press. i need not, therefore, on this occasion, concern myself with more than the curious fallacy by which there is supposed to be something inherently wrong in artistic work which deals frankly and lightly with the very real charm of the lighter emotions and the more fleeting sensations.
i do not wish to assert that the kind of verse which happened to reflect certain moods of mine at a certain period of my life, is the best kind of verse in itself, or is likely to seem to me, in other years, when other moods may have made me their own, the best kind of verse for my own expression of myself. nor do i affect to doubt that the creation of the supreme emotion is a higher form of art than the reflection of the most exquisite sensation, the evocation of the most magical impression. i claim only an equal liberty for the rendering of every mood of that variable and inexplicable and contradictory creature which we call ourselves, of every aspect under which we are gifted or condemned to apprehend the beauty and strangeness and curiosity of the visible world.
patchouli! well, why not patchouli? is there any “reason in nature” why we should write exclusively about the natural blush, if the delicately acquired blush of rouge has any attraction for us? both exist; both, i think, are charming in their way; and the latter, as a subject, has, at all events, more novelty. if you prefer your “new-mown hay” in the hayfield, and i, it may be, in a scent-bottle, why may not my individual caprice be allowed to find expression as well as yours? probably i enjoy the hayfield as much as you do; but i enjoy quite other scents and sensations as well, and i take the former for granted, and write my poem, for a change, about the latter. there is no necessary difference in artistic value between a good poem about a flower in the hedge and a good poem about the scent in a sachet. i am always charmed to read beautiful poems about nature in the country. only, personally, i prefer town to country; and in the town we have to find for ourselves, as best we may, the décor which is the town equivalent of the great natural décor of fields and hills. here it is that artificiality comes in; and if any one sees no beauty in the effects of artificial light, in all the variable, most human, and yet most factitious town landscape, i can only pity him, and go on my own way.
that is, if he will let me. but he tells me that one thing is right and the other is wrong; that one is good art and the other is bad; and i listen in amazement, sometimes not without impatience, wondering why an estimable personal prejudice should be thus exalted into a dogma, and uttered in the name of art. for in art there can be no prejudices, only results. if we arc to save people’s souls by the writing of verses, well and good. but if not, there is no choice but to admit an absolute freedom of choice. and if patchouli pleases one, why not patchouli?
the sea lies quieted beneath the after-sunset flush that leaves upon the heaped grey clouds the grape’s faint purple blush.
pale, from a little space in heaven of delicate ivory, the sickle-moon and one gold star look down upon the sea.
on the beach.
night, a grey sky, a ghostly sea, the soft beginning of the rain: black on the horizon, sails that wane into the distance mistily.
the tide is rising, i can hear the soft roar broadening far along; it cries and murmurs in my car a sleepy old forgotten song.
softly the stealthy night descends, the black sails fade into the sky: is this not, where the sea-line ends, the shore-line of infinity?
i cannot think or dream: the grey unending waste of sea and night, dull, impotently infinite, blots out the very hope of day.
rain on the down.
night, and the down by the sea, and the veil of rain on the down; and she came through the mist and the rain to me from the safe warm lights of the town.
the rain shone in her hair, and her face gleamed in the rain; and only the night and the rain were there as she came to me out of the rain.
before the squall.
ridge after rocky ridge upheaves a toppling crest that falls in spray where the tormented beach receives the buffets of the sea’s wild play.
on the horizon’s nearing line, where the sky rests, a visible wall. grey in the offing, i divine the sails that fly before the squall.
under the cliffs.
bright light to windward on the horizon’s verge; to leeward, stormy shadows, violet-black, and the wide sea between a vast unfurrowed field of windless green; the stormy shadows flicker on the track of phantom sails that vanish and emerge.
i gaze across the sea, remembering her. i watch the white sun walk across the sea, this pallid afternoon, with feet that tread as whitely as the moon, and in his fleet and shining feet i see the footsteps of another voyager.
o is it death or life that sounds like something strangely known in this subsiding out of strife, this slow sea-monotone?
a sound, scarce heard through sleep, murmurous as the august bees that fill the forest hollows deep about the roots of trees.
o is it life or death, o is it hope or memory, that quiets all things with this breath of the eternal sea?
masks and faces.
the light of our cigarettes went and came in the gloom: it was dark in the little room.
dark, and then, in the dark, sudden, a flash, a glow, and a hand and a ring i know.
and then, through the dark, a flush ruddy and vague, the grace— a rose—of her lyric face.
beneath the heaven of her brows’ unclouded noon of peace, there lies a leafy heaven of hazel boughs in the seclusion of her eyes;
her troubling eyes that cannot rest; and there’s a little flame that dances (a firefly in a grassy nest) in the green circle of her glances;
a frolic faun that must be hid, shyly, in some fantastic shade, where pity droops a tender lid on laughter of itself afraid.
white girl, your flesh is lilies grown ’neath a frozen moon, so still is the rapture of your swoon of whiteness, snow or lilies.
the virginal revealment, your bosom’s wavering slope, concealment, ’neath fainting heliotrope, of whitest white’s revealment,
is like a bed of lilies, a jealous-guarded row, whose will is simply chaste dreams:—but oh, the alluring scent of lilies!
the charm of rouge on fragile cheeks, pearl-powder, and, about the eyes, the dark and lustrous eastern dyes; the floating odour that bespeaks a scented boudoir and the doubtful night of alcoves curtained close against the light
gracile and creamy white and rose, complexioned like the flower of dawn, her fleeting colours are as those that, from an april sky withdrawn, fade in a fragrant mist of tears away when weeping noon leads on the altered day.
to m. c.
the pink and black of silk and lace, flushed in the rosy-golden glow of lamplight on her lifted face; powder and wig, and pink and lace,
and those pathetic eyes of hers; but all the london footlights know the little plaintive smile that stirs the shadow in those eyes of hers.
outside, the dreary church-bell tolled, the london sunday faded slow; ah, what is this? what wings unfold in this miraculous rose of gold?
an angel of perugino.
have i not seen your face before where perugino’s angels stand in those calm circles, and adore with singing throat and lifted hand?
so the pale hair lay crescent-wise, about the placid forehead curled, and the pale piety of eyes was as god’s peace upon the world.
and you, a simple child serene, wander upon your quiet way, nor know that any eyes have seen the umbrian halo crown the day.
it was a day of sun and rain, uncertain as a child’s quick moods; and i shall never pass again so blithe a day among the woods.
the forest knew you and was glad, and laughed for very joy to know her child was with her; then, grown sad, she wept, because her child must go.
and you would spy and you would capture the shyest flower that lit the grass: the joy i had to watch your rapture was keen as even your rapture was.
the forest knew you and was glad, and laughed and wept for joy and woe. this was the welcome that you had among the woods of fontainebleau.
on the heath.
her face’s wilful flash and glow turned all its light upon my face one bright delirious moment’s space, and then she passed: i followed slow
across the heath, and up and round, and watched the splendid death of day upon the summits far away, and in her fateful beauty found
the fierce wild beauty of the light that startles twilight on the hills, and lightens all the mountain rills, and flames before the feet of night.
in the oratory.
the incense mounted like a cloud, a golden cloud of languid scent; robed priests before the altar bowed, expecting the divine event.
then silence, like a prisoner bound, rose, by a mighty hand set free, and dazzlingly, in shafts of sound, thundered beethoven’s mass in c.
she knelt in prayer; large lids serene lay heavy on the sombre eyes, as though to veil some vision seen upon the mounts of paradise.
her dark face, calm as carven stone. the face that twilight shows the day, brooded, mysteriously alone, and infinitely far away.
inexplicable eyes that drew mine eyes adoring, why from me demand, new sphinx, the fatal clue that seals my doom or conquers thee?
cool comely country pattie, grown a daisy where the daisies grow, no wind of heaven has ever blown across a field-flower’s daintier snow.
gold-white among the meadow-grass the humble little daisies thrive; i cannot see them as i pass, but i am glad to be alive.
and so i turn where pattie stands, a flower among the flowers at play; i’ll lay my heart into her hands, and she will smile the clouds away.
in an omnibus.
your smile is like a treachery, a treachery adorable; so smiles the siren where the sea sings to the unforgetting shell.
your fleeting leonardo face, parisian monna lisa, dreams elusively, but not of streams born in a shadow-haunted place.
of paris, paris, is your thought, of paris robes, and when to wear the latest bonnet you have bought to match the marvel of your hair.
yet that fine malice of your smile, that faint and fluctuating glint between your eyelids, does it hint alone of matters mercantile?
close lips that keep the secret in, half spoken by the stealthy eyes, is there indeed no word to win, no secret, from the vague replies
of lips and lids that feign to hide that which they feign to render up? is there, in tantalus’ dim cup, the shadow of water, nought beside?
on meeting after.
her eyes are haunted, eyes that were scarce sad when last we met. what thing is this has come to her that she may not forget?
they loved, they married: it is well! but ah, what memories are these whereof her eyes half tell, her haunted eyes?
drawn blinds and flaring gas within, and wine, and women, and cigars; without, the city’s heedless din; above, the white unheeding stars.
and we, alike from each remote, the world that works, the heaven that waits, con our brief pleasures o’er by rote, the favourite pastime of the fates.
we smoke, to fancy that we dream, and drink, a moment’s joy to prove, and fain would love, and only seem to love because we cannot love.
draw back the blinds, put out the light: ’tis morning, let the daylight come. god! how the women’s cheeks are white, and how the sunlight strikes us dumb!
emmy’s exquisite youth and her virginal air, eyes and teeth in the flash of a musical smile, come to me out of the past, and i see her there as i saw her once for a while.
emmy’s laughter rings in my ears, as bright, fresh and sweet as the voice of a mountain brook, and still i hear her telling us tales that night, out of boccaccio’s book.
there, in the midst of the villainous dancing-hall, leaning across the table, over the beer, while the music maddened the whirling skirts of the ball, as the midnight hour drew near,
there with the women, haggard, painted and old, one fresh bud in a garland withered and stale, she, with her innocent voice and her clear eyes, told tale after shameless tale.
and ever the witching smile, to her face beguiled, paused and broadened, and broke in a ripple of fun, and the soul of a child looked out of the eyes of a child, or ever the tale was done.
o my child, who wronged you first, and began first the dance of death that you dance so well? soul for soul: and i think the soul of a man shall answer for yours in hell.
emmy at the eldorado.
to meet, of all unlikely things, here, after all one’s wanderings! but, emmy, though we meet, what of this lover at your feet?
for, is this emmy that i see? a fragile domesticity i seem to half surprise in the evasions of those eyes.
once a child’s cloudless eyes, they seem lost in the blue depths of a dream, as though, for innocent hours, to stray with love among the flowers.
without regret, without desire, in those old days of love on hire, child, child, what will you do, emmy, now love is come to you?
already, in so brief a while, the gleam has faded from your smile; this grave and tender air leaves you, for all but one, less fair.
then, you were heedless, happy, gay, immortally a child; to-day a woman, at the years’ control: undine has found a soul.
at the cavour.
wine, the red coals, the flaring gas, bring out a brighter tone in cheeks that learn at home before the glass the flush that eloquently speaks.
the blue-grey smoke of cigarettes curls from the lessening ends that glow; the men are thinking of the bets, the women of the debts, they owe.
then their eyes meet, and in their eyes the accustomed smile comes up to call, a look half miserably wise. half heedlessly ironical.
in the haymarket.
i danced at your ball a year ago, to-night i pay for your bread and cheese, “and a glass of bitters, if you please, for you drank my best champagne, you know!”
madcap ever, you laugh the while, as you drink your bitters and munch your bread; the face is the same, and the same old smile came up at a word i said.
a year ago i danced at your ball, i sit by your side in the bar to-night; and the luck has changed, you say: that’s all! and the luck will change, you say: all right!
for the men go by, and the rent’s to pay, and you haven’t a friend in the world to-day; and the money comes and the money goes: and to-night, who cares? and to-morrow, who knows?
at the lyceum.
her eyes are brands that keep the angry heat of fire that crawls and leaves an ashen path. the dust of this devouring flame she hath upon her cheeks and eyelids. fresh and sweet in days that were, her sultry beauty now is pain transfigured, love’s impenitence, the memory of a maiden innocence, as a crown set upon a weary brow.
she sits, and fain would listen, fain forget; she smiles, but with those tragic, waiting eyes, those proud and piteous lips that hunger yet for love’s fulfilment. ah, when landry cries “my heart is dead!” with what a wild regret her own heart feels the throb that never dies!
the blind beggar.
he stands, a patient figure, where the crowd heaves to and fro beside him. in his ears all day the fair goes thundering, and he hears in darkness, as a dead man in his shroud. patient he stands, with age and sorrow bowed, and holds a piteous hat of ancient yean; and in his face and gesture there appears the desperate humbleness of poor men proud.
what thoughts are his, as, with the inward sight, he sees those mirthful faces pass him by? is the long darkness darker for that light. the misery deeper when that joy is nigh? patient, alone, he stands from morn to night, pleading in his reproachful misery.
the old labourer.
his fourscore years have bent a back of oak, his earth-brown cheeks are full of hollow pits; his gnarled hands wander idly as he sits bending above the hearthstone’s feeble smoke. threescore and ten slow years he tilled the land; he wrung his bread from out the stubborn soil; he saw his masters flourish through his toil; he held their substance in his horny hand.
now he is old: he asks for daily bread: he who has sowed the bread he may not taste begs for the crumbs: he would do no man wrong. the parish guardians, when his case is read, will grant him (yet with no unseemly haste) just seventeen pence to starve on, seven days long.
the absinthe drinker.
gently i wave the visible world away. far off, i hear a roar, afar yet near, far off and strange, a voice is in my ear, and is the voice my own? the words i say fall strangely, like a dream, across the day; and the dim sunshine is a dream. how clear, new as the world to lovers’ eyes, appear the men and women passing on their way!
the world is very fair. the hours are all linked in a dance of mere forgetfulness. i am at peace with god and man. o glide, sands of the hour-glass that i count not, fall serenely: scarce i feel your soft caress. rocked on this dreamy and indifferent tide.
twitched strings, the clang of metal, beaten drums. dull, shrill, continuous, disquieting; and now the stealthy dancer comes undulantly with cat-like steps that cling;
smiling between her painted lids a smile, motionless, unintelligible, she twines her fingers into mazy lines, twining her scarves across them all the while.
one, two, three, four step forth, and, to and fro, delicately and imperceptibly, now swaying gently in a row, now interthreading slow and rhythmically,
still with fixed eyes, monotonously still, mysteriously, with smiles inanimate, with lingering feet that undulate, with sinuous fingers, spectral hands that thrill,
the little amber-coloured dancers move, like little painted figures on a screen, or phantom-dancers haply seen among the shadows of a magic grove.
love in spring.
good to be loved and to love for a little, and then well to forget, be forgotten, ere loving grow life! dear, you have loved me, but was i the man among men? sweet, i have loved you, but scarcely as mistress or wife.
message of spring in the hearts of a man and a maid, hearts on a holiday: ho! let us love: it is spring. joy in the birds of the air, in the buds of the glade, joy in our hearts in the joy of the hours on the wing.
well, but to-morrow? to-morrow, good-bye: it is over. scarcely with tears shall we part, with a smile who had met. tears? what is this? but i thought we were playing at lover. play-time is past. i am going. and you love me yet!
the gipsy tents are on the down, the gipsy girls are here; and it’s o to be off and away from the town with a gipsy for my dear!
we’d make our bed in the bracken with the lark for a chambermaid; the lark would sing us awake in the mornings singing above our head.
we’d drink the sunlight all day long with never a house to bind us; and we’d only flout in a merry song the world we left behind us.
we would be free as birds are free the livelong day, the livelong day; and we would lie in the sunny bracken with none to say us nay.
the gipsy tents are on the down, the gipsy girls are here; and it’s o to be off and away from the town with a gipsy for my dear!
in kensington gardens.
under the almond tree, room for my love and me! over our heads the april blossom; april-hearted are we.
under the pink and white, love in her eyes alight; love and the spring and kensington gardens: hey for the heart’s delight!
because you cried, i kissed you, and, ah me! how should i understand that piteous little you were fain to cry and to be kissed again?
because you smiled at last, i thought that i had found what i had sought. but soon i found, without a doubt, no man can find a woman out.
i kissed your tears, and did not stay till i had kissed them all away. ah, hapless me! ah, heartless child! she would not kiss me when she smiled.
shake out your hair about me, so, that i may feel the stir and scent of those vague odours come and go the way our kisses went.
night gave this priceless hour of love, but now the dawn steals in apace, and amorously bends above the wonder of your face.
“farewell” between our kisses creeps, you fade, a ghost, upon the air; yet, ah! the vacant place still keeps the odour of your hair.
how you haunt me with your eyes! still that questioning persistence, sad and sweet, across the distance of the days of love and laughter, those old days of love and lies.
not reproaching, not reproving, only, always, questioning, those divinest eyes can bring memories of certain summers, nights of dreaming, days of loving,
when i loved you, when your kiss, shyer than a bird to capture, lit a sudden heaven of rapture; when we neither dreamt that either could grow old in heart like this.
do you still, in love’s december, still remember, still regret that sweet unavailing debt? ah, you haunt me, to remind me you remember, i forget!
if, mary, that imperious face, and not in dreams alone, come to this shadow-haunted place and claim dominion;
if, for your sake, i do unqueen some well-remembered ghost, forgetting much of what hath been best loved, remembered most;
it is your witchery, not my will, your beauty, not my choice: my shadows knew me faithful, till they heard your living voice.
to a great actress.
she has taken my heart, though she knows not, would care not. it thrills at her voice like a reed in the wind; i would taste all her agonies, have her to spare not, sin deep as she sinned,
to be tossed by the storm of her love, as the ocean rocks vessels to wreck; to be hers, though the cost were the loss of all else: for that moment’s emotion content to be lost!
to be, for a moment, the man of all men to her, all the world, for one measureless moment complete; to possess, be possessed! to be mockery then to her, then to die at her feet!
love in dreams.
i lie on my pallet bed, and i hear the drip of the rain; the rain on my garret roof is falling, and i am cold and in pain.
i lie on my pallet bed, and my heart is wild with delight; i hear her voice through the midnight calling, as i lie awake in the night.
i lie on my pallet bed, and i see her bright eyes gleam; she smiles, she speaks, and the world is ended, and made again in a dream.
music and memory.
across the tides of music, in the night, her magical face, a light upon it as the happy light of dreams in some delicious place under the moonlight in the night.
music, soft throbbing music in the night, her memory swims into the brain, a carol of delight; the cup of music overbrims with wine of memory, in the night.
her face across the music, in the night, her face a refrain, a light that sings along the waves of light, a memory that returns again, music in music, in the night.
to k. w.
the twilight droops across the day, i watch her portrait on the wall palely recede into the grey that palely comes and covers all.
the sad spring twilight, dull, forlorn, the menace of the dreary night: but in her face, more fair than morn, a sweet suspension of delight.
pale from the watery west, with the pallor of winter a-cold, rays of the afternoon sun in a glimmer across the trees; glittering moist underfoot, the long alley. the firs, one by one, catch and conceal, as i saunter, and flash in a dazzle of gold lower and lower the vanishing disc: and the sun alone sees at i wait for my love in the fir-tree alley alone with the sun.
i chase a shadow through the night, a shadow unavailing; out of the dark, into the light, i follow, follow: is it she?
against the wall of sea outlined, outlined against the windows lit, the shadow flickers, and behind i follow, follow after it.
the shadow leads me through the night to the grey margin of the sea; out of the dark, into the light, i follow unavailingly.
to a portrait.
a pensive photograph watches me from the shelf: ghost of old love, and half ghost of myself!
how the dear waiting eyes watch me and love me yet: sad home of memories, her waiting eyes!
ghost of old love, wronged ghost, return, though all the pain of all once loved, long lost, come back again.
forget not, but forgive! alas, too late i cry. we are two ghosts that had their chance to live, and lost it, she and i.
when you were here, ah foolish then! i scarcely knew i loved you, dear. i know it now, i know it when you are no longer here.
when you were here, i sometimes tired, ah me! that you so loved me, dear. now, in these weary days desired, you are no longer here.
when you were here, did either know that each so loved the other, dear? but that was long and long ago: you are no longer here.
side by side through the streets at midnight, roaming together, through the tumultuous night of london, in the miraculous april weather.
roaming together under the gaslight, day’s work over, how the spring calls to us, here in the city, calls to the heart from the heart of a lover!
cool the wind blows, fresh in our faces, cleansing, entrancing, after the heat and the fumes and the footlights, where you dance and i watch your dancing.
good it is to be here together, good to be roaming; even in london, even at midnight, lover-like in a lover’s gloaming.
you the dancer and i the dreamer, children together, wandering lost in the night of london, in the miraculous april weather.
the music had the heat of blood, a passion that no words can reach; we sat together, and understood our own heart’s speech.
we had no need of word or sign, the music spoke for us, and said all that her eyes could read in mine or mine in hers had read.
on the bridge.
midnight falls across hollow gulfs of night as a stone that falls in a sounding well; under us the seine flows through dark and light, while the beat of time—hark!—is audible.
lights on bank and bridge glitter gold and red, lights upon the stream glitter red and white; under us the night, and the night overhead. we together, we alone together in the night.
“i dream of her.”
i dream of her the whole night long, the pillows with my tears are wet. i wake, i seek amid the throng the courage to forget.
yet still, as night comes round, i dread, with unavailing fears, the dawn that finds, beneath my head, the pillows wet with tears.
o hands that i have held in mine, that knew my kisses and my tears, hands that in other years have poured my balm, have poured my wine;
women, once loved, and always mine, i call to you across the years, i bring a gift of tears, i bring my tears to you as wine.
the last exit.
our love was all arrayed in pleasantness, a tender little love that sighed and smiled at little happy nothings, like a child, a dainty little love in fancy dress.
but now the love that once was half in play has come to be this grave and piteous thing. why did you leave me all this suffering for all your memory when you went away?
you might have played the play out, o my friend, closing upon a kiss our comedy. or is it, then, a fault of taste in me, who like no tragic exit at the end?
o to part now, and, parting now, never to meet again; to have done for ever, i and thou, with joy, and so with pain.
it is too hard, too hard to meet as friends, and love no more; those other meetings were too sweet that went before.
and i would have, now love is over, an end to all, an end: i cannot, having been your lover, stoop to become your friend!
alla passeretta bruna.
if i bid you, you will come, if i bid you, you will go, you are mine, and so i take you to my heart, your home; well, ah, well i know i shall not forsake you.
i shall always hold you fast, i shall never set you free, you are mine, and i possess you long as life shall last; you will comfort me, i shall bless you.
i shall keep you as we keep flowers for memory, hid away, under many a newer token buried deep, roses of a gaudier day, rings and trinkets, bright and broken.
other women i shall love, fame and fortune i may win, but when fame and love forsake me and the light is night above, you will let me in, you will take me.
one little cab to hold us two, night, an invisible dome of cloud, the rattling wheels that made our whispers loud, as heart-beats into whispers grew; and, long, the embankment with its lights, the pavement glittering with fallen rain, the magic and the mystery that are night’s, and human love without the pain.
the river shook with wavering gleams, deep buried as the glooms that lay impenetrable as the grave of day, near and as distant as our dreams. a bright train flashed with all its squares of warm light where the bridge lay mistily. the night was all about us: we were free, free of the day and all its cares!
that was an hour of bliss too long, too long to last where joy is brief. yet one escape of souls may yield relief to many weary seasons’ wrong. “o last for ever!” my heart cried; it ended: heaven was done. i had been dreaming by her side that heaven was but begun.
i passed your street of many memories. a sunset, sombre pink, the flush of inner rose-leaves idle fingers crush, died softly, as the rose that dies. all the high heaven behind the roof lay thus, tenderly dying, touched with pain a little; standing there i saw again the sunsets that were dear to us.
i knew not if ’twere bitter or more sweet to stand and watch the roofs, the sky. o bitter to be there and you not nigh, yet this had been that blessed street. how the name thrilled me, there upon the wall! there was the house, the windows there against the rosy twilight high and bare, the pavement-stones: i knew them all!
days that have been, days that have fallen cold! i stood and gazed, and thought of you, until remembrance sweet and mournful drew tears to eyes smiling as of old. so, sad and glad, your memory visibly alive within my eyes, i turned; and, through a window, met two eyes that burned, tenderly questioning, on me.
on judges’ walk.
that night on judges’ walk the wind was as the voice of doom; the heath, a lake of darkness, lay as silent as the tomb.
the vast night brooded, white with stars, above the world’s unrest; the awfulness of silence ached like a strong heart repressed.
that night we walked beneath the trees, alone, beneath the trees; there was some word we could not say half uttered in the breeze.
that night on judges’ walk we said no word of all we had to say; but now there shall be no word said before the judge’s day.
in the night.
the moonlight had tangled the trees under our feet as we walked in the night, and the shadows beneath us were stirred by the breeze in the magical light; and the moon was a silver fire, and the stars were flickers of flame, golden and violet and red; and the night-wind sighed my desire, and the wind in the tree-tops whispered and said in her ear her adorable name.
but her heart would not hear what i heard, the pulse of the night as it beat, love, love, love, the unspeakable word, in its murmurous repeat; she heard not the night-wind’s sigh, nor her own name breathed in her ear, nor the cry of my heart to her heart, a speechless, a clamorous cry: “love! love! will she hear? will she hear?” o heart, she will hear, by and by, when we part, when for ever we part.
after paul verlaine.
the singers of serenades whisper their faded vows unto fair listening maids under the singing boughs.
tircis, aminte, are there, clitandre is over-long, and damis for many a fair tyrant makes many a song.
their short vests, silken and bright, their long pale silken trains, their elegance of delight, twine soft blue silken chains.
and the mandolines and they, faintlier breathing, swoon into the rose and grey ecstasy of the moon.
as in the age of shepherd king and queen, painted and frail amid her nodding bows, under the sombre branches, and between the green and mossy garden-ways she goes, with little mincing airs one keeps to pet a darling and provoking perroquet. her long-trained robe is blue, the fan she holds with fluent fingers girt with heavy rings, so vaguely hints of vague erotic things that her eye smiles, musing among its folds. —blonde too, a tiny nose, a rosy mouth, artful as that sly patch that makes more sly, in her divine unconscious pride of youth, the slightly simpering sparkle of the eye.
by favourable breezes fanned, a trellised arbour is at hand to shield us from the summer airs;
the scent of roses, fainting sweet, afloat upon the summer heat, blends with the perfume that she wears.
true to the promise her eyes gave, she ventures all, and her mouth rains a dainty fever through my veins;
and love, fulfilling all things, save hunger, we ’scape, with sweets and ices, the folly of love’s sacrifices.
bah! spite of fate, that says us nay, suppose we die together, eh? —a rare conclusion you discover!
—what’s rare is good. let us die so, like lovers in boccaccio. —hi! hi! hi! you fantastic lover!
—nay, not fantastic. if you will, fond, surely irreproachable. suppose, then, that we die together?
—good sir, your jests are fitlier told than when you speak of love or gold. why speak at all, in this glad weather?
whereat, behold them once again, tircis beside his dorimène, not far from two blithe rustic rovers,
for some caprice of idle breath deferring a delicious death. hi! hi! hi! what fantastic lovers!
scaramouche waves a threatening hand to pulcinella, and they stand, two shadows, black against the moon.
the old doctor of bologna pries for simples with impassive eyes, and mutters o’er a magic rune.
the while his daughter, scarce half-dressed, glides slyly ’neath the trees, in quest of her bold pirate lover’s sail;
her pirate from the spanish main, whose passion thrills her in the pain of the loud languorous nightingale.
pierrot, no sentimental swain, washes a pâté down again with furtive flagons, white and red.
commerce and communication, 486.
commerce, hastens progress, 362.
common schools, 477.
constitutional liberty in england, 393.
crete, island of, 207.
crô-magnon, earliest ancestral type, 28; cultures of, 72.
crompton, samuel, spinning "mule," 436.
crusades, causes of, 319, 320, 321; results of, 322-323; effect on monarchy, 324; intellectual development, 325; impulse to commerce, 326; social effect, 327.
cultures, evidence of primitive, 28; mental development and, 32; early european, 32.
curie, madame, 469.
custom, 112, 288, 295.
dance, the, as dramatic expression, 133; economic, religious, and social functions of, 134.
darius i, founded persian empire, 168.
darwin, charles, 467.
democracy, 342, 392, 449.
democracy in america, 418; characteristics of, 419-421; modern political reforms of, 421-425.
descartes, rené, 461.
discovery and invention, 362.
duruy, victor, 363.
economic life, 170-180, 290, 429.
economic outlook, 495.
education and democracy, 477-482.
education, universal, 475, 478; in the united states, 476.
educational progress, 482.
egypt, 145, 146; centre of civilization, 157-160; compared with babylon, 162; pyramids, 160; religion, 172; economic life, 178; science, 182.
england, beginnings of constitutional liberty in, 345.
environment, physical, determines the character of civilization, 141; quality of soil, 144; climate and progress, 146; social order, 149.
equalization of opportunities, 499.
euphrates valley, seat of early civilization, 152.
evidences of man's antiquity, 69; localities of, 71-78; knowledge of, develops reflective thinking, 77.
family, the early, 109-112; greek and roman, 212-213; german, 286.
feudalism, nature of, 294-299; sources of, 294, based on land tenure, 296; social classification under, 298; conditions of society under, 300; individual development under, 302; influence on world progress, 303.
fire and its economy, 88.
food supply, determines progress, 83-85; increased by discovery and invention, 86.
france, free cities of, 330; rise of popular assemblies, 338; rural communes, 338; place in modern civilization, 399; philosophers of, 403; return to monarchy, 417; character of constitutional monarchy, 418.
france, in modern civilization, 399; philosophers of, 403.
franklin, benjamin, 465.
freedom of the press, 484.
freeman, e. a., 233.
french republic, triumph of, 417.
french revolution, 405-407; results of, 407.
gabon, francis, 469.
germans, social life of, 283; classes of society, 285; home life, 286; political organization, 287; social customs, 288; contribution to law, 291; judicial system, 292.
gilbert, william, 461.
glacial epoch, 62.
greece, 148, 205, 210.
greece and rome compared, 250.
greek equality and liberty, 229.
greek federation, 245.
greek government, an expanded family, 229; diversity of, 231; admits free discussion, 231; local self-government, 232; independent community life, 231; group selfishness, 232; city state, 239.
greek influence on rome, 261.
greek life, early, 205; influence of, 213.
greek philosophy, observation and inquiry, 215; ionian philosophy, 216; weakness of, 219; eleatic philosophy, 220; sophists, 221; epicureans, 224; influence of, 225.
greek social life, 241, 243.
greeks, origin of, 209; early social life of, 208; character of primitive, 209; family life of, 212; religion of, 212.
hargreaves, james, invents the spinning jenny, 436.
harvey, william, 461.
hebrew influence, 164.
henry viii and the papacy, 387; defender of the faith, 396.
hierarchy, development of, 276.
holy roman empire, 414.
human chronology, 59.
humanism, 349, 364, 366; relation of language and literature to, 367; effect on social manners, 371; relation to science and philosophy, 372; advances the study of the classics, 373; general influence on life, 373.
huss, john, 378, 379.
huxley, thomas h., 471.
ice ages, the, 62, 64.
incas, culture of, 187.
india, 148, 166.
individual culture and social order, 150.
industrial development, 429-433, 439; revolution, 437.
industries, radiate from land as a centre, 429; early mediaeval, 430; public, 497; corporate, 497.
industry and civilization, 441.
international law, reorganization of, 492.
invention, 86, 362, 436.
iroquois, social organization of, 198.
italian art and architecture, 368.
italian cities, 332; popular government of, 333.
jesuits, the, 385.
justinian code, 260.
knowledge, diffusion of, 480.
koran, the, 304, 310.
labor, social economics of, 496.
lake dwellings, 78.
land, use of, determines social life, 145.
language, origin of, 121; a social function, 123; development of, 126-129; an instrument of culture, 129.
latin language and literature, 261.
licinian laws, 256.
lister, 469, 470.
locke, john, 398.
lombard league, 337.
louis xiv, the divine right of kings, 400.
luther, martin, and the german reformation, 382-385.
lycurgus, reforms of, 244.
magdalenian cultures, 72.
man, origin of, 57; primitive home of, 66, antiquity of, 73-70; and nature, 141; not a slave to environment, 149.
manorial system, 430.
manuscripts, discovery of, 364.
marxian socialism in russia, 427.
maya race, 192.
men of genius, 33.
metals, discovery and use of, 100.
michael angelo, 370.
milton, john, 398.
minoan civilization, 207.
monarchy, a stage of progress in europe, 344.
monarchy versus democracy, 392.
mongolian race, 167.
morgan, lewis h., beginning of civilization, 4; classification of social development, 49.
morton, william, t. g., 470.
mound builders, 197.
music, as language, 131; as a socializing factor, 133, 137.
mutual aid, 120; of nations, 491.
napier, john, 463.
napoleon bonaparte, 417.
nationality and race, 444.
nature, aspects of, determine types of social life, 147.
neanderthal man, 29, 65.
newton, sir isaac, 463.
nile, valley, seat of early civilization, 152.
nobility, the french, 400.
occam, william of, 379.
oriental civilization, character of, 170; war for conquest and plunder, 171; religious belief, 171-174; social condition, 175; social organization, 176-178; economic life, 178-180; writing, 181; science, 182; contribution to world progress, 184.
parliament, rebukes king james i, 396; declaration of, 397.
pasteur, louis, 469, 470.
peloponnesian war, 241.
people, the condition of, in france, 401.
pericles, age of, 247.
petrarch, 365, 366.
philosophy, ionian, 216; eleatic, 220; sophist, 221; stoic, 225; sceptic, 225; influence of greek on civilization, 226, 228.
phoenicians, the, become great navigators, 161; colonization by, 161.
physical needs, efforts to satisfy, 82-85.
picture writing, 126.
pithecanthropus erectus, 29.
political ideas, spread of, 486-488.
polygenesis, monogenesis, 66.
popular government, expense of, 328, 414.
power manufacture, 437.
pre-historic human types, 63, 65, 66.
pre-historic man, types of, 28,
pre-historic time, 60-61.
primitive man, social life of, 31, 32; brain capacity of, 29.
progress and individual development, 23; and race development, 22; influence of heredity on, 24; influence of environment on, 25; race interactions and, 26; early cultural evidence of, 32; mutations in, 33; data of, 34; increased by the implements used, 35; revival of, throughout europe, 348; and revival of learning, 372-373.
progress, evidence of, 456.
public opinion, 485.
pueblo indians, culture of, 194; social life, 195; secret societies, 196.
race and language, 124.
races, cause of decline, 201, 202.
racial characters, 70.
recounting human progress, methods of 37-52; economic development, 39-40.
reform measures in england, 415.
reformation, the, character of, 375; events leading to, 376-380; causes of, 380-382; far-reaching results of, 388-391.
religion and social order, 113-116.
religious toleration, growth of, 447.
renaissance, the, 349, 370.
republicanism, spread of, 425.
research, foundations of, 472; educational process of, 479.
revival of learning, 364.
river and glacial drift, 74.
roebuck, john, the blast furnace, 436.
roman civil organization, 258.
roman empire, and its decline, 264.
roman government, 258; law, 259; imperialism, 267.
roman social life, 264.
rome a dominant city, 257; development of government, 258.
rome, political organization, 252; struggle for liberty, 243; social conditions, 255; invasion of the gauls, 255; agrarian laws, 254, 256; plebeians and patricians, 256; optimates, 256; influence on world civilization, 266.
scholastic philosophy, 353.
schools, cathedral and monastic, 356; graeco-roman, 357.
science, in egypt, 182; in spain, 306; nature of, 307, 458; and democracy, 464, 465.
scientific classification, 460; men, 465; progress, 470; investigation, trend of, 473.
scientific methods, 459.
scientific research, 463.
shell mounds, 73.
shelters, primitive, 99.
social conditions at the beginning of the christian era, 269.
social contacts of the christian religion, 268.
social development, 13, 23, 49, 104, 114, 347, 443.
social evolution, depends on variation, 347; character of, 443.
social forces, balance of, 501.
social groups, interrelation of, 454.
social life, 31, 133, 145, 147, 171, 178-180, 208, 241, 243, 247, 255, 258, 283, 285, 289, 298, 300, 327, 371.
social life of primitive man, 31, 32; development of social order, 41-45; intellectual character of, 47; religious and moral condition of, 46, 47; character of, 108; moral status of, 117.
social opportunities, 455.
social order, 8, 41, 122, 149, 150, 176-178, 193, 196, 444, 445.
social organization, 145, 176-178, 210, 250-252, 432, 433, 444.
social unrest, 502.
society, 5, 175, 205, 255, 256, 268-273, 285, 301, 316, 443, 445, 446, 450, 451, 452.
society, complexity of modern, 452.
solon, constitution of, 235.
spain, attempts at popular government in, 341.
sparta, domination of, 241; character of spartan state, 242.
spencer, herbert, 471.
spiritual progress and material comfort, 500.
state education, 482.
struggle for existence develops the individual and the race, 106.
summary of progress, 503.
switzerland, democracy in cantons, 342.
symonds, j. a., 366.
teutonic liberty, 281; influence of, 282, 291, 292; laws, 291.
theodosian code, 260.
towns, in the middle ages, 329.
trade and its social influence, 104.
tylor, e. b., primitive culture, 114.
tyndall, john, 471.
unity of the human race, 66.
universities, mediaeval, 475; english, 476; german, 476; american, 476; endowed, 484.
universities, rise of, 360; nature of, 361; failure in scientific methods, 361.
village community, 44.
village sites, 77.
warfare and social progress, 119.
watt, james, power manufacture, 436.
weissman, a., 467.
western civilisation, important factors in its foundation, 268.
whitney, ely, the cotton gin, 436.
wissler, clark, culture areas, 26; trade, 104.
world state, 493.
world war, breaks the barriers of thought, 488.
world war, iconoclastic effects of, 427.
wyclif, john, and the english reformation, 378, 386.
zwingli and the reformation in switzerland, 385.
in the table of contents, the "part iii" division precedes chapter vii, but in the body of the book it precedes chapter viii.
page numbers in this book are enclosed in curly braces. for its index, a page number has been placed only at the start of that section. in the html version of this book, page numbers are placed in the left margin.
footnote numbers are enclosed in square brackets. each chapter's footnotes have been renumbered sequentially and moved to the end of that chapter.
inconsistencies in the hyphenation and variations in spelling have been retained as in the original.
wings of the wind
author of "toby," "sunlight patch," "where the souls of men are calling," etc.
boston small, maynard & company publishers
copyright, 1920 by small, maynard & company (incorporated)
to s. thruston ballard with whom the author has shared many a pleasant camp-fire this book is affectionately dedicated
wings of the wind
"to adventure and romance!"
at last out of khaki, and dressed in conventional evening clothes, i felt as if i were indeed writing the first words of another story on the unmarred page of the incoming year. as i entered the library my mother, forgetting that it was i who owed her deference, came forward with outstretched arms and a sound in her voice like that of doves at nesting time. dad's welcome was heartier, even though his eyes were dimmed with happy tears. and old bilkins, our solemn, irreproachable butler, grinned benignly as he stood waiting to announce dinner. what a wealth of affection i had to be grateful for!
i did not lack gratitude, but with the old year touching the heels of the new, and time commanding me to get in step, my return to civil life held few inducements. instead of a superabundance of cheer, i had brought from france jumpy nerves and a body lean with over training--natural results of physical exhaustion coupled with the mental reaction that must inevitably follow a year and a half of highly imaginative living.
but there was another aspect less tangible, perhaps more permanent--and all members of combat divisions will understand exactly what i mean. when america picked up the gauntlet, an active conscience jerked me from a tuneful life and drove me out to war--for whether men are driven by conscience, or a government draft board, makes no difference in the effect upon those who come through. time after time, for eighteen months, i made my regular trips into hell--into a hell more revolting than mid-victorian evangelists ever pictured to spellbound, quaking sinners. never in this world had there been a parallel to the naked dangers and nauseous discomforts of that western front; never so prolonged an agony of head-splitting noises, lacerations of human flesh, smells that turned the body sick, blasphemies that made the soul grow hard, frenzied efforts to kill, and above all a spirit, fanatical, that urged each man to bear more, kill more, because he was a crusader for the right.
into this red crucible i had plunged, and now emerged--remolded. in one brief year and a half i had lived my life, dreamed the undreamable, accomplished the unaccomplishable. much had gone from me, yet much had come--and it was this which had come that distorted my vision of future days; making them drab, making my fellows who had not taken the plunge seem purposeless and immature. either they were out of tune, or i was--and i thought, of course, that they were. what freshness could i bring to an existence of peace when my gears would not mesh with its humdrum machinery!
my mother, ever quick to detect the workings of my mind as well as the variations of my body, had noticed these changes when i disembarked the previous week, and had become obsessed with the idea that i stood tottering on the brink of abysmal wretchedness. so, while i was marking time the few days at camp until the hour of demobilization, she summoned into hasty conference my father, our family doctor, and the select near relatives whose advice was a matter of habit rather than value, to devise means of leading me out of myself.
this, i afterward learned, had been a weighty conference, resulting in the conclusion that i must have complete rest and diversion. but as my more recent letters home had expressed a determination to rush headlong into business--as a sort of fatuous panacea for jumpy nerves, no doubt--and since the conferees possessed an intimate knowledge of the mulish streak that coursed through my blood, their plans were laid behind my back with the greatest secrecy. therefore, when entering the library this last night in december and hurrying to my mother's arms, i had no suspicion that i was being drawn into a very agreeable trap, gilded by my father's abundant generosity.
we sat late after dinner. somewhere in the hall bilkins hovered with glasses and tray to be on hand when the whistles began their screaming. in twenty years he had not omitted this new year's eve ceremony.
"your wound never troubles you?" my mother asked, her solicitation over a scratch i had received ten months before not disguising a light of pride that charmed me.
"i've forgotten it, mater. never amounted to anything."
"still, you did leave some blood on french soil," dad spoke up, for this conceit appealed to him.
"enough to grow an ugly rose, perhaps," i admitted.
"i'll bet you grew pretty ones on the cheeks of those french girls," he chuckled.
"pretty ones don't grow any more, on cheeks or anywhere else," i doggedly replied. "materialism's the keynote now--that's why i'm going back to work, at once."
"oh," the mater laughed, "don't think of your father's stupid office, yet!"
"there's nothing left to think of," i grumbled.
"isn't there?" he exclaimed. "what'd you say if gates has the yacht in commission, and you take a run down to miami----"
"or open the cottage, if you'd rather," she excitedly interrupted him. "i hadn't intended leaving new york this winter, but will chaperon a house party if you like!"
"fiddlesticks! cruise, by all means," he spoke with good-natured emphasis. "get another fellow, and go after adventures and romances and that kind of thing! go after 'em hammer and tongs! by george, that's what i'd do if i were a boy, and had the chance!"
they waited, rather expectantly.
"cruising's all right," i said, without enthusiasm. "but it's a waste of time to go after romance and adventure. they died with the war."
"ho!--they did, did they?" he laughed in mock derision. "what's become of your imagination--your vaporings? you used to be full of it!" and the mater supported him by exclaiming:
"why, jack bronx! and i used to call you my pantheist! don't tell me your second sight for discovering the beautiful in things has failed you!"
"it got put out by mustard gas, maybe," i murmured, remembering with bitterness some of the fellows who had been with me.
what was romance here to the colorful, high-tensioned thing i had seen in devastated areas where loves of all gradations were torn and scattered and trampled into the earth like chaff! fretfully i told them this.
they exchanged glances, yet she continued in coaxing vein:
"you're such a big baby to've been such a big soldier! don't you know that romance is always just over the hill, hand in hand with adventure--both lonely for someone to play with? wars can't kill them! it's after wars, when a nation is wounded, that they become priceless!"
"by george, that's right," dad cried. "come to think of it, that's exactly right! and gates has the same crew of six--men you've always known! even that rascal, pete, cooks better 'n ever! the whim, you can't deny, is the smartest ninety-six foot schooner yacht that sails! i say again that if i had the chance i'd turn her free on whatever magic course the wings of the wind would take her! that i would--by george!"
and there was a note of deep appeal in the mater's voice as she asked:
"why not get that boy you wrote so much about--tommy what's-his-name, the southerner? i like him!"
this plan, which i now saw had been so carefully prepared--fruit of the secret conference--was but one in the million or so of others throughout america nurtured and matured by the brave army of fathers, mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, who stayed at home and gave their all, waiting with alternate hopes and fears, looking with prayerful eyes to the day that would bring a certain one back into their arms. what difference if some plans were elaborate and some as modest as a flower? who would dare distinguish between the cruise on a private yacht and the cake endearingly made in a hot little kitchen for the husky lad just returned from overseas? each was its own best expression of pride and love. each said in its tenderest way: "well done, my own!"
a lump came into my throat.
"it's rather decent of a fellow to have two such corking forbears," i murmured.
the mater turned her gentle eyes to the fire, and dad, clearing his throat in a blustering way--though he was not at all a blustering man--replied:
"perhaps it's rather decent of us to have a son who--er, i mean, who--well, er----"
"why didn't you bring him home with you?"
"same reason he couldn't take me home with him. there were people waiting, and turkey, and--but he won't want to go," i added. "he's crazy about a girl down there!"
"fiddlesticks," my father chuckled. "any normal fellow'll want to cruise! i'll wire him myself--this very night!"
bilkins entered with the tray, wishing us a happy new year. outside the whistles were beginning to blow. after we had pledged each other, and drunk to 1919, the mater, a light of challenge in her eyes, looked at me and gave another toast:
"to a cruise and an adventure, jack!"
"to romance," dad cried, gallantly raising her fingers to his lips.
there was no use being a wet blanket, so with a laugh i said:
"to adventure and romance!--mater, if they're still on earth i'll bring them home to you!"
i knew it was a very silly toast, but let it go to please them--for why disillusion those who believe in the actuality of nonexistence?
the mysterious monsieur
ten days later tommy and i--and bilkins, whom i had begged of my father at the eleventh hour--stepped off the train at miami, stretched our arms and breathed deep breaths of balmy air. gates, his ruddy face an augury of good cheer, was there to meet us, and as he started off well laden with a portion of our bags, tommy whispered:
"reminds me of the old chap in that picture 'the fisherman's daughter'!"
the description did fit gates like an old glove, yet his most dominant characteristic was an unfailing loyalty to our family and an honest bluntness, both of which had become as generally recognized as his skill in handling the whim--"the smartest schooner yacht," he would have told you on a two-minute acquaintanceship, "that ever tasted salt."
"we might open the cottage for a few days, gates," i said, as we were getting into the motor.
"bless you, sir," he replied, caressing a weather-beaten chin with thumb and finger, "the whim's been tugging at her cable mighty fretful this parst fortnight! the crew hoped you'd be coming aboard at once, sir. fact is, we're wanting to be told how you and mr. thomas, here, licked those germans."
"angels of the marne protect me," tommy groaned. "gates, i wouldn't resurrect those scraps for the kaiser's scalp!"
"yes, he will," i promised, smiling at the old fellow's look of disappointment. "he'll probably talk you to death, though; that's the only trouble."
"i'll tell you what," tommy said, "we'll chuck the cottage idea and go aboard; then tonight, gates, you pipe the crew--if that's the nautical term--whereupon i'll hold a two-hour inquest over our deceased war, on condition that we bury the subject forever more. we came down here to lose the last eighteen months of our lives, gates, not keep 'em green. maybe you don't know it, but we're after the big adventure!"
"i carn't see how you help talking of it, sir--all that gas, and liquid fire, and bursting shells," gates stared at him in perplexity.
"it's an effort, but i refuse to turn phonograph like some of the old timers--not that i love 'em any less for it, lord knows!" then he began to laugh, and turned to me, adding: "one of the first things i did after getting home was to drop in on a very dear gentleman who's been a friend of our family since the ark. he came at me with open arms, crying: 'well, thomas, sit right down and tell me about your experiences!' i side-tracked that--for i hate the word. we didn't go over for experiences! but he wouldn't be denied. 'try to think,' he commanded. 'why, thomas, old as i am, i remember when stonewall jackson struck that brilliant blow----' and you can shoot me for a spy, jack, if he didn't keep me there five hours while he fought the entire civil war! no sir-ee! after tonight, never again!"
but tommy's talk, to which the crew listened in rapt attention, consumed nearer six than two, or even five hours. these men were hungry for authentic first-hand information--being too old to have sought it for themselves.
it must not be inferred that the whim's crew consisted of the ancient and decrepit. more than once my father had said that if ever he should get in a tight place there was no band of six he would rather have at his back than this one headed by gates; nor did he except pete, the prince of cooks. yet who, by the wildest stretch of fancy, could have contemplated tight places or dangers as the trim yacht rode peacefully at anchor an eighth of a mile off our dock at smiling miami? to every man aboard such things as death and the shedding of blood had ceased with the armistice, and gates would have taken his oath, were it asked of him, that our course pointed only toward laughing waters, blue skies, and emerald shore-lines.
early next morning we were under way when tommy pounded on my stateroom door, challenging me to a dip overboard. there was a glorious joy in his voice, as far reaching as reveille, that found response in the cockles of my heart. gates, never happier than when standing beneath stretched canvas, hove-to as he saw us dash stark naked up the companionway stairs and clear the rail head-first, but he laid by only while we had our splash and continued the course southward the moment our hands grasped the gangway.
"we're cruising, not swimming," he said bluntly, as we reached the deck. "but i'll say this," he called after us, "you're both in about as fine condition as men get to be. i'll give that to the army!" which was true, except for the fact that i might have been pronounced overtrained. tommy and i were as hard as nails, our skin glowed like satin--but, better than this, his spirit was quick with the love of living, charged with a contagion that had already begun to touch my own.
half an hour later he mumbled through a crumbling biscuit:
"if pete ever cooked better grub than this it was in a previous incarnation!"
"man achieves his greatest triumph but once in life," i admitted. "it's self-evident."
one loses track of time while sailing in south florida waters. there is a lassitude that laughs at clocks; the lotus floats over the waves even as over the land, and a poetic languor steals into the soul breeding an indifference to hours and days--wretched things, at best, that were only meant for slaves! neither of us realized our passing into barnes sound, and saw only that the whim, sails gracefully drawing, cut the water as cleanly as a knife.
another day passed during which we shot at sharks, or trawled, or lay on deck smoking and occasionally gazing over the side at displays of fish and flora twenty feet beneath us. but upon the third morning i asked:
"where are we bound, gates?"
"mr. thomas says key west, sir, and then havana."
"mr. thomas, indeed," i laughed, for it was exactly like tommy to take over the command of a ship, or anything else that struck his fancy.
before leaving miami he had received a twenty page letter from the bluegrass region of kentucky which threw him into a state of such volatile ineptitude that i was well satisfied to let him give what orders he would, sending us to the world's end for all i cared. in a very large measure tommy's happiness was my own, as i knew that mine would always be dear to him.
during our most trying hours in france, thoughts of this wonderful girl, whose name was nell, unfailingly kept his spirits high. in moments of confidence that come to pals on the eve of battle i saw that some day they might be eternal "buddies"--certainly if he had his way; and toward this achievement he had been, since graduating from the university of virginia, directing every effort to build up a stock farm which his family had more or less indifferently carried for generations. next to winning nell, his greatest ambition was to raise a derby winner--according to him a more notable feat than being president.
the sixth of april, 1917, had caught him with a promising string of yearlings, each an aristocrat in the equine world of blue-bloods, each a hope for that most classic of american races. but he had thrown these upon the hands of a trainer and submerged his personal interests six hours after congress declared war. at the same moment, indeed, all of kentucky was turning to a greater tradition than that of "horses and whiskey"; and, by the time the draft became operative, the board of one county searched it from end to end without finding a man to register--because those in the fighting age, married or single, with dependents or otherwise, had previously rushed to the colors. this, and the fact that his state, with three others, headed the nation with the highest percentage in physical examinations, added luster to the shield of his old commonwealth--though he roundly insisted that 'twas not kentucky's manhood, but her womanhood, who deserved the credit. after our cruise he was going back to the thoroughbreds, now within a few months of the required derby age; and of course i had promised to be on hand at churchill downs when his colors flashed past the grandstand.
late in the afternoon the whim docked at key west and, while gates was ashore arranging for our clearance, tommy and i ambled up town in search of daily papers. we were seated in the office of a rather seedy hotel when its proprietor approached, saying:
"'scuse me, gents,--are you from that boat down there?"
i answered in the affirmative.
"going to havana?"
this, too, i admitted.
"well, there's a feller by the desk who missed the steamer, and he hoped--er----"
"we'd take him over," tommy supplied the halting words. "where is he?"
turning, we easily distinguished the man by his timid glances in our direction.
"whiz-bang," tommy whispered. "what the deuce would you call it, jack?"
except for his age, that might have been sixty, he was most comical to look upon--in stature short and round, suggesting kinship with a gnome. his head seemed too large for the body, yet this might have been because it carried a plenteous shock of straw-colored hair, with mustache and beard to match. he was attired in "knickers" and pleated jacket, that looked as if he'd slept in them, and his fat legs were knock-kneed. on the floor about his feet lay almost every conceivable type and age of traveling bag, with the inevitable camera.
"what's his name?" tommy asked, not that that would have made any difference if his passport were in order.
"registered as 'monsieur dragot, of roumania,'" the proprietor answered.
"roumania!" tommy looked at me. "let's go meet him, jack."
monsieur dragot turned out to be the original singed cat, for assuredly he possessed more attractive qualities inside than were exteriorly visible, and from a first shyness that did not lack charm he expanded briskly. after visiting a "dry" café, to seal this fortunate acquaintanceship--as he insisted upon calling it--he warmed up to us and we to him, with the result that his bags were soon carried down and stowed in our spare stateroom. leaving him there, we went on deck.
"dragot," tommy mused. "speaks with a slight accent, but i can't make out what!"
"roumanian, possibly," i suggested, "as he comes from there."
"you rather excel yourself," he smiled. "registering from roumania, however, isn't prima facie evidence that he's a roumanian."
"he's a clever little talker, all the same."
"right o! too clever. i'm wondering if we aren't a pair of chumps to take him."
"he may be a crook, for all we know. did you notice what he said about holding a commission from azuria, and then hurrying to explain that azuria isn't on the ordinary maps--just a wee bit of a kingdom up in the carpathians, yet in the confines of roumania? i call that fishy!"
"not entirely so, tommy. when you said it might now be turning into a republic, did you notice how proudly he declared that the descendants of basil the wolf couldn't be humbled?--that, situated in moldavia, and escaping the ravages of the bulgarian army, they were stronger today than ever?"
"sounds like raving, sonny. who the dickens is basil the wolf? no, jack, that doesn't tell us anything."
"it tells us he couldn't have been inspired like that unless the place and people were real to him!"
"well, pirate or priest," tommy laughed, "he'll do if he waltzes us up to the big adventure. you're about fit enough to tackle one now!" during the past forty-eight hours he had openly rejoiced with gates at my improvement and tried, with the indifferent success of an unbeliever, to play up at top speed that silly idea of an approaching adventure.
we had strolled aft, and now stopped to watch a tall jamaica negro--or so we thought him to be--asking gates for a place in the crew. his clothing was too scant to hide the great muscles beneath, and tommy touched my arm, saying:
"there's a specimen for you!"
had he been cast in bronze a critic might have said that the sculptor, by over-idealizing masculine perfection, had made the waist too small, the hips too slender, for the powerful chest and shoulders; the wrists and ankles might have been thought too delicate as terminals for the massive sinews leading into them. he smiled continually, and spoke in a soft, almost timid voice.
"i like that big fellow," i said. perhaps i had been well called a pantheist, having always extravagantly admired the perfect in form or face or the wide outdoors.
feeling my interests he turned from gates, looking at me with dog-like pathetic trustfulness. among the things he told us briefly--for the crew stood ready to cast off--was that he once followed the sea, but in more recent years lived by fishing up sponges and at times supplying shark meat to the poorer quarter of key west. the carcass of a water fowl tied to his boat, while he occupied himself with sponges, would sometimes attract a shark; then he would strip, take a knife in his teeth, and dive.
i glanced at gates, but saw no incredulity in his face.
in another hour, at nearly dusk, key west had grown small and finally sank below the horizon, leaving only its three skeleton-like towers standing against the sky--standing erect with all nerves strained, watch-dogs of the darkening sea; ears cocked, to catch a distressed cry from some waif out in the mysterious night.
looking back along our wake i imagined the big black man standing as we had left him on the dock, gazing after us with patient regret; and i was glad to have given him the handful of coins at parting, little dreaming how many times that loaf upon the water would come floating in to me.
monsieur dragot revealed himself more and more to our astonished eyes as we sat that night on deck. he had been a professor in the university of bucharest, and hinted at an intimate entente with the reigning house of azuria. besides being versed in many sciences, including medicine, he spoke seven languages and read several others. but these things were drawn from him by tommy's artful questions, rather than being said in boastfulness. indeed, monsieur was charmingly, almost touchily, modest. of his business in havana he gave no hint, yet this happened to be the one piece of information that tommy seemed most possessed to find out.
"you'll be in cuba long, monsieur?" he asked.
"no one can say. a day, a week, a month, a year--it is an elusive search i follow, my young friends. may i call you that?"
we bowed, and i deferentially suggested:
"if we can help you in any way?----"
"it is the beautiful spirit of america," he sighed, "to help those in distress, yet there is nothing to do but watch--watch. for you have not yet been here long enough to see a child in these waters--no?"
tommy, perhaps because he came from the south and was on more or less friendly terms with superstitions, glanced over the rail as if an infant might be floating around almost anywhere. our strange guest's mysterious hints were, indeed, rather conducive to creeps.
then, without further comment, he arose, tossed his cigar overboard, ran his fingers through his mass of hair, and went below.
"what d'you suppose he meant?" i asked, in a guarded voice.
"simple enough," tommy whispered. "he's got apartments to let upstairs."
"get out, man," i laughed. "that chap has more sense than either of us!"
"then he'd better come across with some of it. you remember the freckled lad at soissons who got fuzzy-headed from too much concussion? well, he saw children around everywhere, too! it's a sure sign, jack!" but now he laughed, adding: "oh, i suppose our little roumanian's all right, only----"
he was interrupted by monsieur, himself, who emerged from the companionway door.
"i come again," he smiled apologetically, "because tomorrow our journeys part, and i have shown scant consideration for your kindness."
"it's we who feel the obligation," tommy murmured. "now, if we could only help you find the child--supposing, of course, that's what you're watching for!"
monsieur gave a deep sigh, appearing to be quite overcome by a secret grief; but after a moment he looked at us, asking ingenuously:
"you think my behavior unusual?"
"well, since you make a point of it," i laughed, and hesitated.
"i see, i see! but, my young friends, you must take my word that i cannot tell you much." he drew us nearer. "this i may say: that, after roumania dropped out of the war, the new chancellor of azuria wired imploringly for me to leave my classes at the university and come to him--because for years i have advised with azurian statesmen, frequently going on special missions. by the recent death of the old chancellor a certain paper came to light. this was a secret agent's report sent from havana in 1914----i may not divulge its contents. but for the war it would have been followed up at once. whether the same hopes exist now--well, i am here to discover. ah, my young friends," his voice trembled, "much depends upon this! i must--i must find the child if it lives!"
tommy's eyes grew round.
"i can say no more," monsieur added. "accept my thanks and gratitude for the help you have given me. and now--bon soir."
he bowed, backing himself toward the stairs as though leaving a royal presence, doing it so easily, so naturally, that we did not even smile. when he had quite disappeared we turned and faced each other.
"what do you think now?" i asked.
"i think he's a treasure," tommy cried. his face had lighted with a new excitement. "if we want any fun on this trip, don't let him get out of our sight! stick to him! i won't deny he has a screw loose, but----"
"that makes it all the better," i laughed, adding: "looks like the mater's toast might come true, after all, doesn't it!"--for i had described our new year's eve to tommy.
"sonny, i've a hunch we won't even have to tiptoe over the hill to find adventures with him around! he's their regular hanging-out place!"
gates came up, and seemed vastly amused when we told him of our hopes.
"he doesn't look like much of an adventurer, sir, but he's certainly a change from the great run of people i've met. still, i carn't see how we're going to keep him against his will!"
"neither can i, tommy."
"use a little persuasion."
"but suppose he won't persuade?"
"what's the use of crossing bridges," tommy grinned. "if he won't persuade, then sit on his head--anything, i don't care! the main thing is--keep him!"
the girl in the café
next morning began the conversion, or rather the persuasion, of monsieur dragot to remain a while longer with the whim. pete started off with another triumphant breakfast and before our guest had gone far with it his face was agleam with pleasure. tommy and i put ourselves out to be agreeable, telling him jokes that sometimes registered but frequently did not. yet we were on most affable terms when, stuffed to repletion, we leaned back and lighted cigarettes.
"professor," tommy suggested, "i think if you stay with us you'll have a better chance to find that child!"
our guest beamed agreeably at the appelative, then looked toward me.
"i'm sure of it," i said. "we've nowhere to go but anywhere, and that ought to fall in with your plans."
"pardieu, you overwhelm me! you mean i may sail about with you, searching?"
"nothing simpler," i assured him. "we've rather taken a fancy to you, haven't we, tommy?"
"double it," tommy laughed. "we agreed last night that you looked like a million-dollar bill to us!"
"oh, my boys," monsieur sputtered with embarrassment and pleasure, "you disarm my power to thank you--see, i blush!"
"damned if he isn't," tommy grinned at me. "what d'you know about this little gezabo, anyhow!"
monsieur's face grew more composed as he showed his interest in a new word.
"you say--gazebo?" he asked, blandly. "is that not a belvedere?"
"gazebo is, yes; but i said gezabo--that's you!"
"your american indian language?"
"sure thing. pure talk. if you're interested in indians, stick around. why not get the havana police to help us hunt the kiddie?"--i had known that before long tommy would be using a first personal pronoun.
"bah! they are of no value! but even i have small hope of finding her. the report was written nearly six years ago, and she has been gone upwards of twenty years."
"so it's a she," tommy looked over at me and nodded. "well, nearly six years, and upwards of twenty, plus what she was when she left home, leads me to believe the lady's almost old enough to take care of herself!"
monsieur considered this a great joke, exclaiming:
"it is not so much as that! she is but three--to me, always three! yet, as you say, i might better find her with you than anywhere! a despairing search, my boys!"
tommy's eyes were twinkling as he murmured sympathetically:
"if it's a three-year-old you want, there's a place in havana called 'casa de beneficencia maternidad,' where furtive-eyed damsels leave kiddies at twilight, ring the doorbell, and beat it. you might pick up one there, as a last resort."
"but--but," monsieur began to sputter, when i threw an orange at tommy, explaining to our agitated guest that he was a cut-up devoid of ideas, really an intellectual outcast.
"well," he cried, seeming to exude pleasure, "i will stay with you a while, eh? maybe we can teach him something--this cut-upping tommy of yours!"
he had fallen in with our scheme most agreeably, and later tommy confided to me that he was glad we wouldn't have to sit on the old fellow's head.
passing that afternoon beneath morro castle, the whim tacked prettily through the entrance of havana harbor and in another scant two miles dropped anchor.
havana bay is a dancing sheet of water, as bright as the skies and hardly less contagious than the city's laughter. but when one drops anchor and then hoists it up, one recoils from the black and slimy mud those blue waves hide; and this circumstance, slight as it may seem, held a potent influence on our future.
riding nearby was another yacht, in size and design very much like the whim, except that her rigging had an old-fashioned cut. her masts were checked with age and, where our craft showed polished brass, she long ago had resorted to white paint. at the same time, she gave the impression of aristocracy--broken-down aristocracy, if you choose. no bunting fluttered at her masthead, no country's emblem waved over her taffrail, and the only hint of nationality or ownership was a rather badly painted word orchid on her name plate. taken altogether, she was rather difficult to place.
"let the professor try in spanish," tommy said.
monsieur took the megaphone and did so, but with no better success. then to our profound admiration he called in half a dozen languages; finally growling: "lascars, likely!"--and proceeded to hail in something he afterwards explained was lascar gibberish. all of which failed to attract the surly pair who played at cards.
"now you might try airedale and pekinese," tommy suggested, but this was lost on the serious little man. yet he did call in another strangely sounding tongue, then with a sigh laid the megaphone down, saying:
"they must be stuffies!"
"dummies, sir, dummies," tommy corrected. "nice people don't say stuffies, ever!"
"your tommy does so much cut-upping, eh!" he smiled at me. i had noticed that when preoccupied or excited the idioms of his various languages got tumbled into a rather hopeless potpourri.
quarantine and customs were passed in the leisurely fashion of cuban officials, and monsieur asked to be sent immediately ashore, promising to return at sundown. there was a man, the secret agent, he explained, who held important information.
"i'll have the launch for you at machina wharf, sir," gates told him, but he refused to consider this, declaring that he could hire any of the boatmen thereabout to bring him out.
"he's that considerate, sir," gates later confided to me. "but i carn't make head nor tail of him. bilkins says he went in to lay out his clothes, and the things he's got stuck in those bags would astonish you!"
nearing six o'clock a skiff drew alongside, being propelled by one oar--a method much in vogue with havana harbormen--and when monsieur came aboard we saw at once evidences of disappointment. his arms hung listlessly, and his large head drooped forward as if at last its weight had proven too great for the squat body.
"what's wrong?" i asked.
"how do you know there is anything wrong, my boy jack?"
"you look so killingly happy," tommy said, joining us.
monsieur's pale eyes stared for a moment, then blinked several times before he murmured:
"the man i went to see is dead--murdered, just after he mailed that report. so i have no information. these police called it suicide because a knife lay in his hand. bah! i could place a knife in the hand of any man i kill!"
"was he a friend of yours?"
"no. i have never seen him. but he knew something!"
"he evidently knew too much," tommy suggested.
"you speak true, my boy. it seems to be a dangerous thing here to know too much of certain matters!"
"well," i laughed, trying to put a heartiness in my voice and drive away his depression, "let's go ashore for dinner! then the opera--and afterwards another bite where the high life eats? what-say, professor?"
as it turned out, however, neither the dinner, nor all of tommy's banter, nor madame butterfly sung in spanish (as if it could!) succeeded in restoring monsieur to a normal temper.
"we've simply got to make him laugh," i whispered to tommy. "it's a matter of principle now!"
"then wait till we have supper, and get him soused," my confederate cautiously replied. "that'll do it. but you'd better not drink much," he added. "how are the nerves this evening?"
"i've almost forgotten them," i answered.
but tommy was persistent at times. unknown to me he was now preparing a report to wire the mater.
"sleeping better?" he asked.
"lying to me?"
"a little," i laughed outright. "but honestly i'm in heaps better shape!"
"oh, i've seen you improving from day to day, but we want to put it over right. so don't hit the asphalt too hard tonight."
and in all justice to myself and my friendship to tommy i really did not intend to. what place was it that some one said is paved with good intentions?
leaving the opera house we mixed with the laughing tide that flowed along the prado, and by the merest chance--destinies of nations, much less our own, sometimes rest upon a merest chance--dropped in for supper at a fashionable place patronized by those who wish to see the brightest of havana life. there were other places, of course, that might have offered quite as much, but this one happened to be on the route we had taken.
midnight passed, but still we lingered, seated on the latticed balcony that encircles an inner court where cabaret features are held--suggestive of a bull ring. one rather piquant spanish girl, playing her accompaniment on a guitar, gazed softly up at tommy while singing about some wonderful nirvana, an enchanted island that floated in a sea of love. it was a pretty song, even if more intense than temperate, and pleased with it he tossed her a coin; whereupon she tilted her chin and raised a shoulder, asking in the universal language of cabarets if she should not come up and drink a health with the imperioso señor. but he, whose heart was beating against a twenty-page letter from a nymph in the bluegrass region of kentucky, laughed a negative, this time throwing her a flower that she kissed lightly and put in her hair.
we had supped well, the mandolins were now tinkling, incessantly, and this, mingled with the silvery tones of glasses touched in eager pledges, created an ensemble of sounds dear to the heart of every true bohemian. effects were good here. the ceilings and walls of our balcony were lighted by vari-colored electric bulbs artfully placed amidst growing vines that drooped in festoons above the tables, producing a fairy-like enchantment. and, indeed, the café proved to be a mart not only of enchantments but entertainments, including a popular gambling salon.
at last, in desperation seeing that monsieur refused to be cheered, tommy sprang up, saying:
"come, gezabo, let's court dame roulette! join us, jack?"
this i declined, and watched them move off arm in arm. but a strange thing arrested my attention for, as they preceded down the corridor, i saw a man in yachting clothes--the uniform of a captain--draw quickly back into an alcove as if wanting to escape discovery. when they had passed he looked out, more fearfully than curiously, and after a moment of indecision slowly followed them. urged by a suspicion that this was in some way associated with the professor, i arose and also followed. yet upon reaching the salon the stranger was nowhere to be seen. tommy and monsieur were each buying a stack of chips, the place seemed quiet and orderly, so without being observed i returned to my table.
now left alone i leaned back, idly twisting the stem of my glass, looking over the sea of merry people who made a picture that quickened interest. for i am particularly fond of sitting apart and watching an assemblage of handsomely groomed men and women laughing, talking and making love. i like to guess whether fears or tears or desperate courage hide behind their gayety; whether the rapidly wagging tongues are uttering inanities or planning naughty things; whether the love-making will stop with coffee and liqueur, or, lighted by them, burn into eternity.
all phases of human banality and human enigma seemed to be represented. there were languid beauties of the latin type whose drooping eyes might have expressed ennui, passion, pride--anything, in fact, that one's humor chose to fancy; the blonde by adoption was there, with heavy ear-rings of jet, whose habit was that of looking slant-wise through her cigarette smoke and raising one black, though carefully plucked, eyebrow; also there were a few american women, by far the most smartly dressed. great was the throb of life in this discreet and fashionable café. i felt its tremendous emphasis, and was content.
then, quite without warning, i caught my breath as my glance fell upon a girl dining with an old chap but three tables away. among the habitués of the ritzes of two continents there could not have been found another like her, for never had i beheld a face as exquisite--and i've seen many. it possessed a beauty that left me helpless--yet there was an indefinable sadness in it that might have suggested a haunting fear.
one of the lights among the vines hung close to her, and i could see these things. even could i see the color of her eyes, deep purple eyes--the tone the wild iris takes at twilight. when she leaned one way i might have thought the rich abundance of her hair contained spun copper or deep red gold, and again i would have sworn it matched the mellow brown of chestnuts; in all forming an arrangement of waves, each refusing to stay in place yet never really getting out of order, each coquetting with a subtle mischief that found an echo in her lips. her neck and shoulders were of that perfection that men realize but can not analyze; and her mouth, laughing or in repose, was maddening.
and there was an added charm quite apart from hair and eyes and lips. this i had never before seen in any face. animation? yes, and more. interest in the life about her? assuredly, to a very marked degree. wildness? that was it!--a wildness, subtly blended with refinement, that found expression in every quick look; as if someone had put a fawn there from the forest and it was trying, half humorously, half confidently, to keep itself from running away in fright. it was this glory of wildness that she typified which made my cheeks grow hot with watching.
but who has ever made a picture worthy of his dreams! how, then, can i describe this girl, when painter, sculptor, writer--all--would miserably fail at attempting to portray a beauty whereon imagination might gaze in frank amazement and admit itself surpassed! here, indeed, was all the vital, colorful magnetism of a type that men are quick to die for!
her gown--yet how can man describe a woman's gown? it was a very rich affair and added to the picture. but this i did observe distinctly, that in revealing her arms and shoulders there was no slightest hint of that abandonment of décolleté which denotes the approach of feminine despair, nor was the color in her cheeks a result of anything less pure than the kiss of air and sunshine.
her vis-à-vis, almost too old to have been her father, was one of those whose nationality is difficult to place. his hair, mustache and vandyke beard were gray; he was tall, thin, and perhaps seventy-five years old. his complexion impressed one most unpleasantly because of its sallow, almost yellow, hue; and although i had not yet had a full-face view of him i intuitively knew that his teeth were long and thin and yellow. a slight palsy never let his head be still, as if some persistent agent were making him deny, eternally deny, an inarticulate accusation--as accusations of the conscience perforce must be.
despite his grumpy silence he showed an air of repressed excitement, sending frequent, shifty glances over the room; and that he possessed the temper of a fiend i did not doubt after seeing him turn upon the waiter for some trifling omission and reduce that usually placid individual to a state of amazed incapacity. then a quick, really a pitiful, look of terror came into the girl's eyes as she shrank back in her chair. it lasted but a second before she was again making herself agreeable--acting, of course--and i wanted to cross to him and demand: "why is this lady afraid?"
i hated the man; at first sight i loathed him. it was one of those antipathies sometimes observed in dogs that see each other from a distance--hair up and teeth bared. the feeling is spontaneous, unpredictable, and the usual result is fight.
up to this time she had not seen me, or even known of my insignificant existence; but suddenly, as though it were a sally of banter whose blade he parried in the nick of time, her laughter-bathed eyes darted past him and squarely met my own; her lips sobered into a half parted expression of interest and, some strange thought--perhaps unbidden--coming into her mind, sent the blood surging to her cheeks. as quickly as this happened it had gone, and again she seemed to be absorbing the attention of her vis-à-vis.
once, years ago in the dolomites, i thoughtlessly struck my staff upon a piece of rock when, lo, a wonderful tone arose therefrom. and the memory of that rich, unbidden sound was re-awakened now as the contact of our glances stirred something which thrilled me with a maddening sense of harmony. as an e string vibrates when another e is struck somewhere near to it, so my being vibrated with each tilt of her head, each movement of her lips. yet however much i conjured the magnet of my will to make her look again, she successfully, if coquettishly, resisted.
the spanish waiter came up softly to refill my glass; an attention i permitted, murmuring happily:
"right, kiddo! stay me with flagons, comfort me with champagne, for my heart is faint with love!"--only solomon didn't sing it quite like that, the fickle old dog, nor did my waiter understand me, which was just as well.
engrossed with watching her i saw a new look come into her face as she quickly whispered something across the table. her vis-à-vis turned impatiently as a man approached them, who to my surprise was the yacht captain--the fellow who had apparently followed tommy and monsieur. he was a well-built blond, with a bullet-shaped head, high cheek bones and deep set eyes--pig eyes. his right cheek bore several scars which, considering his type, strongly suggested a german of university dueling experiences. so i looked on him with a livelier suspicion, even as she seemed to be doing.
in an undertone he now said something that brought the old man to his feet. with fear written on their faces they talked for several minutes, during which the blond jerked his head once or twice toward the gambling rooms. the girl had leaned forward watching them intently. then with a peremptory order the old one sent him away and sank back into his chair; but a moment later, clutching the tablecloth, he spoke a few words that made her recoil in evident horror.
together they started toward the exit, but having taken a few steps she left him with a brief word and returned, presumably for her glove. partially free from his eternal vigilance, she raised her eyes without dissimulation and looked quickly, appealingly into mine; then down at her hand, on which she leaned, whose fingers were unfolding from a little ball of paper. again into my eyes she looked--a look of infinite appeal.
across the void from her world to my own she was signaling--trying to tell me what?--and frantically my fancy sprang to translate the message. but as the man, with growing agitation, had been watching narrowly throughout this--a condition of which i felt sure she must be acutely aware--i dared not make the slightest sign. yet she seemed to understand and, joining him, they passed out.
i pounced upon that crumpled ball of paper and was back in my chair unfolding it with nervous fingers. feverishly pressing out the creases i saw that it was, indeed, a corner torn from the winecard, and written upon it--nothing. absolutely nothing!
perhaps i should have laughed, but as a matter of fact i cursed. deep in my soul i cursed. her little joke, her pretty bit of acting, had left a stinging sense of loss. as suddenly as this ruthless comet swept into my orbit it had swung out and on; for one delicious moment we had touched across the infinite, but now my harmony was shattered, the strings of my harp were snapped, curled up, and could not be made to play again.
but the spanish girl was playing her guitar, once more singing her impassioned song of the enchanted island in its sea of love, which made me pity myself so much that i permitted the waiter again to fill my glass. what a wondrous adventure this night might have brought!
such thoughts wore not to be profaned by the companionship of tommy and monsieur, so i slipped away, hailed a cab and alighted at the machina wharf. the boatman there, whom i aroused to take me out, was one of the most stupid fellows i've ever encountered. at any rate, someone was stupid.
going aboard the yacht i stood for a moment listening to the lonely sweep of his oar sculling shoreward through the murky night. over the castellated walls of la cabaña raced low, angry clouds. was it a storm brewing, or had some supernal madness touched the night?
a pleasant sense of motion came over me that suggested cradling waves, and i was sleepily wondering why we had gone out on a day that portended storms, when a tapping at my stateroom door was followed by someone whispering:
"aren't you ever going to get up, you lazy old dear?"
it was a girl's voice.
gradually and cautiously i drew the sheet about my chin, feeling no little confused to have a girl five feet away whispering pet names at me through a thin partition.
"aren't you?" she repeated, more sweetly imperious.
"you bet," i stammered.
"then do hurry! it's almost ten, and i've been waiting such a long time!"
whereupon i heard her moving off, pressing her hands against the panels for steadiness, and there struck me as having been an endearing pathos in the way she said: "such a long time!"
this was, no doubt, some of tommy's doing. he had invited friends aboard for luncheon, and was now daring one of them to play this joke. but my glance turned to the room, to its equipment and toilette articles which were large and curiously shaped, and the numbing truth crept into my brain that the stupid boatman had put me on the wrong yacht.
i had known some tight places in france, but this one simply squeezed me all over. there was nothing for it, of course, but go out and explain--yet how could a chap appear at noon draped in a sheet! the situation confused me, but i decided to search the wardrobe, of my unknown host, to borrow his razor, appropriate a new toothbrush that should be found in a box somewhere, and select flannels and linens in keeping with the hour. still balanced between confusion and panic i must have done these things because, fittingly attired though with no very good fit, i opened my door, stepped softly along the passageway, and entered the cabin.
on a wide couch built in at one side a girl lay reading. her head was toward me, but as i advanced she arose with a low cry of gladness, saying:
"so you're here at last----!" then with a little gasp drew back, facing me in the most entrancing attitude of bewilderment.
it was the girl who had left that ball of paper!
the sea, always my friend, at this moment did a rather decent thing; it gave the yacht a firm but gentle lurch and sent us into each other's arms. perhaps nothing else in all the world of chances could so effectively have broken the ice between us, for we were laughing as i helped her back to the couch; and, as our eyes met, again we laughed.
"i didn't know," she said, "that father brought a guest aboard last night!"
"awkward of him, wasn't it?" i stammered, sparring for time.
"one is apt to be awkward in weather like this," she graciously admitted.
"you don't know how profoundly aware i am of--of how terribly true that is," i stumbled along. "is he on deck?" for, oh, if i could only get to see him five minutes alone!
"no, he's unusually lazy this morning; but i've called, him, the old dear!"
a chill crept up my spine--crept up, crept down, and then criss-crossed. but she must know of her mistake before we had gone so far that putting me ashore would be a serious inconvenience--for i knew he would put me ashore at the nearest point, if not, indeed, set me adrift in an open boat. therefore i suggested:
"wouldn't it be a good idea to call him again? it's rather important!"
"oh, you think we shouldn't have gone out in a storm like this? i've been dreadfully uneasy!"
"no danger at all," i declared, with affected indifference, adding: "the weather isn't half as rough as 'the old dear' will be, take my word for it!"
a shadow of mystification passed over her wonderful face, yet she smiled with well-bred tolerance, saying:
"you are quite droll."
"drollery is the brother of good fellowship," i replied, helping her across the reeling cabin. as i had feared, she went directly to my room where the door had swung back showing an empty bunk.
"why, he's up, after all," she glanced over her shoulder at me.
"i believe he is," i idiotically affirmed.
"but where?"--this more to herself.
"hiding, maybe," i ventured, taking a facetious squint about.
"hiding?" she asked, in mild surprise.
"er--playing a trick on us! he's a funny old dog at tricks!"
"funny old dog?" she drew slightly away from me. "do you mean my father, mr.--er?"
"jack," i prompted, more than ever embarrassed and wishing the ocean would come up and swallow me; for i realized, alas, that my gods, by whom i was reasonably well remembered in so far as concerned physique, had been shamelessly remiss in their bestowal of brains.
"jack?" she slowly repeated. "what an odd name!"
this made me feel queer.
"where do you live," i asked, "that you think it's an odd name? the states are crawling with jacks! it's even the democratic emblem!"
her perplexity was fast approaching alarm when we heard a muffled report above, followed by a trembling of the yacht. someone called an order that sounded far away in the wind.
"hold tight," i said, "while i see if anything's wrong!"
but i did not leave her side, knowing exactly what had happened. we had snapped our mainsheet, that was all; letting the boom swing out and putting us in the trough of the waves where we might expect a few wobbly minutes until the sailors could work in a new line. there was no danger and i reassured her at once, but she merely asked:
"was my father on deck?"
"i didn't look," i answered, wondering why she thought i knew.
"won't you see?" her patience was becoming exhausted.
"i'm crazy to. but first let me help you back--you can't make it alone!"
"oh, yes, i can," she murmured. "i always make things alone!"
i tried to fathom the meaning of this, but gave it up and started to go on deck. if i could take her father off to one side and explain, well and good. he would perhaps sympathize with my mistake when he understood that it was partially the result of a desire to fill monsieur with spirits. considering this, i spoiled everything by asking:
"what does he look like?"
"my father?" she gasped, in a wondering way.
"no--yes--certainly not! i mean--oh, this is intolerable! i don't know your father, never saw him in my life--unless he was the one with you last night when you drove me frantic with that ball of paper trick! but what you did has nothing to do with my being here. i've not wilfully followed. a stupid boatman mistook your yacht for my own when i was--i mean to say, when i was too engrossed with the memory of you to notice his mistake."
from alarm her look gave way to wonderment, then almost to mirth. it was a hard place for a girl to be in, and i expected her to leave me now, find the old chap and promptly have me hanged to a yard-arm. the fact that there are no yard-arms on schooner yachts made no difference. and i do believe she was considering that when a sailor passed us, looking enough like tommy to have been his twin brother.
"jack," she said to him, "tell mr. graham to come below!"
the fellow saluted and left, and i stared at her in surprise, saying:
"then my name can't seem very odd to you, miss graham!"
she was regarding me as though trying to discover what kind of a species i was that had got on her father's yacht, when the sailor came back followed by a husky brute in uniform. intuitively i stiffened to meet the crisis, but even at this eleventh hour a respite came.
"he ain't aboard," the other jack whispered, and the captain--for the burly one was only the captain, after all--saluted, saying:
"i've just now found out, ma'am, he ain't aboard!"
"not aboard? what do you mean?"
"after bringing you on last night he went ashore again to get a little below was the bed-chamber of as many more.
cast back upon his own thoughts, rollo reviewed many things--his short life, the reckless ups-and-downs in which he had spent it--but all without remorse or regret.
"i might have been a lawyer, and lived to a hundred!" he said to himself. "it is better as it is. if i have done little good, perhaps i have not had time to do a great deal of harm."
then very contentedly he curled himself up to sleep as best he might, only dreamily wondering if little concha would be sorry when she heard.
ramon garcia sat with his eyes fixed on the sentry who had ceased his to-and-fro tramp up the centre, and now leaned gloomily against the wall, his hands crossed about the cross-bar of his sword-bayonet.
across the granary john mortimer reclined with his head in his hands, making vows never to enter spain or trust himself under the leadership of a mad scot, if this once he should get clear off.
"it isn't the being shot," he moaned; "it's not being able to tell them that i'm not a fool, but a respectable merchant able to pay my way and with a balance at william deacon's bank. but it serves me right!" then a little inconsequently he added, "by gum, if i get out of this i'll have a spanish clerk in the works and learn the language!"
which was john mortimer's way of making a vow to the gods.
etienne, having his hands comparatively free, and finding himself sleepless, looked enviously at rollo's untroubled repose, and began to twist cigarettes for himself and the sentry who guarded his side of the granary.
without, the owls circled and cried. a dog barked in the village above, provoking a far-reaching chorus of his kind. then blows fell, and he fled yelping out of earshot.
at last, turning his head a little to one side, he heard distinctly the low murmur of voices.
"do you remember pancorbo?" said ramon garcia.
rollo could not hear the answer, but he caught the outlaw's next question.
"and have you forgotten el sarria, who, having a certain miguelete under the point of his knife, let him go for his sweetheart's sake, because she was waiting for him down in the valley?"
the sentry's reply was again inaudible, but rollo was fully awake now. ramon garcia had not abandoned hope, and why should he? when there was anything to be done, none could be so alert as rollo blair.
"i am el sarria the outlaw," ramon went on, "and these are my companions. we are no traitors, but good carlists to a man. our papers are----"
here the words were spoken so low that rollo could not hear more, but the next moment he was nudged by ramon on the leg.
"write a note to concha cabezos, telling her to bring the papers here at once if she would save our lives. you are sure she is faithful?"
"i am sure!" said rollo, who really had no reason for his confidence except the expression in her eyes.
he had no paper, but catching the sentry's eye, he nodded across to where etienne was still diligently rolling cigarettes.
"alcoy?" he whispered.
he held out his hand to etienne, who readily gave him the last he had rolled. the sentry thanked him with a quick martial salute, and after a turn or two more, deftly dropped the crumbled tobacco upon the floor and let the leaf drop on rollo's knees with a stump of pencil rolled up in it.
then the young man, turning his back upon the dozing guard in the stone window-sill, wrote with some difficulty the following note, lying on his breast and using the uneven floor of the granary for a desk.
"little concha" (it ran), "we are general cabrera's prisoners. bring the papers as soon as you receive this. otherwise we are to be shot at day-break.--rollo blair."
there was still a little space left upon the leaf of alcoy paper, and with a half shamefaced glance at el sarria, he added, "and in any case do not wholly forget r. b."
he passed the note to the outlaw, who folded it to the size of a postage stamp and apparently gave directions where and to whom it was to be delivered.
there was nothing more to be done till day-break. they had played their last card, and now they must wait to see what cards were out against them, and who should win the final trick at the hour of sunrise.
all about the granary the carlists were stamping feet, pulling on boots, and flapping arms.
"it's a cold morning to be shot in," said the man, with rough kindliness; "but i will get you some hot chocolate in a moment. that will warm your blood for you, and in any case you will have a quick passage. i will pick you a firing party of the best shots in the three provinces. the general will be here in a quarter of an hour, and the sun will rise in another quarter. one is just as punctual as the other. a cigarette?--thank you. well, you are a cool hand! i'm off to see about the chocolate!"
and rollo blair, with a slight singing in his ears, and a chill emptiness about the pit of his stomach, stood on his feet critically rolling a cigarette in a leaf of etienne's alcoy paper.
john mortimer said nothing, but looked after the man who had gone for the chocolate.
"i wish it had been coffee," he said; "chocolate is always bad for my digestion!"
then he smiled a little grimly. his sufferings from indigestion produced by indulgence in this particular chocolate would in all probability not be prolonged, seeing that the glow of the sun-rising was already reddening the sky to the east.
etienne was secretly fingering his beads. and el sarria thought with satisfaction of the safety of dolóres; he had given up hope of concha a full hour ago. the ex-miguelete had doubtless again played the traitor. he took a cigarette from rollo without speaking and followed him across the uneven floor between the heaps of trodden grain.
they were led down the stairway one by one, and as they passed through the ground floor, with its thick woolly coating of grey flour dust, a trumpet blew without, and they heard the trampling of horses in the courtyard.
"quick!" said a voice at rollo's elbow, "here is your chocolate. nothing like it for strengthening the knee-joints at a time like this. i've seen men die on wine and on rum and on brandy; but for me, give me a cup of chocolate as good as that, when my time comes!"
rollo drank the thick sweet strength-giving stuff to the accompaniment of clattering hoofs and jingling accoutrements.
the young man stepped out of the mill-door into the crisp chill of the dawn. all the east was a glory of blood-red cloud, and for the second time rollo and his companions stood face to face with general cabrera.
it was within a quarter of an hour of the sun-rising.
his mother's rosary
it was, as the soldier had said most truly, a cold morning to be shot in. but the carlists, accustomed to cabrera's summary methods, appeared to think but little of the matter, and jested as the firing parties were selected and drawn out. ragged and desolate they looked as they stood on a slight slope between the foreigners and the red dawn, biting their cartridges and fingering the pulls of their rifles with hands numbed with cold. at elbow and knee their rags of uniforms flapped like bunches of ribbons at a fair.
"in the garden!" whispered luis fernandez to cabrera.
"to the garden!" commanded the general, lighting a new cigarette and puffing vigorously, "and at this point i may as well bid you good-bye. i wish our acquaintance had been pleasanter. but the fortune of war, gentlemen! my mother had not so long time to say her prayers at the hands of your friend nogueras--and she was a woman and old, gentlemen. i doubt not you know as well how to die as she?"
and they did. not one of them uttered a word. john mortimer, seeing there was now no chance of making his thousand pounds, set an example of unbending dignity. he comported himself, indeed, exactly as he would have done on his marriage day. that is, he knew that the eyes of many were upon him, and he resolved not to shame the performance. so he went through his part with the exact english mixture of awkward shyness and sulky self-respect which would have carried him creditably to the altar in any english church.
etienne faced his death like the son of an ancient race, and a good catholic. he could not have a confessor, but he said his prayers, committed his soul to god and the virgin, and faced the black muzzles not greatly abashed.
as for el sarria, death was his métier, his familiar friend. he had lived with him for years, as a man with a wife, rising up and lying down, eating and breathing in his company. "the fortune of war," as cabrera said. el sarria was ready. dolóres and her babe were safe. he asked no more.
and not less readily fell into line rollo blair. a little apart he stood as they made ready to march out of the presence of the carlist general. john mortimer was already on his way, carefully and conscientiously ordering his going, that he might not in these last things disgrace his nation and his upbringing. etienne and ramon were following him. still the young scot lingered. cabrera, nervously fingering his accoutrement and signing papers at a folding table, found time to eye him with curiosity.
"did he mean to make a last plea for mercy?" he thought.
cabrera smiled contemptuously. a friend of nogueras might know ramon cabrera of tortosa better. but rollo had no such thought. he had in his fingers etienne's last slip of alcoy paper, in which the cigarette of spain, unfailing comforter, is wrapped. to fill it he had crumbled his last leaf of tobacco. now it was rolled accurately and with lingering particularity, because it was to be the last. it lay in his palm featly made, a cigarette worthy to be smoked by don carlos himself.
almost unconsciously rollo put it to his lips. it was a cold morning, and it is small wonder that his hand shook a little. he was just twenty-three, and his main regret was that he had not kissed little concha cabezos--with her will, or against it--all would have been one now. meantime he looked about him for a light. the general noticed his hesitation, rose from the table, and with a low bow offered his own, as one gentleman to another. rollo thanked him. the two men approached as if to embrace. each drew a puff of his cigarette, till the points glowed red. rollo, retreating a little, swept a proud acknowledgment of thanks with his sombrero. cabrera bowed with his hand on his heart. the young scot clicked his heels together as if on parade, and strode out with head erect and squared shoulders in the rear of his companions.
"by god's bread, a man!" said cabrera, as he resumed his writing, "'tis a thousand pities i must shoot him!"
they stood all four of them in the garden of the mill-house, underneath the fig trees in whose shade el sarria had once hidden himself to watch the midnight operations of don tomas.
the sun was just rising. his beams red, low, and level shot across the mill-wheel, turning the water of the unused overshot into a myriad pearls and diamonds as it splashed through a side culvert into the gorge beneath, in which the gloom of night lingered.
the four men still stood in order. mortimer and etienne in the middle, with slim rollo and the giant ramon towering on either flank.
"load with ball--at six paces--make ready!"
the officer's commands rang out with a certain haste, for he could already hear the clattering of the horses of the general's cavalcade, and he knew that if upon his arrival he had not carried out his orders, he might expect a severe reprimand.
but it was not the general's suite that rode so furiously. the sound came from a contrary direction. two horses were being ridden at speed, and at sight of the four men set in order against the wall the foremost rider sank both spurs into her white mare and dashed forward with a wild cry.
the officer already had his sword raised in the air, the falling of which was to be the signal for the volley of death. but it did not fall. something in the aspect of the girl-rider as she swept up parallel with the low garden wall, her hair floating disordered about her shoulders--her eyes black and shining like stars--the sheaf of papers she waved in her hand, all compelled the carlist to suspend that last irrevocable order.
it was concha cabezos who arrived when the eleventh hour was long past, and leaped from her reeking horse opposite the place of execution. with her, wild-haired as a mænad, rode la giralda, cross-saddled like a man.
"general cabrera! where is general cabrera?" cried concha. "i must see him instantly. these are no traitors. they are true men, and in the service of don carlos. here are their papers!"
"where is ramon cabrera? tell me quickly!" cried la giralda. "i have news for him. i was with his mother when she died. they whipped me at the cross of tortosa to tell what i knew--stripping me to the waist they whipped me, being old and the mother of many. cabrera will avenge me. let me but see ramon cabrera whom of old i suckled at my breasts!"
the officer hesitated. in such circumstances one might easily do wrong. he might shoot these men, and after all find that they were innocent. he preferred to wait. the living are more easily deprived of life than the dead restored to it. such was his thought.
in any case he had not long to wait.
round the angle of the mill-house swept the general and his staff, brilliant in scarlet and white, heightened by the glitter of abundant gold-lace. for the ex-butcher of tortosa was a kind of military dandy, and loved to surround himself with the foppery of the matador and the brigand. at heart, indeed, he was still the guerrillero of morella, riding home through the streets of that little rebel city after a successful foray.
as his eyes fell on the row of men dark against the dusty adobe of the garden wall, and on the two pale women, a dark frown overspread his face.
"what is the meaning of this?" he cried. "why have you not obeyed your instructions? why are these men not yet dead?"
"little ramon, ramon cabrera," she cried, "have you forgotten your old nurse, la giralda of sevilla, your mother's gossip, your own playmate?"
the general turned full upon her, with the quick indignant threat of one who considers himself duped, in his countenance. it had gone ill with la giralda if she had not been able to prove her case. but she held something in her hand, the sight of which brought the butcher of tortosa down from his saddle as quickly as if a cristino bullet had pierced him to the heart.
la giralda was holding out to him an old string of beads, simply carved out of some brown oriental nut, but so worn away by use that the stringing had almost cut through the hard and polished shell.
"my mother's rosary!" he cried, and sinking on his knees, he devoutly received and kissed it. he abode thus a moment looking up to the sky--he, the man who had waded in blood during six years of bitter warfare. he kissed the worn beads one by one and wept. they were his mother's way to heaven. and he did not know a better. in which perchance he was right.
"whence gat you this?" cried cabrera, rising sharply as a thought struck him; "my mother never would have parted with these in her life--you plundered it from her body after her death! quick, out with your story, or you die!"
"nay, little foster-son," said la giralda, "i was indeed with your mother at the last--when she was shot by nogueras, and five minutes before she died she gave her rosary into my hands to convey to you. 'take this to my son,' she said, 'and bid him never forget his mother, nor to say his prayers night and morn. bid him swear it on these sacred beads!' so i have brought them to you. she kissed them before she died. at the risk of my life have i brought it."
"and these," said cabrera--"do you know these dogs, la giralda?"
he pointed to the four men who still stood by the wall, the firing party at attention before them, and the eyes of all on the next wave of the general's hand which would mean life or death.
la giralda drew a quick breath. would the hold she had over him be sufficient for what she was about to ask? he was a fierce man and a cruel, this ramon cabrera, who loved naught in the world except his mother, and had gained his present ascendency in the councils of don carlos by the unbending and consistent ferocity of his conduct.
"these are no traitors, general," she said; "they are true men, and deep in the councils of the cause."
she bent and whispered in his ear words which others could not hear. the face of the carlist general darkened from a dull pink to purple, and then his colour ebbed away to a ghastly ashen white as he listened.
twice he sprang up from the stone bench where he had seated himself, ground his heel into the gravel brought from the river-bed beneath, and muttered a characteristic imprecation, "ten for one of their women i have slain already--by san vicente after this it shall be a hundred!"
for la giralda was telling him the tale of his mother's shooting by nogueras.
then all suddenly he reseated himself, and beckoned to concha.
"come hither," he said; "let me see these fellows' papers, and tell me how they came into your hands!"
concha was ready.
"the señor, the tall stranger, had a mission to the lady superior of the convent," she began. "from don baltasar varela it was, prior of the great carlist monastery of montblanch. he trusted his papers into her hands as a guarantee of his loyalty and good faith, and here they are!"
concha flashed them from her bosom and laid them in the general's hands. usually cabrera was blind to female charms, but upon this occasion his eye rested with pleasure on the quick and subtle grace of the andaluse.
"then you are a nun?" he queried, looking sharply at her figure and dress.
"ah, no," replied concha, thinking with some hopefulness that she was to have at least a hearing, "i am not even a lay sister. the good lady superior had need of a housekeeper--one who should be free of the convent and yet able to transact business without the walls. it is a serious thing (as your honour knows) to provision even a hundred men who can live rough and eat sparely--how much harder to please a convent-school filled from end to end with the best blood in spain! and good blood needs good feeding----"
"as i well knew when i was a butcher in tortosa!" quoth cabrera, smiling. "there were a couple of ducal families within the range of my custom, and they consumed more beef and mutton than a whole barrio of poor pottage-eaters!"
to make cabrera smile was more than half the battle.
"you are sure they had nothing to do with the slayers of my mother?" he was fierce again in a moment, and pulled the left flange of his moustache into his mouth with a quick nervous movement of the fingers.
"i will undertake that no one of them hath ever been further south than this village of sarria," said concha, somewhat hastily, and without sufficient authority.
cabrera looked at the papers. there was a carlist commission in the name of don rollo blair duly made out, a letter from general elio, chief of the staff, commending all the four by name and description to all good servants of don carlos, as trustworthy persons engaged on a dangerous and secret mission. most of all, however, he seemed to be impressed with the ring belonging to etienne, with its revolving gem and concealed portrait of carlos the fifth.
he placed it on his finger and gazing intently, asked to whom it belonged. as soon as he understood, he summoned the little frenchman to his presence. etienne came at the word, calm as usual, and twirling his moustache in the manner of rollo.
"this is your ring?" he demanded of the prisoner. concha tried to catch etienne's eye to signal to him that he must give cabrera that upon which his fancy had lighted. but her former lover stubbornly avoided her eye.
"that is my ring," he answered dryly, after a cursory inspection of the article in question as it lay in the palm of the guerillero's hand.
"it is very precious to you?" asked the butcher of tortosa, suggestively.
"it was given to me by my cousin, the king," answered etienne, briefly.
"then i presume you do not care to part with it?" said cabrera, turning it about on his finger, and holding it this way and that to the light.
"no," said etienne, coolly. "you see, my cousin might not give me another!"
but the butcher of tortosa could be as simple and direct in his methods as even rollo himself.
"will you give it to me?" he said, still admiring it as it flashed upon his finger.
etienne looked at the general calmly from head to foot, concha all the time frowning upon him to warn him of his danger. but the young man was preening himself like a little bantam-cock of vanity, glad to be reckless under the fire of such eyes. he would not have missed the chance for worlds, so he replied serenely, "do you still intend to shoot us?"
"what has that to do with the matter?" growled cabrera, who was losing his temper.
"because if you do," said etienne, who had been waiting his opportunity, "you are welcome to the jewel--after i am dead. but if i am to live, i shall require it for myself!"
the burning of the mill-house
cabrera bit his lip for a moment, frowned still more darkly, and then burst into a roar of laughter. for the moment the gamin in him was uppermost--the same curly-pated rascal who had climbed walls and stolen apples from the market-women's stalls of tortosa thirty years ago.
"you are a brave fellow," cried the general, "and i would to heaven that your royal cousin had more of your spirit. are all of your company of the same warlike kidney?"
"i trust i am afraid of no man on the field of honour," answered the loyal little frenchman, throwing out his chest. "yet i speak but the truth when i aver that there is not one of my companions who could not say grace and eat me up afterwards!"
among the letters which had formed part of rollo's credentials there was one superscribed "to be opened in the camp of general cabrera."
cabrera now dismissed the firing party with a wave of his hand, the officer in command exchanging an encouraging nod with rollo. then he summoned that young man to approach. rollo threw away the last inch of his cigarette, and going up easily, saluted the general with his usual self-possession.
"well, colonel," said the latter, "i little thought to exchange civilities with you again; but for that you have to thank this young lady. the fortune of war once more! but if young men will entrust precious papers to pretty girls, they must have a fund of gratitude upon which to draw--that is, when the ladies arrive in time. on this occasion it was most exactly done. yet you must have lived through some very crowded moments while you faced the muzzles of yonder rifles!"
and he pointed to the lane down which the firing party was defiling.
rollo bowed, but did not reply, awaiting the general's pleasure. presently cabrera, recollecting the sealed letter in his hand, gave it unopened to the youth.
"i will, general," said the young scot, "in so far, that is, as it concerns your excellency."
the carlist general sat watching rollo keenly as he broke the seal and discovered a couple of enclosures. one was sealed and the other open. the first he presented to cabrera, who, observing the handwriting of the superscription, changed colour. meanwhile, without paying any attention to him, rollo read his own communication from beginning to end. it had evidently been passed on to him from a higher authority than the abbot, for only the address was in the handwriting of that learned ecclesiast.
it ran as follows:
"to the man who shall be chosen by our trusted councillor for the mission extraordinary in the service of carlos quinto--these:
"you will receive from general cabrera such succour and assistance as may seem to you needful in pursuance of the project you have in hand, namely the capturing of the young princess isabel together with her mother, the so-called regent cristina. thereafter you will bring them with diligence within our lines, observing all the respect and courtesy due to their exalted rank and to the sex to which they belong.
"at the same time you are held indemnified for all killings of such persons as may stand in your way in the execution of the duty laid upon you, and by order of the king himself you hereby take rank as a full colonel in his service."
meanwhile cabrera had been bending his brows over the note which had been directed to him personally. he rose and paced the length of the garden-wall with the letter in his hand, while rollo stood his ground with an unmoved countenance. presently he stopped opposite the young man and stood regarding him intently.
"i am, i understand, to furnish you with men for this venture," he said; "good--but i am at liberty to prove you first. that you are cool and brave i know. we must find out whether you are loyal as well."
"i am as loyal as any spaniard who ever drew breath," retorted rollo, hotly, "and in this matter i will answer for my companions as well."
"and pray in what way, sir spitfire?" said cabrera, smiling.
"why, as a man should," said rollo, "with his sword or his pistol, or--as is our island custom--with his fists--it is all the same to me; yes, even with your abominable spanish knife, which is no true gentleman's weapon!"
"i am no unfriend to plainness, sir, either in speech or action," said cabrera; "i see you are indeed a brave fellow, and will not lessen the king's chances of coming to his own by letting you loose on the men under my command. still for one day you will not object to ride with us!"
rollo coloured high.
"general," he said, "i will not conceal it from you that i have wasted too much time already; but if you wish for our assistance in your designs for twenty-four hours, i am not the man to deny you."
"i thought not," cried cabrera, much pleased. "and now have you any business to despatch before we leave this place? if so, let it be seen to at once!"
"none, excellency," said rollo, "save that if you are satisfied of our good faith i should like to see luis fernandez the miller dealt with according to his deserts!"
"i will have him shot instantly," cried cabrera; "he hath given false tidings to his majesty's generals. he hath belied his honest servants. guard, bring luis fernandez hither!"
this was rather more than rollo had bargained for. he was not yet accustomed to the summary methods of cabrera, even though the butcher's hand had hardly yet unclosed from himself. he was already meditating an appeal in favour of milder measures, when the guard returned with the news that luis fernandez was nowhere to be found. dwelling-house, strong-room, mill, garden, and gorge beneath--all had been searched. in vain--they were empty and void. the tumbled beds where the general and his staff had slept, the granary with its trampled heaps of corn ready for grinding, the mill-wheel with the pool beneath where the lights and shadows played at bo-peep, where the trout lurked and the water-boxes seemed to descend into an infinity of blackness--all were deserted and lonesome as if no man had been near them for a hundred years.
"the rascal has escaped!" cried cabrera, full of rage; "have i not told you a thousand times you keep no watch? i have a great mind to stand half a dozen of you up against that wall. escaped with my entire command about the rogue's home-nest! well, set a torch to it and see if he is lurking anywhere about the crevices like a centipede in a crack!"
cabrera felt that he had wasted a great deal of time on a fine morning without shooting somebody, and it would certainly have gone ill with don luis or his brother if either of them had been compelled by the flames to issue forth from the burning mill-house of sarria.
but they were not there. the cur dogs of the village and a few half-starved mongrels that followed the troops had great sport worrying the rats which darted continually from the burning granaries. but of the more important human rats, no sign.
all the inhabitants of the village were there likewise, held back from plundering by the bayonets of the carlist troops. they stood recounting to each other, wistfully, the stores of clothes, the silk curtains, the uncut pieces of broadcloth, the household linen, the great eight-day clocks in their gilt ormolu cases. every woman had something to add to the catalogue. every householder felt keenly the injustice of permitting so much wealth to be given to the crackling flames.
"yes, it was very well," they said; "doubtless the fernandez family were vermin to be burned up--smoked out. but they possessed much good gear, the gathering of many years. these things have committed no treason against either don carlos or the regent cristina. why then are we not permitted to enter and remove the valuables? it is monstrous. we will represent the matter to general cabrera--to don carlos himself!"
but one glance at the former, as he sat his horse, nervously twisting the reins and watching the destruction from under his black brows, made their hearts as water within them. their pet valiant, old gaspar perico, too, had judiciously hidden himself. esteban the supple had accompanied him, and the venta of sarria was in the hands of the silent, swift-footed, but exceedingly capable maid-servant who had played the trick upon etienne.
the sarrians therefore watched the mill-house blaze up, and thanked god that it stood some way from the other dwellings of the place.
suddenly cabrera turned upon them.
"hearken ye, villagers of sarria," he cried, "i have burned the home of a traitor. if i hear of any shelter being granted to luis fernandez or his brother within your bounds, i swear by the martyred honour of my mother that on my return i will burn every house within your walls and shoot every man of you capable of bearing arms. you have heard of ramon cabrera. let that be enough."
the villagers got apprehensively behind each other, and none answered, each waiting for the other, till with mighty bass thunder the voice rang out again:
"have you no answer?" he cried, "no promise? must i set a dozen of you with your backs against the wall, as i did at espluga in francoli, to stimulate those dull country wits of yours?"
then a young man gaily dressed was thrust to the front. very unwilling he was to show himself, and at his appearance, with his knees knocking together, a merry laugh rang out from behind cabrera.
that chieftain turned quickly with wrath in his eye. for it was a sound of a woman's mirth that was heard, and all such were strictly forbidden within his lines.
but at the sight of little concha, her dark eyes full of light, her hands clapping together in innocent delight, her white teeth disclosed in gay and dainty laughter, a certain maja note of daring unconvention in her costume, she was so exactly all that would have sent him into raptures twenty years before when he was an apprentice in tortosa, that the grim man only smiled and turned again to the unwilling spokesman of the municipality of sarria.
a voice from the press before the burning house announced the delegate's quality.
"don raphael de flores, son of our alcalde."
"speak on, don raphael," cried cabrera; "i will not shoot you unless it should be necessary."
thus encouraged the trembling youth began.
"your excellency," he quavered, "we of sarria have nothing to do with the family of fernandez. we would not give any one of them a handful of maize or a plate of lentil broth if he were starving. we are loyal men and women--well-wishers to the cause of the only true and absolute king carlos quinto."
"i am credibly informed that it is otherwise," said cabrera, "and that you are a den of red-hot nationals. i therefore impose a fine of two thousand duros on the municipality, and as you are the alcalde's son, we will keep you in durance till they be paid."
don raphael fell on his knees. his pale face was reddened by the flames from the mill-house, the fate of which must have afforded a striking object-lesson to a costive magistracy in trouble about a forced loan.
"we are undone," he cried; "i am a married man, your excellency, and have not a maravedi to call my own. you had better shoot me out of hand, and be done with it. indeed, we cannot possibly pay."
"go and find your father," cried cabrera; "he pocketed half of the price of don ramon garcia's house. i cannot see my namesake suffer. tell him that two thousand duros is the price up till noon. after that it will have risen to four thousand, and by three of the afternoon, if the money be not paid into the treasury of the only absolute and catholic sovereign (in the present instance my breeches pocket), i shall be reluctantly compelled to shoot one dozen of the leading citizens of the township of sarria. let a strong guard accompany this young man till he returns from carrying his message."
in this way did cabrera replenish the treasury of his master don carlos, and with such pleasant argument did he induce reluctant alcaldes to discover the whereabouts of their strong boxes.
for a remarkably shrewd man was general ramon cabrera, the butcher of tortosa.
how to become a soldier
the change in the aspect of affairs would have made a greater difference to most companies of adventurers than it did to that of which master rollo blair of blair castle in the shire of fife was the leader. in the morning they had all risen with the expectation of being shot with the sun-rising. at ten of the clock they were speeding southward on good horses, holding acknowledged rank and position in the army of the only catholic and religious sovereign.
but they were a philosophic quartette. rollo drew in the morning air and blew it back again through his nostrils without thinking much of how nearly he had come to kissing the brown earth of luis fernandez's garden with a dozen bullets through his heart. mortimer meditated somewhat sulkily upon his lost onions, rustling pleasantly back there in the cool patio of the nunnery. etienne sorrowed for his latest love idyll ruthlessly cut short, and as to el sarria, he thought of nothing save that dolóres had come back to him and that he had yet to reckon with the fernandez family. the next time he would attend to the whole matter himself, and there would be no mistakes.
it was not without sadness that rollo looked his last on the white walls of the convent of the holy innocents. he was glad indeed to have placed dolóres in safety--glad that she and her child were together, and that the good sisters were responsible for them. between them the four had made up a purse to be sent by concha to the mother superior, to be applied for the behoof of her guests till the better days should come, and ramon garcia be able to claim his wife and first-born son.
but concha had refused point-blank.
and with that she blew them each a dainty kiss, distinguishing no one above the other, dropped a curtsey to the general, whose eyes followed her with more than usual interest, leaped on her white mare and rode off, attended by la giralda riding astride like a man, in the same fashion in which she had arrived.
so little concha was gone from his sight, and duty loomed up suddenly gaunt and void of interest before rollo. to risk his life was nothing. when he got nearer to the goal, his blood would rise, that he knew. to capture a queen and a regent at one coup, to upset a government, to bring a desolating war to an end--these were all in the day's work. but why, in the name of all that was sanest and most practical, did his heart feel like lead within him and his new dignity turn to dead sea ashes in his mouth?
it was not long before cabrera dropped back, that he might talk over ways and means with the young colonel. it was clear that the guerrilla chieftain did not believe greatly in the project.
"i do not understand all this," he said; "it is not my way. what have we to do with taking women and children prisoners? let us have no truck, barter, or exchange with the government at madrid except at the point of the bayonet. that is my way of it, and if my advice had been taken before, my master would at this moment have been in the royal palace of his ancestors. but these secret embassies in the hands of foreigners--what good can come of them?"
rollo explained such things as the abbot of montblanch had made clear to him--namely, that the regent and her daughter were by no means averse to holy church, nor yet eager to keep the true king out of his own. but, they were in the power of unscrupulous men--mendizábal, linares, and others, who for their own ends published edicts and compelled the ladies to sign them. if they were captured and sequestered for their own good, the ministry would break down and don carlos would reign undisturbed.
rollo thought the exposition a marvel of clearness and point. it was somewhat disappointing, therefore, when he had finished to hear from cabrera the unmoved declaration: "a cristino is a cristino whether in the palace of madrid or on the mountains of morella. and the quickest way is the best way with such an one, wherever met with!"
"but you do not mean to say that you would shoot the girl-queen or the mother-regent if they fell into your hands?" cried rollo, aghast at the horror.
the deep underlying anger leaped up fiery red into the eyes of the guerrilla chief.
"aye, that would i," he cried, "as quickly as they slew my own old mother in the barrack yard of tortosa!"
and thinking of that tragedy and the guilt of nogueras, rollo felt there was something to be said for the indomitable, implacable little butcher-general of don carlos.
cabrera was silent for a while after making this speech, and then abruptly demanded of rollo how many men he would require for his undertaking.
"i am bidden to place my entire command at your service," he said with obvious reluctance, glancing out of his little oblique eyes at the young colonel.
rollo considered a while before answering.
"it is my opinion that the fewer men concerned in such a venture the greater the chances of success," he said at last; "furnish me with one petty officer intimately acquainted with the country between zaragoza and san ildefonso, and i will ask no more."
cabrera drew a long breath and looked at the young man with infinitely more approval than he had before manifested.
"you are right," he said, "three times right! if you fail, there are fewer to go to the gallows. in prison fewer ill-sewn wine-skins to leak information. if you succeed, there are also fewer to divide the credit and the reward. for my own part, i do not think you will succeed, but i will provide you with the best man in my command for your purpose and in addition heartily wish you well out of your adventure!"
cabrera was indeed immensely relieved to find the desires of our hero so moderate. he had been directed to supply him with whatever force he required, and he expected to be deprived of a regiment at least, at a most critical time in the affairs of the absolute king.
"young man," he said, "you will certainly be shot or hanged before you are a month older. nevertheless in the mean time i would desire to have the honour of shaking you by the hand. if you were not to die so soon, undoubtedly you would go far! it is a pity. and the cristinos are bad shots. they will not do the job half as creditably as my fellows would have done it for you this morning!"
the man who was chosen by cabrera to accompany them on their mission was of a most remarkable appearance. tall, almost as tall as el sarria, he was yet distinguished from his fellows by a notable gauntness and angularity of figure.
"a step-ladder with the bottom bars missing!" was rollo's mental description of him, as he stood before them in a uniform jacket much too tight for him, through which his ribs showed not unlike the spars of a ladder.
but in other respects sergeant cardono was a remarkable man. the iron gravity of his countenance, seamed on the right-hand side by a deep scar, took no new expression when he found himself detailed by his general for this new and dangerous mission.
with a single salute he fell out and instantly attached himself to rollo, whom he relieved of his knapsack and waterbottle on the spot. sergeant cardono paid no attention whatever to the other three, whom he evidently regarded as very subordinate members of the expedition.
as soon as they arrived at the village where they were to part from the command of cabrera, sergeant cardono promptly disappeared. he was not seen for several hours, during which rollo and el sarria wandered here and there endeavouring in that poor place to pick up some sustenance which would serve them in lieu of a dinner. they had but poor success. a round of black bread, a fowl of amazing age, vitality, and muscular development, with a few snails, were all that they could obtain by their best persuasions, aided by the money with which rollo was plentifully supplied. john mortimer looked disconsolately on. he had added a little ham on his own account, which last he had brought in his saddle-bags from the venta of sarria. but everything pointed to a sparse meal, and even the philosophic etienne shrugged his shoulders and departed to prospect at a certain house half a mile up the road where, as they had ridden rapidly by, a couple of pretty girls had looked out curiously at the tossing carlist boinas.
rollo and el sarria were carrying their scanty provend to a house where a decent-looking woman had agreed to cook it for them, when their gloomy reveries were interrupted by a sudden apparition which burst upon them as they stood on the crest of a deep hollow.
the limestone hills had been rent asunder at the place, and from the bare faces of the rocks the neighbouring farmers and villagers had quarried and carried away such of the overhanging blocks as could easily be trimmed to suit their purposes.
part of what remained had been shaped into a hornito, or stone oven, under which a fire had been kindled, and a strange figure moved about, stirring the glowing charcoal with a long bar of iron. on a smaller hearth nearer at hand a second fire blazed, and the smell of fragrant cookery rose to the expectant and envious nostrils of the four.
it was sergeant cardono, who moved about whistling softly, now attending to the steaming olla, now watching the rising bread in the hornito.
perceiving rollo, he saluted gravely and remarked, "dinner will be served in half an hour." the others, as before, he simply ignored. but in deference to his new commander he stopped whistling and moved about with his lean shoulders squared as if on parade.
when the bread and the skinny chicken were placed in his hands, he glanced at them with somewhat of superciliousness.
"the bread will serve for crumbs," he said, and immediately began to grate the baton-like loaf with a farrier's hoof-rasp which he used in his culinary operations. "but this," he added, as he turned over the bird, "is well stricken in years, and had better be given to the recruits. they have young teeth and have had practice upon dead artillery mules!"
so saying, he went casually to the edge of the little quarry, whistled a peculiar note and tossed the bird downward to some person unseen, who appeared from nowhere in particular for the purpose of receiving it.
when the dinner was ready sergeant cardono announced it to rollo as if he had been serving a prince. and what was the young man's astonishment to find a table, covered with a decent white cloth, under the shelter of a limestone rock, spread for three, and complete even to table napkins, which the sergeant had tied into various curious shapes.
as they filed down the slope the sergeant stood at attention, but when el sarria passed he quickly beckoned him aside with a private gesture.
"you and i will eat after the foreigners," he explained.
el sarria drew himself up somewhat proudly, but sergeant cardono whispered in his ear two or three words which appeared to astonish him so much that he did as he was bid, and stood aside while john mortimer and etienne de saint pierre seated themselves.
but rollo, who had no great love for eating, and considered one man just as much entitled to respect as another, would not sit down till el sarria was accommodated also.
"may it please your excellency, don ramon and i have much to say to each other," quoth the sergeant, with great respect, "besides your honour is aware--the garlic--the onions--we of this country love them?"
"but so do i," cried rollo, "and i will not have distinctions made on this expedition. we are all to risk our lives equally and we shall all fare equally, and if we are caught our dose of lead or halter-hemp will be just the same."
here el sarria interrupted.
"with respect," he said, "it is true that this gentleman hath some private matters to communicate to me which have nothing to do with the object of our mission. i crave your permission that for to-day i may dine apart with him!"
after this there was no more to be said. el sarria helped the sergeant to serve the meal, which was at once the proof of his foraging ability and his consummate genius as a cook. for though the day was friday, the soup was very far from maigre. the stew contained both lamb and fresh pork cut into generous cubes with a sufficiency of savoury fat included. a sausage had been sliced small for seasoning and the whole had been so smothered in garbanzos, haricot beans, rice, mixed with strips of toothsome salt fish, that john mortimer bent and said a well-deserved blessing over the viands.
"i don't usually in this country," he explained, "but really this is what my good old father would call a manifest providence. that fellow of ours will prove a treasure."
"it seems so," said rollo, a little grimly, "that is, if he can scout and fight as well as he can cater and cook."
for himself the young scot cared little what he ate, and would have dined quite cheerfully on dry bread and water, if any one would have listened to his stories of the wonders of his past life or the yet more wonderful achievements of his future. he would have sat and spun yarns concerning the notches on killiecrankie at a dyke-back, though he had not tasted food for twenty-four hours, with the utmost composure and relish. but his companions were of another kidney, being all valiant trencher-men--john mortimer desiring chiefly quantity in his eating, while etienne, no mean cook himself, desiderated rather variety and delicacy in the dishes which were set before him.
at all events the dinner was a great success, though the sergeant, who evinced the greatest partiality for rollo, often reproached him with eating little, or inquired anxiously if the sauce of a certain dish were not to his taste. rollo, in the height of his argument, would hastily affirm that it was delicious, and be off again in chase of some deed of arms or daring, leaving the sergeant's chef-d'oeuvre untasted on his plate.
at this the sergeant shook his head in private to el sarria.
"it will stand in his way, i fear me," he said sententiously; "was there ever a notable general yet who had not a fine belly to wag before him upon horseback? 'tis as necessary as the cock's feathers in his hat. now there is your cut-and-thrust officer who is good for nothing but to be first in charges and to lead forlorn hopes--this colonel of yours is just the figure for him. i have seen many a dozen of them get the lead between their ribs and never regretted it before. but it is a devil's pity that this young cockerel is not fonder of his dinner. how regardeth he the women?"
this last question was asked anxiously, yet with some hope. but this also el sarria promptly scattered to the winds.
"i do not think that he regards them at all! he has scarcely looked at one of them ever since i first knew him."
sergeant cardono groaned, seemingly greatly perturbed in spirit.
"i feared as much," he said, shaking his head; "he hath not the right wandering eye. now, that young frenchman is a devil untamed! and the englishman--well, though he is deeper, he also hath it in him. but the colonel is all for fighting and his duty. it is easy to see that he will rise but little higher. when was there ever a great soldier without a weakness for a pretty woman and a good dinner? why, the thing is against nature. now, my father fought in the war of the independence, and the tales that he told of el gran' lor'--he was a soldier if you like, worthy of the white plumes! a cook all to himself closer at his elbow than an aide-de-camp--and as to the women--ah----!"
sergeant cardono nodded as one who could tell tales and he would. yet the sergeant cardono found some reason to change his mind as to rollo's qualifications for field-officership before the end of their first day apart from cabrera.
it was indeed with a feeling of intense relief that the little company of five men separated from the white and red boinas of the butcher-general's cavalcade. well-affected to them as cabrera might be for the time being, his favour was so brief and uncertain, his affection so tiger-like, that even sergeant cardono sighed a sigh of satisfaction when they turned their horses' heads towards the far-away guadarrama beyond which lay the goal of their adventuring.
presently the tongues of the little cavalcade were unloosed. el sarria and sergeant cardono having found subjects of common interest, communed together apart like old friends. john mortimer and etienne, who generally had little to say to each other, conversed freely upon wine-growing and the possibility of introducing cotton-spinning into the south of france. for etienne was not destitute of a certain gascon eye to the main chance.
rollo alone rode gloomily apart. he was turning over the terms of his commission in his mind, and the more he thought, the less was he satisfied. it was not alone the desperateness of the venture that daunted rollo, but the difficulty of providing for the queen-regent and little princess when captured. there were a couple of hundred miles to ride back to those northern fastnesses where they would be safe; for the most part without cover and through country swarming with nationals and cristino partisans.
riding thus in deep meditation, rollo, whose gaze was usually so alert, did not observe away to the right a couple of horses ridden at speed and rapidly overtaking their more tired beasts.
el sarria, however, did not fail to note them, but, fearing a belated message of recall from general cabrera, he did not communicate his discovery to his companions, contenting himself with keeping his eye upon the approaching riders.
rollo was therefore still advancing, his reins flung loosely upon his beast's neck and his whole attitude betokening a melancholy resignation, a couple of lengths before his companions, when a sudden clattering of hoofs startled him. he looked up, and there, on her white mare, well-lathered at girth and bridle, was little concha cabezos, sitting her panting beast with the grace of the true andaluse.
her hair was a little ruffled by the wind. her cheeks and lips were adorably red. there was a new and brilliant light in her eye; and after one curiously comprehensive glance at the company, she turned about to look for her companion, la giralda, who presently cantered up on a lumbering estramenian gelding. la giralda sat astride as before, her lower limbs, so far as these were apparent, being closely clad in leather, a loose skirt over them preserving in part the appearance of sex.
rollo was dumb with sheer astonishment. he could only gaze at the flushed cheek, the tingling electric glances, the air completely unconscious and innocent of the girl before him.
"concha!" he cried aloud. "concha--what do you here? i thought--i imagined you were safe at the convent of the holy innocents!"
and from behind sergeant cardono marked his cheek, alternately paling and reddening, his stammering tongue and altered demeanour, with the utmost satisfaction.
"good--good," he muttered under his breath to el sarria; "he will make a true general yet. the saints be praised for this weakness! if only he were fonder of his dinner all might yet be well!"
the mission of the señorita concha
"i too have a mission, i would have you know," said concha, a dangerous coquetry showing through her grave demeanour, "a secret mission from the mother superior of the convent of the holy innocents. do not attempt to penetrate the secret. i assure you it will be quite useless. and pray do not suppose that only you can adventure forth on perilous quests!"
"i assure you," began rollo, eagerly, "that i suppose no such thing. at the moment when you came up i was wishing with all my heart that the responsibility of the present undertaking had been laid on any other shoulders than mine!"
yet in spite of his modesty, certain it is that from that moment rollo rode no longer with his head hanging down like a willow blown by the wind. the reins lay no more lax and abandoned on his horse's neck. on the contrary, he sat erect and looked abroad with the air of a commander, and his hand rested oftener on the hilt of killiecrankie, with the air of pride which concha privately thought most becoming.
"and in what case left you my wife and babe?" suddenly demanded el sarria, riding up, and inquiring somewhat imperiously of the new recruit concerning the matter which touched him most nearly.
"the señora dolóres is safe with the good sisters, and as in former times i was known to have been her companion, it was judged safest that i should not longer be seen in the neighbourhood. likewise i was charged with the tidings that luis fernandez with a company of cristino migueletes has been seen riding southward to cut you off from madrid, whither it is supposed you are bound!"
rollo turned quickly upon her with some anger in his eye.
"why did you not tell me that at first?" he said.
concha smiled a subtle smile and turned her eyes upon the ground.
"if you will remember, i had other matters to communicate to your excellency," she said meekly--almost too meekly, rollo thought. "this matter of luis fernandez slipped my memory, till it was my good fortune to be reminded of it by don ramon!"
and all the while the long lean sergeant cardono, his elbows glued to his sides, sat his horse as if spiked to the saddle, and chuckled with quiet glee at the scene.
"he will do yet," he muttered; "'twas ever thus that my father told me of the gran' lor' before salamanca. be he as stiff as a ramrod and as frigid as his own north pole, the little one will thaw him--bend him--make a fool of him for his soul's good. she is not an andaluse of the gipsy blood for nothing! he will make him a soldier yet, this young man, by the especial grace of san vicente de paul, only i do not think that either of them will deserve readmission to the convent of the holy innocents!"
more than once rollo endeavoured to extract from concha to what place her self-assumed mission was taking her, and at what point she would leave them. it was in vain. the lady baffled all his endeavours with the most consummate ease.
"you have not communicated to me," she said, "the purport of your own adventures. how then can i tell at what place our ways divide?"
"i am forbidden to reveal to any save general cabrera alone my secret instructions!" said rollo, with such dignity as he could muster at short notice.
"and i," retorted concha, "am as strictly forbidden to reveal mine to general cabrera or even to that notable young officer, colonel don rollo of the surname which resembles so much a borrico's serenade!"
that speech would have been undoubtedly rude save for the glance which accompanied it, given softly yet daringly from beneath a jetty fringe of eyelash.
nevertheless all rollo blair's pride of ancestry rose insurgent within him. who was this andalucian waiting-maid that she should speak lightly of the descendant of that blair of blair castle who had stood for bruce and freedom on the field of bannockburn? it was unbearable--and yet, well, there was something uncommon about this girl. and after all, was it not the mark of a gentleman to pay no heed to the babbling of women's tongues? if they did not say one thing, they would another. besides, he cared nothing what this girl might say. a parrot prattling in a cage would affect him as much.
so they rode on together over the great tawny brick-dusty wastes of old castile, silent mostly, but the silence occasionally broken by speech, friendly enough on either side. behind them pounded la giralda, gaunt as the sergeant himself, leather-legginged, booted and spurred, watching them keenly out of her ancient, unfathomable gipsy eyes.
and ever as they rode the guadarrama mountains rose higher and whiter out of the vast and hideous plain, the only interruption to the circling horizon of brown and parched corn lands. but at this season scrub-oak and juniper were the only shrubs to be seen, and had there been a cristino outpost anywhere within miles, the party must have been discerned riding steadily towards the northern slopes of the mountains. but neither man nor beast took notice of them, and a certain large uncanny silence brooded over the plain.
at one point, indeed, they passed near enough to distinguish in the far north the snow-flecked buttresses of the sierra de moncayo. but these, they knew, were the haunts of their carlist allies. the towns and villages of the plain, however, were invariably held by nationals, and it had often gone hard with them, had not sergeant cardono detached himself from the cavalcade, and, venturing alone into the midst of the enemy, by methods of his own produced the materials for many an excellent meal. at last, one day the sergeant came back to the party with an added gloom on his long, lean, leathern-textured face. he had brought with him an estramaduran ham, a loaf of wheaten bread, and a double string of sausages. but upon his descending into the temporary camp which sheltered the party in the bottom of a barranco, or deep crack in the parched plateau overgrown with scented thyme and dwarf oak, it became obvious that he had news of the most serious import to communicate.
he called rollo aside, and told him how he had made his way into a village, as was his custom, and found all quiet--the shops open, but none to attend to them, the customs superintendent in his den by the gate, seated on his easy chair, but dead--the presbytery empty of the priest, the river bank dotted with its array of worn scrubbing boards, but not a washerwoman to be seen. only a lame lad, furtively plundering, had leaped backward upon his crutch with a swift drawing of his knife and a wolfish gleam of teeth. he had first of all warned the sergeant to keep off at his peril, but had afterwards changed his tone and confessed to him that the plague was abroad in the valley of the duero, and that he was the only being left alive in the village save the vulture and the prowling dog.
"the plague!" sergeant cardono had gasped, like every spaniard stricken sick at the very sound of the word.
the sergeant found it even as the cripple had said. there was not a single living inhabitant in the village. here and there a shut door and a sickening smell betrayed the fact that some unfortunates had been left to die untended. etienne and john mortimer were for different reasons unwilling to taste of the ham and bread he had brought back, thinking that these might convey the contagion, but la giralda and the sergeant laughed their fears to scorn, and together retired to prepare the evening meal.
as the others made their preparations for the night, watering their beasts and grooming them with the utmost care, the little crook-backed imp from the village appeared on the brink of the barranco, his sallow, weazened face peeping suspiciously out of the underbrush, and his crutch performing the most curious evolutions in the air.
there was something unspeakably eerie in the aspect of the solitary survivor of so many living people, left behind to prey like a ghoul on the abandoned possessions of the fear-stricken living and the untestamented property of the dead.
concha shrank instinctively from his approach, and the boy, perceiving his power over her, came scuttling like a weasel through the brushwood, till little more than a couple of paces interposed between him and the girl. frozen stiff with loathing and terror, it was not for some time that concha could cry out and look round hastily for rollo, who (doubtless in his capacity of leader of the expedition) was not slow in hastening to her assistance.
"that boy--there!" she gasped, "he frightens me--oh hateful! make him go away!" and she clutched the young man's arm with such a quick nervous grasp, that a crimson flush rose quickly to rollo's cheek.
"no," muttered etienne to himself as he watched the performance critically, "she was never in love with you, sir! she never did as much for you as that. but on the whole, with a temper like mistress concha's, i think you are well out of it, monsieur etienne!" which wise dictum might or might not be based on the fox's opinion as to sour grapes.
all unconsciously rollo reached a protecting hand across to the little white fingers which gripped his arm so tightly.
"go away, boy," he commanded; "do you not see that you terrify the señorita?"
"i see--that is why i stay!" cried the amiable youth gleefully, flourishing his crutch about his head as if on the point of launching it at the party.
rollo laid his hand on the hilt of killiecrankie with a threatening gesture.
"if you come an inch nearer, i will give you plague!" cried the boy, showing his teeth wickedly, "and your wench also. you will grow black--yes, and swell! then you will die, both of you. and there will be no one to bury you, like those in the houses back there. then all you possess shall be mine, ha, ha!"
"now listen," he said, "you are old enough to know the meaning of words; i give you one minute to betake yourself to your own place and leave us alone! there is no contagion in a pistol bullet, my fine lad, but it is quite as deadly as any plague. so be off before a charge of powder catches you up!"
the sound of the angry voices had attracted la giralda, who, looking up hastily from her task of building the fire beneath the gipsy tripod at which she and the sergeant were cooking, advanced hastily with a long wand in her hand.
the imp wheeled about as on a pivot, and positively appeared to shrink into his clothing at the sight of her. he stood motionless, however, while la giralda advanced threateningly towards him with the wand in her hand as if for the purpose of castigation. as she approached he emitted a cry of purely animal terror, and hastily whipping his crutch under his arm, betook himself, in a series of long hops, to a spot twenty yards higher up the bank. but la giralda stopped him by a word or two spoken in an unknown tongue, harsh-sounding as catalan, but curt and brief as a military order.
the boy stood still and answered in the same speech, at first gruffly and unwillingly, with downcast looks and his bare great toe scrabbling in the dust of the hillside.
the dialogue lasted for some time, till at last with a scornful gesture la giralda released him, pointing to the upper edge of the barranco as the place by which he was to disappear: the which he was now as eager to do, as he had formerly been insolently determined to remain.
during this interview rollo had stood absent-mindedly with his hand pressed on concha's, as he listened to the strange speech of la giralda. even his acquaintance with the language of the gipsies of granada had only enabled him to understand a word here and there. the girl's colour slowly returned, but the fear of the plague still ran like ice in her veins. she who feared nothing else on earth, was shaken as with a palsy by the terror of the black death, so paralysing was the fear that the very name of cholera laid upon insanitary spain.
"well?" said rollo, turning to la giralda, who stood considering with her eyes upon the ground, after her interview with the crook-backed dwarf.
"you must give me time to think," she said; "this boy is one of our people--a gitano of baza. he is not of this place, and he tells me strange things. he swears that the queen and the court are plague-stayed at la granja by fear of the cholera. they dare not return to madrid. they cannot supply themselves with victuals where they are. the very guards forsake them. and the gitanos of the hills--but i have no right to tell that to the foreigner--the gorgio. for am not i also a gitana?"
the village where rollo's command first stumbled upon this dreadful fact was called frias, in the district of la perla, and lies upon the eastern spurs of the guadarrama. it was, therefore, likely enough then that the boy spoke truth, and that within a few miles of them the court of spain was enduring privations in its aerial palace of la granja.
but even when interrogated by el sarria the old woman remained obstinately silent as to the news concerning her kinsfolk which she had heard from the crippled dwarf.
"it has nothing to do with you," she repeated; "it is a matter of the gitanos!"
but there came up from the bottom of the ravine, the lantern-jawed sergeant, long, silent, lean, parched as a manchegan cow whose pasture has been burnt up by a summer sun. with one beckoning finger he summoned la giralda apart, and she obeyed him as readily as the boy had obeyed her. they communed a long time together, the old gipsy speaking, the coffee-coloured sergeant listening with his head a little to the side.
at the end of the colloquy sergeant cardono went directly up to rollo and saluted.
"is it permitted for me to speak a word to your excellency concerning the objects of the expedition?" he said, with his usual deference.
"certainly!" answered rollo; "for me, my mission is a secret one, but i have no instructions against listening."
the sergeant bowed his head.
"whatever be our mission you will find me do my duty," he said; "and since this cursed plague may interfere with all your plans, it is well that you should know what has befallen and what is designed. you will pardon me for saying that it takes no great prophet to discover that our purposes have to do with the movements of the court."
rollo glanced at him keenly.
"did general cabrera reveal anything to you before your departure?" he asked.
"nay," said sergeant cardono; "but when i am required to guide a party secretly to san ildefonso, where the court of the queen-regent is sojourning, it does not require great penetration to see the general nature of the service upon which i am engaged!"
rollo recovered himself.
"you have not yet told me what you have discovered," he said, expectantly.
"no," replied the sergeant with great composure--"that can wait."
for little concha was approaching; and though he had limitless expectations of the good influence of that young lady upon the military career of his officer, he did not judge it prudent to communicate intelligence of moment in her presence. wherein for once he was wrong, since that pretty head of the andalucian beauty, for all its clustering curls, was full of the wisest and most far-seeing counsel--indeed, more to be trusted in a pinch than the juntas of half-a-dozen provinces.
but the sergeant considered that when a girl was pretty and aware of it, she had fulfilled her destiny--save as it might be in the making of military geniuses. therefore he remained silent as the grave so long as concha stayed. observing this, the girl asked a simple question and then moved off a little scornfully, only remarking to herself: "as if i could not make him tell me whenever i get him by himself!"
she referred (it is needless to state) not to sergeant cardono, but to his commanding officer, señor don rollo blair of blair castle in the self-sufficient shire of fife.
the news which sergeant cardono had to communicate was indeed fitted to shake the strongest nerves. if true, it took away from rollo at once all hope of the success of his mission. he saw himself returning disgraced and impotent to the camp of cabrera, either to be shot out of hand, or worse still, to be sent over the frontier as something too useless and feeble to be further employed.
briefly, the boy's news as repeated by la giralda to the sergeant, informed rollo that though the court was presently at la granja and many courtiers in the village of san ildefonso, the royal guards through fear and hunger had mutinied and marched back to madrid, and that the gipsies were gathering among the mountains in order to make a night attack upon the stranded and forsaken court of spain.
in the sergeant's opinion not a moment was to be lost. the object of the hill gitanos was pure plunder, but they would think nothing of bloodshed, and would doubtless give the whole palace and town over to rapine and pillage. themselves desperate with hunger and isolation, they had resolved to strike a blow which would ring from one end of spain to the other.
it was their intention (so the imp said) to kill the queen-regent and her daughter, to slaughter the ministers and courtiers in attendance, to plunder the palace from top to bottom and to give all within the neighbouring town of san ildefonso to the sword.
the programme, as thus baldly announced, was indeed one to strike all men with horror, even those who had been hardened by years of fratricidal warfare in which quarter was neither given nor expected.
besides the plunder of the palace and its occupants, the leaders of the gipsies expected that they would obtain great rewards from don carlos for thus removing the only obstacles to his undisputed possession of the throne of spain.
the heart of rollo beat violently. his scottish birth and training gave him a natural reverence for the sanctity of sickness and death, and the idea of these men plotting ghoulishly to utilise "the onlaying of the hand of providence" (as his father would have phrased it) for the purposes of plunder and rapine, unspeakably revolted him.
immediately he called a council of war, at which, in spite of the frowns of sergeant cardono, little concha cabezos had her place.
la giralda was summoned also, but excused herself saying, "it is better that i should not know what you intend to do. i am, after all, a black-blooded gitana, and might be tempted to reveal your secrets if i knew them. it is better therefore that i should not. let me keep my own place as a servitor in your company, to cut the brushwood for your fire and to bring the water from the spring. in those things you will find me faithful. trust the gipsy no further!"
rollo, remembering her loyalty in the matter of dolóres at the village of el sarria, was about to make an objection, but a significant gesture from the sergeant restrained him in time.
whereupon rollo addressed himself to the others, setting clearly before them the gravity of the situation.
john mortimer shook his head gravely. he could not approve.
"how often has my father told me that the first loss is the least! this all comes of trying to make up my disappointment about the abbot's priorato!"
etienne shrugged his shoulders and philosophically quoted a gascon proverb to the effect that who buys the flock must take the black sheep also.
el sarria simply recollected that his gun and pistols were in good order, and waited for orders.
the conference therefore resolved itself into a trio of consultants--rollo because he was the leader, sergeant cardono because he knew the country, and concha--because she was concha!
they were within an hour or two's rapid march of la granja over a pass in the guadarrama. the sergeant volunteered to lead them down into the gardens in that time. he knew a path often travelled by smugglers on their way to segovia.
"it is clear that if we are to carry away the queen-regent and her daughter, we must forestall the gipsies," said rollo.
concha clasped her hands pitifully.
"ah, the poor young queen!" she cried. "praise to the saints that i was not born a princess! it goes to my heart to make her a prisoner!"
the sergeant uttered a guttural grunt which intimated that in his opinion the influence of the petticoat on the career of a soldier might be over-done. otherwise he maintained his gravity, speaking only when he was directly appealed to and giving his judgment with due submission to his superiors.
finally it was judged that they should make a night march over the mountains, find some suitable place to lie up in during the day, and in the morning send in la giralda and the sergeant to san ildefonso in the guise of fagot sellers to find out if the gipsy boy of baza had spoken the truth.
san ildefonso and la granja are two of the most strangely situated places in spain. a high and generally snow-clad sierra divides them from madrid and the south. the palace is one of the most high-lying upon earth, having originally been one of the mountain granges of the monks of segovia to which a king of spain took a fancy, and, what is more remarkable, for which he was willing to pay good money.
upon the site a palace has been erected, a miniature versailles, infinitely more charming than the original, with walks, fountains, waterfalls all fed by the cold snow water of the guadarrama, and fanned by the pure airs of the mountains. this grange has been for centuries a favourite resort of the court of spain, and specially during these last years of the regent cristina, who, when tired with the precision and etiquette of the court of madrid, retired hither that she might do as she pleased for at least two or three months of the year.
generally the great park-gates stood hospitably open, and the little town of san ildefonso, with its lodgings and hostels, was at this season crowded with courtiers and hangers-on of the court. guards circulated here and there, or clattered after the queen-regent as she drove out on the magnificent king's highway which stretched upwards over the guadarrama towards madrid, or whirled down towards segovia and the plains of old castile. bugles were never long silent in plaza or barrack yard. drums beat, fifes shrilled, and there was a continuous trampling of horses as this ambassador or that was escorted to the presence of queen cristina, widow of fernando vii., mother of isabel the second, and regent of spain.
a word of historical introduction is here necessary, and it shall be but a word. for nearly a quarter of a century fernando, since he had been restored to a forfeited throne by british bayonets, had acted on the ancient bourbon principle of learning nothing and forgetting nothing. his tyrannies became ever more tyrannical, his exactions more shameless, his indolent arrogance more oppressive. twice he had to invoke the aid of foreign troops, and once indeed a french army marched from one end of spain to the other.
but with the coming of his third wife, young maria cristina of naples, all this was changed. under her influence fernando promptly became meek and uxorious. then he revoked the ordinance of a former king which ordained that no woman should reign in spain. he recalled his revocation, and again promulgated it according as his hope of offspring waxed or waned.
finally a daughter was born to the ill-mated pair, and don carlos, the king's brother and former heir-apparent, left the country. immediately upon the king's death civil war divided the state. the stricter legitimists who stood for don carlos included the church generally and the religious orders. to these were joined the northern parts of navarra and the basque countries whose privileges had been threatened, together with large districts of the ever-turbulent provinces of aragon and catalunia.
round the queen-regent and her little daughter collected all the liberal opinion of the peninsula, most of the foreign sympathy, the influence of the great towns and sea-ports, of the capital and the government officials, the regular army and police with their officers--indeed all the organised and stated machinery of government.
but up to the time of our history these advantages had been to some extent neutralised by the ill-success of the governmental generalship and by the brilliant successes of two great carlist leaders--tomas zumalacarregui and ramon cabrera.
these men perfectly understood the conditions of warfare among their native mountains, and had inflicted defeat upon defeat on every cristino general sent against them.
but a cloud had of late overspread the fair prospects of the party. their great general, tomas zumalacarregui, had been killed by a cannon ball at the siege of bilbao, and cabrera, though unsurpassed as a guerrilla leader, had not the swift napoleonic judgment and breadth of view of his predecessor. add to this that a new premier, mendizábal, and a new general, espartero, were directing operations from madrid. the former, already half english, had begun to carry out his great scheme of filling the pockets of the civil and military authorities by conveying to the government all the property belonging to the religious orders throughout spain, who, like our friend the abbot of montblanch, had resolutely and universally espoused the cause of don carlos.
it was an early rumour of this intention which had so stirred the resentment of don baltasar varela, and caused him to look about for some instrument of vengeance to prevent the accomplishment of the designs of "that burro of the english stock exchange," as his enemies freely named mendizábal.
but cristina of naples was a typical woman of the latin races, and, however strongly she might be determined to establish her daughter on the throne of spain, she was also a good catholic, and any oppression of holy church was abhorrent to her nature.
upon this probability, which amounted to certainty in his mind, the abbot of montblanch resolved to proceed.
moreover, it was an open secret that a few months after the death of her husband fernando, cristina had married muñoz, one of the handsomest officers of her bodyguard. for this and other bourbon delinquencies, conceived in the good old neapolitan manner, the spaniards generally had the greatest respect--not even being scandalized when the queen created her new partner duke of rianzares, or when, in her rôle of honorary colonel of dragoons, she appeared in a uniform of blue and white, because these were the colours of the "immaculate conception."
but enough has been said to indicate the nature of the adventure which our hero had before him, when after a toilsome march the party halted in the grey of the dawn in a tiny dell among the wild mountains of guadarrama.
the air was still bleak and cold, though luckily there was no wind. concha, the child of the south, shivered a little as rollo aided her to dismount, and this must be the young man's excuse for taking his blue military cloak from its coil across his saddle-bow, and wrapping it carefully and tenderly about her.
concha raised her eyes once to his as he fastened its chain-catch beneath her chin, and rollo, though the starlight dimmed the brilliance of the glance, felt more than repaid. in the background etienne smiled bitterly. the damsel of the green lattice being now left far behind at sarria, he would have had no scruples about returning to his allegiance to concha. but the chill indifference with which his advances were received, joined to something softer and more appealing in her eyes when she looked at rollo, warned the much-experienced youth that he had better for the future confine his gallantries to the most common and ordinary offices of courtesy.
yet it was certainly a restraint upon the young frenchman, who, almost from the day he had been rid of his jesuit tutor, had made it a maxim to make love to the prettiest girl of any company in which he happened to find himself.
when, therefore, he found himself reduced to a choice between an inaccessible concha and la giralda, riding astride in her leathern leg-gear and sack-like smock, the youth bethought himself of his religious duties which he had latterly somewhat neglected; and, being debarred from earthly love by concha's insensibility and la giralda's ineligibility, it did not cost him a great effort to become for the nonce the same brother hilario who had left the monastery of montblanch.
so, much to the astonishment of john mortimer, who moved a little farther from him, as being a kind of second cousin of the scarlet woman of the seven hills, etienne pulled out his rosary and, falling on his knees, betook him to his prayers with vigour and a single mind.
sergeant cardono had long ago abandoned all distinctive marks of his carlist partisanship and military rank. moreover, he had acquired, in some unexplained way, a leathern montera cap, a short many-buttoned jacket, a flapped waistcoat of red plush, and leathern small-clothes of the same sort as those worn by la giralda. yet withal there remained something very remarkable about him. his great height, his angular build, the grim humour of his mouth, the beady blackness of eyes which twinkled with a fleck of fire in each, as a star might be reflected in a deep well on a moonless night--these all gave him a certain distinction in a country of brick-dusty men of solemn exterior and rare speech.
also there was something indescribably daring about the man, his air and carriage. there was the swagger as of a famous matador about the way he carried himself. he gave a cock to his plain countryman's cap which betokened one of a race at once quicker and more gay--more passionate and more dangerous than the grave and dignified inhabitants of old castile through whose country they were presently journeying.
as cardono and la giralda departed out of the camp, the sergeant driving before him a donkey which he had picked up the night before wandering by the wayside, el sarria looked after them with a sardonic smile which slowly melted from his face, leaving only the giant's usual placid good nature apparent on the surface. the mere knowledge that dolóres was alive and true to him seemed to have changed the hunted and desperate outlaw almost beyond recognition.
"why do you smile, el sarria?" said concha, who stood near by, as the outlaw slowly rolled and lighted a cigarrillo. "you do not love this sergeant. you do not think he is a man to be trusted?"
el sarria shrugged his shoulders, and slowly exhaled the first long breathing of smoke through his nostrils.
"nay," he said deliberately, "i have been both judged and misjudged myself, and it would ill become me in like manner to judge others. but if that man is not of your country and my trade, ramon garcia has lived in vain. that is all."
concha nodded a little uncertainly.
"yes," she said slowly, "yes--of my country. i believe you. he has the andalucian manner of wearing his clothes. if he were a girl he would know how to tie a ribbon irregularly and how to place a bow-knot a little to the side in the right place--things which only andalucians know. but what in the world do you mean by 'of your profession'?"
el sarria smoked a while in silence, inhaling the blue cigarette smoke luxuriously, and causing it to issue from his nostrils white and moisture-laden with his breath. then he spoke.
"i mean of my late profession," he explained, smiling on concha; "it will not do for a man on the high-road to a commission to commit himself to the statement that he has practised as a bandit, or stopped a coach on the highway in the name of king carlos quinto that he might examine more at his ease the governmental mail bags. but our sergeant--well, i am man-sworn and without honour if he hath not many a time taken blackmail without any such excuse!"
concha seemed to be considering deeply. her pretty mouth was pursed up like a ripe strawberry, and her brows were knitted so fiercely that a deep line divided the delicately arched eyebrows.
"and to this i can add somewhat," she began presently; "they say (i know not with what truth) that i have some left-handed gipsy blood in me--and if that man be not a gitano--why, then i have never seen one. besides, he speaks with la giralda in a tongue which neither i nor don rollo understand."
"but i thought," said el sarria, astonished for the first time, "that both you and don rollo understood the crabbed gipsy tongue! have i not heard you speak it together?"
"as it is commonly spoken--yes," she replied, "we have talked many a time for sport. but this which is spoken by the sergeant and la giralda is deep romany, the like of which not half a dozen in spain understand. it is the old-world speech of the rom, before it became contaminated by the jargon of fairs and the slang of the travelling horse-clipper."
"then," said el sarria, slowly, "it comes to this--'tis you and not i who mistrust these two?"
"no, that i do not," cried concha, emphatically; "i have tried la giralda for many years and at all times found her faithful, so that her bread be well buttered and a draught of good wine placed alongside it. but the sergeant is a strong man and a secret man----"
"well worth the watching, then?" said el sarria, looking her full in the face.
"carlist or no, he works for his own hand," she said simply.
"shall ye mention the matter to don rollo?" asked el sarria.
"nay--what good?" said concha, quickly; "don rollo is brave as a bull of jaen, but as rash. you and i will keep our eyes open and say nothing. perhaps--perhaps we may have doubted the man somewhat over-hastily. but as for me, i will answer for la giralda."
"for me," said el sarria, sententiously, "i will answer for no woman--save only dolóres garcia!"
concha looked up quickly.
"i also am a woman," she said, smiling.
"and quite well able to answer for yourself, señorita!" returned el sarria, grimly.
for the answers of ramon garcia were not at all after the pattern set by rollo the scot.
the sergeant and la giralda
the dust-heat of the desolate plains of old castile was red on the horizon when the sergeant and his companion started together on their strange and perilous mission. would they ever return, and when? what might they not find? a court deserted and forlorn, courtiers fleeing, or eager to flee if only they knew whither, from the dread and terrible plague? a queen and a princess without guards, a palace open to the plunder of any chance band of robbers? for something like this the imp of the deserted village had prepared them.
at all events, the sergeant and la giralda went off calmly enough in the direction of the town of san ildefonso, driving their donkey before them. for a minute, as they gained the crest, their figures stood out black and clear against the coppery sunrise. the next they had disappeared down the slope, the flapping peak of cardono's montera cap being the last thing to be lost sight of.
the long, dragging, idle day was before the party in the dry ravine.
etienne went to his saddle-bags, and drawing his breviary from the leathern flap, began to peruse the lessons for the day with an attentive piety which was not lessened by the fact that he had forgotten most of the latin he had learned at school. john mortimer, on the other hand, took out his pocket-book, and was soon absorbed by calculations in which wine and onions shared the page with schemes for importing into spain manchester goods woven and dyed to suit the taste of the country housewives.
el sarria sat down with a long sigh to his never-failing resort of cleaning and ordering his rifle and pistols. he had a phial of oil, a feather, and a fine linen rag which he carried about with him for the purpose. afterwards he undertook the same office for the weapons of rollo. those of the other members of the expedition might take care of themselves. ramon garcia had small belief in their ability to make much use of them, at any rate--the sergeant being alone excepted.
these three being accounted for, there remained only rollo and concha. now there was a double shelf a little way from the horses, from which the chief of the expedition could keep an eye on the whole encampment. the pair slowly and, as it were, unconsciously gravitated thither, and in a moment rollo found himself telling "the story of his life" to a sympathetic listener, whose bright eyes stimulated all his capacities as narrator, and whose bright smile welcomed every hairbreadth escape with a joy which rollo could not but feel must somehow be heartfelt and personal. besides, adventures sound so well when told in spanish and to a spanish girl.
yet, strange as it may seem, the young man missed several opportunities of arousing the compassion of his companion.
he said not a word about peggy ramsay, nor did he mention the broken heart which he had come so far afield to curé. and as for concha, nothing could have been more nunlike and conventual than the expression with which she listened. it was as if one of the lady superior's "holiest innocents" had flown over the nunnery wall and settled down to listen to rollo's tale in that wild gorge among the mountains of guadarrama.
meantime the sergeant and his gipsy companion pursued their way with little regard to the occupations or sentiments of those they had left behind them. cardono's keen black eyes, twinkling hither and thither, a myriad crows' feet reticulating out from their corners like spiders' webs, took in the landscape, and every object in it.
the morning was well advanced when, right across their path, a well-to-do farmhouse lay before them, white on the hillside, its walls long-drawn like fortifications, and the small slit-like windows counterfeiting loopholes for musketry. but instead of the hum of work and friendly gossip, the crying of ox-drivers yoking their teams, or adjusting the long blue wool over the patient eyes of their beasts, there reigned about the place, both dwelling and office-houses, a complete and solemn silence. only in front of the door several she-goats, with bunching, over-full udders, waited to be milked with plaintive whimperings and tokens of unrest.
la giralda looked at her companion. the sergeant looked at la giralda. the same thought was in the heart of each.
la giralda went up quickly to the door, and knocked loudly. at farmhouses in old castile it is necessary to knock loudly, for the family lives on the second floor, while the first is given up to bundles of fuel, trusses of hay, household provender of the more indestructible sort, and one large dog which invariably answers the door first and expresses in an unmistakable manner his intention of making his breakfast off the stranger's calves.
but not even the dog responded to the clang of la giralda's oaken cudgel on the stout door panels. accordingly she stepped within, and without ceremony ascended the stairs. in the house-place, extended on a bed, lay a woman of her own age, dead, her face wearing an expression of the utmost agony.
in a low trundle-bed by the side of the other was a little girl of four. her hands clasped a doll of wood tightly to her bosom. but her eyes, though open, were sightless. she also was dead.
la giralda turned and came down the stairs, shaking her head mournfully.
"these at least are ours," she said, when she came out into the hot summer air, pointing to the little flock of goats. "there is none to hinder us."
"have the owners fled?" asked the sergeant, quickly.
"there are some of them upstairs now," she replied, "but, alas, none who will ever reclaim them from us! the excuse is the best that can be devised to introduce us into san ildefonso, and, perhaps, if we have luck, inside the palisades of la granja also."
so without further parley the sergeant proceeded, in the most matter-of-fact way possible, to load the ass with huge fagots of kindling wood till the animal showed only four feet paddling along under its burden, and a pair of patient orbs, black and beady like those of the sergeant himself, peering out of a hay-coloured matting of hair.
this done, the sergeant turned his sharp eyes every way about the dim smoky horizon. he could note, as easily as on a map, the precise notch in the many purple-tinted gorges where they had left their party. it was exactly like all the others which slit and dimple the slopes of the guadarrama, but in this matter it was as impossible for the sergeant to make a mistake as for a town-dweller to err as to the street in which he has lived for years.
but no one was watching them. no clump of juniper held a spy, and the sergeant was at liberty to develop his plans. he turned quickly upon the old gipsy woman.
"la giralda," he said, "there is small use in discovering the disposition of the courtiers in san ildefonso--ay, or even the defences of the palace, if we know nothing of the romany who are to march to-night upon the place."
la giralda, who had been drawing a little milk from the udders of each she-goat, to ease them for their travel, suddenly sprang erect.
"i do not interfere in the councils of the gitano," she cried; "i am old, but not old enough to desire death!"
but more grim and lack-lustre than ever, the face of sergeant cardono was turned upon her, and more starrily twinkled the sloe-like eyes (diamonds set in cordovan leather) as he replied:--"the councils of the rom are as an open book to me. if they are life, they are life because i will it; if death, then i will the death!"
the old gipsy stared incredulously.
"long have i lived," she said, staring hard at the sergeant, "much have i seen, both of gipsy and gorgio; but never have i seen or heard of the man who could both make that boast, and make it good!"
she appeared to consider a moment.
"save one," she added, "and he is dead!"
"how did he die?" said the sergeant, his tanned visage like a mask, but never removing his eyes from her face.
"by the garrote" she answered, in a hushed whisper. "i saw him die."
"in the great plaza of salamanca," she said, her eyes fixed in a stare of regretful remembrance. "it was filled from side to side, and the balconies were peopled as for a bull-fight. ah, he was a man!"
"josé maria, the gitano, the prince of brigands!" murmured la giralda.
"ah," said the sergeant, coolly, "i have heard of him."
the dead and the living
not a word more was uttered between the two. la giralda, for no reason that she would acknowledge even to herself, had conceived an infinite respect for sergeant cardono, and was ready to obey him implicitly--a fact which shows that our sweet concha was over-hasty in supposing that one woman in any circumstances can ever answer for another when there is a man in the case.
but on this occasion la giralda's submission was productive of no more than a command to go down into the town of san ildefonso, the white houses of which could clearly be seen a mile or two below, while the sergeant betook himself to certain haunts of the gipsy and the brigand known to him in the fastnesses of the guadarrama.
like a dog la giralda complied. she sharpened a stick with a knife which she took from a little concealed sheath in her leathern leggings, and with it she proceeded to quicken the donkey's extremely deliberate pace.
then with the characteristic cry of the goatherd, she gathered her flock together and drove them before her down the deeply-rutted road which led from the farmhouse. she had not proceeded far, however, when she suddenly turned back, with a quick warning cry to her cavalcade. the donkey instantly stood still, patient amid its fagots as an image in a church. the goats scattered like water poured on flat ground, and began to crop stray blades of grass, invisible to any eyes but their own, amid wastes of cracked earth and deserts of grey water-worn pebbles.
as she looked back, sergeant cardono was disappearing up among the tumbled foot-hills and dry beds of winter torrents, which render the lower spurs of the guadarrama such a puzzle to the stranger, and such a paradise for the smuggler and guerrillero. in another moment he had disappeared. with a long quiet sigh la giralda stole back to the farmhouse. in spite of her race, and heathenish lack of creed, the spark of humanity was far from dead in her bosom. the thought of the open eyes of the little girl, which gazed even in death with fixed rapture upon her wooden treasure, remained with her.
"the woman is as old as i--she can bide her time!" she muttered to herself. "but the child--these arms are not yet so shrunken that they cannot dig up a little earth to lay the babe thereunder."
and at the chamber door la giralda paused. like her people, she was neither a good nor yet a bad catholic. consciously or unconsciously she held a more ancient faith, though she worshipped at no shrine, told no beads, and uttered no prayers.
"they have not been long dead," she said to herself, as she entered; "the window is open and the air is sweet. yet the plague, which snatches away the young and strong, may look askance at old giralda's hold on life, which at the best is no stronger than the strength of a basting-thread!"
having said these words she advanced to the low trundle-bed, and, softly crooning in an unknown tongue over the poor dead babe, she lovingly closed its eyes, and taking a sheet from a wall-press that stood partially open, she began to enwrap the little girl in its crisp white folds. the spaniards are like the scottish folk in this, that they have universally stores of the best and finest linen.
la giralda was about to lay the wooden puppet aside as a thing of little worth, but something in the clutch of the small dead hands touched and troubled her. she altered her intention.
"no, you shall not be parted!" she said, "and if there be a resurrection as the priests prate of--why, you shall e'en wake with the doll in your arms!"
so the pair, in death not divided, were wrapt up together, and the gipsy woman prepared to carry her light burden afield. but before doing so she went to the bed. it was an ancient woman who lay thereon, clutching the bed-clothes, and drawn together with the last agony. la giralda gazed at her a moment.
"you i cannot carry--it is impossible," she muttered; "you must take your chance--even as i, if so be that the plague comes to me from this innocent!"
nevertheless, she cast another coverlet over the dead woman's face, and went down the broad stairs of red brick, carrying her burden like a precious thing. la giralda might be no good catholic, no fervent protestant, but i doubt not the first martyr of the faith, the preacher of the mount, would have admitted her to be a very fair christian. on the whole i cannot think her chances in the life to come inferior to those of the astute don baltasar varela, prior of the abbey of montblanch, or those of many a shining light of orthodoxy in a world given to wickedness.
down in the shady angle of the little orchard the old gipsy found a little garden of flowers, geranium and white jasmine, perhaps planted to cast into the rude coffin of a neighbour, yerba luisa, or lemon verbena for the decoctions of a simple pharmacopoeia, on the outskirts of these a yet smaller plot had been set aside. it was edged with white stones from the hillside, and many coloured bits of broken crockery decorated it. a rose-bush in the midst had been broken down by some hasty human foot, or perhaps by a bullock or other large trespassing animal. there were nigh a score of rose-buds upon it--all now parched and dead, and the whole had taken on the colour of the soil.
la giralda stood a moment before laying her burden down. she had the strong heart of her ancient people. the weakness of tears had not visited her eyes for years--indeed, not since she was a girl, and had cried at parting from her first sweetheart, whom she never saw again. so she looked apparently unmoved at the pitiful little square of cracked earth, edged with its fragments of brown and blue pottery, and at the broken rose-bush lying as if also plague-stricken across it, dusty, desolate, and utterly forlorn. yet, as we have said, was her heart by no means impervious to feeling. she had wonderful impulses, this parched mahogany-visaged giralda.
"it is the little one's own garden--i will lay her here!" she said to herself.
so without another word she departed in search of mattock and spade. she found them easily and shortly, for the hireling servants of the house had fled in haste, taking nothing with them. in a quarter of an hour the hole was dug. the rose-tree, being in the way, was dragged out and thrown to one side. la giralda, who began to think of her donkey and goats, hastily deposited the babe within, and upon the white linen the red earth fell first like thin rain, and afterwards, when the sheet was covered, in lumps and mattock-clods. for la giralda desired to be gone, suddenly becoming mindful of the precepts of the sergeant.
"no priest has blessed the grave," she said; "i can say no prayers over her! who is la giralda that she should mutter the simplest prayer? but when the master of life awakes the little one, and when he sees the look she will cast on her poor puppet of wood, he will take her to his bosom even as la giralda, the mother of many, would have taken her! god, the good one, cannot be more cruel than a woman of the heathen!"
and so with the broken pottery for a monument, and the clasp of infant hands about the wooden doll for a prayer to god, the dead babe was left alone, unblessed and unconfessed--but safe.
meanwhile we must go over the hill with sergeant cardono. whatever his thoughts may have been as he trudged up the barren glens, seamed and torn with the winter rains, no sign of them appeared upon his sunburnt weather-beaten face. steadily and swiftly, yet without haste, he held his way, his eyes fixed on the ground, as though perfectly sure of his road, like a man on a well-beaten track which he has trod a thousand times.
for more than an hour he went on, up and ever up, till his feet crisped upon the first snows of peñalara, and the hill ramparts closed in. but when he had reached the narrows of a certain gorge, he looked keenly to either side, marking the entrance. a pile of stones roughly heaped one upon the other fixed his attention. he went up to them and attentively perused their structure and arrangement, though they appeared to have been thrown together at random. then he nodded sagely twice and passed on his way.
the glen continued to narrow overhead. the sunshine was entirely shut out. the jaws of the precipice closed in upon the wayfarer as if to crush him, but sergeant cardono advanced with the steady stride of a mountaineer, and the aplomb of one who is entirely sure of his reception.
the mountain silence grew stiller all about. none had passed that way (so it seemed) since the beginning of time. none would repass till time should be no more.
suddenly through the utter quiet there rang out, repeated and reduplicated, the loud report of a rifle. the hills gave back the challenge. a moment before the dingy bedrabbled snow at cardono's feet had been puffed upwards in a white jet, yet he neither stopped for this nor took the least notice. loyal or disloyal, true or false, he was a brave man this sergeant cardono. i dare say that any one close to him might have discerned his beady eyes glitter and glance quickly from side to side, but his countenance was turned steadfastly as ever upon the snow at his feet.
again came the same startling challenge out of the vague emptiness of space, the bullet apparently bursting like a bomb among the snow. and again cardono took as much notice as if some half-dozen of village loungers had been playing ball among the trees.
only when a third time the whisk of the bullet in the snow a yard or two to the right preceded the sound of the shot, cardono shook his head and muttered, "too long range! the fools ought to be better taught than that!" then he continued his tramp steadily, neither looking to the right nor to the left. the constancy of his demeanour had its effect upon the unseen enemy. the sergeant was not further molested; and though it was obvious that he advanced each step in about as great danger of death as a man who is marched manacled to the garrote, he might simply have been going to his evening billet in some quiet castilian village, for all the difference it made in his appearance.
up to this point cardono had walked directly up the torrent bed, the rounded and water-worn stones rattling and slipping under his iron-shod half-boots, but at a certain point where was another rough cairn of stones, he suddenly diverged to the right, and mounted straight up the fell over the scented thyme and dwarf juniper of the mountain slopes.
whatever of uncertainty as to his fate the sergeant felt was rigidly concealed, and even when a dozen men dropped suddenly upon him from various rocky hiding-places, he only shook them off with a quick gesture of contempt, and said something in a loud voice which brought them all to a halt as if turned to stone by an enchanter's spell.
the men paused and looked at each other. they were all well armed, and every man had an open knife in his hand. they had been momentarily checked by the words of the sergeant, but now they came on again as threateningly as before. their dark long hair was encircled by red handkerchiefs knotted about their brows, and in general they possessed teeth extraordinarily white gleaming from the duskiest of skins. the beady sloe-black eyes of the sergeant were repeated in almost every face, as well as that indefinable something which in all lands marks the gipsy race.
the sergeant spoke again in a language apparently more intelligible than the deep romany password with which he had first checked their deadly intentions.
"you have need of better marksmen," he said; "even the migueletes could not do worse than that!"
"who are you?" demanded a tall grey-headed gipsy, who like the sergeant had remained apparently unarmed; "what is your right to be here?"
the sergeant had by this time seated himself on a detached boulder and was rolling a cigarette. he did not trouble to look up as he answered carelessly, "to the gitano my name is josé maria of ronda!"
the effect of his words was instantaneous. the men who had been ready to kill him a moment before almost fell at his feet, though here and there some remained apparently unconvinced.
prominent among these was the elderly man who had put the question to the sergeant. without taking his eyes from those of the carlist soldier he exclaimed, "our great josé maria you cannot be. for with these eyes i saw him garrotted in the plaza mayor of salamanca!"
the sergeant undid his stock and pointed to a blood-red band about his neck, indented deeply into the skin, and more apparent at the back and sides than in front.
"garrotted in good faith i was in the plaza of salamanca, as this gentleman says," he remarked with great coolness. "but not to death. the executioner was as good a gitano as myself, and removed the spike which strikes inward from the back. so you see i am still josé maria of ronda in the flesh, and able to strike a blow for myself!"
the gipsies set up a wild yell. the name of the most celebrated and most lawless of their race stirred them to their souls.
"come with us," they cried; "we are here for the greatest plunder ever taken or dreamed of among the romany----"
"hush, i command you," cried the elder man. "josé maria of ronda this man may be, but we are gitanos of the north, and need not a man from andalucia to lead us, even if he carry a scarlet cravat about his neck for a credential!"
the sergeant nodded approval of this sentiment and addressed the old gipsy in deep romany, to which he listened with respect, and answered in a milder tone, shaking his head meanwhile.
"i have indeed heard such sayings from my mother," he said, "and i gather your meaning; but we gitanos of the north have mingled too much with the outlander and the foreigner to have preserved the ancient purity of speech. but in craft and deed i wot well we are to the full as good roms as ever."
by this time it was clear to the sergeant that the old man was jealous of his leadership; and as he himself was by no means desirous of taking part in a midnight raid against a plague-stricken town, he proceeded to make it clear that, being on his way to his own country of andalucia and had been led aside by the gipsy cryptograms he had observed by the wayside and the casual greeting of the crook-backed imp of the village.
upon this the old man sat down beside sergeant cardono, or, as his new friends knew him to be, josé maria the brigand. he did not talk about the intended attack as the sergeant hoped he would. being impressed by the greatness of his guest, he entered into a minute catalogue of the captures he had made, the men he had slain as recorded on the butt of his gun or the haft of his knife, and the cargoes he had successfully "run" across the mountains or beached on the desolate sands of catalunia.
"i am no inlander," he said, "i am of the sea-coast of tarragona. i have never been south of tortosa in my life; but there does not live a man who has conducted more good cigars and brandy to their destination than old pépe of the eleven wounds!"
the sergeant with grave courtesy reached him a well-rolled cigarette.
"i have heard of your fame, brother," he said; "even at ronda and on the madrid-seville road your deeds are not unknown. but what of this venture to-night? have you enough men, think you, to overpower the town watchmen and the palace-guards?"
the old gipsy tossed his bony hands into the air with a gesture of incomparable contempt.
"the palace guards are fled back to madrid," he cried, "and as to the town watch they are either drunk or in their dotage!"
meantime the main body of the gipsies waited patiently in the background, and every few minutes their numbers were augmented by the arrival of others over the various passes of the mountains. these took their places without salutation, like men expected, and fell promptly to listening to the conversation of the two great men, who sat smoking their cigarettes each on his own stone in the wide wild corrie among the rocks of the guadarrama which had been chosen as an appropriate rendezvous.
singularly enough, after the sergeant had shown the scarlet mark of the strangling ring about his neck, no one of all that company doubted for a moment that he was indeed the thrice-famous josé maria of ronda. none asked a question as to his whence or whither. he was josé maria, and therefore entitled not only to be taken at once into the secrets of egypt, but also, and it pleased him, to keep his own.
and very desperate and bloody some of 'his own' were. in the present instance, plunder and bloodshed were to proceed hand in hand. no quarter was to be given to old or young. the plague-stricken sick man and the watcher by the bed, the woman feeding her fire of sticks under her puchero, the child asleep on its pillow, the queen in the palace, the princess in her nursery--all were to die, quickly and suddenly. these men had sworn it. the dead were no tale-tellers. that was the way of egypt--the ancient way of safety. were they not few and feeble in the midst of innumerable hordes of the busne? had they not been driven like cattle, abused like dogs, sent guiltless to the scaffold, shot in batches by both warring parties? now in this one place at least, they would do a deed of vengeance at which the ears of the world would tingle.
the sergeant sat and smoked and listened. he was no stranger to such talk. it was the way of his double profession of andalucian bandit and carlist guerrilero, to devise and execute deeds of terror and death. but nothing so cold-blooded as this had josé maria ever imagined. he had indeed appropriated the governmental mails till the post-bags almost seemed his own property, and the guards handed them down without question as to a recognised official. he had, in his great days, captured towns and held them for either party according to the good the matter was likely to do himself. but there was something revolting in this whole business which puzzled him.
"whose idea was all this?" he asked at last. "i would give much to see the gitano who could devise such a stroke."
the grim smile on the countenance of old pépe of the eleven wounds grew yet more grim.
"no gipsy planned it and no man!" he said sententiously. "come hither, chica!"
and out from among the listening throng came a girl of thirteen or fourteen, dressed neatly and simply in a grey linen blouse belted at the waist with a leather belt. a gay plaid, striped of orange and crimson, hung neatly folded over her shoulder, and she rested her small sunburnt hand on the silver hilt of a pistol. black elf-locks escaped from beneath a red silk kerchief knotted saucily after the fashion of her companions. but her eyes, instead of being beady and black with that far-away contemplative look which characterises the children of egypt, were bright and sunny and blue as the mediterranean itself in the front of spring.
"come hither, chica--be not afraid," repeated old pépe of the eleven wounds, "this is a great man--the greatest of all our race. you have heard of him--as who, indeed, has not!"
chica nodded with a quick elfish grin of intense pleasure and appreciation. "i was listening," she said, "i heard all. and i saw--would that i could see it again. oh, if only the like would happen to me!"
"tell the noble don josé who you are, my pretty chica," said pépe, soothingly.
but the child stamped her sandalled foot. it was still white at the instep, and the sergeant could see by the blue veins that she had not gone long barefoot. the marks of a child either stolen for ransom or run away from home owing to some wild strain in the blood were too obvious to be mistaken. her liberty of movement among the gipsies made the latter supposition the more probable.
"i am not pretty chica, and i am not little," she cried angrily. "i would have you remember, pépe, that i made this plan, which the folk of egypt are to execute to-night. but since this is the great brigand don josé of ronda, who was executed at salamanca, i will tell him all about it."
she looked round at the dark faces with which they were surrounded.
"there are new folk among these," she said, "men i do not know. bid them go away. else i will not speak of myself, and i have much to say to don josé!"
pépe of the eleven wounds looked about him, and shook his head. gipsydom is a commonwealth when it comes to a venture like this, and save in the presence of some undoubted leader, all egypt has an equal right to hear and to speak. pépe's authority was not sufficient for this thing. but that of the sergeant was.
he lifted his montera cap and said, "i would converse a while with this maid on the affairs of egypt. 'tis doubtless no more than you know already, and then, having heard her story my advice is at your service. but she will not speak with so many ears about. it is a woman's whim, and such the wisest of us must sometimes humour."
the gipsies smiled at the gay wave of his hand with which cardono uttered this truism and quickly betook themselves out of earshot in groups of ten and a dozen. cards were produced, and in a few minutes half a score of games were in progress at different points of the quarry-like cauldron which formed the outlaws' rendezvous.
at once the humour of the child changed.
the elf tapped her forehead immediately underneath the red sash which was tied about it. the sergeant, though eager to hear her story and marvelling at such sentiments from the lips of a child, successfully concealed his curiosity, and said gently, "tell me how you came to think of to-night----"
"of what to-night?" asked the girl quickly and suspiciously.
"the deed which is to be done to-night," replied the sergeant simply, as though he were acquainted with the whole.
she leaped forward and caught him by the arm.
"you will stay and go with us? you will lead us?" she hissed, her blue eyes aflame and with trembling accents, "then indeed will i be sure of my revenge. then the italian woman and her devil's brat shall not escape. then i shall be sure--sure!"
she repeated the last words with concentrated fury, apparently impossible to one of her age. the sergeant smoked quietly and observed her. she seemed absolutely transfigured.
"tell me that you will," she cried, low and fierce, so that her voice should not reach the men around; "these, when they get there, will think of nothing but plunder. as if rags and diamonds and gold were worth venturing one's life for. but i desire death--death--death, do you hear? to see the italian woman and her paramour pleading for their lives, one wailing over against the other, on their knees. oh, i know them and the brat they call the little queen! to-night they shall lie dead under my hands--with this--with this!"
and the girl flashed a razor-keen blade out of her red waistband. she thrust the hilt forward into the sergeant's hands as if in token of fealty.
"see," she said, touching the edge lovingly, "is it not sharp? will it not kill surely and swiftly? for months i have sharpened it--ah, and to-night it will give me my desire!"
it was the sergeant's belief that the girl was mad, nevertheless he watched her with his usual quiet scrutiny, the power of which she evidently felt. for she avoided his eyes and hastened on with her story before he had time to cross-question her.
"why do i hate them? i see the question on your lips. because the italian woman hath taken away my father and slain my mother--slain her as truly and with far sharper agony than she herself shall know when i set this knife to her throat. i am the daughter of muñoz, and i swore revenge on the man and on the woman both when i closed my mother's eyes. my mother's heart was broken. ah, you see, she was weak--not like me! it would take a hundred like the neapolitan to break my heart; and as for the man, though he were thrice my father, he should beg his life in vain."
she snatched her knife jealously out of his hand, tried its edge on the back of her hand with a most unchildlike gesture, and forthwith concealed it in her silken faja. then she laid her hand once more on the sergeant's arm.
"you will lead us, will you not, josé maria?" she said pleadingly. "i can trust you. you have done many great deeds. my nurse was a woman of ronda and told me of your exploits on the road from madrid to sevilla. you will lead us to-night. only you must leave these three in the palace to me. if you will, you shall have also my share of the plunder. but what do i say, i know you are too noble to think only of that--as these wolves do!"
she cast a haughty glance around upon the gipsies at their card-play.
"i, that am of old castile and noble by four descents, have demeaned myself to mix with gitanos," she said, "but it has only been that i might work out my revenge. i told pépe there of my plan. i showed him the way. he was afraid. he told ten men, and they were afraid. fifty, and they were afraid. now there are a hundred and more, and were it not that they know that all lies open and unguarded, even i could not lead them thither. but they will follow you, because you are josé maria of ronda." the sergeant took the girl's hand in his. she was shaking as with an ague fit, but her eyes, blue and mild as a summer sky, had that within them which was deadlier than the tricksome slippery demon that lurks in all black orbs, whether masculine or feminine.
"chica," he said, "your wrongs are indeed bitter. i would give much to help you to set the balance right. perhaps i may do so yet. but i cannot be the commander of these men. they are not of my folk or country. they have not even asked me to lead them. they are jealous of me! you see it as well as i!"
"ah!" cried the girl, laying her hand again on his cuff, "that is because they do not wish you to share their plunder. but tell them that you care nothing for that and they will welcome you readily enough. the place is plague-stricken, i tell you. the palace lies open. little crook-backed chepe brought me word. he says he adores me. he is of the village of frias, back there behind the hills. i do not love him, even though he has a bitter heart and can hate well. therefore i suffer him."
the sergeant rose to his feet and looked compassionately down at the vivid little figure before him. the hair, dense and black, the blue eyes, the red-knotted handkerchief, the white teeth that showed between the parted lips clean and sharp as those of a wild animal. cardono had seen many things on his travels, but never anything like this. his soul was moved within him. in the deeps of his heart, the heart of a spanish gipsy, there was an infinite sympathy for any one who takes up the blood feud, who, in the face of all difficulties, swears the vendetta. but the slim arms, the spare willowy body, the little white sandalled feet of the little girl--these overcame him with a pitifully amused sense of the disproportion of means to end.
"have you no brother, señorita?" he said, using by instinct the title of respect which the little girl loved the most. she saw his point in a moment.
"a brother--yes, don josé! but my brother is a cur, a dog that eats offal. pah! i spit upon him. he hath taken favours from the woman. he hath handled her money. he would clean the shoes they twain leave at their chamber door. a brother--yes; the back of my hand to such brothers! but after to-night he shall have no offal to eat--no bones thrown under the table to pick. for in one slaying i will kill the italian woman cristina, the man muñoz who broke my mother's heart, and the foisted changeling brat whom they miscall the daughter of fernando and the little queen of spain!"
she subsided on a stone, dropped her head into her hands, and took no further notice of the sergeant, who stood awhile with his hand resting on her shoulder in deep meditation. there was, he thought, no more to be said or done. he knew all there was to know. the men had not asked him to join them, so he would venture no further questions as to the time and the manner of attack. they were still jealous of him with that easily aroused jealousy of south and north which in spain divides even the clannish gipsy.
nevertheless he went the round of the men. they were mostly busy with their games, and some of them even snatched the stakes in to them, lest he should demand a percentage of the winnings after the manner of sevilla. the sergeant smiled at the reputation which distance and many tongues had given him. then, with a few words of good fellowship and the expression of a wish for success and abundant plunder, he bade them farewell. it was a great deed which they designed and one worthy of his best days. he was now old, he said, and must needs choose easier courses. he did not desire twice to feel the grip of the collar of iron. but young blood--oh, it would have its way and run its risks!
but chica, seated on her stone, with her scarlet-bound head on her hand, neither looked up nor gave him any greeting as his feet went slowly down the rocky glen and crunched over the begrimed patches of last year's snow, now wide-pored and heavy with the heat of noonday.
a little queen at home
meanwhile, leaving the grave in the shaded corner of the farm garden, la giralda went out with many strange things moving in her heart. more than once she had seen her own children laid in the dust, with far less of emotion than this nameless little girl clutching her wooden puppet and smiling, well-pleased, in the face of the last terror.
she found the donkey standing still and patient between his fagot bundles. the she-goats, on the other hand, had scattered a little this way or that as this blade of grass or that spray of encina had allured them. but a sharp cry or two called them together. for it was many hours since any of them had been milked, and the full teats standing out every way ached for the pressing fingers.
the sergeant had, of course, long since completely disappeared up the hillside, so la giralda, with one comprehensive look back at the desolate farmhouse, drove her little flock before her towards the town gates of san ildefonso. like a picture, the dustily red roofs lay beneath in the sunshine, spire and roof-garden, pigeon-house and terrace walk. parts of the white palace of la granja also were to be seen, but indistinctly, since it lay amid a pleasant distraction of greenery, and the woods waved and the falling waters glimmered about it like the landscape of a dream.
from the colegiata came the tolling of a bell, slow and irregular. all else was silent. presently, with her little flock before her, la giralda found herself skirting the high-paled ironwork which confines the palace. she pursued her way towards the town, taking care, however, to look sharply about her so that she might miss nothing.
the palace grounds seemed utterly deserted. the fountains slept; "fame" drove no longer her waters fifty yards into the air; the frogs rested from their ungrateful labours open-mouthed and gasping for breath. not even a gardener was to be seen scratching weeds on a path, or in the dimmest distance passing at random across one of the deep-shaded avenues. an unholy quiet seemed to have settled upon the place, the marvel of castile, the most elevated of earthly palaces, broken only by the sombre tolling of the chapel bell, which would cease for five minutes without apparent reason, and then, equally without cause, begin all over again its lugubrious chime.
down the zigzags towards the town went la giralda, the goats taking advantage of the wider paths to stray further afield, and needing more frequently the touch of the wand, which the old woman had taken from the donkey's load in order to induce them to proceed.
as the gipsy passed along, a small shrill voice called upon her to stop, and from a side walk, concealed by roses and oleander bushes, late flowering because of the great elevation, a richly-dressed little girl came running. she ran at the top of her speed towards the gilt railings which towered high above her head. her age appeared to be about that of the little girl whom la giralda had buried among the pottery shards in that other meaner garden up on the mountain side.
"stop," she cried imperiously, "i bid you stop! i am the queen, and you must obey me. i have not seen any one for five days except stupid old susana, who will be after me in a moment. stop, i tell you! i want to see your goats milked. i love milk, and they will not give me enough, pretending that there is none within the palace. as if a queen of spain could not have all the milk she wanted! ridiculous!"
by this time the little girl had mounted the parapet and was clinging with all her might to the iron railings, while a fat motherly person had waddled out of the underbrush in search of her, and with many exclamations of pretended anger and indignation was endeavouring to entice her away.
but the more the nurse scolded and pulled, the more firmly did the little maid cling to the golden bars. at last the elderly woman, quite out of breath, sat down on the stone ledge and addressed to her charge the argument which in such cases betokens unconditional surrender.
"my lady isabel, what would your noble and royal mother say," she gasped, "thus to forget all the counsels and commands of those put in authority over you and run to the railings to chatter with a gipsy wife? go away, goatherdess, or i will call the attendants and have you put in prison!"
la giralda had stopped her flock, obedient to the wishes of the little maid, but now, with a low curtsey to both, she gathered them together with her peculiar whistling cry, and prepared to continue her way down into the village.
but this the little girl would in nowise permit. she let go the iron rail, and with both hands clenched fell upon her attendant with concentrated fury.
"bad, wicked susana," she cried, "i will have you whipped and sent about your business. nay, i myself will beat you. i will kill you, do you hear? i have had nothing to eat and no one to play with for a week--not a gardener, not a dog, not even a soldier on guard to salute me or let me examine his sword-bayonet. and now when this dear, this sweet old señora comes by with her lovely, lovely goats, you must perforce try to pull me off as if i were a village child that had played truant from the monks' school and must be birched for its fault!"
all the while she was speaking, the young princess directed a shower of harmless blows at the skirts of her attendant, which doña susana laughingly warded off, begging all the while for pity, and instancing the direct commands of the little girl's mother, apparently a very exalted personage indeed, as a reason for her interference.
but isabel of spain was not to be appeased, and presently she had recourse to tears in the midst of her fury.
"you hate me--i know you do--that is what it means," she cried, "you would not have me happy even for a moment. but one day i shall be queen, and do as i like! yes, and drink as much warm goat's milk as i want, in spite of all the stupid, wicked, cruel susanas in the world. and i shall throw you into a dungeon with nothing but mice and rats and serpents and centipedes--yes, and snails that leave a white slimy trail over you when they crawl! ugh! and i will have your hands tied, so that you shall not be able to brush them off when they tickle your neck. yes, i will, susana! i swear it, and i am growing big--so big! and soon i shall be old enough to have you put in prison with the mice and snails, bad susana! oh, wicked susana!"
now, whether these childish threats actually had some effect, or whether the old lady was so soft-hearted as her comfortable appearance denoted, certain it is that she took a key from her pocket and passed it through the tall gilt railings to la giralda.
"go down a hundred yards or so," she said, "and there you will find a gate. open it with that key and bring over your animals to the little pavilion among the trees by the fountain."
upon hearing this the princess instantly changed her tune. she had got her own way, and now it was "beautiful doña susana! precious and loveliest companion, when i am queen you shall have the greatest and handsomest grandee in the kingdom to be your husband, and walk in diamonds and rubies at our court balls! yes, you shall. i promise it by my royal oath. and now i will run to the house kitchen for basins to catch the goats' milk in, and my little churn to churn the butter in--and--and----"
but before she had catalogued half the things that she meant to find and bring she departed at the top of her speed, making the air ring with her shouts of delight.
slowly, and with the meekest dignity, la giralda did as she was bidden. she found the little gate, which, indeed, proved so narrow that she could not get her donkey to pass through with his great side-burdens of fagots. but as these were not at all heavy, la giralda herself detached them, and, laying them carefully within the railings, she unhaltered the patient beast and, tying him only with a cord about his neck, left him a generous freedom of browsing upon the royal grass-plots and undergrowth.
the goats, however, perhaps alarmed by the trim daintiness of the place and the unwonted spectacle of unlimited leaves and forage, kept close together. one or two of them, indeed, smelt doubtfully at luxuriant tufts, but as they had only previously seen grass in single blades, and amid saharas of gravel and sand, the experiment of eating an entire mouthful at a time appeared too hazardous and desperate. they were of a cautious turn of mind, in addition to which their udders had become so distended that little white beads were forcing themselves from the teats, and they expressed their desire for relief by plaintive whimperings and by laying their rough heads caressingly against la giralda's short and primitive skirt and leather-cased legs.
in a few moments after they had reached the pavilion the princess came shouting back. she was certainly a most jovial little person, spanish at all points, with great dark eyes and cheeks apple-red with good health and the sharp airs of the guadarrama. doña susana had walked a little in front of la giralda and her flock, to show the superiority of her position, and also, it may be, to display the amplitude of her several chins, by holding them in the air in a manner as becoming as it was dignified.
"milk them! milk them quickly! let me see!" the princess shouted, clanging the pails joyously together. the walls of the pavilion in which la giralda found herself were decorated with every kind of household utensil, but not such as had ever been used practically. everything was of silver or silver-gilt. there was indeed a complete batterie de cuisine--saucepans, patty-pans, graters, a mincing machine with the proper screws and handles, shining rows of lids, and a complete graduated series of cooking spoons stuck in a bandolier. salad dishes of sparkling crystal bound with silver ornamented the sideboard, while various earthen pots and pans of humbler make stood on a curiously designed stove under whose polished top no fire had ever burned. at least so it appeared to la giralda, who, much impressed by the magnificence of the installation, would promptly have driven her goats out again.
but this the little isabel would by no means permit.
"here--here!" she commanded, "this is mine--my very own. my mother has a dairy--i have a kitchen. milk the goats here, i command you, nowhere but here!"
and thrusting the bucket into the old woman's hand, she watched carefully and eagerly as la giralda pressed the milk downwards in hissing streams. the she-goat operated upon expressed her gratitude by turning to lick the hand which relieved her.
at this the little girl danced with delight.
"it looks so easy--i could do it myself! i am sure of it. i tell you, susana, i will do it. stand still, cabra! do you not know that i am isabel the second, queen of all the spains!"
but the she-goat, having no very strong monarchial sentiments, or perhaps being inclined to carlist opinions, as soon as she felt the grip of unaccustomed fingers promptly kicked over in the dust the queen of all the spains.
the little girl had not time to gather herself up or even to emit the howl of disappointment and anger which hovered upon her lips, before her attendant rushed at her with pitiful cries:
"oh, the wicked goat! the devil-possessed emblem of satan! let it be slain! did not your poor susana warn you to have nothing to do with such evil things--thus to overturn in the dust the best, the sweetest, the noblest of princesses!"
but the best and sweetest of princesses, having violent objections to being gathered up into the capacious embrace of her nurse, especially before company, vigorously objected in much the same manner as the goat had done, and at last compelled doña susana to deposit her once more on the paved floor of the miniature kitchen. having arrived in which place, her anger completely vanished, for a tankardful of rich warm goat's milk was handed to her by la giralda, and in this flowing bowl she soon forgot her woes.
"you must come down to the palace and be paid," said the little girl; "we are most of us very hungry there, and those who are not hungry are thirsty. the waggons from madrid have been stopped on the way, and all the guards have gone to bring them back!"
at this doña susana looked quickly across to the old goatherdess and signalled that the little princess was not to be informed of anything she might happen to know.
"you have not been in the town, i trust!" said doña susana.
now la giralda could conscientiously have declared that she had never been within the gates of san ildefonso in her life, but thinking that in the circumstances the statement might appear a suspicious one, she modified it to a solemn declaration that she had come directly down from her farm on the mountain-side, as, indeed, they themselves had seen.
satisfied of her veracity, doña susana took her very independent and difficult charge by the hand and led the way towards the palace of la granja, glimpses of which could be obtained through the foliage which was still everywhere verdant and abundant with the first freshness of spring--so high did the castle lie on the hill-slopes, and so enlivening were the waste waters downthrown from the rocky crests of peñalara, whose snows glimmered through the trees, as it seemed, but a bowshot above their heads.
the goats, each expecting their turn of milking, followed at her heels as obediently as well-trained dogs. most of them were of the usual dark-red colour, a trifle soiled with the grey dust on which they had been lying. a few were white, and these were the favourites of the little queen, who, though compelled to go on ahead, looked constantly back over her shoulder and endeavoured to imitate the shrill whistling call by which la giralda kept her flock in place.
when they arrived at the palace front the doors stood wide open. at doña susana's call an ancient major-domo appeared, his well-developed waistcoat mating ill with the pair of shrunk and spindle shanks which appeared beneath. the sentry boxes, striped red and gold with the colours of spain, were empty. at the guard-houses there were no lounging sergeants or smart privates eager to rise and salute as the little queen passed by.
there was already indeed about the palace an air of desolation. the great gates in front towards the town had been closed, as if to shut off infection, and the court itself, dwindled to a few faithful old retainers of fernando vii., surrounded his widow and her new husband with a devotion which was yet far more than their due.
it was not long before la giralda had milked the remainder of the flock and sent the creaming white pitchers into the palace. little isabel danced with delight as one she-goat after another escaped with infinite tail-waggling and bleatings of pleasure. and in the dearth of other amusement she desired and even commanded the old woman to remain and pasture her herd within the precincts of the palace. but la giralda had much yet to do. she must find out the state and dispositions of the town of san ildefonso, and then rejoin her companions in the little corrie or cauldron-like cirque in which she and the sergeant had left rollo and the other members of the expedition.
so after the small and imperious royal maid had been carried screaming and battling upstairs by doña susana and the globular major-domo, la giralda, richly rewarded in golden coin of the realm, and with all the requisite information as to the palace, betook herself back to the gate by which she had left the ass. this she loaded again, and driving it before her she retraced her steps past the corner of the palace, and so to the porter's lodge by the great gate.
here she was presently ushered out by a mumbling old woman who informed her that her husband and son had both gone to madrid with the troops, but would undoubtedly return in an hour or two, a statement which with her superior information the old gipsy took leave to doubt.
the town of san ildefonso lay beneath the chateâu, and to her right as la giralda issued from the gates. the houses were of an aspect at once grave and cheerful. they had been built mostly, not for permanent residence, but in order to accommodate the hordes of courtiers and their suites who, in the summer months, followed the royal personages over the mountains from madrid.
as most of these had fled at the first invasion of the cholera, the windows, at this period of the year generally bright with flowers and shaded with emerald barred jalousies, were closely shut up, and upon several of the closed doors appeared the fatal black and white notices of the municipality, which indicated that there either was or had been a case of the plague within the infected walls.
la giralda went down the streets uttering the long wailing cry which indicated that she had firewood to sell. but though she could have disposed of the milk from the goats over and over again, there appeared but little demand for her other commodity, even though she called, "leña-a-a-a! ah, leña-a-a-a!" from one end of san ildefonso to the other.
a city watchman, with a pipe in his mouth, looked drowsily and frowsily out of the town-hall or ayuntamiento. he was retreating again to his settle when it suddenly struck him that this intruder had paid no duty upon her milk and firewood. true, he was not the functionary appointed by law to receive the tax; but since he was on the spot, and for lack of other constituted the representative of civic state, he felt he must undertake the duty.
so, laying aside his pipe and seizing his halberd and cocked hat, he sallied grumblingly forth to intercept the bold contravener of municipal laws. but the active limbs of the old gipsy, the lightened udders of the she-goats, and the ass with his meek nose pointed homeward, took the party out of the village gate before the man in authority could over-take la giralda.
soon, therefore, the roofs of san ildefonso and the white palace again lay beneath her as the gipsy reascended by her track of the morning. so long had she occupied in her various adventures that the evening shadows were already lengthening when she returned to the corrie where the party had spent in restful indolence the burden and heat of the day. the sergeant had not yet arrived, and la giralda delayed her story till he should give her leave to speak. for not even to the gipsies of the guadarrama was josé maria a greater personage than sergeant cardono to la giralda of sevilla.
in the mean time she busied herself, with concha's help, in preparing the evening meal, as quick upon her legs as if she had done nothing but lounge in the shade all day. it was almost sundown when the sergeant came in, dropping unannounced over the precipice as if from the clouds.
"we must be in la granja in two hours if we are to save a soul within its walls," he said, "but--we have an hour for dinner first! therefore let us dine. god knows when we shall taste food again!"
and with this dictum john mortimer heartily agreed.
the startling announcement of the sergeant at once set the whole party in motion. their suspicions of the morning were cast to the winds, as the sergeant and la giralda in turn related their adventures. concha, having formerly vouched so strongly for the old gipsy woman, now nodded triumphantly across to rollo, who on his part listened intently. as sergeant cardono proceeded the young man leaned further and further forward, breathing deeply and regularly. the expression on his face was that of fierce and keen resolution.
the sergeant told all the tale as it had happened, reserving only the identification of himself with the famous josé maria of ronda, which the gipsies had made on the strength of the red mark about his neck, now once more concealed under his military stock. cardono, however, made no secret that he was of the blood of egypt, and set down to this fact all that he had been able to accomplish. in swift well-chosen words he told of the fierce little girl with the dark hair and blue eyes, who declared herself to be the daughter of muñoz, sometime paramour and now reputed husband of the queen-regent--making it clear that she had indeed planned the wholesale slaughter, not only of those in the palace, but also of the inhabitants of the town of san ildefonso.
then in her turn la giralda told of her visit to the pavilion, of the little queen, passionate, joyous, kindly natured, absolutely spanish, till the hearts of her hearers melted to the tale.
"our orders are to capture her and her mother the regent," said rollo, thoughtfully. "it would therefore serve our purpose but ill if we permitted these two to be sacrificed to the bloodthirsty fury of a mob of plunderers!"
"then the sooner we find ourselves within the gates, the more chance we shall have of saving them both!" said the sergeant. "serve out the puchero, la giralda!"
concha had taken no part in the discussion. but she had listened with all her ears, and now in the pause that followed she declared her unalterable intention of making one of the party.
"i also am of andalucia," she said with calm determination, "there are two others of my country here who will answer for me. you cannot leave me alone, and la giralda will be needed as guide when once you reach the palace precincts. i shall not be in the way, i promise you, and if it comes to gun and pistol, there i think you will not find me wanting!"
in his heart and though he made several objections, rollo was glad enough to give way. for with all the unknown dangers of the night before them, and the certainty of bloodshed when the gipsies should attack, he relished still less the thought of leaving concha alone in that pit on the chill side of guadarrama.
"i promise you, colonel, the maid will be worth her billet," said the sergeant, "or else she is no true andaluse. to such an one in old days i have often trusted----"
thus far cardono had proceeded when suddenly he broke off his reminiscence, and with a paternal gesture patted concha's arm as she was bending over to transfer a second helping of the puchero to his dish.
the party was now in excellent marching order, well-provisioned, well-fed, rested, and provided with the best and most recent information. even john mortimer's slow english blood developed some latent puritanic fire, and he said, "hang me if i do not fight for the little girl who was willing to pay for the whole of the goat-milk!"
to fight for a queen, who at the early age of five was prepared to give a wholesale order like that, appeared to john mortimer a worthy and laudable deed of arms. he was free indeed to assist in taking her captive, if by so doing he could further the shipping of the priorato he himself had paid for. but to make over to a set of thieves and murderers a girl who had about her the makings of a good customer and a woman of business habits, stirred every chivalric feeling within him.
the night was so dark that it was resolved that the party should leave their horses behind them in the stables of the deserted farm. they could then proceed on foot more softly and with more safety to themselves. to this la giralda, knowing that they must return that way, readily assented. for the thought of the dead woman she had left in the first-floor room haunted her, and even in the darkness of the night she could see the stark outlines of the sheet she had spread over the body.
so it came to pass that once more horseshoe iron clattered, and there was a flashing of lights and a noise of voices about the lonely and stricken farmhouse. but only la giralda gave a thought to the little grave in the shady corner of the garden, and only she promised herself to revisit it when the stern work of the night should be over and the dawn of a calmer morning should have arisen.
now, as soon as sergeant cardono returned, he placed himself as completely as formerly under the orders of rollo. he was no more josé maria the famous gipsy, but sergeant cardono of the army of h.m. carlos quinto, and señor rollo was his colonel. like a good scout he was ready to advise, but to the full as ready to hold his tongue and obey.
and rollo, though new to his position, was not above benefiting continually by his wisdom, and as a matter of fact it was the sergeant who, in conjunction with la giralda, led the little expedition down the perilous goat-track by which the old gipsy had followed her flock in the morning. as usual concha kept her place beside rollo, with mortimer and etienne a little behind, while el sarria, taciturn but alert as usual, brought up the rear.
it can hardly be said that they carried with them any extraordinary elements of success. indeed, in one respect they were at a manifest disadvantage. for in an expedition of this kind there ought to be one leader of dignity, character, and military genius far beyond the others. but among this little band which stole so quietly along the mountain-paths of the guadarrama, beneath the frowning snow-clad brow of peñalara, there was not one who upon occasion could not have led a similar forlorn hope. each member of the party possessed a character definite and easily to be distinguished from all the others. it was an army of officers without any privates.
still, since our firebrand, rollo the scot, held the nominal leadership, and his quick imperious character made that chieftainship a reality, there was at least a chance that they might bring to a successful conclusion the complex and difficult task which was before them.
they now drew near to the palace, which, as one descends the mountains, is approached first. the town of san ildefonso lay further to the right, an indistinguishable mass of heaped roofs and turrets without a light or the vestige of a street apparent in the gloom. it seemed to rollo a strange thing to think of this stricken town lying there with its dead and dying, its empty tawdry lodgings from which the rich and gay of the court had fled so hastily, leaving all save their most precious belongings behind, the municipal notices on the door, white crosses chalked on a black ground, while nearer and always nearer approached the fell gipsy rabble intent on plunder and rapine.
even more strange, however, seemed the case of the royal palace of la granja. erected at infinite cost after the pattern of versailles and marly, the smallness of its scale and the magnificence of its natural surroundings caused it infinitely to surpass either of its models in general effect. it had, however, never been intended for defence, nor had the least preparation been made in case of attack. it was doubtless presumed that whenever the court sojourned there, the royal personages would arrive with such a guard and retinue as, in that lonely place, would make danger a thing to be laughed at.
but no such series of circumstances as this had ever been thought of; the plague which had fallen so heavily and as it seemed mysteriously and instantaneously upon the town; the precincts of the palace about to be invaded by a foe more fell than frank or moor; the guards disappeared like snow in the sun, and the only protection of the lives of the queen-regent and her daughter, a band of carlists sent to capture their persons at all hazards.
verily the whole situation was remarkably complex.
the briefest look around convinced rollo that it would be impossible for so small a party to hold the long range of iron palisades which surrounded the palace. these were complete, indeed, but their extent was far too great to afford any hope of keeping out the gipsies without finding themselves taken in the rear. they must hold la granja itself, that was clear. there remained, therefore, only the problem of finding entrance.
between the porter's lodge and the great gates near the colegiata they discovered a ladder left somewhat carelessly against a wall where whitewashing had been going on during the day, some ardent royal tradesman having ventured back, preferring the chance of the plague to the abandonment of his contract.
this they at once appropriated, and rollo and the sergeant, being the two most agile of the company, prepared to mount.
if the time had been less critical, and a disinterested observer had been available, it would at this moment have been interesting to observe the demeanour of concha. feeling that in a manner she was present on sufferance, she could not of course make any objection to the plan of escalade, nor could she offer to accompany rollo and the sergeant, but with clasped hands and tightly compressed lips she stood beneath, repeating under her breath quick-succeeding prayers for the safety of one (or both) of the adventurers.
so patent and eager was her anxiety even in the gloom of the night that la giralda, to whom her agitation was manifest, laid her hand on the girl's arm and whispered in her ear that she must be brave, a true andaluse, and not compromise the expedition by any spoken word.
concha turned indignantly upon her, shaking off her restraining hand as she did so.
"do you think i am a fool?" she whispered. "i will do nothing to spoil their chances. but oh, giralda, at any moment he might be shot!"
"trust josé maria. he hath taken risks far greater than this," said la giralda in a low voice, wilfully mistaking her meaning. but concha, quite unconsoled, did nothing but clasp her hands and quicken her supplications to the virgin.
the ladder was reared against the gilded iron railing and rollo mounted, immediately dropping lightly down on the further side. the sergeant followed, and presently both were on the ground. at a word from rollo, el sarria pushed the ladder over and the two received it and laid it along the parapet in a place where it would remain completely hidden till wanted.
the two moved off together in the direction of the porter's lodge, at the door of which the sergeant knocked lightly, and then, obtaining no answer, with more vehemence. a window was lifted and a frightened voice asked who came there at that time of night.
the sergeant answered with some sharpness that they wished for the key of the great gate.
upon this the same old woman who had ushered out la giralda appeared trembling at the lattice, and was but little relieved when the sergeant, putting on his most serious air, informed her that her life was in the utmost danger, and that she must instantly come downstairs, open the gate, and accompany them to the palace.
"i knew it," quavered the old woman, "i knew it since ever my husband went away with the soldiers and left me here alone. i shall be murdered among you, but my blood will be on his hands. indeed, sirs, he hath never treated me well, but spent his wages at the wine tavern, giving me but a beggarly pittance. nay, how do i know but he had an intent in thus deserting me? he hath, and i can prove it, cast eyes of desire on maria of the pork-shop, only because she is younger and more comely than i, who had grown old and wrinkled bearing him children and cooking him ollas! aye, and small thanks have i got for either. as indeed i have told him hundreds of times. such a man! a pretty fellow to be head porter at a queen's gate! i declare i will inform her royal majesty this very night, if i am to go to the palace, that will i!"
"come down immediately and let us in, my good woman," said the sergeant, soothingly. for it appeared as if this torrent of accusation against the absent might continue to flow for an indefinite period.
"but how am i to know that you are not the very rogues and thieves of whom you tell?" persisted the old lady with some show of reason.
"well," said the sergeant forbearingly, "as to that you must trust us, mother. it is the best you can do. but fear nothing, we will treat you gently as a cat her kitten, and you will come up to the palace with us to show us in what part of it dwell the queen and her daughter."
"nay, not if it be to do harm to my lady and the sweet little maid who this very day brought a pail of milk to poor old rebeca the portress, whose husband hath forsaken her for a pork-shop trull. i would rather die!"
rollo was about to speak, but the sergeant whispered that the old lady was now in such good case to admit them, that she might be frighted by his foreign accent.
in a few moments the woman could be heard stiffly and grumblingly descending the stairs, the door was opened, and rebeca appeared with the key in her hand.
"how many are there of your party?" she asked, her poor hand shaking so that she could scarcely fit the key in the lock, and her voice sunk to a quavering whisper.
"there are five men of us and two women," said the sergeant, quickly. "now we are all within, pray give me the key and show us the road to the queen's apartments."
the party now advanced towards the palace, which in the gloom of a starless night was still entirely hidden from their sight, save as a darker mass set square against the black vault of heaven.
by this time concha and la giralda had taken the trembling portress by the arms, and were bringing her along in the van, whispering comfort in her ears all the way. the sergeant and rollo came next, with mortimer and etienne behind, a naked blade in the hand of each, for rollo had whispered the word to draw swords. this, however, el sarria interpreted to mean his faithful manchegan knife, to which he trusted more than to any sword of toledo that ever was forged.
at any other time they could not have advanced a score of yards without being brought to a stand-still by the challenge of a sentry, the whistle of a rifle bullet, or the simultaneous turning out of the guard. but now no such danger was to be apprehended. all was still as a graveyard before cock-crow.
it is hard, in better and wiser days, when things are beginning to be traced to their causes, to give any idea of the effect of the first appearance of black cholera among a population at once so simple and so superstitious as that of rural spain. the inhabitants of the great towns, the cristino armies in the field, the country-folk of all opinions were universally persuaded that the dread disease was caused by the monks in revenge for the despites offered to them; especially by the hated jesuits, who were supposed to have thrown black cats alive into rivers and wells in order to produce disease by means of witchcraft and diabolical agency.
so universal was this belief that so soon as the plague broke out in any city or town the neighbouring monasteries were immediately plundered, and the priors and brethren either put to death or compelled to flee for their lives.
some such panic as this had stampeded the troops stationed in and about the little town of san ildefonso, when the first cases of cholera proved fatal little more than a week before. a part of these had rushed away to plunder the rich monastery of el parral a few miles off, lying in the hollow beneath segovia. others, breaking up into parties of from a dozen to a hundred, had betaken themselves over the mountains in the direction of madrid.
so the queen-regent and the handsome señor muñoz remained perforce at la granja, for the two-fold reason that the palace of madrid was reported to be in the hands of a rebellious mob, and that the disbanding troops had removed with them every sort and kind of conveyance, robbed the stables of the horses, and plundered the military armoury of every useful weapon.
they had not, however, meddled with the treasures of the palace, nor offered any indignity to the queen-regent, or to any of the inmates of la granja. but as the sergeant well knew, not thus would these be treated by the roving bands of gipsies, who in a few hours would be storming about the defenceless walls. no resource of oriental torture, no refinement of barbarity would be omitted to compel the queen and her consort to give up the treasures without which it was well known that they never travelled. obviously, therefore, there was no time to be lost.
they went swiftly round the angle of the palace, their feet making no sound on the clean delicious sward of those lawns which make the place such a marvel in the midst of tawny, dusty, burnt-up spain. in a brief space the party arrived unnoted and unchecked under the wall of the northern part.
lights still burnt in two or three windows on the second floor, though all was dark on the face which the palace turned towards the south and the town of san ildefonso.
"these are the windows of the rooms occupied by my lady the queen-regent," whispered the portress, rebeca, pointing upwards; "but promise me to commit no murder or do any hurt to the little maid."
"be quiet, woman," muttered rollo, more roughly than was his wont; "we are come to save both of them from worse than death. sergeant cardono, bring the ladder!"
the sergeant disappeared, and it was not many seconds before he was back again adjusting its hooks to the side of an iron balcony in front of one of the lighted rooms. almost before he had finished rollo would have mounted, impetuously as was his custom, but the sergeant held him back by the arm.
"i crave your forgiveness," he whispered, "but if you will pardon me saying so, i have much more experience in such matters than you. permit me in this single case to precede you! we know not what or whom we may meet with above!"
nevertheless, though the sergeant mounted first, rollo followed so closely that his hands upon the rounds of the ladder were more than once in danger of being trodden upon by the sergeant's half-boots.
presently they stood together on the iron balcony and peered within. a tall dark man leaned against an elaborately carved mantelpiece indolently stroking his glossy black whiskers. a lady arrayed in a dressing-gown of pink silk reaching to her feet was seated on a chair, and submitting restlessly enough to the hands of her maid, who was arranging her hair for the night, in the intervals of a violent but somewhat one-sided quarrel which was proceeding between the pair.
every few moments the lady would start from her seat and with her eyes flashing fire she would advance towards the indolent dandy by the mantelpiece as if with purpose of personal assault. at such seasons the stout old abigail instantly remitted her attentions and stood perfectly well trained and motionless, with the brush and comb in her hand, till it pleased her lady to sit down again.
all the while the gentleman said no word, but watched the development of the scene with the utmost composure, passing his beautiful white fingers through his whiskers and moustache after the fashion of a comb. the lady's anger waxed higher and higher, and with it her voice also rose in an equal ratio. what the end would have been it is difficult to prophesy, for the sergeant, realising that time was passing quickly, produced an instrument with a broad flat blade bent at an acute angle to the handle, and inserting it sharply into the crack of the french window, opened it with a click which must have been distinctly audible within, even in the height of the lady's argument.
the queen's ante-chamber
out of the darkness rollo and the sergeant stepped quickly into the room. whereupon, small wonder that the lady should scream and fall back into her chair, the waiting-maid drop upon the floor as if she had been struck by a carlist bullet, or the gentleman with the long and glossy whiskers suspend his caresses and gaze upon the pair with dropped jaw and open mouth!
at his entrance rollo had taken off his hat with a low bow. the sergeant saluted and stood at attention. there was a moment's silence in the room, but before rollo had time to speak the queen-regent recovered her self-possession. the daughter of the bourbons stood erect. her long hair streamed in dark glossy waves over her shoulders. her bosom heaved visibly under the thin pink wrapper. anger struggled with fear in her eyes. verily maria cristina of naples had plenty of courage.
"who are you," she cried, "that dare thus to break in upon the privacy of the regent queen of spain? duke, call the guard!"
but her husband only shrugged his shoulders and continued to gaze upon the pair of intruders with a calm exterior.
"your majesty," said rollo, courteously, naturally resuming the leadership when anything requiring contact with gentlefolk came in the way, "i am here to inform you that you are in great danger--greater than i can for the moment make clear to you. the palace is, as i understand, absolutely without defence--the town is in the same position. it is within our knowledge that a band of two hundred gipsies are on the march to attack you this night in order to plunder the château, and put to death every soul within its walls. we have come, therefore, together with our companions outside, to offer our best services in your majesty's defence!"
"but," cried the queen-regent, "all this may very well be, but you have not yet told me who you are and what you are doing here!"
"for myself," answered rollo, "i am a scottish gentleman, trained from my youth to the profession of arms. those who wait without are for the present comrades and companions, whom, with your majesty's permission, i shall bid to enter. for to be plain, every moment is of the utmost importance, that we may lose no time in putting the château into such a state of defence as is possible, since the attack of the gipsies may be expected at any moment!"
rollo stepped to the window to summon his company, but found them already assembled on the balcony. it was no time for formal introductions, yet, as each entered, rollo, like a true herald, delivered himself of a brief statement of the position of the individual in the company. but when la giralda entered, the stout waiting-maid rose with a shriek from the floor where she had been sitting.
"oh, my lady," she cried, "do not trust these wicked people. they have come to murder us all. that woman is the very old goatherdess with whom the princess isabel was so bewitched this morning! i knew some evil would come of such ongoings!"
"hush, susana," said her mistress with severity; "when you are asked for any information, be ready to give it. till then hold your peace."
which having said she turned haughtily back again to the strangers, without vouchsafing a glance at her husband or the trembling handmaiden.
"i can well believe," she said, "that you have come here to do us a service in our present temporary difficulty, and for that, if i find you of approved fidelity, you shall not fail to be rewarded. meantime, i accept your service, and i place you and the whole of your men under the immediate command of his excellency the duke of rianzares!"
she turned to the tall exquisite who still continued to comb his whiskers by the chimney-piece. up till now he had not spoken a word.
rollo scarcely knew what to reply to this, and as for the sergeant, he had the hardest work to keep from bursting into a loud laugh.
but they were presently delivered from their difficulty by the newly nominated commander-in-chief himself.
"this scene is painful to me," said señor muñoz, placidly, "it irritates my nerves. i have a headache. i think i shall retire and leave these gentlemen to make such arrangements as may be necessary till the return of our guards, which will doubtless take place within an hour or so. if you need me you can call for me!"
having made this general declaration he turned to rollo and addressed himself particularly to him.
"my rooms, i would have you know, are in the north wing," he continued; "i beg that there shall be no firing or other brutal noise on that side. anything of the kind would be most annoying. so pray see to it."
then he advanced to where his wife stood, her eyes full of anger at this desertion.
"my angel," he said, calmly, "i advise you sincerely to do the same. retire to your chamber. take a little tisane for the cooling of the blood, and leave all other matters to these new friends of ours. i am sure they appear very honest gentlemen. but as you have many little valuables lying about, do not forget to lock your door, as i shall mine. adieu, my angel!"
and so from an inconceivable height of dandyism his excellency the duke of rianzares would have stooped to bestow a good night salutation on his wife's cheek, had not that lady, swiftly recovering from her stupor, suddenly awarded him a resounding box on the ear, which so far discomposed the calm of his demeanour that he took from his pocket a handkerchief edged with lace, unfolded it, and with the most ineffable gesture in the world wiped the place the lady's hand had touched. then, with the same abiding calm, he restored the cambric to his pocket, bowed low to the queen, and lounged majestically towards the door.
maria cristina watched him at first with a haughty and unmoved countenance. her hands clenched themselves close to her side, as if she wished the blow had been bestowed with the shut rather than with the open digits.
but as her husband (for so he really was, though the relationship was not acknowledged till many years after, and at the feet of the holy father himself in the vatican) approached the door, opened it, and was on the point of departing without once turning round, cristina suddenly broke into a half hysterical cry, ran after him, threw her arms tenderly about his neck, and burst out weeping on his broad bosom.
the gentleman, without betraying the least emotion, patted her tolerantly on the shoulder, and murmured some words in her ear, at the same time looking over her head at the men of the company with a sort of half-comic apology.
"oh! fernando, forgive me," she cried, "life of my life--the devil must have possessed me! i will cut off the wicked hand that did the deed. give me a knife, good people--to strike the best and handsomest--oh, it was wicked--cruel, diabolical!"
whatever may have been the moral qualities of the royal blow, rollo felt that in their present circumstances time enough had been given to its consideration, so he interposed.
"your majesty, the gipsies may be upon us at any moment. it would be as well if you would summon all the servants of the palace together and arm them with such weapons as may be available!"
maria cristina lifted her head from the shoulder of her ferdinand, as if she did not at first comprehend rollo's speech, and was resolved to resent an intrusion at such a moment. whereupon the scot repeated his words to such good purpose that the queen-regent threw up her hands and cried, "alas! this happens most unfortunately. we have only old eugenio and a couple of lads in the whole palace since the departure of the guards!"
"never mind," said rollo; "let us make the best of the matter. we will muster them; perhaps they will be able to load and fire a musket apiece! if i mistake not, the fighting will be at very short range!"
it was upon this occasion that señor fernando muñoz showed his first spark of interest.
but on this occasion his fond wife would not permit him to stir.
"the wicked murderers may have already penetrated to that part of the castle," she palpitated, her arms still about his neck, "and you must not risk your precious life. let susana go and fetch them. she is old, and has doubtless made her peace with religion."
"nay, it is not fitting," objected susana with spirit. "i am a woman, and not so old as my lady says. i cannot go gadding about into the chambers of all and sundry. besides, there has been purpose of marriage openly declared between me and the señor eugenio for upwards of thirty years. what then would be said if i----"
"nay, then," cried maria cristina, "stay where you are, susana. for me, i am none so nice. i will go myself. do not follow me, fernando!" and with that she ran to the door, and her feet were heard flitting up the stairway which led to the servants' wing of the palace. muñoz made as if to accompany her, but remembering his wife's prohibition, he did not proceed farther than the door, where, with a curious smile upon his face, he stood listening to the voice of the queen-regent upraised in alternate appeal and rebuke.
during the interval, while the sergeant and el sarria were looking to their stores and munitions, rollo approached the waiting-maid, susana, and inquired of her the way to the armoury, where he expected to find store of arms and powder.
"if this young maid will go also, i will conduct you thither, young man!" said susana, primly.
and holding concha firmly by the hand, she took up a candle and led the way.
but to rollo's surprise they found the armoury wholly sacked. all the valuable guns had been removed by the deserting guards. the gun racks were torn down. the floor of beaten earth was strewed with flints of ancient pieces of last century's manufacture. the barrels of bell-mouthed blunderbusses leaned against the wall, the stocks, knocked off in mere wantonness, were piled in corners; and in all the chests and wall-presses there was not an ounce of powder to be found.
while rollo was searching, señor muñoz appeared at the door, languid and careless as ever. he watched the young scot opening chests and rummaging in lockers for a while without speaking. then he spoke slowly and deliberately.
"it strikes me that when i was an officer of the bodyguard, in the service of the late fernando the seventh, my right royal namesake (and in some sort predecessor), there was another room used for the private stores and pieces of the officers. if i mistake not it was entered by that door to the right, but the key appears to be wanting!"
he added the last clause, as he watched the frantic efforts of rollo, who had immediately thrown himself upon the panels, while the señor was in the act of rolling out his long-drawn castilian elegances of utterance.
"hither, cardono," cried rollo, "open me this door! quick, sergeant!"
"have a care," said the duke; "there is powder inside!"
but rollo, now keen on the scent of weapons of defence, would not admit a moment's delay, and the sergeant, inserting his curiously crooked blade, opened that door as easily as he had done the french window.
muñoz stepped forward with some small show of eagerness and glanced within.
"yes," he said, "the officers' arms are there, and a liberal allowance of powder."
"they are mostly sporting rifles," said rollo, looking them over, "but there is certainly plenty of powder and ball."
"and what kills ibex and bouquetin on the sierras," drawled muñoz, "will surely do as much for a mountain gipsy if, as you said just now, the range is likely to be a short one!"
rollo began somewhat to change his opinion about the husband of the queen. at first he had seemed both dandy and coward, a combination which rollo held in the utmost contempt. but when rollo had once seen him handle a gun, he began to have more respect for his recent excellency the duke of rianzares.
"can you tell us, from your military experience," rollo asked, "which is the most easily vulnerable part of this palace."
"it is easily vulnerable in every part," answered muñoz, carelessly snapping the lock of a rifle again and again.
"nay, but be good enough to listen, sir," cried rollo, with some heat. "there are women and children here. you do not know the gipsies. you do not know by whom they are led. you do not know the oaths of death and torture they have sworn----"
"perhaps--at any rate they are led by your own daughter!" said rollo, briefly, growing nettled at the parvenu grandee's seeming indifference.
"my daughter!" cried muñoz, losing in a moment his bright complexion, and becoming of a slaty pallor, "my daughter, that mad imp of hell--who thrice has tried to assassinate me!"
and as he spoke, he let the gun fall upon the floor at his feet. then he rallied a little.
"who has told you this lie?" he exclaimed, with a kind of indignation.
"a man who does not make mistakes--or tell lies--sergeant cardono!" said rollo. "he has both seen and spoken to her! she has sworn to attack the palace to-night."
"then i am as good as dead already. i must go directly to my wife!" answered muñoz.
but rollo stepped before him.
"not without carrying an armful of these to where they will be of use," he said, pointing to the guns. and the duke of rianzares, without any further demur, did his will. rollo in turn took as many as he could carry, and the sergeant brought up the rear carrying a wooden box of cartridges, which had evidently been packed ready for transportation.
they returned to the large lighted room, where mortimer, etienne, and el sarria had been left on guard. concha and the waiting-maid seconded their efforts by bringing store of pistols and ammunition.
on their way they passed through a hall, which by day seemed to be lighted only from the roof. rollo bade them deposit the arms there, and bring the other candles and lamps to that place.
"every moment that a light is to be seen at an outside window adds to our danger," he said, and concha ran at his bidding.
before she had time to return, however, the queen-regent came in with her usual dignity, the three serving-men following her. rollo saw at once that nothing was to be expected of eugenio, whose ancient and tottering limbs could hardly support the weight of his body. but there was more hope of the two others. they proved to be stout young fellows from the neighbourhood, and professed the utmost eagerness for a bout with the gipsies. from their youth they had been accustomed to the use of firearms--it is to be feared without due licence--in the royal hunting preserves of peñalara and the guadarrama.
but this made no difference to rollo, who instantly set about equipping them with the necessary arms, and inquiring minutely about the fastenings of the lower doors and windows. these it appeared were strong. the doors themselves were covered without with sheet-iron, while all the windows were protected not only by shutters but by solid stanchions of iron sunk in the wall.
on the whole rollo was satisfied, and next questioned the servants concerning the state of the town and whether any assistance was to be hoped for from that quarter. in this, however, he was disappointed. it appeared that the whole municipality of san ildefonso was so utterly plague-stricken that scarce an able-bodied man remained, or so much as a halfling boy capable of shouldering a musket. only the women stood still in the breach, true nursing mothers, not like her of ramah, refusing to be comforted, but continuing rather to tend the sick and dying till they themselves also died--aye, even shrouding the dead and laying out the corpses. a faithful brother or two of the hermitage abode to carry the last sacraments of the church through the deserted and grass-grown streets, though there were few or none now to fall on their knees at the passage of su majestad, or to uncover the head at the melancholy tolling of the funeral bell.
with characteristic swiftness of decision rollo made up his mind that the best plan for the defence of the palace would be to place his scanty forces along the various jutting balconies of the second floor, carefully darkening all the rooms in their rear, so that, till the moment of the attack itself, the assailants would have no idea that they were expected. it was his idea that the small doors on the garden side of the house, which led right and left to the servants' quarters, would be attacked first. he was the more assured of this because the sergeant had recognised, in the bivouac of the gipsies, a man who had formerly been one of the royal grooms both at la granja and at aranjuez. he would be sure to be familiar, therefore, with that part of the interior of the palace. besides, being situated upon the side most completely removed from the town, the assailants would have the less fear of interruption.
while rollo was thus cogitating, concha came softly to his side, appearing out of the gloom with a suddenness that startled the young man.
"i have pulled up the ladder by which we ascended and laid it across the balcony," she said. "was that right?"
"you--alone?" cried rollo in astonishment.
she nodded brightly.
"certainly," she answered; "women are not all so great weaklings as you think them--nor yet such fools!"
"indeed, you have more sense than i," rollo responded, gloomily; "i ought to have remembered that before. but, as you know, i have had many things to think of."
"i am glad," she said, more quietly and submissively than ever in her life, "that even in so small a matter i am permitted to think a little for you!"
whereupon, though the connection of idea is not obvious, rollo remembered the moment when he had faced the black muzzles of cabrera's muskets in the chill of the morning, and the bitter regret which had then arisen to his mind. out there in the dark of the palace-garden, death fronted him as really though not perhaps so immediately. he resolved quickly that he should not have the same regret again, if the worst came to the worst. there was no one in the alcove where concha had found him. the queen-regent had disappeared to her suite of rooms, and thither after a time señor muñoz had followed her. the rest were at that moment being placed in their various posts by the sergeant according to rollo's directions.
so he stooped quickly and kissed concha upon the mouth.
it was strange. the girl's inevitable instinct on such matters seemed to have deserted her. in a somewhat wide experience concha could always tell to a second when an attempt of this kind was due. most women can, and if they are kissed it is because they want to be. (in which, sayeth the wise man, is great wisdom!) a fire-alarm rings in their brain with absolute certainty, giving them time to evite the conflagration by a healthy douche of cold water. but rollo the firebrand again proved himself the masterly incalculable. or else--but who could suspect concha?
it is, again sayeth the wise man, the same with kicking a dog. the brute sees the kick coming before a muscle is in motion. he watches the eye of his opponent and is forearmed. he vanisheth into space. but when rollo interviewed an animal in this fashion, he kicked first and thought afterwards. hence no sign of his intention appeared in his eye, and the dog's yelp arrived almost as a surprise to himself.
so, with greatly altered circumstance, was it in the present instance. rollo kissed first and made up his mind to it some time after. consequently concha was taken absolutely by surprise. she uttered a little cry and stepped back indignantly into the lighted room where the spare muskets were piled.
but again rollo was before her. if he had attempted to make love, she would have scathed him with the soundest indignation, based on considerations of time, place, and personality.
but the young scot gave her no opportunity. in a moment he had again become her superior officer.
"take your piece," he said, with an air of assured command, "together with sufficient ammunition, and post yourself at the little staircase window over the great door looking towards the town. if you see any one approaching, do not hesitate to fire. good-bye. god bless you! i will see you again on my rounds!"
and rollo passed on his way.
then with a curious constraint upon her tongue, and on her spirit a new and delightful feeling that she could do no other than as she was bidden, concha found herself, with loaded musket and pistol, obediently taking her place in the general defence of the palace.
like a falling star
rollo judged aright. it was indeed no time for love-making, and, to do the young man justice, he did not connect any idea so concrete with the impulsive kiss he had given to concha.
she it was who had saved his life at sarria. she was perilling her own in order to accompany and assist his expedition. she had drawn up the ladder he had foolishly forgotten. yet, in spite of the fact that he was a young man and by no means averse from love, rollo was so clean-minded and so little given to think himself desirable in the eyes of women, that it never struck him that the presence of la giralda and concha might be interpreted upon other and more personal principles than he had modestly represented to himself.
true, rollo was vain as a peacock--but not of his love-conquests. punctilious as any spaniard upon the smallest point of honour, in a quarrel he was as ready as a parisian maître d'armes to pull out sword or pistol. nevertheless when a man boasted in his presence of the favours of a woman, he thought him a fool and a braggart--and was in general nowise backward in telling him so.
thus it happened that, though concha had received no honester or better intentioned kiss in her life, the giver of it went about his military duties with a sense of having said his prayers, or generally, having performed some action raising himself in his own estimation.
"god bless her," he said to himself, "i will be a better man for her sweet sake. and, by heavens, if i had had such a sister, i might have been a better fellow long ere this! god bless her, i say!"
but what wonder is it that little concha, in her passionate spanish fashion understanding but one way of love, and being little interested in brothers, felt the tears come to her eyes as rollo's step waxed fainter in the distance, and said over and over to herself with smiling pleasure, "he loves me--he loves me! oh, if only my mother had lived, i might have been worthier of him. then i would not have played with men's hearts for amusement to myself, as alas, i have too often done. god forgive me, there was no harm, indeed. but--but--i am not worthy of him--i know i am not!"
so rollo's hasty kiss on the dark balcony was provocative of a healthy self-reproach on both sides--which at least was so much to the good.
concha peered out into the darkness towards the south where a few stars were blinking sleepily through the ground-mist. she could dimly discern the outline of the town lying piled beneath her, without a light, without a sound, without a sign of life. from beyond the hills came a weird booming as of a distant cannonade. but concha, the careless maiden who had grown into a woman in an hour, did not think of these things. for to the spanish girl, whose heart is touched to the core, there is but one subject worthy of thought. wars, battles, sieges, the distresses of queens, the danger of royal princesses--all are as nothing, because her lips have been kissed.
"all the same," she muttered to herself, "he ought not have done it--and when i have a little recovered i will tell him so!"
but at that moment, poised upon the topmost spike of the great gate in front of her, she saw the silhouette of a man. he was climbing upwards, with his hand on the cross-bar of the railing, and cautiously insinuating a leg over the barrier, feeling meanwhile gingerly for a foothold on the palace side.
"he is come to do evil to--to rollo!" she said to herself, with a slight hesitation even in thought when she came for the first time upon the christian name.
but there was no hesitation in the swift assurance with which she set the rifle-stock to her shoulder, and no mistake as the keen and practised eye glanced along the barrel.
she fired, and with a groan of pain the man fell back outside the enclosure.
the sound of concha's shot was the first tidings to the besieged that the gipsies had really arrived. rollo, stealing lightfoot from post to post, pistol in hand, the sergeant erect behind the vine-trellis on the balcony between the rearward doors, etienne and john mortimer a little farther along on the same side of the château, all redoubled their vigilance at the sound. but for the space of an hour or more nothing farther was seen or heard north, south, east, or west of the beleaguered palace of la granja.
the gipsies had not had the least idea that their intention was known. they expected no obstacles till the discharge of concha's piece put them on their guard, and set them to concerting other and more subtle modes of attack. it was too dark for those in the château to see whether the wounded man lay where he had fallen or whether he had been removed by his comrades.
rollo hastened back to concha and inquired in a low voice what it was she had fired at. whereupon she told him the story of the man climbing the railings and how she had stayed his course so suddenly. rollo made no remark, save that she had done entirely right. then he inquired if she had recharged her piece, and hearing that she wanted nothing and was ready for all emergencies, he departed upon his rounds without the least leave-taking or approach to love-making. in her heart concha respected him for this, but at the same time she could not help feeling that a spaniard would have been somewhat warmer in his acknowledgments. nevertheless she comforted herself with the thought that he had trusted her with one of the most important posts in the whole defence, and she prayed fervently to the virgin that she might be able to do her duty there.
she thought also that, when the morning came, perhaps he would have more time. for her, she could wait--here she smiled a little. yes, she acknowledged it. she who had caught so many, was now taken in her own net. she would go to the world's end for this young scot. nor in her heart of hearts was she ashamed of it. above and beyond all courtesies and sugared phrases she loved his free-handed, careless, curt-spoken, hectoring way. after his one kiss, he had treated her exactly like any other of his company. he did not make love well, but--she liked him none the worse for that. in such matters (sayeth the wise man) excellence is apt to come with experience.
and he would learn. yes, decidedly he might yet do credit to his teacher. to-morrow morning would arrive, and for the present, well--she would keep her finger upon the trigger and a pair of remarkably clear-sighted eyes upon the grey space of greensward crossed by black trellises of railing immediately before her. that in the mean time was her duty to her love and (she acknowledged it), her master.
apart from these details of his feeling for concha, however (which gave him little concern), rollo was far from satisfied with the condition of affairs. he would rather (so he confided to the sergeant) have defended a sheepfold or a simple cottage than this many-chambered, many-passaged, mongrel château. his force was scattered out of sight, though for the most part not out of hearing of each other. it was indeed true that, owing to his excellent dispositions, and the fortunate situation of the balconies, he was able to command every part of the castle enclosure, and especially the doors by which it was most likely that the chief attempt would be made.
so occupied had rollo been with his affairs, both private and of a military character, that he had actually wholly forgotten the presence of the queen-regent, her daughter and husband, within the palace of la granja. and this though he had come all that way across two of the wildest provinces of spain for the sole purpose of securing their persons and transporting mother and daughter to the camp of don carlos. nevertheless so instant was the danger which now overhung every one, that their intended captor had ceased to think of anything but how to preserve these royal lives and to keep them from the hands of the ruthless gipsies of the hills.
but circumstances quickly recalled the young man to his primary purpose, and taught him that he must not trust too much to those whose interests were opposed to his own.
rollo, as we have said, had reserved no station for himself, but constantly circulated round all the posts of his little army, ready at any time to add himself to the effective forces of the garrison at any threatened point. it was while he was thus passing from balcony to balcony on the second or defending storey that his quick ear caught the sound of a door opening and shutting on the floor beneath.
"ah," thought rollo to himself, suspiciously, "the queen and her people are safe in their chambers on this floor. no person connected with the defence ought to be down there. this is either treachery or the enemy have gained admission by some secret passage!"
with rollo blair to think was to act. so in another moment he had slipped off his shoes, and treading noiselessly on his stocking soles and with a naked sword in his hand he made his way swiftly and carefully down towards the place whence he had heard the noise.
descending by the grand escalier he found himself in one of the narrow corridors which communicated by private staircases with the left wing of the palace. rollo stood still in the deepest shadow. he was sure that he could hear persons moving near him, and once he thought that he could distinguish the sound of a muttered word.
the egyptian darkness about him grew more and more instinct with noises. there was a scuffling rustle, as of birds in a chimney, all over the basement of the house. a door creaked as if a slight wind had blown it. then a latch clicked, and the wind, unaided, does not click latches. rollo withdrew himself deeper into a niche at the foot of the narrow winding-stair which girdled a tower in the thickness of the wall.
the young man had almost resolved to summon his whole force from above, so convinced was he that the enemy had gained a footing within the tower and were creeping up to take them in the rear, when a sound altered his intention. there is nothing more unmistakable to the ear than the rebellious whimper of an angry child compelled to do something against its will.
rollo instantly comprehended the whole chain of circumstances. the treachery touched him more nearly than he had imagined possible. those for whom he and his party were imperilling their lives were in fact to leave them to perish as best they might in the empty shell of the palace. the royal birds were on the point of flying.
a door opened, and through it (though dimly) rollo could see the great waterfall glimmering and above the stars, chill over the snowy shoulder of peñalara. he could not make out who had opened the door, but there was enough light to discern that a lady wrapped in a mantilla went out first. then followed another, stouter and of shorter stature, apparently carrying a burden. then the whole doorway was obscured by the tall figure of a man.
"muñoz himself, by heaven!" thought rollo.
and with a leap he was after him, in his headlong course dashing to the ground some other unseen person who confronted him in the hall.
in a moment more he had caught the tall man by the collar and swung him impetuously round back within the doorway.
"move one sole inch and your blood be on your own head!" he muttered. and the captive feeling rollo's steel cold at his throat, remained prudently silent. not so the lady without. she uttered a cry which rang about the silent château.
"muñoz! my husband! fernando, where art thou? oh, they have slain him, and i only am to blame!"
she turned about and rushed back to the door, which she was about to enter, when a cry far more sudden and terrible rang out behind her.
"they have killed the princess! some one hath slain my darling!"
at the word rollo abandoned the man whom he was holding down, and with shouts of "cardono!" "el sarria!" "to me! they are upon us!" he flung himself outside.
there was little to be discerned clearly when he emerged into the cool damp darkness, only a dim heap of writhing bodies as in some combat of hounds or of the denizens of the midnight forest. but rollo once and again saw a flash of steel and a hand uplifted to strike. without waiting to think he gripped that which was topmost and therefore nearest to him, and finding it unexpectedly light, he swung the thing clear by the garment he had clutched. as he did so he felt a pain in his right shoulder, which at the time appeared no more than the bite of a squirrel or the sting of a bee. with one heave he threw the object, human or not he could not for the moment determine, behind him into the blackness of the hall.
"take hold there, somebody!" he cried, for by this time he could hear the clattering of the feet of his followers on the stairs and flagged where to find vance and the woman. now."
"were they responsible?"
"with deepest apologies, that need not trouble you." he stood ramrod straight.
"with deepest apologies, sato-sama, it troubles me very much." nogami examined his cigar. "this entire affair is very troublesome. in times past i remember a certain prejudice in favor of civility on the part of tokyo. have things really changed that much?"
"the moment for soft words is past. tonight ended that."
nogami drew on his cigar. "assuming you locate vance, what action do you propose taking?"
"we have one last chance here to deal with this problem. tomorrow the oyabun's people arrive, and then they will be in control. the decisions will no longer be ours. tonight i attempted to salvage the situation and failed. surely you know what that means, for us both. but if you will give me vance, perhaps we can both still be saved. if you refuse to cooperate, the oyabun will destroy you as well as vance. we both know that. i am offering you a way out."
"with deepest gratitude, i must tell you it is too late, sato-sama, which i am sure you realize," nogami said, drawing on his cigar and taking care not to disturb the ash. "so with due respect i must inquire concerning the purpose of this meeting."
"i need to locate this man vance. before the kobun from tokyo arrive. if you care about his well-being, then you should remember that his treatment at my hands will be more understanding than--"
"when do they arrive?"
"as i said, we received word that they will be here tomorrow, nogami- san. with respect, you have befriended a man who is attempting to blackmail the tokyo oyabun. that is a career decision which, i assure you, is most unwise."
"it is made. and i am aware of the consequences. so it would appear we both know all there is to know about the future."
"perhaps not entirely. someone has attempted to make us think vance and the woman were kidnapped, that they are being held somewhere beyond our reach. perhaps it is true, perhaps it is not. but if the transaction for the hundred million is to take place tomorrow, then he must appear here. the oyabun's people may be here by then. if they are not, we will be."
"but if he has been kidnapped," nogami's brow furrowed as he studied his cigar, its ash still growing, "then there could be a problem with the transaction. who do you suppose would want him, besides the tokyo oyabun?"
"that i could not speculate upon. the kgb seems to have a great interest in his activities. perhaps they are guarding him in some more secure place. or perhaps something else has happened." he bowed. "again you must forgive me for this rude intrusion. it is important for you to be aware that the situation is not resolved. that you still have a chance to save yourself."
"the ceo will receive his hundred million, if there is no interference. that much i have already arranged for. when that is completed, i will consider my responsibilities discharged."
"your responsibilities will never be discharged, nogami-san. giri lasts forever." his voice was cutting. "the sooner you realize that, the better."
"after tomorrow, it will be over, sato-sama." he stretched out his arm and tapped the inch-long ash into a trash basket beside the desk.
"tomorrow," jiro sato bowed, "it only begins."
wednesday 2:25 a.m.
yuri andreevich androv stood facing the bulkhead that sealed the forward avionics bays, feeling almost as though he were looking at a bank vault. as in all high-security facilities, the access doors were controlled electronically.
he'd gone on to explain that although static testing had shown they would achieve operating pressure in twenty milliseconds if they were fully primed in advance, that was static testing, not flight testing, and he'd been unable to sleep wondering about the adhesive around the seals.
it was just technical mumbo-jumbo, although maybe he should be checking them, he thought grimly. but he trusted the engineering team. he had to. besides, the pumps had been developed specially for the massive energia booster, and they'd functioned flawlessly in routine launchings of those vehicles at the baikonur cosmodrome.
of course, at baikonur they always were initiated while the energia was on the launch pad, at full atmospheric pressure. on the daedalus they'd have to be powered in during flight, at sixty thousand feet and 2,700 miles per hour. but still . . .
the late-night security team had listened sympathetically. they had no objection if androv wanted to roll a stair-truck under the fuselage of daedalus /, then climb into the underbay and inspect turbo pumps in the dead of night. everybody knew he was eccentric. no, make that insane. you'd have to be to want to ride a rocket. they'd just waved him in. after all, the classified avionics in the forward bays were secured.
he smiled grimly to think that he'd been absolutely right. hangar control was getting lax about security in these waning days before the big test. it always happened after a few months of mechanics trooping in and out.
that also explained why he now had a full set of magnetic access cards for all the sealed forward bays. just as he'd figured, the mechanics were now leaving them stuffed in the pockets of the coveralls they kept in their lockers in the changing room.
time to get started.
there was, naturally, double security, with a massive airlock port opening onto a pressure bay, where three more secure ports sealed the avionics bays themselves. the airlock port was like an airplane door, double reinforced to withstand the near vacuum of space, and in the center was a green metallic slot for a magnetic card.
he began trying cards, slipping them into the slot. the first, the second, the third, the fourth, and then, payoff. the three green diodes above the lock handle flashed.
he quickly shoved down the grip and pushed. the door eased inward, then rotated to the side, opening onto the pressure bay.
the temperature inside was a constant 5 degrees celsius, kept just above freezing to extend the life of the sensitive electronic gear in the next three bays. the high-voltage sodium lamps along the sides of the fuselage now switched on automatically as the door swung inward. he fleetingly thought about turning them off, then realized they weren't manually operated.
through the clouds of his condensing breath he could see that the interior of the entry bay was a pale, military green. the color definitely seemed appropriate, given what he now knew about this vehicle.
he quickly turned and, after making sure the outer door could be reopened from the inside, closed it behind him. when it clicked secure, the sodium lights automatically shut off with a faint hum.
just like a damned refrigerator, he thought.
but the dark was what he wanted. he withdrew a small penlight from his pocket and scanned the three bulkhead hatches leading to the forward bays. the portside bay, on the left, contained electronics for the multimode phased array radar scanner in the nose, radar processors, radar power supply, radar transmitters and receivers, doppler processor, shrouded scanner tracking mechanism, and an rf oscillator. he knew; he'd checked the engineering diagrams.
he also knew the starboard equipment bay, the one on the right, contained signal processors for the inertial navigation system (ins), the instrument landing system (ils), the foreplane hydraulic actuator, the structural mode control system (smcs), station controller, and the pilot's liquid-oxygen tanks and evaporator.
he suddenly found himself thinking a strange thought. since no air- breathing vehicle had ever flown hypersonic, every component in this plane was, in a sense, untested. to his mind, though, that was merely one more argument for shutting down the damned ai system's override functions before he went hypersonic. if something did go wrong, he wanted this baby on manual. he only needed the computer to alert him to potential problems. the solutions he'd have to work out with his own brain. and balls. after all, that's why he was there.
as he walked down the steel steps, he thumbed through the magnetic cards, praying he had the one needed to open the lower bay and access the computers. then he began inserting them one by one into the green metallic slot, trying to keep his hand steady in the freezing cold.
finally one worked. the three encoded diodes blinked, and a hydraulic arm automatically slid the port open. next the interior lights came on, an orange high-voltage sodium glow illuminating the gray walls.
this third bay, like the two above it, was big enough to stand in. as he stepped in, he glanced back up the stairs, then quickly resealed the door. off went the lights again, so he withdrew his penlight and turned to start searching for what he wanted.
directly in front of him was a steel monolith with banks of toggle switches: electrical power controls, communications controls, propulsion system controls, reaction-control systems. okay, that's the command console, which was preset for each flight and then monitored from the cockpit.
now where's the damned on-board ai module?
he scanned the bay. the ai system was the key to his plan. he had to make certain the computer's artificial intelligence functions could be completely shut down, disengaged, when the crucial moment came. he couldn't afford for the on-board system-override to abort his planned revision in the hypersonic flight plan. his job tonight was to make sure all the surprises were his, not somebody else's. there wouldn't be any margin for screw-ups. everything had to go like clockwork.
he edged his way on through the freezing bay, searching the banks of equipment for a clue, and then he saw what he was looking for. there, along the portside bulkhead. it was a white, rectangular console, and everything about it told him immediately it was what he wanted.
he studied it a second, trying to decide where to begin.
at that moment he also caught himself wondering fleetingly how he'd ever gotten into this crazy situation. maybe he should have quit the air force years ago and gone to engineering school like his father had wanted. right now, he had to admit, a little electrical engineering would definitely come in handy.
he took out a pocket screwdriver and began carefully removing the ai console's faceplate, a bronzed rectangle. eight screws later, he lifted it off and settled it on the floor.
the penlight revealed a line of chips connected by neat sections of plastic-coated wires. somewhere in this electronic ganglia there had to be a crucial node where he could attach the device he'd brought.
it had taken some doing, but he'd managed to assemble an item that should take care of his problem beautifully when the moment came. it was a radio-controlled, electrically operated blade that, when clamped onto a strand of wires, could sever them in an instant. the radio range was fifty meters, which would be adequate; the transmitter, no larger than a small tape recorder, was going to be with him in his flight suit. the instant he switched the turboramjets over to the scramjet mode, he was going to activate it and blow their fucking ai module out of the system. permanently.
he figured he had ten minutes before one of the security team came looking to see what he was doing; he'd timed this moment to coincide with their regular tea break. even the japanese didn't work around the clock.
now, holding the penlight and shivering from the cold, he began carefully checking the wires. carefully, so very carefully. he didn't have a diagram of their computer linkages, and he had to make sure he didn't accidentally interrupt the main power source, since the one thing he didn't want to do was disconnect any of the other flight control systems. he wanted to cut in somewhere between the ai module's power supply and its central processor. the power source led in here . . . and then up the side over to there, a high-voltage transformer . . . and then out from . . .
there. just after the step-up transformer and before the motherboard with the dedicated cpu and i/o. that should avoid any shorting in the main power system and keep the interruption nice and localized.
the line was almost half an inch thick, double-stranded, copper grounded with a coaxial sheath. but there was a clear section that led directly down to the cpu. that's where he'd place the blade, and hope it'd at least short- circuit the power feed even if it didn't sever the wires completely.
he tested the radio transmitter one last time, making sure it would activate the blade, then reached down and clamped the mechanism onto the wire, tightening it with thumb screws. when it was as secure as he could make it, he stood back and examined his handiwork. if somebody decided to remove the faceplate, they'd spot it in a second, but otherwise . . .
quickly, hands trembling from the cold, he fitted the cover back on the module and began replacing the screws with the tiny screwdriver. it wasn't magnetized, a deliberate choice, so the small screws kept slipping between his bulky fingers, a problem made more acute by the numbing cold.
three screws to go . . . then he heard the noise. footsteps on the aluminum catwalk in the pressure bay above. . . . shit.
he kept working as fast as he could, grimly holding the screws secure and fighting back the numbness and pain in his freezing fingers.
only one more. above, he could hear the sounds of someone checking each of the equipment bays, methodically opening and then resecuring them. first the starboard side bay was opened and closed, then the portside bay. now he heard footsteps advancing down the metal stairs leading to the computer bay. they were five seconds away from discovering him.
the last screw was in.
he tried to stand, and realized his knees were numb. he staggered backward, grabbing for something to steady himself . . . and the light came on.
"yuri andreevich, so this is where you are. what are you doing here?"
it was the gravel voice of his father. he felt like a child again, caught with his hand in his pants. what should he do? tell the truth?
"don't lie to me." andrei androv's ancient eyebrows gathered into the skeptical furrow yuri knew so well. "you're up to something, another of your tricks."
yuri stared at him a moment. how had he known? a sixth sense?
"i'm an old man. an old man worries. i had a feeling you might be in here tonight, tinkering with the vehicle. you told me you were planning something. i think the time has come to tell me what it is."
yuri took a deep breath and looked him over.
no, it was too risky. for them both. his secret had to be ironclad.
"it's better if you don't know."
"as you wish," the old man sighed. "but if you do something foolish . . ."
"i damned sure intend to try." he met his father's steely gaze.
"so did you do it?" andrei androv examined him, his ancient face ashen beneath his mane of white hair. "did you manage to sabotage the ai module?"
he caught himself laughing out loud. whatever else, his father was no fool. he'd been a russian too long to believe anything he heard or half of what he saw. intrigue was a way of life for him.
"let's go. they'll come looking for us soon. this is the wrong place to be found."
"go back to the west quadrant. listen to a string quartet." he opened the port and waited for his father to step out. then he followed, closing it behind them. "there's no reason for you to be involved. heads are going to roll, but why should yours be one of them?"
andrei petrovich androv moved lightly up the metal stair, the spring in his step belying his age. at the top he paused and turned back.
"you're acting out of principle, aren't you, yuri? for once in your life."
"i guess you could say that." he smiled, then moved on up the steps.
"someday, the russian people will thank you."
"someday. though i may not live to see it."
andrei androv stopped, his ancient eyes tearing as his voice dropped to a whisper. "of all the things you've ever done, my son, nothing could make me more proud of you than what you just said. i've thought it over, about the military uses for this vehicle, and i think the future of the world is about to be rewritten here. you must stop them. you're the only chance we have left."
wednesday 10:05 a.m.
the limousine had already left the savoy and was headed down the strand when alex novosty broke the silence. he leaned forward, pushed the button on the two-way microphone linking the passenger compartment to the driver, and spoke in russian.
"igor borisovich, there's been an alteration in our plans. we will not be going to westminster union. take us to moscow narodny bank. the trading branch on saint swithins lane."
"shto ve skazale?" igor, still nursing his head from the kidnapping, glanced into his rearview mirror. "the bank's main office is on king william street. we always--"
"just do as you're told." novosty cut him off, then killed the mike.
vera karanova stared at him, her dark eyes flooding with concern. "but you said the transaction was scheduled for westminster union bank, this morning at ten-thirty."
"that was merely a diversion." novosty leaned back. "the actual arrangement is turned around. for security reasons."
"i don't like this." her displeasure was obvious, and mounting. "there is no reason--"
"it's better, i assure you." he withdrew a white tin of balkan sobranie cigarettes from his coat, snapped it open, and withdrew one. made of fine turkish yenidje tobacco, they were what he always smoked on important days. this was an important day.
as he flicked his lighter and drew in the first lungful of rich smoke, he thought about how much he hated the dark-haired woman seated beside him, dressed in a gray armani business suit, sable coat, cartier jewelry. the bad blood between them traced back over five years, begin- ning with a t-directorate reshuffle in which she'd moved up to the number three slot, cutting him out of a well-deserved promotion. the rumor going around dzerzhinsky square was that she'd done it by making the right connections, so to speak. it was the kind of in-house screw- job alex novosty didn't soon forget, of forgive.
their black limo was now passing the royal courts of justice, on the left, headed onto fleet street. ahead was cannon street, which intersected the end of saint swithins lane. just a few blocks more. after today, he fully intended never to see her again.
"we've arranged for the transaction to take place through mnb's bond trading desk," novosty continued, almost as though to nobody in particular. "michael and i have taken care of everything."
"who approved this change?" she angrily gripped the handrest.
"i did," novosty replied sharply. "we're in charge." he masked a smile, pleased to see her upset. the morning traffic was now almost at a standstill, but they would be on time. "after all, he still has the money."
"and for all you know he may be in brazil by now. perhaps that's the reason he and the woman disappeared last night, with the help of an accomplice who assaulted igor borisovich."
"michael will be there," novosty said. "have no fear. he's not going anywhere till this is finished."
"after this is completed," she said matter-of-factly, "he will be finished. i hope you have planned for that."
novosty glanced over, wondering what she meant. had all the surprises been covered? he hoped so, because this deal was his gateway to freedom. the two million commission would mean a new beginning for him.
wednesday 10:18 a.m.
kenji nogami sat upright at his wide oak desk, waiting for the phone to ring. how would michael play it? admittedly it was smart to keep everything close to the chest, but still. he would have felt better if michael vance, jr., had favored him with a little more trust.
yes, it was definitely best. because he was staring across his desk at four of tanzan mino's tokyo kobun, all dressed in shiny black leather jackets. they'd arrived at the docklands office just after dawn, announcing they were there to hand-deliver the money to tokyo. jiro sato had directed them to westminster union.
the four all carried black briefcases, which did not contain business papers. they intended to accomplish their mission by whatever means necessary. jiro sato, the london oyabun, had not been invited to send his people along with them this morning. he was now humiliated and dis- graced, officially removed from the operation, on tokyo's orders. the regional office had failed, so tokyo had sent in a mino-gumi version of the delta force. they clearly had orders concerning what to do with michael vance.
he didn't like this new twist. for everything to go according to plan, violence had to be kept out of it. there was no way he and michael could go head to head with street enforcers. if michael was thinking of doing that, the man was crazy.
he glanced at his gold omega, noting that it read ten- nineteen. in eleven more minutes he'd know how michael intended to run the scenario.
but whatever happened, he wasn't going to be intimidated by these kobun hoods, dark sunglasses and automatics notwithstanding. those days were over. michael had given him a perfect opportunity to start building a new life. he didn't care if all hell was about to break loose.
wednesday 10:23 a.m.
"polovena decyat?" she examined him with her dark eyes.
"da." novosty nodded. "they will be here at ten-thirty. that is the schedule."
he was feeling nervous, which was unusual and he didn't like it. whenever he got that way, things always started going off the track.
one thing you had to say for michael: he'd arranged the deal with great finesse. he didn't trust anybody. until he notified victoria courier this morning, nobody knew where the money would be taken, not even the japanese banker nogami. still, the instruments were negotiable, leaving the possibility of trouble if the timing went sour.
he intended to make sure it didn't. the planning had been split-second up until now; this was no moment to relax his guard.
yes, it was good he was here. as he studied comrade karanova, he realized that something about her was still making him uneasy. so far it was merely a hunch, but his hunches had been right more often than he liked to think.
he tried to push the feeling aside. probably just paranoia. she obviously was here today for the same reason he was, to make sure the soviet money was returned safely. she probably was also still worried about the protocol, but that problem was hers, not his. from today on, the kgb would have to work out their in-fighting back home the best way they could. the ground rules were changing fast in moscow.
besides, dzerzhinsky square was about to become part of a previous life for him. if he could just clear this up, get his commission, he'd be set. forever. enough was enough. maybe he'd end up in the caribbean like michael, drinking margaritas and counting string bikinis.
the elevator door opened. facing them were michael vance and eva borodin.
"glad you could make it." vance glanced coldly at vera. "right on time. the money arrives in exactly seven minutes."
she nodded a silent greeting, pulling her sable coat tighter as she strode past. the bank officials lined up along the corridor watched her with nervous awe. even in london, t-directorate brass had clout.
they moved as a group down the long carpeted hallway leading to the counting room. on this floor everything was high-security, with uniformed guards at all the doorways. negotiable instruments weren't handled casually.
wednesday 10:30 a.m.
"they're here." eva was watching from the narrow window. saint swithins lane down below, virtually an alley, was so narrow it could accommodate only one vehicle at a time. across was banque worms, its unicorn insignia staring out, its lobby chandeliers glowing. nobody there even bothered to notice. just another armored truck interrupting the view.
then three blue-uniformed guards emerged from the cab and approached the rear doors from both sides, .38's in unsnapped holsters.
"mr. vance, they had better have the money, all of it." vera stepped over to the window and followed eva's gaze down.
"it'll be there."
"for your sake i hope so," she replied as she turned back.
"just hang around and watch," vance said.
just one more day, he told himself. one more lousy day. we'll have enough of the protocol translated by tomorrow, the press package ready. then we drop it on the papers and blow town.
from the hallway outside a bell chimed faintly as the elevator opened, a private lift that came directly up from the lobby. when he heard the heavy footsteps of the couriers, accompanied by mnb guards, he stepped over and quickly glanced out. the two blue-suits were each carrying a large satchel handcuffed to the left wrist. obviously the third had stayed downstairs, guarding the van.
"this way." the heavy-jowled director of the mnb bond trading desk stepped out and motioned them in. the play was on.
kenji nogami's issue of mino industries debentures had been registered with the issuing house association the previous day. this morning they would be acquired by vance, using a wire transfer between the moscow narodny bank on saint swithins lane and westminster union bank's bond desk. after that there would be a second transaction, whereby sumitomo bank, limited would accept the debentures as security for a loan of one hundred million dollars, to be wire-transferred back to westminster union and from there to moscow narodny bank. everything had been prearranged. the whole transaction would require only minutes.
unless there was a glitch.
vance had fully expected that tanzan mino would send a welcoming committee to nogami's premises, which was why he'd arranged for the money to be delivered here at moscow narodny's side-street branch. he figured the soviets, at least, would play it straight. kgb wanted its file closed.
then too, eva still had the protocol. their back-up insurance policy.
"mr. vance." vera karanova watched as the two security men unlatched their satchels and began withdrawing the bundles of open cashiers checks and bearer bonds. "i want to recount these securities, now."
"there're double-counted tallys already prepared"--he pointed toward the bundles--"yesterday by the main branch of moscow narodny. the printouts are attached."
"that was their count," she replied. "i intend to make my own, before we go any further."
which means time lost, he thought. doesn't she realize we've got to get this cash recycled, those bonds purchased and in place, before tanzan mino's kobun have a chance to move on us? if the deal to acquire ken's new mino industries debentures doesn't go through, giving us something to hold over the godfather's head . . .
she's literally playing into his hands.
"the instruments are all here, all negotiable, and all ready to go," he said, stealing a quick glance toward eva. one look at her eyes told him she also sensed trouble brewing. "now, we're damn well going to move and move fast. we credit the funds here, then wire them to westminster union. and by god we do it immediately."
"mr. vance, you are no longer giving the orders," she replied sharply. "i'm in charge here now. as a matter of fact, i have no intention of wiring the money anywhere. there will be no purchase of debentures. as far as i'm concerned, it has now been returned." she paused for emphasis. "but first we will count it."
"vera, my love," eva said, cutting her off, "if you try and double- cross us, you're making a very big mistake. you seem to forget we've got that protocol. what we didn't get around to telling you is that we've deciphered it."
"that's right. as it happens, i don't think you're going to like what it's got to say, but you might at least want to know the story before you read about it in the times day after tomorrow."
alex novosty's face had turned ashen. "michael, tanzan mino's people are probably headed here by now. unless they go to the main office on king william street first." he was nervously glancing out the window. "we're running out of time."
the game's about to get rough, vance thought. better take charge.
but before he could move, novosty was gripping a ruger p-85, a lightweight 9mm automatic, pulled from a holster under the back of his jacket. he'd worn it where the mnb guards would miss it.
the two victoria couriers were caught flat-footed. bankers weren't supposed to start drawing weapons. they stared in astonishment as he gestured for them to turn and face the wall.
"michael," he said as he glanced over, "would you kindly give me a hand and take those two .38's? we really must get this party moving."
vera karanova was smiling a thin smile. "i don't know how far you think you will get with this."
"we seem to be working toward different objectives," novosty answered. "michael has a solution to everybody's problem. i regret very much you've chosen not to help facilitate it."
"the only problem he solved was yours," she shot back. "mr. vance devised what amounts to an enormous check kiting scheme. you two planned to perpetrate fraud. you're nothing better than criminals, both of you, and i intend to make sure you haven't also given us a short count."
"comrade, fraud is a harsh word," vance interjected.
"you are not as amusing as you think," she replied.
"humor makes the world go round."
'this is not a joke. the negotiable instruments in this room are soviet funds. i intend to make sure those funds are intact. there will be a full and complete count. now."
the two couriers were now spread against the brown textured fabric of the wall, legs apart. he walked over and reached into the leather holsters at their hips, drawing out their revolvers. they were snub- nosed smith & wesson bodyguards, .38 caliber. he looked them over, cocked them, and handed one to eva.
"how about covering the door? i think it's time we got down to business and traded some bonds."
"with pleasure." she stepped over and glanced out. it was clear.
"what do you think, alex?" vance turned back. "word's going around there's a hot new issue of mino industries zero-coupons coming out today. what do you say we go long? in for a hundred. just take the lot."
"i heard the same rumor, this very morning," he smiled. "you're right. my instincts say it's a definite buy."
"fine." vance turned to mnb's jowled branch chief. "we'd like to do a little trading here this morning. mind getting the bond desk at westminster union on the line? tell nogami we're good for a hundred in mino industries debentures, the new issue. at par."
"michael." it was eva's voice, suddenly alarmed.
"we've got company. they look like field reps."
"good god." novosty strode to the door and looked out. a group of four leather-jacketed japanese were headed down the hallway, two disarmed mnb guards in front. also with them was kenji nogami.
turning back, he looked imploringly at vance. "what do we do?"
"figure they came prepared." he waved toward eva. "better lose that .38. put it on the table for now. maybe we can still talk this thing through."
she nodded, then stepped over and laid her weapon beside the bundles of securities. vance took one last look at the smith & wesson in his own hand and did the same. even ex-archaeologists could do arithmetic.
all this time vera karanova had said nothing. she merely stood watching the proceedings with a detached smile. finally she spoke. "now we can proceed with the counting," she said calmly.
"maybe you don't fully grasp the situation here, comrade." vance stared at her. "those gorillas aren't dropping in for tea. we've got to stand together."
she burst out laughing. "mr. vance, you are truly naive. no, you're worse. you actually thought you could sabotage the most powerful new global alliance of the twentieth century." her dark eyes were gradually turning glacial. "it will not be allowed to happen, believe me."
my god, he realized, that's why she wanted to get her hands on the protocol. to deep-six it. she's been biding her time, stringing us along. and today she managed to stall us long enough for mino's boys to figure out the switch. she's no longer working for t-directorate; she's part of tanzan mino's operation. all this time she's been working with them.
"the negotiable certificates in this room will be delivered to their rightful recipient by his personal jet," she continued. "today."
"over my dead body." he found himself thinking it might well be true.
"no, mr. vance, not exactly. your contribution will be more substantial than that."
he was speechless, for the first time.
the russian bankers in the room were taken totally by surprise. double- dealing kgb games had always been part of the landscape, but this was confusing in the extreme. whose money was it anyway?
"michael." novosty's voice was trembling. "this cannot be allowed to happen."
"i agree. we've definitely got a situation here."
he glanced around to see the four mino-gumi kobun poised in the doorway, all with h&k automatics now out of their briefcases. kenji nogami was standing behind them, his eyes defeated.
novosty still looked stunned. the range of options was rapidly narrowing to none.
vera indicated his ruger. "you would be wise to put that away. now."
"if they take these securities, my life's not worth a kopeck." novosty seemed to be thinking out loud. "what does it matter."
it wasn't a question. it was a statement.
remembering it all later, vance could barely recall the precise sequence of events. he did remember shoving eva back against the wall as the fireworks began.
novosty's first round caught the lead mino-gumi kobun squarely between the eyes. as he pitched backward, arms flailing, he tumbled against the others, giving novosty time to fire again. with deadly accuracy he caught another in the chest.
kenji nogami had already thrown himself on the thick hallway carpet, safely avoiding the fusillade. the russian bankers, too, had all hit the floor, along with the mnb guards and the two couriers.
then came a shot with a different sound--the dull thunk of a silencer. novosty jerked in surprise, pain spreading through his eyes. the silencer thunked again, and again.
it was vera karanova. she was holding a small .22 caliber walther pp, with a specially equipped silencer. and her aim was flawless. novosty had three slugs arranged neatly down the side of his head before he even realized what was happening. he collapsed forward, never knowing whose hand had been on the gun.
she's probably wanted to get rid of him for years, vance thought fleetingly. she finally got her golden opportunity, the double-crossing bitch.
he briefly considered grabbing back one of the .38's and avenging alex then and there, but he knew it would be suicidal.
"alex, no!" eva's voice sobbed.
"both of you, hands on the wall." comrade karanova was definitely in charge.
"michael," eva said, turning to comply, "what happened to our well-laid plans?"
"looks like too little, too late." he stretched beside her.
"what did she mean just now? about our 'contribution'?"
"probably the protocol. my guess is she wants to see it destroyed. let's hope that'll be the end of it. the godfather's got his money. and alex's problem is solved permanently."
now kenji nogami was entering the room, an island of zen-like calm amidst all the bedlam.
"michael, i'm so sorry." he stepped over. "when the money didn't show up as scheduled, they called jiro sato and he suggested they try here. there was nothing i could do."
vance nodded. "that's how i figured it'd be played. we didn't move fast enough on this end. it was my fault."
"too bad. we came close." he sighed. "but i'm not going to underwrite the rest of those bogus debentures. he'll have to kill me."
"and he'll probably do just that. the hell with it. you tried, we all tried. now it looks like tanzan mino's scam is going to go through whether we play or not. you might as well save your own skin. with any luck, we can still sort out our end, but you--you're going to have to be dealing with that bastard for years to come. think about it."
"i'm still deciding," he said finally. "let's wait and see how things go."
"alex opted for suicide. you shouldn't follow his lead."
"i'm not suicidal." he stepped back as vera proceeded to pat them down. "i think very carefully about my options."
"get the money." she was directing the two remaining mino-gumi kobun toward the table.
"gonna just rob the bank now, comrade?" vance turned and looked at her, then at the three bodies strewn on the floor. the kobun seemed to consider their late colleagues merely casualties of war. the dead men received almost no notice. "pretty costly little enterprise, wouldn't you say. not a very propitious start for your new era of world serenity."
"you would be advised to shut up," she responded sharply.
"i feel personally violated by all this." nogami had turned to her and his voice was like steel. "as of this moment, you can put out of your mind any illusion i might cooperate further. this outrage is beyond acceptability."
"we did what had to be done," vera said. "we still expect your cooperation and i do not think we will be disappointed."
"then your expectation is sadly misplaced," he replied icily. his eyes signified he meant every word.
"we will see." she dismissed him as she turned her attention to the money. the two kobun had carefully removed their shiny black leather jackets now and laid them on the table. underneath they wore tightly tailored white shirts, complete with underarm holsters containing 9mm llamas. the automatics were back in their briefcases, positioned by the door. stripped down for action, they were quickly and professionally tallying the certificates, one handling the open cashiers checks and the other the bearer bonds.
guess they intend to keep a close eye on the details, vance thought.
well, screw them. we've still got the protocol. we've got some leverage left.
but he was having trouble focusing on the future. he was still in shock from the sight of novosty being gunned down in cold blood. alex's abrupt death was a tragic end to an exceptional, if sometimes dubious, career. he'd really wanted novosty to make this one last score. the man deserved it. he was an operator who lived at the edge, and vance had always admired players who put everything on the table, no matter which side.
well, he told himself, the scenario had come close, damned close. but maybe it was doomed from the start. you only get so many chances to tempt the fates. today everybody's number came up, alex's for the last time.
rest in peace, aleksei ilyich.
then vera turned back to them. "now, i want the computer. we know it was moved to the house in kensington, but our search this morning did not locate it."
so they were on to us from the start, vance realized.
"looks like you've got a problem." he strolled over and plopped down in one of the straight-backed chairs along the opposite wall. "too bad."
"no, you have a problem." she examined him confidently. "because if those materials are not returned to us, we will be forced to take actions you may find harsh."
"give it your best shot," he went on, glancing at eva and hoping they could keep up the bravado, "because we've got a few cards in our hand too. forget the money--that's history now--but we could still be in a position to blow your whole project sky high."
"you two are the only ones outside our organization who know about the protocol. that knowledge will not be allowed to go any farther."
"don't be so sure. for all you know, we've already stashed a copy somewhere. left word that if anything happens to either one of us, the package gets sent to the papers. made public. think what some premature headlines would do for your little project."
"we have thought about it, mr. vance. that contingency has been covered."
"well, if i don't know what the other player's got, i tend to trust my own cards."
but why play at all? he suddenly found himself musing. fold this hand and go for the next move.
before leaving crete he'd transmitted a copy of the protocol, still in its encrypted form, to his office computer in nassau. at the time it'd merely seemed like prudence; now it might turn out to be a lifeline. one phone call and it could be transmitted back here this very afternoon. the magic of satellites in space. knock out another quick translation and they'd only have lost one day. what the hell. use that as a fallback position. time, that's all it would take, just a little more time.
"but what does it matter? the game's up anyway." he nodded toward vera, then turned to eva, sending her a pointed signal.
"what was it shakespeare said about discretion and valor," she concurred, understanding exactly what he was thinking.
"the man knew when to fish and when to cut bait."
"true enough. shall you tell them or shall i?"
"you can do the honors."
she walked over and picked up her briefcase. "you didn't really think we'd leave it, did you, comrade? so just take it and good riddance. a little gift from the nsa. who says america's getting stingy with its foreign aid?"
comrade karanova motioned for the two kobun to take the case. "see if it's there."
as they moved to comply, vance found himself wondering if this really was going to turn off the heat. somehow it no longer seemed adequate.
"hai so," he grunted through his teeth as he lifted it, "something is here." vance noticed that two digits of the little finger on his left hand were missing, along with another digit on his ring finger. good thing ken was never a street man, he thought fleetingly. guess bankers get to pay for their mistakes with something besides sections of fin- ger.
"then take it out," vera commanded. "we are running out of time."
you've got that right, lady, vance thought. three men were just killed. that personal boeing of tanzan mino's better be warming up its pratt & whitney's right now. london's about to get too hot for you.
one of the kobun withdrew the zenith. he placed it on the mahogany table, then unlatched the top and lifted it up, only to stare at the blank gray screen, unsure what he was supposed to do next.
vera knew. she reached for the switch on the side and clicked it on, then stood back and turned to eva.
"call up the file. i want to see if you have really broken the encryption, the way you said."
"truth time," she laughed, then punched up the translation.
and there it was.
comrade karanova studied it a moment, as though not quite believing her eyes. but she plainly had seen it before. "congratulations. we were sure no one would be able to break the encryption, not even you." she glanced around. "you are very clever."
"okay," vance interjected, "i'm sure we all have better things to do this morning. so why don't you take the damned thing and get out of here. it's what you wanted. just go and we'll all try and forget any of this ever happened."
she flipped down the computer's screen, then turned back. "unfortunately nothing is ever that simple. i'm sorry to have to tell you two that we haven't seen the last of each other." she paused, then continued. "in fact, we are about to become much better acquainted."
"what do you mean?"
"you once told me, back when we met on the plane from athens, you would welcome that. you should be happy that your wish is now about to be granted. you both are going to be our guests."
"that's kind of you." he stared at her, startled. "but we can probably bear up to the separation."
"no, i must insist. you were right about the difficulties. your death now would be awkward, for a number of reasons. alex will be trouble enough to explain, but that is purely an internal soviet matter. moscow narodny can cover it. however, eliminating you two would raise awkward inquiries. on the other hand, you represent a security risk to the project. consequently we have no option. surely you understand."
he understood all too well. this was the one turn he hadn't figured on.
almost eight years. it had been that long ago. but what had ken said? the tokyo oyabun never forgot. what this really meant was that tanzan mino wanted to settle the score first hand. what did he have planned?
vance had a sudden feeling he didn't want to know. it was going to be a zero-sum game. everything on the table and winner take all.
the uzi. the goddam uzi. why hadn't they brought it?
it was still back in kensington, where they'd stashed it in the false bottom of a new suitcase. but if the mino-gumi had been searching only for a computer, maybe they'd missed it. so tanzan mino's hoods could still be in for a surprise. just make an excuse to go back.
vera was aware an uzi had been part of their deal for the limo, but maybe that fact had momentarily slipped her mind, what with all the important things she had to think about. or maybe she'd assumed alex had kept it, or maybe she thought it was still in the car. whatever she thought, things were moving too fast now.
"i get the picture," he said, rising from his chair. with a
carefully feigned nonchalance, he strolled over to the table. "guess it's time we got our toothbrushes."
"you won't have to bother, mr. vance," vera continued. "your suitcases were sent to the plane an hour ago. we found them conveniently packed. don't worry. everything has already been taken care of."
okay, scratch the uzi. looks like it's now or never. settle it here.
he shot a glance at eva, then at ken, trying to signal them. they caught it, and they knew. she began strolling in the direction of vera, who was now standing in the doorway, as though readying to depart.
"we appreciate the snappy service," vance said. he looked down at the computer, then bent over. when he came up, it was in his right hand, sailing in an arc. he brought it around with all his might, aimed for the nearest japanese kobun. he was on target, catching the man squarely in the stomach.
with a startled, disbelieving look the japanese stumbled backward, crashing over a large chair positioned next to the table. the other kobun instantly reached for his holstered llama, but by then kenji nogami had moved, seizing him and momentarily pinning his arms with a powerful embrace.
for her own part, eva had lunged for vera and her purse, to neutralize the walther she carried. comrade karanova, however, had already anticipated everything. she whisked back the purse, then plunged her hand in. what she withdrew, though, was not a pistol but a shiny cylindrical object made of glass.
it was three against three, a snapshot of desperation.
we've got a chance, vance thought. keep him down. and get the llama.
as the kobun tried to rise, gasping, vance threw himself over the upturned chair, reaching to pin the man's arms. with a bear-like embrace he had him, the body small and muscular in his arms. out of the corner of his eye he saw kenji nogami still grappling with the other kobun. the computer now lay on the floor, open and askew.
where's eva? he tried to turn and look for her, but there was no sound to guide him. then the kobun wrenched free one arm and brought a fist against the side of his face, diverting him back to matters at hand.
hold him down. just get the gun.
he tried to crush his larger frame against the other's slim body, forcing the air out of him. focus.
but the wiry man was stronger than he looked. with a twist he rolled over and pinned vance's shoulders against the carpet. vance felt the shag, soft against his skin, and couldn't believe how chilly it felt. but now he had his hand on the kobun's throat, holding him in a powerful grip while jamming a free elbow against the holster.
cut off his oxygen. don't let him breathe.
the old moves were coming back, the shortcuts that would bring a more powerful opponent to submission. he pressed a thumb against the man's windpipe, shutting off his air. a look of surprise went through the kobun's eyes as he choked, letting his hold on vance's shoulders slacken.
he shoved the man's arm aside and reached for the holster. then his hand closed around the hard grip of the llama. the japanese was weaker now, but still forcing his arm away from the gun, preventing him from getting the grip he needed.
he rammed an elbow against the man's chin, then tightened his finger on the grip of the llama. he almost had it.
with his other hand he shoved the kobun's face away, clawing at his eyes, and again they rolled over, with the japanese once more against the carpet. but now he had the gun and he was turning.
he felt a sharp jab in his back, a flash of pain that seemed to come from nowhere. it was both intense and numbing, as though his spine had been caught in a vise. then he felt his heart constrict, his orientation spin. he rolled to the side, flailing an arm to try and recover his balance, but the room was in rotation, his vision playing tricks.
the one thing he did see was vera karanova standing over him, a blurred image his mind tried vainly to correct. her face was faltering, the indistinct outlines of a desert mirage. was she real or was he merely dreaming?
"the hypersonic test flight must proceed as scheduled," tanzan mino said quietly. "now that all the financial arrangements have been completed, the coordinating committee of the ldp has agreed to bring the treaty before the diet next week. a delay is unthinkable."
"the problem is not technical, mino-sama," taro ikeda, the project director, continued, his tone ripe with deference. "it is the soviet pilot. perhaps he should be replaced." he looked down, searching for the right words. "i'm concerned. i think he has discovered the stealth capabilities of the vehicle. probably accidentally, but all the same, i'm convinced he is now aware of them. two nights ago he engaged in certain unauthorized maneuvers i believe were intended to verify those capabilities."
"so deshoo." tanzan mino's eyes narrowed. "but he has said nothing?"
"no. not a word. at least to me."
"then perhaps he was merely behaving erratically. it would not be the first time."
"the maneuvers. they were too explicit," ikeda continued. "as i said, two nights ago, on the last test fight, he switched off the transponder, then performed a snap roll and took the vehicle into a power dive, all the way to the deck. it was intended to be a radar- evasive action." the project director allowed himself a faint, ironic smile. "at least we now know that the technology works. the vehicle's radar signature immediately disappeared off the tracking monitors at katsura."
"it met the specifications?"
ikeda nodded. "yesterday i ordered a computer analysis of the data tapes. the preliminary report suggests it may even have exceeded them."
tanzan mino listened in silence. he was sitting at his desk in the command sector wing of the north quadrant at the hokkaido facility. although the sector was underground, like the rest of the facility, behind his desk was a twenty-foot-long "window" with periscope double mirrors that showed the churning breakers of la perouse strait.
his jet had touched down on the facility's runway at 6:48 a.m. and been promptly towed into the hangar. tanzan mino intended to be in personal command when daedalus i went hypersonic, in just nineteen hours. the video monitors in his office were hard-wired directly to the main console in flight control, replicating its data displays, and all decisions passed across his desk.
"leave the pilot to me," he said without emotion, revolving to gaze out the wide window, which displayed the mid-afternoon sun catching the crests of whitecaps far at sea. "what he knows or doesn't know will not disrupt the schedule."
once again, he thought, i've got to handle a problem personally. why? because nobody else here has the determination to make the scenario succeed. first the protocol, and then the money. i had to intervene to resolve both.
but, he reflected with a smile, it turned out that handling those difficulties personally had produced an unexpected dividend.
"as you say, mino-sama," ikeda bowed. "i merely wanted to make you aware of my concern about the pilot. he should be monitored more closely from now on."
"which is precisely what i intend to do." tanzan mino's silver hair seemed to blend with the sea beyond. "there is an obvious solution. when he takes the vehicle hypersonic, he will not be alone."
"what are you suggesting? no one else--"
"merely a simple security precaution. if he is not reliable, then steps must be taken. two of our people will be in the cockpit with him."
"you mean the scientists from tsukuba? the cockpit was designed to accommodate a three-man crew, but miti hasn't yet designated the two researchers."
"no. i mean my personal pilot and copilot. from the boeing. then if androv deviates from the prescribed test program in any way, they will be there, ready to take immediate action. the problem is solved." he revolved back from the window. "that will be all."
ikeda bowed, then turned and hurriedly made his way toward the door. he didn't like last-minute improvisations, but the ceo was now fully in command. preparations for two additional life-support systems would have to be started immediately.
after tanzan mino watched him depart, he reached down and activated a line of personal video monitors beside his desk.
vance recognized the sound immediately. it was the harp-like plucking of a japanese koto, punctuated by the tinkling of a wind chime. without opening his eyes, he reached out and touched a hard, textured surface. it was, he realized, a straw mat, and from the firmness of the weave he knew it was tatami. then he felt the soft cotton of the padded mat beneath him and guessed he was lying on a futon. the air in the room was faintly spiced with mahayana buddhist temple incense.
i'm in japan, he told himself. or somebody wants me to think i am.
he opened his eyes and found himself looking at a rice-paper lamp on the floor next to his futon. directly behind it, on the left, was a tokonoma art alcove, built next to a set of sliding doors. a small, round shoji window in the tokonoma shed a mysterious glow on its hanging scroll, the painting an ink sketch of a zen monk fording a shallow stream.
then he noticed an insignia that had been painted on the sliding doors with a giant brush. he struggled to focus, and finally grasped that it was the minoan double ax, logo of the daedalus corporation.
he lay a minute, nursing the ache in his head and trying to remember what had happened. all he could recall was london, money, eva . . .
eva. where was she?
he popped erect and surveyed the room. it was traditional jap anese, the standard four-and-a-half tatami in size, bare and spartan. a classic.
but the music. it seemed to be coming through the walls.
the walls. they all looked to be rice paper. he clambered up and headed for the fusuma with the double-ax logo. he tested it and realized that the paper was actually painted steel. and it was locked. the room was secure as a vault.
but across, opposite the tokonoma, was another set of sliding doors. as he turned to walk over, he noticed he was wearing tabi, light cotton stockings split at the toe, and he was clad in a blue-patterned yukata robe, cinched at the waist. he'd been stripped and re- dressed.
this door was real, and he shoved it open. a suite of rooms lay beyond, and there on a second futon, still in a drugged sleep, lay eva. he moved across, bent down, and shook her. she jerked away, her dreaming disrupted, and turned over, but she didn't come out of it.
"what . . ." she rolled back and cracked open her bloodshot eyes. then she rose on one elbow and gazed around the room. it was appointed identically to his, with only the hanging scroll in the tokonoma different, hers being an angular, three-level landscape. "my god."
"welcome to the wonderful world of tanzan mino. i don't know where the hell we are, but it's definitely not kansas, or london."
"my head feels like i was at ground zero when the bomb hit. my whole body aches." she groaned and plopped back down on the futon. "what time do you think it is?"
"haven't a clue. how about starting with what day?" he felt for his watch and realized it was gone. "what does it matter anyway? nobody has clocks in never-never land."
satisfied she was okay, he stood up and surveyed the room. then he saw what he'd expected. there in the center of the ceiling, integrated into the pattern of light-colored woods, was the glass eye of a video camera.
and the music. still the faint music.
he walked on down to the far end of her room and shoved aside another set of sliding doors, also painted with the double-ax insignia. he found himself looking at a third large space, this one paneled in raw cypress. it was vast, and in the center was a cedar hot tub, sunk into the floor. the water was fresh and steaming, and two tiny stools and rinsing pails were located conveniently nearby on the redwood decking. it was a traditional o-furo, one of the finest he'd ever seen.
"you're not going to believe this." he turned back and waved her forward. in the soft rice-paper glow of the lamp she looked rakishly disheveled. japanese architecture always made him think of lovemaking. "our host probably figured we'd want to freshen up for the festivities. check it out."
"what?" she was shakily rising, pulling her yukata around her.
"all the comforts of home. too bad they forgot the geisha."
she came over and stood beside him. "i don't believe this."
"want to see if it's real, or just a mirage?"
she hesitantly stepped onto the decking, then walked out and bent down to test the water. "feels wet." she glanced back. "so what the heck. i could use it."
"i'm ready." he kicked off his tabi and walked on out.
"they know how to live. here, let me." he picked up a second sponge and began scrubbing her back in turn. "how does it feel?"
"maybe this is heaven."
"hope we didn't have to die to get here. but hang on. i've got a feeling the fun is just beginning."
he splashed her off with one of the pails, then watched as she gingerly climbed down into the wooden tub.
"michael, where do you think we are?" she sighed as the steam enveloped her. "this has got to be japan, but where?"
"got a funny feeling i know." he was settling into the water beside her. "but if i told you, you'd probably think i'm hallucinating." above the tub, he suddenly noticed yet another video camera.
as they lay soaking, the koto music around them abruptly stopped, its poignant twangs disappearing with an electronic click.
"are you finding the accommodations adequate?"
the voice was coming from a speaker carefully integrated into the raw cypress ceiling.
"i'm sorry to hear that," the voice continued. "no expense has been spared. my own personal quarters have been placed at your disposal."
"mind telling me who's watching me bathe?" eva splashed a handful of water at the lens.
"you have no secrets from me, dr. borodin. however, in the interest of propriety i have switched off the monitor for the bath. i'm afraid my people were somewhat overly zealous, installing one there in the first place." the voice chuckled. "but i should think you'd know. i am ceo of the daedalus corporation, an organization not unfamiliar to you."
"all right," she said, "so where are we?"
"why, you are in the corporation's hokkaido facility. as my guests. since you two have taken such an interest in this project, i thought it only fitting you should have an opportunity to see it first hand."
"mind giving us a preview of the upcoming agenda?" vance leaned back. "we need to plan our day."
"quite simply, i thought it was time you and i got reacquainted, dr. vance. it's been a long time."
"yes. eight years . . ." there was a pause. "if you would excuse me a moment, i must take a call."
the speaker clicked off.
"michael, i've got a very bad feeling about all this." she was rising from the bath, her back to the camera. "what do you think he's going to do?"
he's going to kill us, vance realized. after he's played with us a while. it's really quite simple.
"i don't know," he lied.
then the speaker clicked on again. "please forgive me. there are so many demands on my time. however, i was hoping you, dr. vance, would consent to join me this afternoon for tea. we have some urgent matters to discuss."
"i'll see if i can work it into my schedule."
"given the hectic goings-on here at the moment, perhaps a quiet moment would be useful for us both." he paused again, speaking to someone else, then his voice came back. "shall we say four o'clock."
"what time is it now?"
"please forgive me. i forgot. your world is not regimented by time, whereas mine regrettably is measured down to seconds. it is now almost three in the afternoon. i shall expect you in one hour. your clothes are in the closet in your room. now, if you will allow me. affairs . . ."
and the voice was gone.
"michael, are you really going to talk with that criminal?"
"wouldn't miss it for the world. there's a game going on here, and we have to stay in. everybody's got a score to settle. we're about to see who settles up first."
"zero minus eighteen hours." yuri andreevich androv stared at the green screen, its numbers scrolling the computerized countdown. "eighteen fucking hours."
as he wheeled around, gazing over the beehive of activity in flight control, he could already feel the adrenaline beginning to build. everything depended on him now. the vehicle was as ready as it was going to be: all the wind tunnel tests, all the computer simulations, even the supersonic test flights--everything said go. daedalus i was going to make history tomorrow morning.
except, he told himself, it's going to be a very different history from the one everybody expects.
"major yuri andreevich androv, please report to hangar quadrant immediately."
the stridency of the facility's paging system always annoyed him. he glanced at the long line of computer screens one last time, then shrugged and checked his watch. who wanted him?
well, a new planeload of soviet vips reportedly had flown in yesterday, though he hadn't seen any of them yet. he figured now that everything looked ready, the nomenklatura were flooding in to bask in triumph. maybe after a day of vodka drinking and back slapping with the officials in project management, they'd sobered up and realized they were expected to file reports. so they were finally getting around to talking to the people who were doing the actual work. they'd summon in a few staffers who had hands-on knowledge of the project and commission a draft report, which they'd then file, unread, under their own names. typical.
he reached for his leather flight jacket, deciding on a brisk walk to work off the tension. the long corridor leading from the east quadrant to the hangar quadrant took him directly past checkpoint central and the entry to west quadrant, the soviet sector, which also contained the flight simulator and the main wind tunnel, or number one, both now quiet.
as he walked, he thought again about the new rumor he'd heard in the commissary at lunch. gossip kept the soviet staff going--an instinct from the old days--but this one just might be true. some lower-level staffers even claimed they'd seen him. the chief.
word was tanzan mino himself--none other than the ceo of the daedalus corporation--had flown in this morning, together with his personal bodyguards and aides. the story was he wanted hands-on control of the first hypersonic test flight, wanted to be calling the shots in flight control when daedalus i made history.
finally. the big man has decided to show his face.
"yuri andreevich, just a minute. slow down."
he recognized the voice immediately and glanced around to see nikolai vasilevich grishkov, the portly soviet chief mechanic, just emerging from the west quadrant. his bushy eyebrows hung like a pair of siberian musk-ox horns above his gleaming dark eyes.
"have you seen her?" grishkov was shuffling toward him.
"seen who?" he examined the mechanic's spotless white coveralls. jesus! even the support crews on this project were all sanitized, high-tech.
"the new woman. kracevia, moi droog. ochen kracevia. beautiful beyond words. and she is important. you can tell just by looking."
"yuri andreevich, she's here and she's soviet." the chief mechanic followed him. "some believe she arrived this morning with the ceo, but nobody knows who she is. one rumor is she's vera karanova."
"who?" the name was vaguely familiar.
"t-directorate. like i said, no one knows for sure, but that's what we've heard."
"impossible." he halted and turned back, frowning.
"that's just it, yuri andreevich," he sighed. "those kgb bastards are not supposed to even know about this project.
that was everybody's strict understanding. we were to be free of them here. but now . . ." he caught the sleeve of androv's flight jacket and pulled him aside, out of the flow of pedestrian traffic in the hallway. "my men were wondering. maybe you could find a way to check her out? you have better access. everybody wants to know what's going on."
"kgb? it doesn't make any sense."
"if she's really . . . i just talked to the project kurirovat, ivan semenovich, and he told me karanova's now number three in t- directorate."
"well, there's nothing we can do now, so the hell with her." he waved his hand and tried to move on. "we've both got better things to worry about."
"just keep your antenna tuned, my friend, that's all. let me know if you can find out anything. is she really karanova? because if she is, we damned well need to know the inside story."
"nikolai, if i see her, i'll be sure and ask." he winked. "and if she's the hot number you say, maybe i'll find time to warm her up a little. get her to drop her . . . guard."
"if you succeed in that, moi droog," he said as his heavy eyebrows lifted with a sly grin, "you'll be the envy of the facility. you've got to see her."
"i can't wait." he shrugged and moved on toward the hangar security station, at the end of the long corridor. when he flashed his a-level priority id for the two japanese guards, he noticed they nervously made a show of scrutinizing it, even though they both knew him perfectly well, before saluting and authorizing entry.
great. let all those assholes on the soviet staff see the expression on his face when the truth comes out. that's the real history we're about to make here.
as he walked into the glare of neon, the cavernous space had never seemed more vast, more imposing. he'd seen a lot of hangars, flown a lot of experimental planes over the years, but nothing to match this. still, he always reminded himself, daedalus was only hardware, just more fancy iron. what really counted was the balls of the pilot holding the flight stick.
what are those air force neanderthals doing here? they're all notorious hardliners, the "bomb first, ask questions later" boys. and daedalus is supposed to be for space research, right? guess the bullshit is about to be over. we're finally getting down to the real scenario.
well, yuri andreevich thought, for the time being he does own them. they're bought and paid for, just like us.
"tovarisch, major androv, kak pazhavatye," came a voice behind him. he turned and realized it belonged to general valentin sokolov, commander of the mig 31 wing at the dolinsk air base on sakhalin. sokolov was three star, top man in all the soviet far east. flanking him were half a dozen colonels and lieutenant colonels.
now the project director, taro ikeda, had broken away from the soviet group and was approaching. "yuri andreevich, thank you for coming." he bowed deferentially. "you are about to receive a great honor. the ceo has asked for a private conference with you."
yuri stared over ikeda's shoulder at the man-in-charge. all this right- wing brass standing around kissing his ass counted for nothing. he was the one calling the shots. who was everybody kidding?
now the ceo looked his way, sizing him up with a quick glance. yuri androv assessed him in turn. it was one look, but they both knew there was trouble ahead.
then tanzan mino patted a colonel-general on the shoulder and headed over. "yuri andreevich androv, i presume," he said in flawless russian, bowing lightly. "a genuine pleasure to meet you at last. there's a most urgent matter we have to discuss."
at the precise hour, the tokonoma alcove off vance's bedroom rotated ninety degrees, as though moved by an unseen hand, and what awaited beyond was a traditional japanese sand-and-stone garden. it was, of course, lit artificially, but the clusters of green shrubs seemed to be thriving on the fluorescents. through the garden's grassy center was a curving pathway of flat stepping stones placed artfully in irregular curves, and situated on either side of the walkway were towering rocks nestled in glistening sand that had been raked to represent ocean waves. the rocks were reminiscent of the soaring mountains in chinese sung landscape paintings.
vance's attention, however, was riveted on what awaited at the end of the stony walkway. it was a traditional teahouse, set in a grove of flowering azaleas. and standing in the doorway was a silver-haired figure dressed in a formal black kimono. he was beckoning.
"did i neglect to tell you i prefer japanese cha-no-yu to the usual british afternoon tea?" tanzan mino announced. "it is a ritual designed to renew the spirit, to cleanse the mind. it goes back hundreds of years. i always enjoy it in the afternoon, and i find it has marvelously restorative powers. this seemed the ideal occasion for us to meet and chat."
"don't want to slight tradition." vance slipped on the pair of wooden clogs that awaited at the bottom of the path.
"my feelings entirely," the ceo continued, smiling as he watched him approach. "you understand the japanese way, dr. vance, which is one reason we have so much to discuss."
he bowed a greeting as vance deposited his clogs on the stepping stone by the teahouse door. together they stooped to enter.
a light murmur of boiling water came from a brazier set into the tatami-matted floor, but otherwise the room was caught in an ethereal silence. the decor was more modern than most teahouses, with fresh cedar and pine for the ceiling and walls rather than the customary reed, bark, and bamboo.
tanzan mino gestured for him to sit opposite as he immediately began the formalities of ritually cleaning the bamboo scoop, then elevating the rugged white tea bowl like an ancient chalance and ceremonially wiping it. all the while his eyes were emotionless, betraying no hint of what was in his mind.
after the utensils were ceremonially cleansed, he wordlessly scooped a portion of pale-green powdered tea into the bowl, then lifted a dipperful of boiling water from the kettle and poured it in. finally he picked up a bamboo whisk and began to whip the mixture, continuing until it had acquired the consistency of green foam.
authority, control, and--above all--discipline. those things, vance knew, were what this was really about. as was traditional and proper, not a word was spoken. this was the zen equivalent of high mass, and tanzan mino was silently letting him know he was a true master--of himself, of his world.
then the oyabun reached over and formally presented the bowl, placing it on the tatami in front of his guest.
he sipped one more time, then wiped the rim, formally repositioned the bowl on the tatami, and leaned back.
"perfectly done," tanzan mino smiled as he broke the silence. "i'm impressed." he nodded toward the white bowl. "incidentally, you were just handling one of the finest pieces in all japan."
"shino ware. mino region, late sixteenth century. remarkably fine glaze, considering those kilns had just started firing chawan."
"you have a learned eye, dr. vance." he smiled again, glancing down to admire the rough, cracked surface of the rim. "the experts disagree on the age, some saying very early seventeenth century, but i think your assessment is correct. in any case, just handling it always soothes my spirit. the discipline of the samurai is in a chawan like this. and in the cha-no-yu ceremony itself. it's a test i frequently give my western friends. to see if they can grasp its spirituality. i'm pleased to say that you handled the bowl exactly as you should have. you understand that japanese culture is about shaping the randomness of human actions to a refined perfection. that's what we really should be discussing here this afternoon, not the world of affairs, but i'm afraid time is short. i often think of life in terms of a famous haiku by the poet shiki:
kaze ni nigarete
"sounds more like your new airplane," vance observed, then translated:
a mortal butterfly
fluttering and drifting
in the wind.
"a passable enough rendering, if i may say, though i don't necessarily accept your analogy." he reached down and lifted a bottle of warmed sake from beside the brazier. "by the way, i know you prefer tequila, one of your odd quirks, but there was no time to acquire any. perhaps this will suffice."
he set down two black raku saucers and began to pour. "now, alas, we must proceed."
post time, vance thought.
"dr. michael vance." he lifted his saucer in a toast. "a scholar of the lost aegean civilizations, a former operative of the central intelligence agency, and finally a private consultant affiliated with a group of mercenaries. i had your file updated when i first heard you were involved. i see you have not been entirely idle since our last encounter."
"you haven't done too bad yourself." vance toasted him back. "this new project is a big step up from the old days. has a lot of style."
"it does indeed," he nodded. "i'm quite proud of our achievement here."
"you always thought big." vance sipped again at his sake, warm and soothing.
"okay, how's this. what do you expect to get out of me?"
he laughed. "why nothing at all. our reunion here is merely intended to serve as a tutorial. to remind you and others how upsetting i find intrusions into my affairs."
"then how about starting off this 'tutorial' with a look at your new plane?" vance glanced around. "guess i should call it daedalus."
"daedalus i and ii. there actually are two prototypes, although only one is currently certified to operate in the hypersonic regime. yes, i expected the daedalus would intrigue you. you are a man of insatiable intellectual appetite."
"i'm not sure that's necessarily a compliment."
the old boy's finally gone off the deep end, vance told himself. megalomania. "incidentally, by 'strategic coup' i suppose you're referring to the fact you've got them exactly where you want them. the soviets."
"what do you mean?" his eyes hardened slightly.
"you know what i mean. they probably don't realize it yet, but you're going to end up with the soviet far east in your wallet. for the price of a hot airplane, you get to plunder the region. they're even going to be thanking you while you reclaim sakhalin for japan. this daedalus spaceship is going to cost them the ranch. have to admit it's brilliant. along with financing the whole scheme by swindling benelux tax dodgers."
"you are too imaginative for your own good, dr. vance," he said, a thin smile returning. "nobody is going to believe your interpretation of the protocol."
"you've got a point. nobody appreciates the true brilliance of a criminal mind. or maybe they just haven't known you as long as i have."
"really, i'd hoped we would not descend to trading insults." he reached to refill vance's sake saucer. "it's demeaning. instead i'd hoped we could proceed constructively."
"well then, perhaps you'll forgive me if i'm somewhat blunt. i'm afraid my time is going to be limited over the next few hours. i may as well tell you now that we are about to have the first hypersonic test of the daedalus. tomorrow morning we will take her to mach 25. seventeen thousand miles per hour. a speed almost ten times greater than any air- breathing vehicle has ever before achieved."
"the sky's the limit," he whistled quietly. alex hadn't known the half of it. this was the ultimate plane.
"impressive, i think you'll agree." mino smiled and poured more sake for himself.
"that ought to grease the way in the diet for your deal. and the protocol's financial grab ought to sail through the supreme soviet. you prove this marvel can work and the rest is merely laundering your profits."
"so i would like to think," he nodded. "of course, one never knows how these things will eventually turn out."
"so when do i get a look at it?"
"why, that all depends on certain agreements we need to make."
"then i guess it's time i heard the bottom line."
"i don't work for the mob, if that's what you're hoping."
"don't be foolhardy. those days are well behind me," he went on calmly, despite the flicker of anger in his eyes. "the completion of this project will require financial and strategic skills well beyond those possessed by the people who have worked for me in the past."
"all those petty criminals and hoods, you mean."
"i will choose to ignore that," he continued. "whatever you may wish to call them, they are not proving entirely adequate to the task at hand. you bested my european people repeatedly and brought me a decided humiliation."
speaking of which, vance found himself suddenly wondering, a thought out of the blue, what's happened to vera? she's been european point woman for this whole scam. where's she now?
mino continued. "therefore i must now either take you into my organization or . . ." he paused. "it's that simple. which, i wonder, will it be?"
vance studied him. "a lot depends on what happens to eva."
"the fate of dr. borodin depends largely on your decision. so perhaps i should give you some time to think it over." he leaned back. "or perhaps some inducement."
vance didn't know what he meant. at first. then he turned and looked behind him. there waiting on the stony walkway of the garden were three of tanzan mino's personal kobun, two of whom he recognized from london. the ceo's instructions to them were in rapid-fire japanese, but he needed no translation as they moved forward.
give me the old, salty way of love. how i am nauseated with sentiment and nobility, the macaroni slithery-slobbery mess of modern adorations.
one sees a few fascinating faces in cagliari: those great dark unlighted eyes. there are fascinating dark eyes in sicily, bright, big, with an impudent point of light, and a curious roll, and long lashes: the eyes of old greece, surely. but here one sees eyes of soft, blank darkness, all velvet, with no imp looking out of them. and they strike a stranger, older note: before the soul became self-conscious: before the mentality of greece appeared in the world. remote, always remote, as if the intelligence lay deep within the cave, and never came forward. one searches into the gloom for one second, while the glance lasts. but without being able to penetrate to the reality. it recedes, like some unknown creature deeper into its lair. there is a creature, dark and potent. but what?
sometimes velasquez, and sometimes goya gives us a suggestion of these large, dark, unlighted eyes. and they go with fine, fleecy black hair--almost as fine as fur. i have not seen them north of cagliari.
the man--he is the esquimo type, simple, frank and aimiable--says the stuff is made in france, and this the first roll since the war. it is the old, old pattern, quite correct--but the material not quite so good. the q-b takes enough for a dress.
he shows us also cashmeres, orange, scarlet, sky-blue, royal blue: good, pure-wool cashmeres that were being sent to india, and were captured from a german mercantile sub-marine. so he says. fifty francs a metre--very, very wide. but they are too much trouble to carry in a knapsack, though their brilliance fascinates.
there are two ways of leaving cagliari for the north: the state railway that runs up the west side of the island, and the narrow-gauge secondary railway that pierces the centre. but we are too late for the big trains. so we will go by the secondary railway, wherever it goes.
there is a train at 2.30, and we can get as far as mandas, some fifty miles in the interior. when we tell the queer little waiter at the hotel, he says he comes from mandas, and there are two inns. so after lunch--a strictly fish menu--we pay our bill. it comes to sixty odd francs--for three good meals each, with wine, and the night's lodging, this is cheap, as prices now are in italy.
pleased with the simple and friendly scala di ferre, i shoulder my sack and we walk off to the second station. the sun is shining hot this afternoon--burning hot, by the sea. the road and the buildings look dry and desiccated, the harbour rather weary and end of the world.
there is a great crowd of peasants at the little station. and almost every man has a pair of woven saddle-bags--a great flat strip of coarse-woven wool, with flat pockets at either end, stuffed with purchases. these are almost the only carrying bags. the men sling them over their shoulder, so that one great pocket hangs in front, one behind.
these saddle bags are most fascinating. they are coarsely woven in bands of raw black-rusty wool, with varying bands of raw white wool or hemp or cotton--the bands and stripes of varying widths going cross-wise. and on the pale bands are woven sometimes flowers in most lovely colours, rose-red and blue and green, peasant patterns--and sometimes fantastic animals, beasts, in dark wool again. so that these striped zebra bags, some wonderful gay with flowery colours on their stripes, some weird with fantastic, griffin-like animals, are a whole landscape in themselves.
the train has only first and third class. it costs about thirty francs for the two of us, third class to mandas, which is some sixty miles. in we crowd with the joyful saddle-bags, into the wooden carriage with its many seats.
and, wonder of wonders, punctually to the second, off we go, out of cagliari. en route again.
the coach was fairly full of people, returning from market. on these railways the third class coaches are not divided into compartments. they are left open, so that one sees everybody, as down a room. the attractive saddle-bags, bercole, were disposed anywhere, and the bulk of the people settled down to a lively conversazione. it is much nicest, on the whole, to travel third class on the railway. there is space, there is air, and it is like being in a lively inn, everybody in good spirits.
at our end was plenty of room. just across the gangway was an elderly couple, like two children, coming home very happily. he was fat, fat all over, with a white moustache and a little not-unamiable frown. she was a tall lean, brown woman, in a brown full-skirted dress and black apron, with huge pocket. she wore no head covering, and her iron grey hair was parted smoothly. they were rather pleased and excited being in the train. she took all her money out of her big pocket, and counted it and gave it to him: all the ten lira notes, and the five lira and the two and the one, peering at the dirty scraps of pink-backed one-lira notes to see if they were good. then she gave him her half-pennies. and he stowed them away in the trouser pocket, standing up to push them down his fat leg. and then one saw, to one's amazement, that the whole of his shirt-tail was left out behind, like a sort of apron worn backwards. why--a mystery. he was one of those fat, good-natured, unheeding men with a little masterful frown, such as usually have tall, lean, hard-faced, obedient wives.
they were very happy. with amazement he watched us taking hot tea from the thermos flask. i think he too had suspected it might be a bomb. he had blue eyes and standing-up white eyebrows.
"beautiful hot--!" he said, seeing the tea steam. it is the inevitable exclamation. "does it do you good?"
"yes," said the q-b. "much good." and they both nodded complacently. they were going home.
the train was running over the malarial-looking sea-plain--past the down-at-heel palm trees, past the mosque-looking buildings. at a level crossing the woman crossing-keeper darted out vigorously with her red flag. and we rambled into the first village. it was built of sun-dried brick-adobe houses, thick adobe garden-walls, with tile ridges to keep off the rain. in the enclosures were dark orange trees. but the clay-coloured villages, clay-dry, looked foreign: the next thing to mere earth they seem, like fox-holes or coyote colonies.
looking back, one sees cagliari bluff on her rock, rather fine, with the thin edge of the sea's blade curving round. it is rather hard to believe in the real sea, on this sort of clay-pale plain.
but soon we begin to climb to the hills. and soon the cultivation begins to be intermittent. extraordinary how the heathy, moor-like hills come near the sea: extraordinary how scrubby and uninhabited the great spaces of sardinia are. it is wild, with heath and arbutus scrub and a sort of myrtle, breast-high. sometimes one sees a few head of cattle. and then again come the greyish arable-patches, where the corn is grown. it is like cornwall, like the land's end region. here and there, in the distance, are peasants working on the lonely landscape. sometimes it is one man alone in the distance, showing so vividly in his black-and-white costume, small and far-off like a solitary magpie, and curiously distinct. all the strange magic of sardinia is in this sight. among the low, moor-like hills, away in a hollow of the wide landscape one solitary figure, small but vivid black-and-white, working alone, as if eternally. there are patches and hollows of grey arable land, good for corn. sardinia was once a great granary.
usually, however, the peasants of the south have left off the costume. usually it is the invisible soldiers' grey-green cloth, the italian khaki. wherever you go, wherever you be, you see this khaki, this grey-green war-clothing. how many millions of yards of the thick, excellent, but hateful material the italian government must have provided i don't know: but enough to cover italy with a felt carpet, i should think. it is everywhere. it cases the tiny children in stiff and neutral frocks and coats, it covers their extinguished fathers, and sometimes it even encloses the women in its warmth. it is symbolic of the universal grey mist that has come over men, the extinguishing of all bright individuality, the blotting out of all wild singleness. oh democracy! oh khaki democracy!
this is very different from italian landscape. italy is almost always dramatic, and perhaps invariably romantic. there is drama in the plains of lombardy, and romance in the venetian lagoons, and sheer scenic excitement in nearly all the hilly parts of the peninsula. perhaps it is the natural floridity of lime-stone formations. but italian landscape is really eighteenth-century landscape, to be represented in that romantic-classic manner which makes everything rather marvelous and very topical: aqueducts, and ruins upon sugar-loaf mountains, and craggy ravines and wilhelm meister water-falls: all up and down.
sardinia is another thing. much wider, much more ordinary, not up-and-down at all, but running away into the distance. unremarkable ridges of moor-like hills running away, perhaps to a bunch of dramatic peaks on the southwest. this gives a sense of space, which is so lacking in italy. lovely space about one, and traveling distances--nothing finished, nothing final. it is like liberty itself, after the peaky confinement of sicily. room--give me room--give me room for my spirit: and you can have all the toppling crags of romance.
so we ran on through the gold of the afternoon, across a wide, almost celtic landscape of hills, our little train winding and puffing away very nimbly. only the heath and scrub, breast-high, man-high, is too big and brigand-like for a celtic land. the horns of black, wild-looking cattle show sometimes.
after a long pull, we come to a station after a stretch of loneliness. each time, it looks as if there were nothing beyond--no more habitations. and each time we come to a station.
most of the people have left the train. and as with men driving in a gig, who get down at every public-house, so the passengers usually alight for an airing at each station. our old fat friend stands up and tucks his shirt-tail comfortably in his trousers, which trousers all the time make one hold one's breath, for they seem at each very moment to be just dropping right down: and he clambers out, followed by the long, brown stalk of a wife.
now behold her with her hands thrown to heaven, and hear the wild shriek "madonna!" through all the hubbub. but she picks up her two skirt-knees, and with her thin legs in grey stockings starts with a mad rush after the train. in vain. the train inexorably pursues its course. prancing, she reaches one end of the platform as we leave the other end. then she realizes it is not going to stop for her. and then, oh horror, her long arms thrown out in wild supplication after the retreating train: then flung aloft to god: then brought down in absolute despair on her head. and this is the last sight we have of her, clutching her poor head in agony and doubling forward. she is left--she is abandoned.
so, his face all bright, his eyes round and bright as two stars, absolutely transfigured by dismay, chagrin, anger and distress, he comes and sits in his seat, ablaze, stiff, speechless. his face is almost beautiful in its blaze of conflicting emotions. for some time he is as if unconscious in the midst of his feelings. then anger and resentment crop out of his consternation. he turns with a flash to the long-nosed, insidious, phoenician-looking guard. why couldn't they stop the train for her! and immediately, as if someone had set fire to him, off flares the guard. heh!--the train can't stop for every person's convenience! the train is a train--the time-table is a time-table. what did the old woman want to take her trips down the line for? heh! she pays the penalty for her own inconsiderateness. had she paid for the train--heh? and the fat man all the time firing off his unheeding and unheeded answers. one minute--only one minute--if he, the conductor had told the driver! if he, the conductor, had shouted! a poor woman! not another train! what was she going to do! her ticket? and no money. a poor woman--
there was a train back to cagliari that night, said the conductor, at which the fat man nearly burst out of his clothing like a bursting seed-pod. he bounced on his seat. what good was that? what good was a train back to cagliari, when their home was in snelli! making matters worse--
so they bounced and jerked and argued at one another, to their hearts' content. then the conductor retired, smiling subtly, in a way they have. our fat friend looked at us with hot, angry, ashamed, grieved eyes and said it was a shame. yes, we chimed, it was a shame. whereupon a self-important miss who said she came from some collegio at cagliari advanced and asked a number of impertinent questions in a tone of pert sympathy. after which our fat friend, left alone, covered his clouded face with his hand, turned his back on the world, and gloomed.
it had all been so dramatic that in spite of ourselves we laughed, even while the q-b shed a few tears.
well, the journey lasted hours. we came to a station, and the conductor said we must get out: these coaches went no further. only two coaches would proceed to mandas. so we climbed out with our traps, and our fat friend with his saddle-bag, the picture of misery.
the one coach into which we clambered was rather crowded. the only other coach was most of it first-class. and the rest of the train was freight. we were two insignificant passenger wagons at the end of a long string of freight-vans and trucks.
there was an empty seat, so we sat on it: only to realize after about five minutes, that a thin old woman with two children--her grandchildren--was chuntering her head off because it was her seat--why she had left it she didn't say. and under my legs was her bundle of bread. she nearly went off her head. and over my head, on the little rack, was her bercola, her saddle-bag. fat soldiers laughed at her good-naturedly, but she fluttered and flipped like a tart, featherless old hen. since she had another seat and was quite comfortable, we smiled and let her chunter. so she clawed her bread bundle from under my legs, and, clutching it and a fat child, sat tense.
it was getting quite dark. the conductor came and said that there was no more paraffin. if what there was in the lamps gave out, we should have to sit in the dark. there was no more paraffin all along the line.--so he climbed on the seats, and after a long struggle, with various boys striking matches for him, he managed to obtain a light as big as a pea. we sat in this clair-obscur, and looked at the sombre-shadowed faces round us: the fat soldier with a gun, the handsome soldier with huge saddle-bags, the weird, dark little man who kept exchanging a baby with a solid woman who had a white cloth tied round her head, a tall peasant-woman in costume, who darted out at a dark station and returned triumphant with a piece of chocolate: a young and interested young man, who told us every station. and the man who spat: there is always one.
it was not much after seven when we came to mandas. mandas is a junction where these little trains sit and have a long happy chat after their arduous scramble over the downs. it had taken us somewhere about five hours to do our fifty miles. no wonder then that when the junction at last heaves in sight everybody bursts out of the train like seeds from an exploding pod, and rushes somewhere for something. to the station restaurant, of course. hence there is a little station restaurant that does a brisk trade, and where one can have a bed.
a quite pleasant woman behind the little bar: a brown woman with brown parted hair and brownish eyes and brownish, tanned complexion and tight brown velveteen bodice. she led us up a narrow winding stone stair, as up a fortress, leading on with her candle, and ushered us into the bedroom. it smelled horrid and sourish, as shutup bedrooms do. we threw open the window. there were big frosty stars snapping ferociously in heaven.
the room contained a huge bed, big enough for eight people, and quite clean. and the table on which stood the candle actually had a cloth. but imagine that cloth! i think it had been originally white: now, however, it was such a web of time-eaten holes and mournful black inkstains and poor dead wine stains that it was like some 2000 b.c. mummy-cloth. i wonder if it could have been lifted from that table: or if it was mummified on to it! i for one made no attempt to try. but that table-cover impressed me, as showing degrees i had not imagined.--a table-cloth.
we went down the fortress-stair to the eating-room. here was a long table with soup-plates upside down and a lamp burning an uncanny naked acetylene flame. we sat at the cold table, and the lamp immediately began to wane. the room--in fact the whole of sardinia--was stone cold, stone, stone cold. outside the earth was freezing. inside there was no thought of any sort of warmth: dungeon stone floors, dungeon stone walls and a dead, corpse-like atmosphere, too heavy and icy to move.
the lamp went quite out, and the q-b gave a cry. the brown woman poked her head through a hole in the wall. beyond her we saw the flames of the cooking, and two devil-figures stirring the pots. the brown woman came and shook the lamp--it was like a stodgy porcelain mantelpiece vase--shook it well and stirred up its innards, and started it going once more. then she appeared with a bowl of smoking cabbage soup, in which were bits of macaroni: and would we have wine? i shuddered at the thought of death-cold red wine of the country, so asked what else there was. there was malvagia--malvoisie, the same old malmsey that did for the duke of clarence. so we had a pint of malvagia, and were comforted. at least we were being so, when the lamp went out again. the brown woman came and shook and smacked it, and started it off again. but as if to say "shan't for you", it whipped out again.
then came the host with a candle and a pin, a large, genial sicilian with pendulous mustaches. and he thoroughly pricked the wretch with the pin, shook it, and turned little screws. so up flared the flame. we were a little nervous. he asked us where we came from, etc. and suddenly he asked us, with an excited gleam, were we socialists. aha, he was going to hail us as citizens and comrades. he thought we were a pair of bolshevist agents: i could see it. and as such he was prepared to embrace us. but no, the q-b disclaimed the honor. i merely smiled and shook my head. it is a pity to rob people of their exciting illusions.
"ah, there is too much socialism everywhere!" cried the q-b.
"ma--perhaps, perhaps--" said the discreet sicilian. she saw which way the land lay, and added:
"si vuole un pocchetino di socialismo: one wants a tiny bit of socialism in the world, a tiny bit. but not much. not much. at present there is too much."
our host, twinkling at this speech which treated of the sacred creed as if it were a pinch of salt in the broth, believing the q-b was throwing dust in his eyes, and thoroughly intrigued by us as a pair of deep ones, retired. no sooner had he gone than the lamp-flame stood up at its full length, and started to whistle. the q-b drew back. not satisfied by this, another flame suddenly began to whip round the bottom of the burner, like a lion lashing its tail. unnerved, we made room: the q-b cried again: in came the host with a subtle smile and a pin and an air of benevolence, and tamed the brute.
determined however, to remove this invisible screen, i said good-evening, and it was very cold. they muttered good-evening, and yes, it was fresh. an italian never says it is cold: it is never more than fresco. but this hint that it was cold they took as a hint at their caps, and they became very silent, till the woman came in with the soup-bowl. then they clamoured at her, particularly the maialino, what was there to eat. she told them--beef-steaks of pork. whereat they pulled faces. or bits of boiled pork. they sighed, looked gloomy, cheered up, and said beef-steaks, then.
"mother, she's clapping!" i would yell with anger, against my sister. the german word is schmatzen.
so the maialino clapped like a pair of cymbals, while baritone and bass rolled on. then in chimed the swift bright treble.
at this rate however, the soup did not last long. arrived the beef-steaks of pork. and now the trio was a trio of castanet smacks and cymbal claps. triumphantly the maialino looked around. he out-smacked all.
the bread of the country is rather coarse and brown, with a hard, hard crust. a large rock of this is perched on every damp serviette. the maialino tore his rock asunder, and grumbled at the black-cap, who had got a weird sort of three-cornered loaf-roll of pure white bread--starch white. he was a swell with this white bread.
suddenly black-cap turned to me. where had we come from, where were we going, what for? but in laconic, sardonic tone.
"i like sardinia," cried the q-b.
"why?" he asked sarcastically. and she tried to find out.
"yes, the sardinians please me more than the sicilians," said i.
"why?" he asked sarcastically.
"they are more open--more honest." he seemed to turn his nose down.
"the padrone is a sicilian," said the maialino, stuffing a huge block of bread into his mouth, and rolling his insouciant eyes of a gay, well-fed little black pig towards the background. we weren't making much headway.
"you've seen cagliari?" the black-cap said to me, like a threat.
"yes! oh cagliari pleases me--cagliari is beautiful!" cried the q-b, who travels with a vial of melted butter ready for her parsnips.
"and is mandas nice?" asked the q-b.
"in what way nice?" they asked, with immense sarcasm.
"is there anything to see?"
"hens," said the maialino briefly. they all bristled when one asked if mandas was nice.
"what does one do here?" asked the q-b.
"niente! at mandas one does nothing. at mandas one goes to bed when it's dark, like a chicken. at mandas one walks down the road like a pig that is going nowhere. at mandas a goat understands more than the inhabitants understand. at mandas one needs socialism...."
they all cried out at once. evidently mandas was more than flesh and blood could bear for another minute to these three conspirators.
"then you are very bored here?" say i.
and the quiet intensity of that naked yes spoke more than volumes.
"you would like to be in cagliari?"
silence, intense, sardonic silence had intervened. the three looked at one another and made a sour joke about mandas. then the black-cap turned to me.
"can you understand sardinian?" he said.
"somewhat. more than sicilian, anyhow."
"but sardinian is more difficult than sicilian. it is full of words utterly unknown to italian--"
"yes, but," say i, "it is spoken openly, in plain words, and sicilian is spoken all stuck together, none of the words there at all."
he looks at me as if i were an imposter. yet it is true. i find it quite easy to understand sardinian. as a matter of fact, it is more a question of human approach than of sound. sardinian seems open and manly and downright. sicilian is gluey and evasive, as if the sicilian didn't want to speak straight to you. as a matter of fact, he doesn't. he is an over-cultured, sensitive, ancient soul, and he has so many sides to his mind that he hasn't got any definite one mind at all. he's got a dozen minds, and uneasily he's aware of it, and to commit himself to anyone of them is merely playing a trick on himself and his interlocutor. the sardinian, on the other hand, still seems to have one downright mind. i bump up against a downright, smack-out belief in socialism, for example. the sicilian is much too old in our culture to swallow socialism whole: much too ancient and rusé not to be sophisticated about any and every belief. he'll go off like a squib: and then he'll smoulder acridly and sceptically even against his own fire. one sympathizes with him in retrospect. but in daily life it is unbearable.
"where do you find such white bread?" say i to the black cap, because he is proud of it.
"it comes from my home." and then he asks about the bread of sicily. is it any whiter than this--the mandas rock. yes, it is a little whiter. at which they gloom again. for it is a very sore point, this bread. bread means a great deal to an italian: it is verily his staff of life. he practically lives on bread. and instead of going by taste, he now, like all the world, goes by eye. he has got it into his head that bread should be white, so that every time he fancies a darker shade in the loaf a shadow falls on his soul. nor is he altogether wrong. for although, personally, i don't like white bread any more, yet i do like my brown bread to be made of pure, unmixed flour. the peasants in sicily, who have kept their own wheat and make their own natural brown bread, ah, it is amazing how fresh and sweet and clean their loaf seems, so perfumed as home-bread used all to be before the war. whereas the bread of the commune, the regulation supply, is hard, and rather coarse and rough, so rough and harsh on the palate. one gets tired to death of it. i suspect myself the maize meal mixed in. but i don't know. and finally the bread varies immensely from town to town, from commune to commune. the so-called just and equal distribution is all my-eye. one place has abundance of good sweet bread, another scrapes along, always stinted, on an allowance of harsh coarse stuff. and the poor suffer bitterly, really, from the bread-stinting, because they depend so on this one food. they say the inequality and the injustice of distribution comes from the camorra--la grande camorra--which is no more nowadays than a profiteering combine, which the poor hate. but for myself, i don't know. i only know that one town--venice, for example--seems to have an endless supply of pure bread, of sugar, of tobacco, of salt--while florence is in one continual ferment of irritation over the stinting of these supplies--which are all government monopoly, doled out accordingly.
we said good-night to our three railway friends, and went up to bed. we had only been in the room a minute or two, when the brown woman tapped: and if you please, the black-cap had sent us one of his little white loaves. we were really touched. such delicate little generosities have almost disappeared from the world.
it was a queer little bread--three-cornered, and almost as hard as ships biscuit, made of starch flour. not strictly bread at all.
wonderful to go out on a frozen road, to see the grass in shadow bluish with hoar-frost, to see the grass in the yellow winter-sunrise beams melting and going cold-twinkly. wonderful the bluish, cold air, and things standing up in cold distance. after two southern winters, with roses blooming all the time, this bleakness and this touch of frost in the ringing morning goes to my soul like an intoxication. i am so glad, on this lonely naked road, i don't know what to do with myself. i walk down in the shallow grassy ditches under the loose stone walls, i walk on the little ridge of grass, the little bank on which the wall is built, i cross the road across the frozen cow-droppings: and it is all so familiar to my feet, my very feet in contact, that i am wild as if i had made a discovery. and i realize that i hate lime-stone, to live on lime-stone or marble or any of those limey rocks. i hate them. they are dead rocks, they have no life--thrills for the feet. even sandstone is much better. but granite! granite is my favorite. it is so live under the feet, it has a deep sparkle of its own. i like its roundnesses--and i hate the jaggy dryness of lime-stone, that burns in the sun, and withers.
after coming to a deep well in a grassy plot in a wide space of the road, i go back, across the sunny naked upland country, towards the pink station and its out-buildings. an engine is steaming its white clouds in the new light. away to the left there is even a row of small houses, like a row of railway-mens' dwellings. strange and familiar sight. and the station precincts are disorderly and rather dilapidated. i think of our sicilian host.
the village itself is just a long, winding, darkish street, in shadow, of houses and shops and a smithy. it might almost be cornwall: not quite. something, i don't know what, suggests the stark burning glare of summer. and then, of course, there is none of the cosiness which climbing roses and lilac trees and cottage shops and haystacks would give to an english scene. this is harder, barer, starker, more dreary. an ancient man in the black-and-white costume comes out of a hovel of a cottage. the butcher carries a huge side of meat. the women peer at us--but more furtive and reticent than the howling stares of italy.
so we go on, down the rough-cobbled street through the whole length of the village. and emerging on the other side, past the last cottage, we find ourselves again facing the open country, on the gentle down-slope of the rolling hill. the landscape continues the same: low, rolling upland hills, dim under the yellow sun of the january morning: stone fences, fields, grey-arable land: a man slowly, slowly ploughing with a pony and a dark-red cow: the road trailing empty across the distance: and then, the one violently unfamiliar note, the enclosed cemetery lying outside on the gentle hill-side, closed in all round, very compact, with high walls: and on the inside face of the enclosure wall the marble slabs, like shut drawers of the sepulchres, shining white, the wall being like a chest of drawers, or pigeon holes to hold the dead. tufts of dark and plumy cypresses rise among the flat graves of the enclosure. in the south, cemeteries are walled off and isolated very tight. the dead, as it were, are kept fast in pound. there is no spreading of graves over the face of the country. they are penned in a tight fold, with cypresses to fatten on the bones. this is the one thoroughly strange note in the landscape. but all-pervading there is a strangeness, that strange feeling as if the depths were barren, which comes in the south and the east, sun-stricken. sun-stricken, and the heart eaten out by the dryness.
"i like it! i like it!" cries the q-b.
"but could you live here?" she would like to say yes, but daren't.
we stray back. the q-b wants to buy one of those saddle-bag arrangements. i say what for? she says to keep things in. ach! but peeping in the shops, we see one and go in and examine it. it is quite a sound one, properly made: but plain, quite plain. on the white cross-stripes there are no lovely colored flowers of rose and green and magenta: the three favorite sardinian colors: nor are there any of the fantastic and griffin-like beasts. so it won't do. how much does it cost? forty-five francs.
there is nothing to do in mandas. so we will take the morning train and go to the terminus, to sorgono. thus, we shall cross the lower slopes of the great central knot of sardinia, the mountain knot called gennargentu. and sorgono we feel will be lovely.
back at the station we make tea on the spirit lamp, fill the thermos, pack the knapsack and the kitchenino, and come out into the sun of the platform. the q-b goes to thank the black-cap for the white bread, whilst i settle the bill and ask for food for the journey. the brown woman fishes out from a huge black pot in the background sundry hunks of coarse boiled pork, and gives me two of these, hot, with bread and salt. this is the luncheon. i pay the bill: which amounts to twenty-four francs, for everything. (one says francs or liras, irrespective, in italy.) at that moment arrives the train from cagliari, and men rush in, roaring for the soup--or rather, for the broth. "ready, ready!" she cries, going to the black pot.
the various trains in the junction squatted side by side and had long, long talks before at last we were off. it was wonderful to be running in the bright morning towards the heart of sardinia, in the little train that seemed so familiar. we were still going third class, rather to the disgust of the railway officials at mandas.
at first the country was rather open: always the long spurs of hills, steep-sided, but not high. and from our little train we looked across the country, across hill and dale. in the distance was a little town, on a low slope. but for its compact, fortified look it might have been a town on the english downs. a man in the carriage leaned out of the window holding out a white cloth, as a signal to someone in the far off town that he was coming. the wind blew the white cloth, the town in the distance glimmered small and alone in its hollow. and the little train pelted along.
it was rather comical to see it. we were always climbing. and the line curved in great loops. so that as one looked out of the window, time and again one started, seeing a little train running in front of us, in a diverging direction, making big puffs of steam. but lo, it was our own little engine pelting off around a loop away ahead. we were quite a long train, but all trucks in front, only our two passenger coaches hitched on behind. and for this reason our own engine was always running fussily into sight, like some dog scampering in front and swerving about us, while we followed at the tail end of the thin string of trucks.
i was surprised how well the small engine took the continuous steep slopes, how bravely it emerged on the sky-line. it is a queer railway. i would like to know who made it. it pelts up hill and down dale and round sudden bends in the most unconcerned fashion, not as proper big railways do, grunting inside deep cuttings and stinking their way through tunnels, but running up the hill like a panting, small dog, and having a look round, and starting off in another direction, whisking us behind unconcernedly. this is much more fun than the tunnel-and-cutting system.
they told me that sardinia mines her own coal: and quite enough for her own needs: but very soft, not fit for steam-purposes. i saw heaps of it: small, dull, dirty-looking stuff. truck-loads of it too. and truck-loads of grain.
at every station we were left ignominiously planted, while the little engines--they had gay gold names on their black little bodies--strolled about along the side-lines, and snuffed at the various trucks. there we sat, at every station, while some truck was discarded and some other sorted out like a branded sheep, from the sidings and hitched on to us. it took a long time, this did.
all the stations so far had had wire netting over the windows. this means malaria-mosquitoes. the malaria climbs very high in sardinia. the shallow upland valleys, moorland with their intense summer sun and the riverless, boggy behaviour of the water breed the pest inevitably. but not very terribly, as far as one can make out: august and september being the danger months. the natives don't like to admit there is any malaria: a tiny bit, they say, a tiny bit. as soon as you come to the trees there is no more. so they say. for many miles the landscape is moorland and down-like, with no trees. but wait for the trees. ah, the woods and forests of gennargentu: the woods and forests higher up: no malaria there!
the little engine whisks up and up, around its loopy curves as if it were going to bite its own tail: we being the tail: then suddenly dives over the sky-line out of sight. and the landscape changes. the famous woods begin to appear. at first it is only hazel-thickets, miles of hazel-thickets, all wild, with a few black cattle trying to peep at us out of the green myrtle and arbutus scrub which forms the undergrowth; and a couple of rare, wild peasants peering at the train. they wear the black sheepskin tunic, with the wool outside, and the long stocking caps. like cattle they too peer out from between deep bushes. the myrtle scrub here rises man-high, and cattle and men are smothered in it. the big hazels rise bare above. it must be difficult getting about in these parts.
sometimes, in the distance one sees a black-and-white peasant riding lonely across a more open place, a tiny vivid figure. i like so much the proud instinct which makes a living creature distinguish itself from its background. i hate the rabbity khaki protection-colouration. a black-and-white peasant on his pony, only a dot in the distance beyond the foliage, still flashes and dominates the landscape. ha-ha! proud mankind! there you ride! but alas, most of the men are still khaki-muffled, rabbit-indistinguishable, ignominious. the italians look curiously rabbity in the grey-green uniform: just as our sand-colored khaki men look doggy. they seem to scuffle rather abased, ignominious on the earth. give us back the scarlet and gold, and devil take the hindmost.
the landscape really begins to change. the hillsides tilt sharper and sharper. a man is ploughing with two small red cattle on a craggy, tree-hanging slope as sharp as a roof-side. he stoops at the small wooden plough, and jerks the ploughlines. the oxen lift their noses to heaven, with a strange and beseeching snake-like movement, and taking tiny little steps with their frail feet, move slantingly across the slope-face, between rocks and tree-roots. little, frail, jerky steps the bullocks take, and again they put their horns back and lift their muzzles snakily to heaven, as the man pulls the line. and he skids his wooden plough round another scoop of earth. it is marvellous how they hang upon that steep, craggy slope. an english labourer's eyes would bolt out of his head at the sight.
there is a stream: actually a long tress of a water-fall pouring into a little gorge, and a stream-bed that opens a little, and shows a marvellous cluster of naked poplars away below. they are like ghosts. they have a ghostly, almost phosphorescent luminousness in the shadow of the valley, by the stream of water. if not phosphorescent, then incandescent: a grey, goldish-pale incandescence of naked limbs and myriad cold-glowing twigs, gleaming strangely. if i were a painter i would paint them: for they seem to have living, sentient flesh. and the shadow envelopes them.
another naked tree i would paint is the gleaming mauve-silver fig, which burns its cold incandescence, tangled, like some sensitive creature emerged from the rock. a fig tree come forth in its nudity gleaming over the dark winter-earth is a sight to behold. like some white, tangled sea anemone. ah, if it could but answer! or if we had tree-speech!
they talk and are very lively. and they have mediaeval faces, rusé, never really abandoning their defences for a moment, as a badger or a pole-cat never abandons its defences. there is none of the brotherliness and civilised simplicity. each man knows he must guard himself and his own: each man knows the devil is behind the next bush. they have never known the post-renaissance jesus. which is rather an eye-opener.
not that they are suspicious or uneasy. on the contrary, noisy, assertive, vigorous presences. but with none of that implicit belief that everybody will be and ought to be good to them, which is the mark of our era. they don't expect people to be good to them: they don't want it. they remind me of half-wild dogs that will love and obey, but which won't be handled. they won't have their heads touched. and they won't be fondled. one can almost hear the half-savage growl.
the long stocking caps they wear as a sort of crest, as a lizard wears his crest at mating time. they are always moving them, settling them on their heads. one fat fellow, young, with sly brown eyes and a young beard round his face folds his stocking-foot in three, so that it rises over his brow martial and handsome. the old boy brings his stocking-foot over the left ear. a handsome fellow with a jaw of massive teeth pushes his cap back and lets it hang a long way down his back. then he shifts it forward over his nose, and makes it have two sticking-out points, like fox-ears, above his temples. it is marvellous how much expression these caps can take on. they say that only those born to them can wear them. they seem to be just long bags, nearly a yard long, of black stockinette stuff.
the conductor comes to issue them their tickets. and they all take out rolls of paper money. even a little mothy rat of a man who sits opposite me has quite a pad of ten-franc notes. nobody seems short of a hundred francs nowadays: nobody.
they shout and expostulate with the conductor. full of coarse life they are: but so coarse! the handsome fellow has his sleeved waistcoat open, and his shirt-breast has come unbuttoned. not looking, it seems as if he wears a black undervest. then suddenly, one sees it is his own hair. he is quite black inside his shirt, like a black goat.
but there is a gulf between oneself and them. they have no inkling of our crucifixion, our universal consciousness. each of them is pivoted and limited to himself, as the wild animals are. they look out, and they see other objects, objects to ridicule or mistrust or to sniff curiously at. but "thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself" has never entered their souls at all, not even the thin end of it. they might love their neighbour, with a hot, dark, unquestioning love. but the love would probably leave off abruptly. the fascination of what is beyond them has not seized on them. their neighbour is a mere external. their life is centripetal, pivoted inside itself, and does not run out towards others and mankind. one feels for the first time the real old mediaeval life, which is enclosed in itself and has no interest in the world outside.
and so they lie about on the seats, play a game, shout, and sleep, and settle their long stocking-caps: and spit. it is wonderful in them that at this time of day they still wear the long stocking-caps as part of their inevitable selves. it is a sign of obstinate and powerful tenacity. they are not going to be broken in upon by world-consciousness. they are not going into the world's common clothes. coarse, vigorous, determined, they will stick to their own coarse dark stupidity and let the big world find its own way to its own enlightened hell. their hell is their own hell, they prefer it unenlightened.
and one cannot help wondering whether sardinia will resist right through. will the last waves of enlightenment and world-unity break over them and wash away the stocking-caps? or is the tide of enlightenment and world-unity already receding fast enough?
certainly a reaction is setting in, away from the old universality, back, away from cosmopolitanism and internationalism. russia, with her third international, is at the same time reacting most violently away from all other contact, back, recoiling on herself, into a fierce, unapproachable russianism. which motion will conquer? the workman's international, or the centripetal movement into national isolation? are we going to merge into one grey proletarian homogeneity?--or are we going to swing back into more-or-less isolated, separate, defiant communities?
probably both. the workman's international movement will finally break the flow towards cosmopolitanism and world-assimilation, and suddenly in a crash the world will fly back into intense separations. the moment has come when america, that extremist in world-assimilation and world-oneness, is reacting into violent egocentricity, a truly amerindian egocentricity. as sure as fate we are on the brink of american empire.
for myself, i am glad. i am glad that the era of love and oneness is over: hateful homogeneous world-oneness. i am glad that russia flies back into savage russianism, scythism, savagely self-pivoting. i am glad that america is doing the same. i shall be glad when men hate their common, world-alike clothes, when they tear them up and clothe themselves fiercely for distinction, savage distinction, savage distinction against the rest of the creeping world: when america kicks the billy-cock and the collar-and-tie into limbo, and takes to her own national costume: when men fiercely react against looking all alike and being all alike, and betake themselves into vivid clan or nation-distinctions.
the era of love and oneness is over. the era of world-alike should be at an end. the other tide has set in. men will set their bonnets at one another now, and fight themselves into separation and sharp distinction. the day of peace and oneness is over, the day of the great fight into multifariousness is at hand. hasten the day, and save us from proletarian homogeneity and khaki all-alikeness.
i love my indomitable coarse men from mountain sardinia, for their stocking-caps and their splendid, animal-bright stupidity. if only the last wave of all-alikeness won't wash those superb crests, those caps, away.
and it seemed to her as though she knew all the people who were there; they were the women of the village, and the girls of her own age. but the dog was well aware that there was something uncanny about it all. he made his way down to melbustad in flying leaps, and howled and barked in the most lamentable manner, and gave the people no rest until they followed him. the young fellow who was to marry the girl took his gun, and climbed the hills; and when he drew near, there stood a number of horses around the hut, saddled and bridled. he crept up to the hut, looked through a loop-hole in the wall, and saw a whole company sitting together inside. it was quite evident that they were trolls, the people from underground, and therefore he discharged his gun over the roof. at that moment the doors flew open, and a number of balls of gray yarn, one larger than the other, came shooting out about his legs. when he went in, there sat the maiden in her bridal finery, and nothing was missing but the ring on her little finger, then all would have been complete.
"in heaven's name, what has happened here?" he asked, as he looked around. all the silverware was still on the table, but all the tasty dishes had turned to moss and toadstools, and frogs and toads and the like.
"what does it all mean?" said he. "you are sitting here in all your glory, just like a bride?"
"how can you ask me?" answered the maiden. "you have been sitting here yourself, and talking about our wedding the whole afternoon!"
"no, i have just come," said he. "it must have been some one else who had taken my shape!"
then she gradually came to her senses; but not until long afterward was she altogether herself, and she told how she had firmly believed that her sweetheart himself, and all their friends and relatives had been there. he took her straight back to the village with him, and so that they need fear no such deviltry in the future, they celebrated their wedding while she was still clad in the bridal outfit of the underground folk. the crown and all the ornaments were hung up in melbustad and it is said that they hang there to this very day.
the hat of the huldres
once upon a time there was a big wedding at a certain farmstead, and a certain cottager was on his way to the wedding-feast. as he chanced to cross a field, he found a milk-strainer, such as are usually made of cows' tails, and looking just like an old brown rag. he picked it up, for he thought it could be washed, and then he would give it to his wife for a dish-rag. but when he came to the house where they were celebrating the wedding, it seemed as though no one saw him. the bride and groom nodded to the rest of the guests, they spoke to them and poured for them; but he got neither greeting nor drink. then the chief cook came and asked the other folk to sit down to the table; but he was not asked, nor did he get anything to eat. for he did not care to sit down of his own accord when no one had asked him. at last he grew angry and thought: "i might as well go home, for not a soul pays a bit of attention to me here." when he reached home, he said: "good evening, here i am back again."
"for heaven's sake, are you back again?" asked his wife.
"yes, there was no one there who paid any attention to me, or even so much as looked at me," said the man, "and when people show me so little consideration, it seems as though i have nothing to look for there."
"but where are you? i can hear you, but i cannot see you!" cried his wife.
the man was invisible, for what he had found was a huldre hat.
"what are you talking about? can't you see me? have you lost your wits?" asked the man. "there is an old hair strainer for you. i found it outside on the ground," said he, and he threw it on the bench. and then his wife saw him; but at the same moment the hat of the huldres disappeared, for he should only have loaned it, not given it away. now the man saw how everything had come about, and went back to the wedding-feast. and this time he was received in right friendly fashion, and was asked to drink, and to seat himself at the table.
the child of mary
far, far from here, in a great forest, there once lived a poor couple. heaven blessed them with a charming little daughter; but they were so poor they did not know how they were going to get her christened. so her father had to go forth to see whether he could not find a god-father to pay for the child's christening. all day long he went from one to another; but no one wanted to be the god-father. toward evening, as he was going home, he met a very lovely lady, who wore the most splendid clothes, and seemed most kind and friendly, and she offered to see that the child was christened, if she might be allowed to keep it afterward. the man replied that first he must ask his wife. but when he reached home and asked her she gave him a flat "no." the following day the man set out again; but no one wanted to be the god-father if he had to pay for the christening himself, and no matter how hard the man begged, it was all of no avail. when he went home that evening, he again met the lovely lady, who looked so gentle, and she made him the same offer as before. the man again told his wife what had happened to him, and added that if he could not find a god-father for his child the following day, they would probably have to let the lady take her, since she seemed to be so kind and friendly. the man then went out for the third time, and found no god-father that day. and so, when he once more met the friendly lady in the evening, he promised to let her have the child, if she would see that it was baptized. the following morning the lady came to the man's hut, and with her two other men. she then took the child and went to church with it, and it was baptized. then she took it with her, and the little girl remained with her for several years, and her foster-mother was always good and kind to her.
now when the girl had grown old enough to make distinctions, and had acquired some sense, it chanced that her foster-mother once wished to take a journey. "you may go into any room you wish," she said to the girl, "only you are not to go into these three rooms," and then she set out on her journey. but the girl could not resist opening the door to the one room a little way--and swish! out flew a star. when her foster-mother came home, she was much grieved to find that the star had flown out, and was so annoyed with her foster-child that she threatened to send her away. but the girl pleaded and cried, until at last she was allowed to remain.
after a time the foster-mother wanted to take another journey, and she forbade the girl, above all, to go into the two rooms which, as yet, she had not entered. and the girl promised her that this time she would obey her. but when she had been alone for some time, and had had all sorts of thoughts as to what there might be in the second room, she could no longer resist opening the second door a little way--and swish! out flew the moon. when the foster-mother returned, and saw the moon had slipped out, she again grieved greatly, and told the girl she could keep her no longer, and that now she must go. but when the girl again began to cry bitterly, and pleaded with such grace that it was impossible to deny her, she was once more allowed to remain.
when heaven gave her a second child, a guard of twice as many men as had first stood watch was again set about her; yet everything happened as before, only that this time the foster-mother said to her: "now you shall grieve as i did when you let the moon slip out!" the queen wept and pleaded--for when the foster-mother was there she could speak--but without avail. now the old queen insisted that she be burned. but the prince once more succeeded in begging her free. when heaven gave her a third child, a three-fold guard was set about her. the foster-mother came while the guard slept, took the child, cut its little finger, and rubbed some of the blood on the queen's mouth. "now," said she, "you shall grieve just as i did when you let the sun slip out!" and now the prince could in no way save her, she was to be and should be burned. but at the very moment when they were leading her to the stake, the foster-mother appeared with all three children; the two older ones she led by the hand, the youngest she carried on her arm. she stepped up to the young queen and said: "here are your children, for now i give them back to you. i am the virgin mary, and the grief that you have felt is the same grief that i felt aforetimes, when you had let the star, the moon and the sun slip out. now you have been punished for that which you did, and from now on the power of speech is restored to you!"
the happiness which then filled the prince and princess may be imagined, but cannot be described. they lived happily together ever after, and from that time forward even the prince's mother was very fond of the young queen.
"but is it certain that there is no one here who can overhear us?" said one of the crows. and by the way she spoke the cabin-boy knew her for the captain's wife.
"no, you can see there's not," said the others, the wives of the first and second quartermasters. "there is not a soul aboard."
"well, then i do not mind saying that i know of a good way to get rid of them," said the captain's wife once more, and hopped closer to the two others. "we will turn ourselves into breakers, wash them into the sea, and sink the ship with every man on board."
that pleased the others, and they sat there a long time discussing the day and the fairway. "but is it certain that no one can overhear us?" once more asked the captain's wife.
"you know that such is the case," said the two others.
"well, there is a counter-spell for what we wish to do, and if it is used, it will go hard with us, for it will cost us nothing less than our lives!"
"what is the counter-spell, sister," asked the wife of the one quartermaster.
"is it certain that no one is listening to us? it seemed to me as though some one were smoking in the forward cabin."
"but you know we looked in every corner. they just forgot to let the fire go out in the caboose, and that is why there's smoke," said the quartermaster's wife, "so tell away."
"if they buy three cords of birch-wood," said the witch,--"but it must be full measure, and they must not bargain for it--and throw the first cord into the water, billet by billet, when the first breaker strikes, and the second cord, billet by billet, when the second breaker strikes, and the third cord, billet by billet, when the third breaker strikes, then it is all up with us!"
"yes, that's true, sister, then it is all up with us! then it is all up with us!" said the wives of the quartermasters; "but there is no one who knows it," they cried, and laughed loudly, and with that they flew out of the hatchway, screaming and croaking like ravens.
when the day came on which the cabin-boy was to take command, the weather was fair and quiet; but he drummed up the whole ship's crew, and with the exception of a tiny bit of canvas, had all sails reefed. the captain and crew laughed at him, and said: "that shows the sort of a captain we have now. don't you want us to reef that last bit of sail this very minute?" "not yet," answered the cabin-boy, "but before long."
the boy ordered them to throw the first cord of birch-wood overboard, billet by billet, one at a time and never two, and he did not let them touch the other two cords. now they obeyed him to the letter, and did not laugh; but cast out the birch-wood billet by billet. when the last billet fell they heard a groaning, as though some one were wrestling with death, and then the squall had passed.
"heaven be praised!" said the crew--and the captain added: "i am going to let the company know that you saved ship and cargo."
the last squall hit them with far more force than either of the preceding ones, the ship laid over on her side so that they thought she would not right herself again, and the breaker swept over the deck.
but the boy told them to throw the last cord of wood overboard, billet by billet, and no two billets at once. and when the last billet of wood fell, they heard a deep groaning, as though some one were dying hard, and when all was quiet once more, the whole sea was the color of blood, as far as eye could reach.
when they reached land, the captain and the quartermasters spoke of writing to their wives. "that is something you might just as well let be," said the cabin-boy, "seeing that you no longer have any wives."
"what silly talk is this, young know-it-all! we have no wives?" said the captain. "or do you happen to have done away with them?" asked the quartermasters.
"no, all of us together did away with them," answered the boy, and told them what he had heard and seen that sunday afternoon when he was on watch on the ship; while the crew was ashore, and the captain was buying his deckload of wood.
and when they sailed home they learned that their wives had disappeared the day of the storm, and that since that time no one had seen or heard anything more of them.
the four-shilling piece
once upon a time there was a poor woman, who lived in a wretched hut far away from the village. she had but little to bite and less to burn, so she sent her little boy to the forest to gather wood. he skipped and leaped, and leaped and skipped, in order to keep warm, for it was a cold, gray autumn day, and whenever he had gathered a root or a branch to add to his bundle, he had to slap his arms against his shoulders, for the cold made his hands as red as the whortleberry bushes over which he walked. when he had filled his barrow, and was wandering homeward, he crossed a field of stubble. there he saw lying a jagged white stone. "o, you poor old stone, how white and pale you are! you must be freezing terribly!" said the boy; took off his jacket, and laid it over the stone. and when he came back home with his wood, his mother asked him how it was that he was going around in the autumn cold in his shirt-sleeves. he told her that he had seen a jagged old stone, quite white and pale with the frost, and that he had given it his jacket. "you fool," said the woman, "do you think a stone can freeze? and even if it had chattered with frost, still, charity begins at home. your clothes cost enough as it is, even when you don't hang them on the stones out in the field!"--and with that she drove the boy out again to fetch his jacket. when he came to the stone, the stone had turned around, and had raised itself from the ground on one side. "yes, and i'm sure it is because you have the jacket, poor fellow!" said the boy. but when he looked more closely, there was a chest full of bright silver coins under the stone. "that must be stolen money," thought the boy, "for no one lays money honestly earned under stones in the wood." and he took the chest, and carried it down to the pond nearby, and threw in the whole pile of money. but a four-shilling piece was left swimming on the top of the water. "well, this one is honest, for whatever is honest will float," said the boy. and he took the four-shilling piece and the jacket home with him. he told his mother what had happened to him, that the stone had turned around, and that he had found a chest full of silver coins, and had thrown it into the pond because it was stolen money. "but a four-shilling piece floated, and that i took along, because it was honest," said the boy. "you are a fool," said the woman--for she was as angry as could be--"if nothing were honest save what floats on the water, there would be but little honesty left in the world. and if the money had been stolen ten times over, still you had found it, and charity begins at home. if you had kept the money, we might have passed the rest of our lives in peace and comfort. but you are a dunderhead and will stay a dunderhead, and i won't be tormented and burdened with you any longer. now you must get out and earn your own living."
so the boy had to go out into the wide world, and wandered about far and near looking for service. but wherever he went people found him too small or too weak, and said that they could make no use of him. at last he came to a merchant. there they kept him to work in the kitchen, and he had to fetch wood and water for the cook. when he had been there for some time, the merchant decided to journey to far countries, and asked all his servants what he should buy and bring back home for them. after all had told him what they wanted, came the turn of the little fellow who carried wood and water for the kitchen. he handed him his four-shilling piece. "well, and what am i to buy for it?" asked the merchant. "it will not be a large purchase." "buy whatever it will bring, it is honest money, that i know," said the boy. his master promised to do so, and sailed away.
now when the merchant had discharged his cargo in foreign parts and had reloaded, and had bought what his servants had desired, he went back to his ship, and was about to shove off. not until then did he remember that the scullion had given him a four-shilling piece, with which to buy him something. "must i go up to the city again because of this four-shilling piece? one only has one's troubles when one bothers with such truck," thought the merchant. then along came a woman with a bag on her back. "what have you in your bag, granny?" asked the merchant. "o, it is only a cat! i can feed her no longer, and so i want to throw her into the sea in order to get rid of her," said the old woman. "the boy told me to buy whatever i could get for the four-shilling piece," said the merchant to himself, and asked the woman whether he could have her cat for four shillings. the woman agreed without delay, and the bargain was closed.
now when the merchant had sailed on for a while, a terrible storm broke loose, a thunderstorm without an equal, and he drifted and drifted, and did not know where or whither. at last he came to a land where he had never yet been, and went up into the city.
in the tavern which he entered the table was set, and at every place lay a switch, one for each guest. this seemed strange to the merchant, for he could not understand what was to be done with all the switches. yet he sat down and thought: "i will watch carefully, and see just what the rest do with them, and then i can imitate them." yes, and when the food came on the table, then he knew why the switches were there: the place was alive with thousands of mice, and all who were sitting at the table had to work and fight and beat about them with their switches, and nothing could be heard but the slapping of the switches, one worse than the other. sometimes people hit each other in the face, and then they had to take time to say, "excuse me!"
"eating is hard work in this country," said the merchant. "how is it the folk here have no cats?" "cats?" said the people: they did not know what they were. then the merchant had the cat that he had bought for the scullion brought, and when the cat went over the table, the mice had to hurry into their holes, and not in the memory of man had the people been able to eat in such comfort. then they begged and implored the merchant to sell them his cat. at last he said he would let them have her; but he wanted a hundred dollars for her, and this they paid, and thanked him kindly into the bargain.
then the merchant sailed on, but no sooner had he reached the high seas than he saw the cat sitting at the top of the main-mast. and immediately after another storm and tempest arose, far worse than the first one, and he drifted and drifted, till he came to a land where he had never yet been. again the merchant went to a tavern, and here, too, the table was covered with switches; but they were much larger and longer than at the place where he had first been. and they were much needed; for there were a good many more mice, and they were twice the size of those he had first seen.
here he again sold his cat, and this time he received two hundred dollars for her, and that without any haggling. but when he had sailed off and was out at sea a way, there sat the cat up in the mast. and the storm at once began again, and finally he was again driven to a land in which he had never been. again he turned in at a tavern, and there the table was also covered with switches; but every switch was a yard and a half long, and as thick as a small broom, and the people told him that they knew of nothing more disagreeable than to sit down to eat, for there were great, ugly rats by the thousand. only with toil and trouble could one manage to shove a bite of something into one's mouth once in a while, so hard was it to defend oneself against the rats. then the cat was again brought from the ship, and now the people could eat in peace. they begged and pleaded that the merchant sell them his cat; and for a long time he refused; but at last he promised that they should have her for three hundred dollars. and they paid him, and thanked him, and blessed him into the bargain.
now when the merchant was out at sea again, he considered how much the boy had gained with the four-shilling piece he had given him. "well, he shall have some of the money," said the merchant to himself, "but not all of it. for he has to thank me for the cat, which i bought for him, and charity begins at home."
but while the merchant was thinking these thoughts, such a storm and tempest arose that all thought the ship would sink. then the merchant realized that there was nothing left for him to do but to promise that the boy should have all the money. no sooner had he made his vow, than the weather turned fair, and he had a favoring wind for his journey home. and when he landed, he gave the youth the six hundred dollars and his daughter to boot. for now the scullion was as rich as the merchant himself and richer, and thereafter he lived in splendor and happiness. and he took in his mother and treated her kindly. "for i do not believe that charity begins at home," said the youth.
the magic apples
there was only one thing that he lacked: he had no wife, and he was gradually coming into the years when it would be necessary for him to make haste.
as he was walking sadly along one fine day, it occurred to him to wish himself where he would find the most beautiful princess in the world. no sooner had he thought of it than he was there. and it was a land which he had never yet seen, and a city in which he had never yet been. and the king had a daughter, so handsome that he had never yet beheld her like, and he wanted to have her on the spot. but she would have nothing to do with him, and was very haughty.
finally he despaired altogether, and was so beside himself that he could no longer be where she was not. so he took his magic cap and wished himself into the castle. he wanted to say good-by, so he said. and she laid her hand in his. "i wish we were far beyond the end of the world!" said the youth, and there they were. but the king's daughter wept, and begged to be allowed to go home again. he could have all the gold and silver in the castle in return. "i have money enough for myself," said the youth, and he shook his purse so that money just rolled about. he could sit down at the royal table and eat the finest food, and drink the finest wines, said she. "i have enough to eat and drink myself," said the youth. "see, you can sit down at the table," said he, and at once he spread his table-cloth. and there stood a table covered with the best one might wish; and the king himself ate no better.
"you might have known it," said the youth to himself, and hurried down the tree. he began to cry and did not know what to do. and as he was sitting there, he sampled the apples which he had thrown down. no sooner had he tried one than he had a strange feeling in his head, and when he looked more closely, he had a pair of horns. "well, now it can do me no more harm," said he, and calmly went on eating the apples. but suddenly the horns had disappeared, and he was as before. "good enough!" said the youth. and with that he put the apples in his pocket, and set out to search for the king's daughter.
he went from city to city, and sailed from country to country; but it was a long journey, and lasted a year and a day, and even longer.
but one day he got there after all. it was a sunday, and he found out that the king's daughter was at church. then he sat himself down with his apples before the church door, and pretended to be a peddler. "apples of damascus! apples of damascus!" he cried. and sure enough, the king's daughter came, and told her maidens to go and see what desirable things the peddler from abroad might have to offer. yes, he had apples of damascus. "what do the apples give one?" asked the maiden. "wisdom and beauty!" said the peddler, and the maiden bought.
when the king's daughter had eaten of the apples, she had a pair of horns. and then there was such a wailing in the castle that it was pitiful to hear. and the castle was hung with black, and in the whole kingdom proclamation was made from all pulpits that whoever could help the king's daughter should get her, and half the kingdom besides. then tom, dick and harry, and the best physicians in the country came along. but none of them could help the princess.
but one day a foreign doctor from afar came to court. he was not from their country, he said, and had made the journey purposely just to try his luck here. but he must see the king's daughter alone, said he, and permission was granted him.
the king's daughter recognized him, and grew red and pale in turn. "if i help you now, will you marry me?" asked the youth. yes, indeed she would. then he gave her one of the magic apples, and her horns were only half as large as before. "but i cannot do more until i have my cap, and my table-cloth, and my purse back again," said he. so she went and brought him the things. then he gave her still another magic apple, and now the horns were no more than tiny hornlets. "but now i cannot go on until you have sworn that you will be true to me," said he. and she swore that she would. and after she had eaten the third apple, her forehead was quite smooth again, and she was even more beautiful than in days gone by.
then there was great joy in the castle. they prepared for the wedding with baking and brewing, and invited people from east and west to come to it. and they ate and drank, and were merry and of good cheer, and if they have not stopped, they are merry and of good cheer to this very day!
self did it
once upon a time there was a mill, in which it was impossible to grind flour, because such strange things kept happening there. but there was a poor woman who was in urgent need of a little meal one evening, and she asked whether they would not allow her to grind a little flour during the night. "for heaven's sake," said the mill-owner, "that is quite impossible! there are ghosts enough in the mill as it is." but the woman said that she must grind a little; for she did not have a pinch of flour in the house with which to make mush, and there was nothing for her children to eat. so at last he allowed her to go to the mill at night and grind some flour. when she came, she lit a fire under a big tar-barrel that was standing there; got the mill going, sat down by the fire, and began to knit. after a time a girl came in and nodded to her. "good evening!" said she to the woman. "good evening!" said the woman; kept her seat, and went on knitting. but then the girl who had come in began to pull apart the fire on the hearth. the woman built it up again.
"what is your name?" asked the girl from underground.
"self is my name," said the woman.
that seemed a curious name to the girl, and she once more began to pull the fire apart. then the woman grew angry and began to scold, and built it all up again. thus they went on for a good while; but at last, while they were in the midst of their pulling apart and building up of the fire, the woman upset the tar-barrel on the girl from underground. then the latter screamed and ran away, crying:
"father, father! self burned me!"
"nonsense, if self did it, then self must suffer for it!" came the answer from below the hill.
the master girl
once upon a time there was a king who had several sons; i do not just know how many there were, but the youngest was not content at home, and insisted on going out into the world to seek his fortune. and in the end the king had to give him permission to do so. after he had wandered for a few days, he came to a giant's castle, and took service with the giant. in the morning the giant wanted to go off to herd his goats, and when he started he told the king's son he was to clean the stable in the meantime. "and when you are through with that, you need do nothing more for to-day, for you might as well know that you have come to a kind master," said he. "but you must do what you are told to do conscientiously and, besides, you must not go into any of the rooms that lie behind the one in which you slept last night, else your life will pay the forfeit."
"he surely is a kind master," said the king's son to himself, walked up and down the room, and whistled and sang; for, thought he, there would be plenty of time to clean the stable. "but it would be nice to take a look at the other room, there surely must be something in it that he is alarmed about, since i am not so much as to take a look," thought he, and went into the first room. there hung a kettle, and it was boiling, but the king's son could find no fire beneath it. "what can there be in it?" thought he, and dipped in a lock of his hair, and at once the hair grew just like copper. "that's a fine soup, and whoever tastes it will burn his mouth," said the youth, and went into the next room. there hung another kettle that bubbled and boiled; but there was no fire beneath it, either. "i must try this one, too," said the king's son, and again he dipped in a lock of his hair and it grew just like silver. "we have no such expensive soup at home," said the king's son, "but the main thing is, how does it taste?" and with that he went into the third room. and there hung still another kettle, a-boiling just like those in the two other rooms, and the king's son wanted to try this one, too. he dipped in a lock of his hair, and it came out like pure gold, and fairly shimmered.
then the king's son said: "better and better! but if he cooks gold here, i wonder what he cooks inside, there?" and he wanted to see, so he went into the fourth room. here there was no kettle to be seen; but a maiden sat on a bench who must have been a king's daughter; yet whatever she might be, the king's son had never seen any one so beautiful in all his days. "now in heaven's name, what are you doing here?" asked the maiden. "i hired myself out here yesterday," said the king's son. "may god be your aid, for it is a fine service you have chosen!" said she. "o, the master is very friendly," said the king's son. "he has given me no hard work to do to-day. when i have cleaned out the stable, i need do nothing more." "yes, but how are you going to manage it?" she went on. "if you do as the others have done, then for every shovelful you pitch out, ten fresh shovelfuls will fly in. but i'll tell you how to go about it. you must turn around the shovel, and work with the handle, then everything will fly out by itself."
this he would do, said the king's son; and he sat there with her all day long, for they had soon agreed that they would marry, he and the king's daughter, and in this way his first day in the giant's service did not weary him at all. when evening came on, she told him that now he must clean out the stable before the giant came, and when he got there he thought he would try out her advice, and began to use the shovel as he had seen his father's grooms use it. and sure enough, he had to stop quickly, for after he had worked a little while, he hardly had room in which to stand. then he did as the king's daughter had told him, turned the shovel around and used the handle. and in a wink the stable was as clean as though it had been scrubbed. when he had finished he went to the room that the giant had assigned him, and walked up and down, whistling and singing. then the giant came home with his goats. "have you cleaned out the stable?" he asked. "yes, indeed, master, it is spick and span," said the king's son. "i'll have to see that," said the giant, and went into the stable; but it was just as the king's son had said. "you surely have been talking to the master girl, for you could not have done that alone," said the giant. "master girl? what is a master girl?" said the king's son, and pretended to be very stupid. "i'd like to see her, too." "you will see her in plenty of time," said the giant.
the next morning the giant went off again with his goats. and he told the king's son he was to fetch his horse from the pasture, and when he had done this, he might rest: "for you have come to a kind master," said he. "but if you enter one of the rooms which i forbade you entering yesterday, i will tear off your head," he said, and went away with his herd. "indeed, you are a kind master," said the king's son, "but in spite of it i'd like to have another little talk with the master girl, for she is just as much mine as yours," and with that he went in to her. she asked him what work he had to do that day. "o, it is not so bad to-day," said the king's son. "i am only to fetch his horse from the pasture." "and how are you going to manage that?" asked the master girl. "surely it is no great feat to fetch a horse from pasture," said the king's son, "and i have ridden swift horses before." "yet it is not an easy matter to ride this horse home," said the master girl, "but i will tell you how to set about it: when you see the horse, he will come running up, breathing fire and flame, just as though he were a burning pine-torch. then you must take the bit that is hanging here on the door, and throw it into his mouth, for then he will grow so tame that you can do what you will with him." he would take good note of it, said the king's son, and he sat there with the master girl the whole day long, and they chatted and talked about this and that, but mainly about how delightful it would be, and what a pleasant time they could have, if they could only marry and get away from the giant. and the king's son would have forgotten the pasture and the horse altogether, had not the master girl reminded him of them toward evening. he took the bit that hung in the corner, hurried out to the pasture, and the horse at once ran up, breathing fire and flame; but he seized the moment when he came running up to him with his jaws wide open, and threw the bit into his mouth. then he stood still, as gentle as a young lamb, and he had no trouble bringing him to the stable. then he went to his room again, and began to whistle and sing. in the evening the giant came home with his goats. "did you fetch the horse?" he asked. "yes, master," said the king's son. "it would make a fine saddle-horse, but i just took it straight to the stable." "i'll have to see that," said the giant, and went into the stable. but there stood the horse, just as the king's son had said. "you surely must have spoken to my master girl, for you could not have done that alone," said the giant. "yesterday the master chattered about the master girl, and to-day he is talking about her again. i wish master would show me the creature, for i surely would like to see her," said the king's son, and pretended to be very simple and stupid. "you will get to see her in plenty of time," said the giant.
on the third morning the giant went off again with his goats. "to-day you must go to the devil, and fetch me his tribute," said he to the king's son. "when you have done that, you may rest for the remainder of the time, for you have come to a kind master, and you might as well know it," and with that he went off. "you may be a kind master," said the king's son; "yet you hand over some pretty mean jobs to me in spite of it, but i think i'll look after your master girl a bit. you claim that she belongs to you, but perhaps, in spite of it, she may tell me what to do," and with that he went in to her. and when the master girl asked him what the giant had given him to do that day, he told her he must go to the devil and fetch a tribute. "but how will you go about it?" asked the master girl. "you will have to tell me that," said the king's son, "for i have never been to the devil's place, and even though i knew the way there, i still would not know how much to ask for." "i will tell you what you must do," said the master girl. "you must go to the rock behind the pasture, and take the club that is lying there, and strike the rock with it. then one will come out whose eyes flash fire, and you must tell him your business. and if he asks how much you want, you must tell him as much as you can carry." he would take good note of it, said the king's son, and he sat there with the master girl all day long until evening, and he might be sitting there yet, if the master girl had not reminded him that he must still go to the devil about the tribute before the giant came home. so he set out, and did exactly as the master girl had told him: he went to the rock, took the club and beat against it. then one came out from whose eyes and nose the sparks flew. "what do you want?" he asked. "the giant has sent me to fetch his tribute," said the king's son. "how much do you want?" the other again inquired. "i never ask for more than i can carry," was the reply of the king's son. "it is lucky for you that you did not ask for a whole ton at once," said the one on the hill. "but come in with me, and wait a while." this the king's son did, and saw a great deal of gold and silver lying in the hill like dead rock in an ore-pile. then as much as he could carry was packed up, and with it he went his way. when the giant came home in the evening with his goats, the king's son was running about the room, whistling and singing as on the two preceding evenings. "did you go to the devil for the tribute?" asked the giant. "yes, indeed, master," said the king's son. "where did you put it?" asked the giant again. "i stood the sack of gold outside on the bench," was the reply. "i must see that at once," said the giant, and went over to the bench. but the sack was really standing there, and it was so full that the gold and silver rolled right out when the giant loosened the string. "you surely must have spoken to my master girl," said the giant. "if that is the case i will tear your head off." "with your master girl?" said the king's son. "yesterday master talked about that master girl, and to-day he is talking about her again, and the day before yesterday he talked about her, too! i only wish that i might get the chance to see her sometime!" said he. "well, just wait until to-morrow," said the giant, "and then i will lead you to her myself," he said. "a thousand thanks, master," said the king's son, "but i think you are only joking!" the following day the giant took him to the master girl.
"now you must slaughter him, and cook him in the big kettle, you know which one i mean. and when the soup is ready, you can call me," said the giant, and he lay down on the bench to sleep, and at once began to snore so that the hills shook. then the master girl took a knife, and cut the youth's little finger, and let three drops of blood fall on the bench. then she took all the old rags, and old shoes and other rubbish she could find, and threw them all into the kettle. and then she took a chest of gold-dust, and a lick-stone, and a bottle of water that hung over the door, and a golden apple, and two golden hens, and left the giant's castle together with the king's son as quickly as possible. after a time they came to the sea, and they sailed across; though where they got the ship i do not exactly know.
now they wanted to go home to the father of the king's son; but he would not hear of the master girl's going afoot, since he did not think this fitting for either of them. "wait here a little while, until i fetch the seven horses that stand in my father's stable," said the king's son. "it is not far, and i will soon be back; for i will not have my bride come marching home afoot." "no, do not do so, for when you get home to the castle you will forget me, i know that positively," said the master girl. "how could i forget you?" said the king's son. "we have passed through so many hardships together, and we love each other so dearly," said he. he wanted to fetch the coach and seven horses at all costs, and she was to wait by the seashore. so at last the master girl had to give in.
"but when you get there, you must not take time to greet a single person. you must at once go to the stable, harness the horses, and drive back as swiftly as you can. they will all come to meet you, but you must act as though you did not see them, and must not take a single bite to eat. if you do not do that, you will make both of us unhappy," said she. and he promised to do as she had said.
but when he got home to the castle, one of his brothers was just getting married, and the bride and all the guests were already there. they all crowded around him and asked him this, and asked him that, and wanted to lead him in. but he acted as though he saw none of them, led out the horses, and began to put them to the coach. and since they could by no manner of means induce him to come into the castle, they came out with again. what th' deuce d'ye mean by shouting at me as if i were a drunken deck-hand! speak to me above a whisper now--and you'll see what'll happen to you. that's the police-boat pulling past."
the opportune plash of oars had suggested to him that plausible threat. captain dove, listening intently, crouched back against the bulkhead, his blinking, hot, suspicious eyes on slyne's. the boat passed on. but he had found time to observe that slyne was in evening dress, with an expensive fur coat to keep the cold out. and slyne's cool contempt for his ill-temper would seem to have impressed him no less than slyne's air of solid prosperity.
"and you've been doing me good turns--by your way of it--for some time past," he continued, in a stifled, vehement whisper lest his voice should still reach the receding boat. "though--" he waved a claw-like hand about him, words again failing him to describe adequately his sufferings in consequence, as who should say, "see the result for yourself."
slyne sat down on the sofa opposite him, not even condescending to glance, in response to that invitation, round the squalid, poverty-stricken little cabin. "never mind about some time past," he advised, more pacifically. "you'll never get rich quick yesterday. to-day's when i'm going to make my pile. and i meant to let you in--"
"to another hole," captain dove concluded sceptically. "i only wish you'd show me some sure way out of the one i'm in."
slyne looked his annoyance at that further interruption, and made as if to rise, but did no more than draw his gold cigarette-case from its pocket. he knew that captain dove was merely trying to aggravate him, and it would not have been politic to stray from the matter in hand. he lighted a cigarette at his leisure and waited for what should come next. he had changed his mind as to taking the old man fully into his confidence. he thought he could see his way to get all he wanted for a very great deal less than that might have cost him.
"want a drink?" captain dove demanded, no doubt with the idea that a dose of spirit might serve to stir up his visitor's temper, and looked surprised at slyne's curt head-shake, still more surprised over his response.
"i can't afford to drink at all hours of the day and night now," said slyne austerely. "that sort of thing was all very well at sea, but--the business i have in hand isn't of the sort that can be carried out on raw brandy. and you'll have to taper off too, if you want to come in."
"strike--me--sky-blue!" exclaimed the old man, and slyne held up a reproving hand.
"i can do with a good deal less of your bad language into the bargain," he mentioned coldly, "if you don't mind. in short, i want you to understand from the start that you've got to behave as if you were a reasonable human being and not a dangerous lunatic, or--i'll leave you to rot, in the hole you've got yourself into."
captain dove, scarcely able to credit the evidence of his own ears but, none the less, apparently, thinking hard, darted a very ugly glance at him, and noticed the diamonds in his shirt-front. under the strongest temptation to call in a couple of deck-hands and have him thrown off the ship, captain dove obviously paused to consider whether those could be of any intrinsic value. he was, of course, satisfied that he knew exactly how much--or, rather, how little money slyne had had in his pockets when he went ashore. and, if slyne had already, within four and twenty hours, been able to turn that over at a profit sufficient to provide himself with a fur coat and diamonds, it might perhaps pay captain dove to hear what he had to propose. slyne, reading all the old man's thoughts, could see that he had decided to temporise.
"but, i can do with a damn sight less of your back-chat!" rumbled captain dove, not to be put down without protest. "if you've come back on board to offer me a founder's share in any new gold-brick factory, fire straight ahead--and be short about it. it'll save time, too, if you'll take it from me again that i'd rather have your room than your company."
and at that, slyne made his next considered move.
"all right," he said in a tone of the most utter contempt. "that's enough. i'm off.
"i came back to do you a good turn--although few men, in my position, would ever have looked near you again," he paused in the doorway to remark acridly. "but i can see now what's the matter with you--and i only wish i had noticed it in time to save myself all it has cost me. it's senile decay you're suffering from. you're far too old to be of any more use--even to yourself. you're in your dotage, and you'll soon be in an asylum--for pauper lunatics!"
he had evidently lost his own temper at last. and captain dove was visibly pleased with that result of his tactics; as a rule he was better able to cope with slyne on a basis of mutual abuse, heated on both sides; slyne cool and collected had him at a disadvantage.
"now you're talking!" he retorted approvingly. "say what's in your mind, straightforwardly, and we'll soon come to an understanding. sit down again, you strutting peacock! and tell me what it is you want."
slyne did not sit down again, however; to do so would scarcely have been dignified. he stayed in the doorway, silent, a thin stream of cigarette-smoke slowly filtering from his nostrils. his cold, calculating eyes were once more on captain dove's. and it was captain dove's would-be mocking glance that at length gave way.
"you offered to give me sallie, if i paid you a hundred thousand dollars," said slyne, judicially.
"to see you safely married to her," captain dove corrected him.
slyne nodded, in grave assent.
"well, i'm going to hold you to your offer," said he. "the money's ready and waiting for you--just as soon as we can settle a few trifling formalities. i have sallie's promise to marry me--"
"the devil you have!" said captain dove, not slow to seize opportunity either. "i thought i heard her say--"
slyne's face darkened again. "and, if you'll come ashore with me now," he went on, controlling his temper, "i'll prove to you that your money is perfectly safe."
captain dove lay back in his bunk and laughed, most discordantly. he laughed till his red-rimmed eyes were adrip, while slyne sat looking at him. he was still laughing when slyne rose and, flicking the cigarette-end from between two nicotine-stained fingers, began to button his coat. he stopped laughing then, by calculated degrees.
"sit down--sit down!" said he wheezily. "what's your hurry? you haven't told me yet what those few 'trifling formalities' are. and how am i to know whether--"
but slyne was already beyond the doorway, fumbling with a last button.
"if you believe i've come here to talk simply for the sake of talking," said he with sombre magnificence, "i needn't waste any more breath on you. good-bye."
captain dove jumped out of his bunk. he was clearly impressed, in spite of himself, by the other's indomitable assurance.
"come back, you fool!" he called angrily. "come back. i want to know--
"i'll go ashore with you," he shouted, raising his voice, since slyne was already on his way to the gangway. but slyne did not seem to hear.
"i'll take your offer--for sallie," cried captain dove, in a slightly lower tone.
slyne hesitated in his stride, stopped, and turned back into the alleyway which led to the saloon.
"what was that you said?" he demanded of captain dove.
"come on inside," requested captain dove, more curtly.
"i don't believe i will," slyne declared, inwardly elated over the winning of that somewhat risky move. "you don't deserve another chance. and, if i do give you another, you needn't suppose--"
"come on inside," begged captain dove, shivering, in no case to listen to any lecture. "come on, and we'll talk sense. don't waste any more good time."
slyne followed him in again, congratulating himself on his firmness. he felt that he had gained the whip-hand of the old man, and he meant to keep it. he curtly refused again captain dove's more hospitable offer of some refreshment, and, while his aggrieved host was clumsily getting into some warmer clothing, talked to him from the saloon through the open doorway of his cramped sleeping-quarters. it was easier to arrange matters so than under captain dove's direct observation.
"you'll pay me cash, of course," captain dove stipulated, as though he had been bargaining about a charter-party.
"i'll pay you cash," slyne agreed, "the day sallie marries me. and meantime i'll give you my note of hand at thirty days for the money." he listened intently, but captain dove, struggling fretfully with refractory buttons, maintained an ominous silence.
"i'll have it backed by a london lawyer, to keep you safe," said slyne. "and listen! i'm not asking you to risk anything, or even to take my note at its face value. i want you to come ashore with me and find out for yourself from my lawyer that you can depend on the money. if you don't feel satisfied about that after you've seen him, you needn't go any farther, we'll call the bargain off; you can get back on board your ship at once and no harm done.
"and, even as regards sallie, i'm going out of my way to keep you right. i'd give a great deal to get married at once, but--i'm willing to wait till the day i can hand you your hundred thousand in cash. everything's fair, square, and above-board now. i'm not asking you to risk anything.
"and where in the wide world can you expect to do better for yourself!" he argued. "if you go east you'll get no more for the girl--and look at the expense! you'll be sorry all the rest of your life, too, for i know you'd far sooner see her decently settled than sell her to any dog-faced son-of-a-gun of a mandarin!
"you can say what you like," he concluded, although captain dove had said never a word. "clean money's pleasanter to spend than dirty, any day. if i had been born wealthy, i'd never have needed to touch a marked card. and now's your chance, too, to pull out of a rotten rut that'll sooner or later land you among the chain-gang."
captain dove came forth from his cabin, indifferently clad, and eyed slyne with a sarcastic interest which somewhat disconcerted that homilist.
"you don't look just like a band o' hope!" said the old man, "but--"
slyne rose again, and bit his lip, in simulated impatience. "oh, all right," said he. "if you're not interested--"
captain dove scowled at him. "i'm interested," he said grudgingly. "i'll see this lawyer-fellow of yours whenever you like to bring him aboard, and--if the money's there, you can count me in."
"he isn't the sort of lawyer you've been accustomed to, dove," said slyne. "you've got to go to him."
captain dove did his best to out-stare him, but failed.
"and what's more," said slyne, playing a trump card with great outward indifference, "you can make him pay you for your time instead of you paying him. i told you i came back here to do you a good turn. there's more than a hundred thousand dollars of easy money for you in this deal--if you go the right way about it.
"but--don't take my word for anything."
captain dove had palpable difficulty in suppressing the obvious repartee to that last bit of advice. but cupidity and cunning kept him quiet for a space.
"all right. i'll go with you," he agreed very gruffly at last. and slyne heaved a silent sigh of relief; he had feared more than once that the contest of wills would after all go against him.
"you're wise," he commented carelessly. "it will pay you.
"you'd better see sallie now, don't you think, and tell her--"
"i'm not going to interfere between you and her--till i get my money from you," declared the old man with a crafty grin. "you must tackle her yourself. she'll be up by now, but breakfast won't be ready for half an hour. if i were you i'd take that coat off and let her have a sight of those diamonds of yours."
slyne did not wait to hear any more. he was already on his way aft, a somewhat incongruous figure on the decks of the olive branch. when he reached the companion-hatch on the poop he was smiling sardonically.
"i do believe it was my 'diamonds' that finally fetched that old ruffian," said he to himself. "if they have the same effect on sallie, i won't grudge the few francs i paid for them!"
he tiptoed down the short stairway, and, having tapped very quietly at the door of the after-saloon, entered without more ado. he judged that he might have difficulty in gaining admission if he delayed to ask leave.
the saloon was empty. but from an adjoining cabin came the sound of splashing, and from its neighbour the shuffle of heavy feet, a faint suggestion of deft hands busy among crisp muslin and sibilant silk.
slyne hesitated; he wanted to be very tactful and yet was unwilling to give up the advantage he had thus gained. he closed the door carefully behind him. it creaked a little.
from the room whence had come the rustle of feminine garments an uncanny-looking figure appeared, and darted an angry, apprehensive glance about the saloon. the sound of splashing had ceased.
"'morning, ambrizette," said slyne briskly and standing his ground. "is your mistress up yet? tell her i have captain dove's leave to pay her a call."
the dumb black dwarf's scowl grew darker, but her hand fell away from her breast and she halted as sallie's voice sounded from within.
"is that you, jasper!" it ejaculated. "what do you want? i thought--"
"i've come back--with good news for you, sallie--wonderful news!" said slyne. "and i'm in no end of a hurry to be off again. call ambrizette in and get dressed, as quick as you can. captain dove's waiting breakfast for me and i mustn't delay him. how long will you be?"
"what sort of news is it?" asked sallie, no less dubious than her maid had been; and called her maid in, notwithstanding her well-founded doubts as to the nature of any news he could bring. for slyne had held out to her the same lure that the serpent offered to eve, and her womanly curiosity would not allow her to order him at once from her domain.
slyne smiled slightly as he sat down in a basket-chair, to look about him while she was still busy within. the little after-saloon which had been her home for so long was finely furnished; more so, perhaps, than was apparent to slyne, whose taste in that respect inclined to the florid. but he could not help noticing how dainty and neat and feminine was its entire effect, with its cushioned cosy corners, snow-white curtains and draperies. its purely fragrant atmosphere stirred even slyne's conscience a little.
he lay back in his seat, and, gazing about him, recalled to mind all he had been able to learn as to sallie's strange past. it all fitted in so perfectly with the fabric of his wonderful new plans that he could find no possible flaw in them. and when sallie herself at length came out to him from her cabin, he was optimistically disposed to be very generous in his dealings with her.
fresh from her bath and doubly bewitching in her clinging, intimate draperies, she met slyne's glad, eager glance with grave, doubtful eyes, and ignored entirely the hand he held out to her as he sprang from his chair. but he affected not to notice her attitude of distrust, and, greeting her gaily, saved his face by laying his outstretched hand on another chair, which he set a little nearer his own.
"won't you sit down?" he suggested with debonair courtesy.
but she shook her head; she was evidently afraid to receive him on any such friendly footing. she did not even care to ask him what he was doing in evening dress at breakfast-time and on board the olive branch. but in her troubled eyes he could read that unspoken inquiry.
"i've been travelling all night to get back to you, sallie," he told her, in a low, eager tone, "and i hadn't time to change--i was in such a hurry to tell you the news. i've come to take you away from the olive branch,--and captain dove. i've come to set you free."
she stared at him as though she had not heard aright, her lips parted, her eyebrows arched, a faint, puzzled, questioning frown on her forehead.
"i've come to set you free," he said again.
"at what price?" she asked suddenly, with disconcerting directness, and his would-be straightforward glance wavered.
"don't put it that way!" he urged. "i ask no more than the fulfilment of the promise you made me. and--listen, sallie. i've found out who you really are and where your home is. i'll take you there if only you--
"i'm not asking you to marry me right away, either, remember. all you must do in the meantime is to sign without question some papers that will be required. then i'll make everything quite safe for you and take you to your own home."
the quick doubt in her eyes had given place to an expression of helpless amazement and growing dismay. but he did not wait to hear anything she might have to say.
"it's like this, you see," he went on hurriedly. "captain dove's absolutely at the end of his wits for money, and now--i can pay him his price for you if you'll keep your promise to me by and by. otherwise i can't; no matter how willing i might be, i can't, i swear to you.
"he feels, too, that you owe it to him to make up in one way or another for some part at least of what he and i have lost through your--your interfering so much lately in his affairs. and, if you don't back me up now, he'll have to take the olive branch east as best he can. he'll take you too, and--you'll never come back.
"you don't understand. i'm not really trying to force you to marry me, but to save you from a fate far worse than the worst you could imagine. you don't understand that it's really freedom i'm offering you, and that your only option is slavery.
"you'd rather have a white man--even me!--for your husband, wouldn't you? than a yellow one--or brown--or maybe black!"
sallie sat down quickly in a cushioned chair, and lay back, trembling like a captured bird.
slyne was not beyond feeling somewhat ashamed of himself, but found easy solace in the reflection that all he had said was for her good as well as his own. he could see that his last brutal argument had struck home. for sallie could no longer doubt, now, in the lurid light of her recent experiences, that captain dove looked upon her as a mere chattel, to be turned into cash as soon as occasion should offer.
in a little she looked up at him again out of pleading, desperate eyes. some most unusual impulse of pity stirred him. she was only a young girl yet, and her helplessness spoke its own appeal, even to him. he made up his mind again, quite apart from any question of policy, to deal with her as generously as might be practicable.
"will captain dove let me go now if i promise to marry you, jasper?" she asked. and he nodded solemnly.
"and not unless i do?" she insisted. "you know i didn't--before, although you say i did."
"i swear to god, sallie," he declared, "that i can't raise the money the old man wants any other way. and--i won't say another word about what's past and done with.
"if you'll really promise to marry me," he said eagerly, "i'll prove to you that all i have told you is true before you need even leave captain dove; i won't ask you to go a step farther with me until you're perfectly satisfied; i'll take you safely to your own home as soon as you are satisfied that you can trust me. and i won't ask you to keep your promise till--"
an irrepressible light of longing had leaped up behind the despair in her eyes.
"you say that all i must do in the meantime is to sign some papers," she interrupted. "you say you won't ask me to marry you right away. will you wait--a year?"
"a year! i couldn't, sallie!" he cried, and her pale lips drooped piteously again.
"how long, then?" she asked in a whisper. "six months?"
he had made up his mind to be generous, and he felt that he had not failed in his intention as he answered, "three months, and not a day longer, sallie."
she sat still and silent for a while, considering that, and then, "all right, jasper," she agreed. "take me safe home, and i'll marry you three months from the day we get there--if we're both alive when the time comes."
he turned away from her for a moment. he had won all he wanted in the meantime, and he could scarcely contain himself. when he presently held out a hand to her, she took it, to bind that bargain.
"and you won't have any cause to regret it, sallie," he assured her, his voice somewhat hoarse in spite of his effort to speak quite naturally.
"so now, as soon as you're ready, we'll all go ashore together, and--"
"i'll be ready in twenty minutes," she told him, clasping her hands at her heart, her eyes very eager. "and, jasper--you must let me take ambrizette with me."
"you're free now to do as you like," he answered, and left her. he felt as if he were treading on air on his way back to the mid-ship saloon.
captain dove, in the same négligé costume, was busy at breakfast when slyne walked in upon him again, but looked up from his plate for long enough to mumble a malicious question.
"yes, i've fixed it all up with her," slyne answered with assumed nonchalance. "you can always trust me to know how to handle a woman, dove."
captain dove shot a derisive glance in his direction. "is she willing to marry you after all, then?" he demanded, feigning a surprise by no means complimentary.
"not just at once, of course," returned his companion, and left the old man to infer whatever he pleased.
in response to a shouted order of captain dove's a slatternly cook-steward brought slyne a steaming platter of beans with a bit of bacon-rind on top, and an enamelled mug containing a brew which might, by courtesy, have been called coffee. there was a tray of broken ship's biscuits, a tin containing some peculiarly rank substitute for butter, upon the table, with the other equally uninviting concomitants of a meagre meal.
"tchk-tchk!" commented slyne, and sat down to satisfy his hunger as best he might; while captain dove, having overheard that criticism, eyed him inimically, and proceeded to puff a peculiarly rank cigar in his face.
"you might as well be getting dressed now," said slyne indifferently. "by the time i'm through here, sallie will be ready to go ashore."
captain dove looked very fiercely at him, but without effect.
"sallie won't stir a step from the ship," the old man affirmed, "till you've handed over the cash."
slyne looked up, in mild surprise.
"but, dear me! dove," he remarked, "you don't expect that the london lawyer's going to take my word for a girl he's never even seen? until he's satisfied on that point, he won't endorse my note to you. so we've got to take her along with us. i'm doing my best to give you a square deal; and all i ask in return is a square deal from you."
"you'd better not try any crooked games with me," growled captain dove, and sat for a time sunk in obviously aggravating reflections.
"if we get on his soft side," suggested slyne insidiously, "there's no saying how much more we might both make."
captain dove rose and retired into his sleeping-cabin without further words; while slyne, picking out with a two-pronged fork the cleanest of the beans on his plate, smiled sneeringly to himself.
"what's the latest long-shore fashion, slyne?" the old man asked after an interval. slyne knew by his tone that he had dismissed dull care from his mind and was prepared to be quarrelsome again.
"it wouldn't suit a figure like yours," he answered coolly, and was gratified to hear another hoarse growl. for, strange though it may seem, captain dove was not without vanity. "all you really need to worry about is how to keep sober. and i want it to be understood from the start--"
"not so much of it now!" snarled captain dove from his cabin. "you attend to your own business--and i'll attend to mine. i know how to behave myself--among gentlemen. and, don't you forget, either, that i'm going ashore to play my own hand. i've a card or two up my sleeve, mister slyne, that will maybe euchre your game for you--if you try to bluff too high."
slyne swore hotly, under his breath. he would have given a great deal to know exactly what the old man meant by that mysterious threat, and only knew that it would be useless to ask him. there was nothing for it but to put up with his capricious humours, as patiently as might be--although slyne shivered in anticipation of the strain that might entail--till he could be dispensed with or got rid of altogether.
nor, as it presently appeared, were his fears at all ill-founded. for captain dove emerged from his cabin got up for shore-going in a guise at sight of which slyne could by no means suppress an involuntary groan.
"i'm all ready now," captain dove announced. "will you pay for a cab if i call one?"
captain dove was very visibly annoyed. he had been at particular pains to array himself properly. "you want to be the only swell in the party, of course!" he grunted. "you're jealous, that's what's the matter with you." and he fell to polishing his furry, old-fashioned top-hat with a tail of the scanty, ill-fitting frock-coat he had donned along with a noisome waistcoat in honour of the occasion.
slyne shrugged his shoulders, despairingly, and, having made an end of his unappetising meal, prepared for the road. then he lighted a cigar very much at his leisure, while captain dove regarded him grimly, and led the way on deck without further words.
sallie was ready and waiting at the companion-hatch on the poop, as pretty as a picture in the sables captain dove had given her a year before--after a very lucrative season of poaching on the siberian coast. as soon as she caught sight of them she came forward, followed by ambrizette, whose appearance, in cloak and turban, was even a worse offence to slyne's fastidious taste than captain dove's had been.
"what a calamitous circus!" he muttered between set teeth. "i must get rid of those two somehow--and soon. but till then--
"my car's at the back of those coal-wagons there," he told captain dove with great dignity, and captain dove turned to the engine-room hatch.
"below there!" he called down. "is that mr. brasse? i'm off now, brasse. you'll carry out all my instructions, eh? and--don't quarrel with da costa, d'ye hear?"
"ay, ay, sir," answered a dreary voice from the depths below, and captain dove faced about again to find sallie, flushed and anxious, waiting with ambrizette at the gangway.
"come on," he ordered irascibly, and sallie followed him down the plank. ambrizette shuffled fearfully after her, and slyne came last, his chin in the air, triumphant.
he led the way to his car, and was gratified to observe its salutary effect on captain dove's somewhat contemptuous demeanour. the little policeman in charge of it pending its opulent owner's return, came forward, touching his képi, which further impressed captain dove, uncomfortably. slyne handed sallie into the tonneau, and ambrizette after her, tossed the policeman a further tip which secured his everlasting esteem, took his own seat at the wheel, and was hastily followed by captain dove.
"where are we bound for?" asked captain dove, holding his top-hat on with both hands, as slyne took the road toward sampierdarena at a round pace.
"don't talk to the man at the wheel," answered slyne, and laughed. "we've a hundred miles or so ahead of us. better chuck that old tile of yours away and tie a handkerchief round your head; you'll find that less uncomfortable."
the old man, at a loss for any more effective retort, pulled his antiquated beaver down almost to his ears, folded his long arms across the chest of his flapping frock-coat, and sat silent, scowling at the baggy umbrella between his knees. nor did he open his mouth again during the swift journey.
but when they at length reached their destination and slyne stopped the car quietly before the imposing pile that forms the hôtel de paris, captain dove's jaw dropped and his mouth opened mechanically.
a resplendent porter came hurrying forward and bowed most humbly to the magnificent slyne.
"take this lady and her maid straight up to the suite next mine," ordered slyne as sallie alighted, while captain dove listened, all ears. "and ask mr. jobling to join me in my sitting-room. he's still here, i suppose?"
he gave vent to a heartfelt sigh of relief as the man, already preceding his charges indoors, paused to answer in the affirmative.
"i needn't book a room for you," he told captain dove, with calculated indifference. "but sallie must have somewhere to leave ambrizette.
"hey! you. call my chauffeur to take the car round to the garage."
captain dove followed him toward the bureau, attracting not a few glances of mingled surprise and amusement from the elaborate idlers in its neighbourhood. slyne was furious.
"i can't have him tagging about after me in that ghastly get-up!" he told himself on the way to the elevator; and cuffed the elevator-boy's ears at the sound of a mirthful sneeze with which that unfortunate youth had become afflicted. "though how the deuce i'm to help myself i don't know."
in the corridor at which they got out he caught sight of mr. jobling approaching, and hurried captain dove into the sitting-room of his suite.
"give me five minutes to change my clothes," he requested of the old man. "and don't get straying about, or you'll lose yourself."
mr. jobling met him on the threshold as he shut the door. that gentleman had marvellously recovered from his over-night's nervous break-down. a sound sleep, a visit from the barber, a bath and a liberal breakfast had all helped to alter him outwardly and inwardly for the better. he was once more the respectably prosperous, self-confident solicitor.
"i believe you've been out all night," he observed in a jocular tone of reproof, a waggish forefinger uplifted.
"i've covered a couple of hundred miles in the car while you've been asleep," answered slyne, turning into his dressing-room. "i've brought the girl back with me--and the old man, her guardian. we're going to have trouble with him unless we're very careful. so listen, and i'll tell you how things stand."
mr. jobling composed his features into their most professional aspect, but that gave place by degrees to a variety of other expressions, while slyne, busy changing his clothes, related all he himself knew as to sallie's past history.
"and now the old man thinks he is entitled to put a price on her," slyne concluded. "she's promised to marry me, but he won't let her go till i hand him a hundred thousand dollars."
mr. jobling lay back limply in his chair. in all his career he had never, he asserted, heard a more scandalous suggestion.
"never mind about that," slyne cut him short. "the money's no object to me. but you can understand what a difficult fellow he is to deal with. and what i'm going to do, merely as a precaution against his playing us false in the end, is to give him my note of hand for the amount he demands, endorsed by you, and payable the day i marry his adopted daughter."
mr. jobling sank still lower in his seat.
"in return for that," slyne went on, "he must sign a clear deliverance from any further claim on any of us, subject, of course, to due payment of the note.
"then, i want a document drawn up to confirm my engagement to the girl and granting me the fullest possible power of attorney on her behalf both before and after our marriage. she's so simple and inexperienced that i must do everything for her.
"and, lastly, you'd better make out a brief private agreement between yourself and me--just as a matter of form, you know--to the effect that you are willing to act in my interests throughout, in return for a commission of ten per cent. on the accumulated revenues of the jura estates at the date of my marriage."
mr. jobling looked at him for a time as a man suddenly bereft of his spine might.
"there's no time to spare," slyne mentioned. "i want all that sort of thing settled right off the reel--before lunch.
"if the old man makes any kick about anything, you must back me up in all i say. although if he tries to raise his price by a few thousand dollars, we needn't stick at that. the great thing is to get him to sign the deliverance in return for our note. the girl has already agreed--"
"and what if i refuse?" croaked his companion with the courage of desperation. it was evident that mr. jobling saw through his daring scheme. "what if i insist on my fair share? what if i--"
slyne silenced him with a contemptuous gesture.
"whatever you do will make no difference to anyone in the wide world but yourself," said slyne. "if you do what you're told you'll get a great deal more than you deserve out of it. if you don't--d'ye think i'd have taken you into the team if i didn't know how to drive you!" he asked, his eyes beginning to blaze. "why, my good fellow, if you refuse, if you don't travel up to your collar, if you so much as shy at anything you see or hear--i won't even hurt you; i'll just hand you over to the police.
"so make up your mind now, quick!"
"you've nothing against me," quavered the lawyer.
"no, i've nothing--not very much, at least, yet," slyne agreed, knotting his tie neatly before the glass. "but--that may be because you haven't embezzled any of my money--yet." he had most opportunely recalled what the detective dubois had told him about his new friend.
mr. jobling's face was almost green. he got up with an evident effort.
"i was only joking," he declared with a most ghastly grin. "i'll be quite satisfied with ten per cent. of the accumulated income--in fact, we'll call it a couple of hundred thousand pounds, if you like."
"all right," slyne agreed imperturbably. "make it that amount if you'd rather. how long will it take you to get the papers drawn out? it's nearly one o'clock. and--you won't be safe till they're signed."
"an hour," said mr. jobling. "i'm a quick writer."
"all right," slyne repeated. "we'll lunch at two--after they're all signed. so--off you go, and get busy."
the stout solicitor hurried away, cowed and obedient again, and slyne, very smart in an almost new flannel suit, rejoined captain dove.
"i'm too fashionable, that's what's the matter with me!" declared captain dove with sudden conviction at sight of him, and gazed very bitterly at his own image in an inconvenient mirror.
"never mind about that," slyne advised soothingly. "it's not as if you were staying here, you know. you'll be back on board your ship by supper-time. and now, i must tell you how we've got to handle this lawyer-fellow when he fetches in the raft of papers he'll want us all to sign."
captain dove listened gloomily while he went on to explain, at considerable length, and in his most convincing manner, that they must match their combined wits against the lawyer's for their own profit.
"it's not that i don't trust him," said slyne, "but--i'll feel more secure after everything's settled in writing and signed. he can't go back on us then."
"he'd better not!" captain dove commented. "i'll wring his neck for him if he tries--"
"and, as for sallie," slyne cut him short, "i've made things quite--"
"sallie will do whatever i tell her," growled captain dove. "and don't you attempt to interfere between me and her--till you've paid me my money, slyne. where is she? fetch her in here."
slyne had no farther to go to do that than to the next room, where he found sallie at the window, gazing pensively out at the sea. but he delayed there for some time to make it still more clear to her that her only hope of helping herself lay in abetting him blindly.
when he at length returned to his own sitting-room with her, he found captain dove staring fixedly at another arrival there, an overwhelmingly up-to-date if rather imbecile-looking young man, whose general gorgeousness, combined with a very vacant, fish-like eye much magnified by a monocle, had evidently reduced the would-be fashionable seaman to a stricken silence.
slyne, who had at first shot a most malevolent glance at the intruder, was stepping forward to greet him just as mr. jobling put in an appearance with a sheaf of papers in one hand.
"how d'ye do, lord ingoldsby?" said slyne quite suavely to the young man with the eye-glass. he had caught sight of mr. jobling in the doorway, and turned to sallie, his quick mind bent on a masterstroke.
"may i introduce to you the marquis of ingoldsby," he remarked to her in the monotone of convention; and, as she bowed slightly in response to that very modern young gentleman's ingratiating wriggle and grin, slyne, one eye on captain dove's astonished countenance, completed the formality.
"this is lady josceline justice," said he to his smirking lordship, and breathed delicately into a somewhat extensive ear the further information, "the late earl of jura's daughter, you know--and my fiancée."
sallie's first startled impulse was to deny the new identity slyne had so glibly bestowed on her. it seemed too preposterous to be believable; and she was very suspicious of him. a little flushed, more than a little afraid, and yet in some sense convinced in spite of herself by the outward and visible signs about her that all these strange happenings must have at least some foundation of fact, she sought to read the others' thoughts in their faces.
the marquis of ingoldsby was gaping at her, in open wonder and admiration. slyne's features wore a subdued expression of triumph, and captain dove's a dazed, incredulous frown. mr. jobling was beaming about him, so apparently satisfied with her, so respectably prosperous-looking himself that her doubts as to slyne's good faith began to give way. when the lawyer was in turn presented to her and also addressed her by that new name, she could scarcely disclaim it.
"you'll stay and have luncheon with us, lord ingoldsby?" slyne remarked, touching the bell; and his lordship left off gaping at sallie to look him over with all the solemn sagacity of a young owl in broad daylight.
"er--all right," his lordship at length agreed. "don't mind if i do.
"though i have some--er--friends waitin' for me," he added as an afterthought, "that i promised to take for a run in your car, if--"
"you'll have time enough after lunch," slyne suggested, and drew the noble marquis toward the window.
"the marquis of ingoldsby!" muttered captain dove. "a run in slyne's car! and--lady josceline justice!" he dug his knuckles forcibly into his blinking eyes, and, "i seem to be wide enough awake," said he in a stage aside as several waiters arrived on the scene.
while they were setting the table sallie tried to collect her thoughts. slyne had told her nothing till then, but that he had found out who her folk were. and she had come away from the olive branch blindly, only a little less distrustful of him than of captain dove's cruel intentions toward her if she had remained on board. even now, she scarcely dared to believe--
in response to a sign from slyne she took her place at the flower-decked table. the marquis of ingoldsby immediately settled himself at her side; he also was obviously a young man who knew what he wanted, and meant to have that at all hazards and, while the others were seating themselves, he ogled her killingly.
slyne had sat down at her other hand, leaving mr. jobling and captain dove to keep one another company behind the great silver centre-piece which adorned the circular table. the marquis, leaning on one elbow, had turned his back on mr. jobling, and slyne turned his on captain dove.
"this is a little bit of all right!" his lordship remarked to sallie, with a confidential grin. "only--i wish--how is it that we haven't met before, lady josephine? but never mind that. let's be pals now. shall we, eh?"
"i don't know," sallie answered at random and since he seemed to expect some reply to that fatuity. she had met a good many men in her time, but never one quite like this lord ingoldsby--who actually seemed anxious to look and act like a cunning fool.
a waiter intervened between them. but his lordship waved that functionary away.
"do let's," he implored with child-like insistence. "it would be so deevy to be pals with you. and i'm beastly dull here, all by myself, don't y'know. so--
"eh?" he glared at slyne, who had bluntly interrupted his tête-à-tête. "no, i don't want any oysters--i told that waiter-chap so. and i don't know any 'lady of the camellias.' i can't imagine what you're talkin' about at all, i'm sure."
"i saw her again last night, at the casino," said slyne, imperturbably, and went on to entertain sallie with a long if not over-truthful account of his own over-night's doings there. so that, for all his lordship's lack of manners, it was some time before that spoiled youth again succeeded in monopolising her attention. at every turn slyne was ready to balk him, and, but for his native self-conceit coupled with a certain blind obstinacy, he must very soon have understood what was perfectly plain to sallie, that he was there merely on sufferance, to serve some purpose of slyne's.
"goin' to be here long, lady josephine?" he managed to break in at last. slyne had turned to give a departing waiter some order.
"i don't know," sallie answered again, since she could say nothing else.
beyond the blossom-laden épergne, mr. jobling and captain dove, almost cut off from other intercourse by that barrier, were exchanging coldly critical glances. neither seemed to be quite at his ease with the other, and both had, of course, a great many urgent questions to put to slyne as soon as the marquis of ingoldsby should be gone. so that the luncheon-party must have proved a very dull affair to them, and they were no doubt glad when it was over.
slyne signalled to sallie as soon as coffee was served, and she rose to leave the room. she was quite accustomed to being promptly dispensed with whenever her company might have been inconvenient.
"oh, i say!" protested lord ingoldsby. "you're not goin' yet, lady j. half a mo'. won't you come for a spin with me now that the car's mine? just say the word and i'll drop my other engagement. and then we could dine at--"
"lady josceline will be engaged with her lawyer all afternoon," slyne cut him short with the utmost coolness, "and she's leaving monte carlo again to-night."
the marquis of ingoldsby glowered at him.
"i'll see you in paris, then, lady j.," he went on, pointedly ignoring slyne, "or in london, at least, later on. well, good-bye--if you must be goin'."
he bowed her out of the room, and then, snatching up his hat and cane with very visible annoyance, included the others in a curt nod of farewell and made off himself.
he passed her before she had closed her own door--and would gladly have paused there.
"you won't forget me, will you?" she heard him ask eagerly from behind her. but she did not delay to answer that question.
a few minutes later, slyne knocked at her door and entered, followed by the other two men. he had brought with him the papers which mr. jobling had prepared. mr. jobling carried an inkstand, and captain dove a decanter of brandy. slyne seated himself at the table and waved sallie back to her chair by the window.
"we're going to talk business for a few minutes," he told her, "and then get everything settled in writing--to keep you safe.
"fire ahead now, dove. you want to know--"
"is sallie really--"
"i don't know anyone of that name now. d'you mean lady josceline?"
captain dove glared at him, and then at the lawyer, and then at sallie herself.
"is that really who i am now, jasper?" she asked, a most wistful inflection in her low voice.
"you needn't believe me," he answered her. "ask mr. jobling. he'll tell you."
mr. jobling coughed importantly. "i'll tell you all i know myself, lady josceline," he promised her, and proceeded to repeat in part what he had told slyne on the terrace the night before concerning the jura family, but without a single word of the fortune awaiting the next of kin. captain dove's face expressed the extreme of astonishment as he too sat listening with the closest attention.
"that's as far as my present knowledge goes," the lawyer finished blandly. "and now--i understand that captain dove is prepared to supply the proof required in conclusion.
"how long have you known lady josceline, captain dove?"
captain dove frowned as if in deep thought, and slyne looked very crossly at him.
"about three quarters of an hour," the old man answered, and, glancing at slyne, chuckled hoarsely. "she's only been lady josceline for so long."
mr. jobling nodded understanding and the creases on his fleshy forehead disappeared again.
"and before that--?" he suggested, politely patient.
"before that she was--what she still is so far's i'm concerned--saleh harez, my adopted daughter."
"sallie--harris!" mr. jobling ejaculated. "dear me! did you say sallie--er--harris?"
"i said saleh harez," affirmed captain dove, and filled the glass at his elbow again. "but all that concerns you, so far's i can see, is that i've known her ever since she was knee-high to me. i've been a father to her all those years, and she's my adopted daughter. so now, you can take it from me, mr. jobling, that i'm the joker, and both bowers too, in this merry little game."
"which makes it all the more unfortunate for you that you haven't a single penny to stake on your hand," slyne put in, while the lawyer looked somewhat blankly from one to the other of them. "so--don't waste any more time bluffing, but tell jobling how you found sal--lady josceline."
captain dove darted a very evil look at his friendly adviser. "and what if i refuse?" he asked.
slyne almost smiled. "why cut off your own nose to spite your face?" he returned. "you won't refuse, because it would cost you a hundred thousand dollars to do so."
captain dove stroked his chin contemplatively, and his face slowly cleared.
"a hundred and fifty thousand, you mean," he said in a most malevolent tone.
slyne got up from the table as if in anger, and for some time the two wrangled over that point, the stout solicitor gazing at them with evident dismay, while sallie awaited the upshot of it all with bated breath. she knew it was over the price to be paid for her that they were disputing, but that knowledge had ceased to be any novelty. the wrathful voices of the two disputants seemed to come from a great distance. she felt as if the whole affair were a dream from which she might at any moment awake on board the olive branch again.
"there isn't money enough in it to pay you so much for a mere affidavit," she heard slyne say, and mr. jobling, under his glance, confirmed that statement emphatically.
"a hundred and twenty-one thousand is the last limit--a thousand down, to bind the bargain, and the balance the day of my wedding with sallie," slyne declared. "if that doesn't satisfy you--there's nothing more to be said. and i'll maybe find other means--"
"show me even the first thousand," requested captain dove, and slyne counted out on to the table, at a safe distance from the old man's twitching fingers, five thousand francs of the amount lord ingoldsby had paid him for his car.
"all right," said captain dove gruffly, and snatched at the notes. but slyne picked them up again.
"as soon as you've given jobling your statement," he said, "and signed whatever other documents he may think necessary, i'll hand you these and my note of hand, endorsed by him, for the balance remaining due you."
mr. jobling picked up a pen and slyne pushed a sheet of foolscap toward him. captain dove, with a grunt of disgust, sat back in his chair and, while the lawyer wrote rapidly, related how he had found sallie.
when he had finished, mr. jobling read his statement over aloud, and chuckled ecstatically. his own eyes were shining.
"that settles it, lady josceline," said he triumphantly, turning to sallie. "i'll stake my professional reputation on your identity now. you need have no further doubt--"
"and just to clinch the matter," growled captain dove, "you'd better add this to your affidavy:--the clothes the kid was wearing when i fetched her off that dhow were all marked with the moniker 'j. j.' and some sort of crest. but--they were all lost when the ship i commanded then was--went down at sea."
mr. jobling groaned. "how very unfortunate!" he remarked before he resumed his writing. and slyne stared fixedly at the old man until the lawyer had finished.
"now," said mr. jobling, adjusting his pince-nez and beaming about him again, "we can call in a couple of witnesses and--"
"we'll witness each other's signatures." slyne disagreed. "better not bring in any outsiders."
the stout solicitor frowned over that, but finally nodded concurrence. and captain dove took the pen from him, only to hand it to slyne.
"gimme my thousand dollars and your joint note for the balance first," he requested unamiably.
slyne signed the new note mr. jobling pushed across the table, and mr. jobling endorsed it. captain dove read it over carefully before he pocketed it, and also counted with great caution the bills slyne tossed to him. then he in his turn signed, without reading it, the statement the lawyer had drawn up from his dictation, and the more lengthy agreement between sallie and jasper slyne.
slyne and jobling added their names to that, and slyne attached his careful signature to a promise to pay the solicitor the percentage agreed upon. captain dove witnessed it and then called sallie from her seat in the window-alcove, and she came forward with anxious eyes, to fulfil the undertaking she had finally had to give jasper slyne as the price of his help in her most unhappy predicament.
she did not know--nor did she greatly care then--what was contained in the contract he laid before her without a word. she took from him without demur the pen he held out to her. she had promised to do all he told her and give him whatever he asked--except, for the present, herself.
"sign 'josceline justice' at the foot of each page," he said gently, and she did so without a word. for she would not for all the world contained have broken any promise she had given. then mr. jobling desired her to witness the two other men's signatures.
as she handed him back the pen she had a final question to ask him.
"you said my father and mother are both dead, and my step-brother too. is there no one else--"
"no one you need worry about in the least," he assured her, misunderstanding. "there was a beggarly american who lodged a claim to the title and--to the title; his name was carthew, i think--yes, justin carthew. but even if i--if he hadn't gone and got lost while looking for you, his claim would be quite ineffectual now. you're your father's daughter, lady josceline. justin carthew was a dozen or more degrees removed from the trunk of your family tree. he had only the faintest tinge of blue blood in his veins. he was an absolute outsider. we'll hear no more about him now."
"you mean that it's an absolutely sure thing for her," captain dove suggested, and mr. jobling looked pained.
"i can't afford to risk anything on uncertainties, sir," he answered stiffly. "and i'll stake my professional reputation on--"
"oh, never mind about all that," slyne broke in, folding his share of the papers together and pocketing them. "the syndicate's safely floated. and now--as to our next move.
"you'd better get away back to genoa by the five o'clock train, dove. and you must take ambrizette with you; i'll get sal--lady josceline another maid in paris--one who won't attract quite so much attention to us as that damned dwarf would.
"jobling and i will go on there by the night-mail, on our way to london with--lady josceline. you can take the olive branch round to some safe english port and lay her up there in the meantime. as soon as you land, you can rejoin us--at jobling's address. by that time we'll probably be ready to redeem our note to you."
"by that time," captain dove returned with concentrated bitterness, "you'll have found some way to give me the slip altogether. d'ye take me for a blind idiot, slyne? d'ye think i'm going to let sallie out of my sight, with you?"
slyne was visibly disconcerted. "but--aren't you going to take your ship round to england?" he asked, in genuine surprise. "you can't very well leave her lying in genoa!"
"i've left brasse and da costa in charge, and they'll work her across the bay if i tell them to. i've only to send them a wire. and all you have to do now is to say which way you want to travel--with me; for i'm going to stick to you like a leech till the day you pay me off."
slyne walked to the window, humming a tune. but it was obviously costing him all of his refreshed fortitude to refrain from expressing his real sentiments toward captain dove. his face, as he stood glaring blindly out at the beautiful scene before him, was like that of a wild beast balked of its fair prey. but from between his bared, set teeth the careless hum came unbroken.
captain dove's weather-beaten countenance was turning slowly purple. he was striving after speech. slyne, outwardly cool and contemptuous of his visible fury, stood gazing down at him, hands in pockets. mr. jobling was wriggling restlessly in his chair, glancing from one to the other, prepared to flee from the coming storm.
still without a word, captain dove reached again for the brandy-decanter, directly defying slyne. slyne stepped forward and snatched it out of his hand.
simultaneously, the old man and mr. jobling sprang from their seats, the former making for slyne and the latter for the door, which opened just as he reached it, so that he all but fell over a boy in buttons who had knocked and entered carrying a telegram on a tray.
slyne had not moved. captain dove, almost at his throat, spun round on one heel.
"for me?" mr. jobling exclaimed anxiously as he ripped the envelope open. and a slow pallor overspread his puffy pink features while he was perusing its contents.
"from mullins, my managing clerk," he mumbled as he passed the message to slyne, who looked it over indifferently, and then re-read it aloud in a low but very ominous voice: "'american claimant landed at genoa yesterday. now on way to london. court granted decree in his favour.' handed in at chancery lane, in london,"--he pulled out his watch--"fifty minutes ago."
the page-boy had disappeared. slyne pushed suddenly past mr. jobling and set his back against the door. captain dove was approaching the terrified solicitor softly, on tiptoe, his fists clenched, all his tobacco-stained fangs displayed in a grin of fury. one of his long arms shot out just as the door opened behind slyne's back and a voice announced:
the law--and the profits
sallie saw how jasper slyne's face blanched at sight of that very untimely intruder, whose keen eyes seemed to take in the situation there at a glance.
mr. jobling had fallen backward into a convenient armchair and, with both hands clapped to his nose, was moaning most piteously. captain dove was standing over him, with features inflamed, in a very bellicose posture and glaring at the new-comer, toward whom slyne had turned inquiringly.
"you're--looking for some one, m. dubois?" slyne asked, in a tone of polite surprise, which, sallie knew, was assumed.
"a thousand pardons," returned that individual. "i am indeed looking for some one--whom i thought to find here. i had no intention, however, of intruding upon a lady--" he bowed profusely to sallie. "it may be," he suggested, "that i have mistaken the number. is not this the suite 161?"
"one hundred and sixty," slyne told him, and evidently did not think it worth while to add that the next suite was his own.
"a thousand pardons," repeated m. dubois, very penitently. "i am too stupid! but mademoiselle will perhaps be so gracious as to forgive me this time."
he bowed to sallie again and to slyne, and disappeared, sharply scanning the latter's face to the last.
"who's that son of a sea-cook?" snapped captain dove, and mr. jobling looked wanly up out of one eye.
"a french detective," slyne answered reflectively. but sallie felt sure that he was afraid of m. dubois, and wondered why.
"well, he has nothing against me that i'm aware of," the old man declared. "and now--what about this wire? does it mean that some other fellow has scooped the pool--and that i've had all my trouble for nothing, eh?" he clenched his fist again and shook it in the lawyer's face.
"no, no," gasped mr. jobling. "don't be so hasty. it makes no difference at all, now that we have lady josceline with us. i told you that the american, carthew, is of no account against her--and how he has ever cropped up again i can't conceive. in any case--"
"in any case, you'd better be off to your room and ring for a bit of beefsteak to doctor that eye with," slyne interposed in a tone of intense annoyance.
"and i wish to goodness, dove!" he added savagely, "that you would behave a little more like a reasonable human being and less--"
"less of your lip, now!" snarled the old man. "and don't keep on saying that. just take it from me again, both of you, that you'd better not be so slow again in telling me--"
"you didn't give me time," mr. jobling protested.
slyne opened the door. "come on," he urged. "you've got to get your kit packed, jobling. we'll be leaving before very long now."
"have you made up your mind to come with us, dove?"
captain dove nodded, most emphatically. "i'll send word to brasse and da costa at once," he remarked, "and then i'll be ready to start whenever you are."
he left the room after mr. jobling, and slyne, in the doorway, looked back at sallie, the reassuring smile on his lips belied by his cold, calculating eyes.
"and how about you, sallie?" he asked. "have you made up your mind? are you satisfied--so far? or--would you rather go back to the olive branch?
"if you would--i'll let you off your promise, even now! and don't forget that this will be your last chance to recall it."
"you know i can't go back to the olive branch, jasper," she answered slowly. "but--"
he did not give her time to say more. "that's settled for good, then," he asserted. "your promise stands, and i know you'll keep it when the time comes--after i've done my part.
"i'm only sorry i haven't been able to get rid of captain dove right away, but it won't be long now till--you needn't worry any more about him. i'll see that he behaves better.
"if there's anything else i can do for your comfort, you must let me know. and now, i'll leave you to your own devices until it's time to start on our travels. better get a rest while you can, eh? we've a very busy week ahead of us."
she saw that he did not intend to tell her any more in the meantime, and was glad to see him go. then she called ambrizette in for company, and sat down by the window again, to try to sort out for herself the bewildering tangle that life had once more become within a few hours.
gazing out across the familiar sea with wistful, far-away eyes, she mused for a time over what captain dove had told mr. jobling of her history, and strove to piece together with that all she herself could recall of that dim and always more mysterious past out of which she had come to be captain dove's property, bought and paid for, at a high price, as he had repeated several times.
her own earliest vague, disconnected, ineffectual memories were all of some dark, savage mountain-country; of endless days of travel; of camp-fires in the cold, and hungry camels squealing for fodder; of the fragrant cinnamon-smell of the steam that came from the cooking-pots.
before, or, it might have been, after that, she had surely lived on some seashore, in a shimmering white village with narrow, crooked lanes for streets and little flat-roofed houses huddled together among hot sandhills where the suddra grew and lean goats bleated always for their kids.
then, as if in a very vexing dream, she could almost but never quite see, through the thickening mist of the years, once-familiar faces--white men, with swords, in ragged uniforms, and big brown ones with wicked eyes and long, thin guns, glaring down at her over a high wall, through smoke and fire, and fighting, and the acrid reek of powder....
and there remembrance grew blank altogether, until it connected with captain dove, on the deck of a slaving-dhow far out of sight of any land. she had been only a little child when he had carried her up the side of his own ship in his arms, while she laughed gleefully in his face and pulled at his shaggy moustache, but she could still remember some of the incidents of that day.
she had lived on board his successive ships ever since. and ever since, until recently, he had always been very good to her, in his own queer, gruff way. he had always treated her as though she were a child of his own, shielding her, in so far as he could, from even the knowledge of all the evil which he had done up and down the world. she had grown up in the belief that his despotic guardianship was altogether for her good and not to be disputed.
but now--she was no longer a child. and all her old, unquestioning faith in his inherent good intentions, toward her at least, was finally shattered. she knew now that he really looked upon her as a mere chattel, with a cash value--just as if she had been one of the hapless cargo of human cattle confined in the pestiferous hold of the dhow on whose deck he had found her at play. she knew now that he had bought and paid for them as well as her, and sold them again at a fat profit, far across the seas--all but the dumb, deformed black woman whom he had picked from among them to act as her nurse.
and if it did not occur to her to question either his power or his perfect right to dispose of her future also as he might see fit, had not all her experience gone to prove that might is right everywhere, that law and justice are merely additional pretexts devised by the strong for oppressing the weak? she had had to choose between remaining on board the olive branch, or paying jasper slyne his price for the chance of escape he had offered her in pursuance of his own aims.
she disliked and distrusted slyne scarcely less than before. but she did not see how she could have chosen otherwise. and, in any case,--it was too late now to revoke the promise she had made him.
she was still afraid to place any faith in the promises he had made her. she had no idea how he had come at his alleged discovery of her real identity. but mr. jobling's obvious belief in that recurred to her mind, and she fell to wondering timidly what life would be like as lady josceline justice.
her impressions on that point were very hazy, however, and she had still to puzzle out the problem added by justin carthew. but she finally gave up the attempt to solve that at the moment, contenting herself with the tremulous hope that she might soon be on her way toward that dear, unknown, dream-home for which her hungry heart had so often ached.
of the exorbitant price so soon to be paid for the brief glimpse of happiness slyne had agreed to allow her, she took no further thought at all. she had already made up her mind to meet that without complaint.
an hour or more later, when slyne looked in to tell her that it was time to start, she was still seated at the window, gazing out over the steel-grey sea with wistful, far-away eyes.
at his instigation she veiled herself very closely. and he had brought with him a hooded cloak for ambrizette. no one took any particular notice of the inconspicuous party which presently left the hôtel de paris in a hired car, as if for an excursion along the coast.
at a station fifty miles away they left the car and caught the night-mail for paris. slyne's baggage was on board it, in the care of a sullen chauffeur, and there were also berths reserved for them all.
"did you see any more of dubois?" sallie heard slyne ask the man, who shook his head indifferently in reply.
the long night-journey passed without other incident than a dispute between captain dove and the sleeping-car attendant, which raged until slyne threatened to have the train stopped at the next station and send for the police. and the sun was shining brightly when they reached paris.
mr. jobling went straight on to london, but slyne took sallie and captain dove to a quiet but expensive hotel, where they remained for a few days, which passed in a perfect whirl of novelty and excitement for her. and when they in their turn crossed the channel, she had for baggage at least a dozen new trunks containing the choicest spoils of the rue de la paix. slyne had pooh-poohed all her timid protests against his lavish expenditure on her account, and had also provided for captain dove and ambrizette in their degree. he had evidently a fortune at his disposal, and was bent on showing her how generous he could be.
he was also unostentatiously displaying other good qualities which had all gone to make those days pass very pleasantly for her. she could not fail to appreciate the courtesy and consideration which he consistently showed her now. his patience with captain dove, a trying companion at the best of times and doubly troublesome idle, more than once made her wonder whether he could be the same jasper slyne she had known on the olive branch. prosperity seemed to have improved him almost beyond recognition.
he had a cabin at her disposal on the calais-dover steamer but she stayed on deck throughout the brief passage, glad to breathe the salt sea-air again, while he entertained her with descriptions of london and she watched the twinkling lights that were guiding her home.
and then came london itself, at last, somewhat grey, and cold, and disconsolate-looking on a wet winter morning.
but after breakfast in a cosy suite at the savoy, a blink of sunshine along the embankment helped to better that first hasty impression. and then slyne took captain dove and her in a taxicab along the thronged and bustling strand to mr. jobling's office in chancery lane.
they got out in front of a dingy building not very far from cursitor street. it was raining again, and sallie, looking up and down the narrow, turbid thoroughfare, felt glad that she did not need to live there.
indoors, the atmosphere was scarcely less depressing. a dismal passage led toward a dark stairway, up which they had to climb flight after flight to reach at last a dusty, ill-smelling, gas-lighted room, inhabited only by a shabby, shock-headed hobbledehoy of uncertain age and unprepossessing appearance, perched on a preposterously high stool at a still higher desk, behind a cage-like partition.
"i want to see mr. jobling, at once," slyne announced to him. and mr. jobling's "managing clerk" looked slowly round, with a snake-like and disconcerting effect due to a very long neck and a very low collar.
"show mr. slyne in immediately, mullins," ordered a pompous voice from within; and mr. jobling himself, a blackcoated, portly, important personage there, came bustling out from his private office to welcome his visitors.
"how d'ye do, how d'ye do, lady josceline!" he exclaimed, and cocked an arch eyebrow at sallie's most becoming costume; although the effect he intended was somewhat impaired by the fact that he was still suffering from a black eye, painted over in haste--and by an incompetent artist.
"i can see now what's been keeping you in paris!" he added facetiously, and, having shaken hands with slyne, who seemed to think that superfluous, turned to receive captain dove with the same politeness.
"phew!" whistled mr. jobling and drew back and stared at the old man. "i'd never have recognised you in that rig-out."
captain dove pulled off a pair of smoked glasses he had been wearing, the better to look him, with offensive intent, in his injured eye. for captain dove was still enduring much mental as well as physical discomfort in a disguise which he had only been induced to adopt a couple of days before, and after an embittered quarrel with slyne. the stiff white collar round his corded neck was still threatening to choke him and then cut his throat. he had been infinitely more at his ease in his scanty, short-tailed frock-coat and furry top-hat than he was in the somewhat baggy if more becoming black garb he had donned in its place, with a soft wide-awake always flapping about his ears.
"come inside," mr. jobling begged hurriedly, and, looking round as he followed them into his sanctum, "mullins!" he snapped, "don't stand there staring. get on with your work, at once.
"you're later than i expected," he remarked to slyne as he closed the door, "but just in time. the court's closed, of course, for the christmas vacation, but i've filed an application for a hearing in chambers, and--"
he paused as a telephone-bell rang shrilly outside, and a moment later the shock head of his "managing clerk" protruded into the room, almost as if it did not belong to a body at all.
"mr. spettigrew says that our application in chambers will be heard by mr. justice gaunt, in 57b, at eleven-thirty sharp this forenoon," announced that youth and, with a final wriggle of his long neck, withdrew.
"devil take him!" exclaimed captain dove, somewhat startled and much incensed. "i wouldn't keep a crested cobra like that about me for--"
"let's see those accounts of yours, now," said slyne, disregarding that interruption, and mr. jobling, having first looked at his watch, produced from another drawer a great sheaf of papers, all carefully docketed. he slipped off the top one and somewhat reluctantly handed that to his friend.
slyne took it from him eagerly, and sat for a time gloating over it with eyes which presently began to glow.
but when captain dove, growing restless, would have glanced over his shoulder to see what was tickling his fancy so, he frowned and folded that document up and returned it to mr. jobling.
"give it here, now!" growled captain dove, menacing mr. jobling with a clenched fist; and the lawyer, after an appealing, impotent glance at slyne, had no recourse but to comply with that peremptory order.
"i have inside sources of information as to the revenue of the estates," he replied, "and a note of all the investments. i've allowed a wide margin for all sorts of incidentals. i think you'll find, in fact, that lady josceline's inheritance will amount to even more than i've estimated."
slyne smiled again, more contentedly. nor was his complaisance overcome even when mr. jobling put to him a half-whispered petition for a further small cash advance to account of expenses.
"i wasn't even able to pay mullins' wages with what you gave me in paris," said the stout solicitor vexedly. "fees and so on swallowed it all up, and--i'm actually short of cab-fares!"
"why don't you fire mullins, then?" demanded slyne with a shade of impatience. "i've just got rid of my chauffeur because he was costing me more than he was worth."
"but i can't afford to get rid of mullins. just at the moment he's very useful to me. it would create a bad impression if i had to run my own errands. and--the fact is, he knows far too much. i'll pay him off and shut his mouth by and by, when i have more time to attend to such matters."
"how much do you want?" slyne inquired with a frown evidently meant to warn his friend to be modest.
"can you spare twenty pounds--to go on with?"
slyne hesitated, but only for a few seconds. then he pulled out a pocket-book and surreptitiously passed that sum to the penniless man of law, who accepted it with no more than a nod of thanks.
"i'll pay mullins now," he remarked, and immediately hurried out of the room. captain dove was gasping for breath and showed every other symptom of a forthcoming explosion.
as soon as the door shut behind him, the old man gave open vent to his wrath. and a most furious quarrel followed between slyne and him. sallie, too, learned then, for the first time, of the vast inheritance which would be hers, of slyne's cunning plan to buy captain dove out for a mere pittance, and how he himself expected to profit through marrying her.
but she was not overwhelmed with surprise by that belated discovery. she had almost anticipated the final disclosure of some such latent motive behind all slyne's professions to her. the only difference it might make would be to captain dove. slyne and he were still snarling at each other when mr. jobling walked jauntily in again. but at sight of him captain dove began to subside.
"we mustn't be late. mr. spettigrew will be expecting us now. i've sent mullins on ahead with my papers," observed mr. jobling breezily, and went on to explain that mr. justice gaunt, by nature a somewhat cross-grained old limb of the law, had been very ill-pleased over being bothered again, and at a moment when most of his colleagues were enjoying a holiday, about any such apparently endless case as that of the jura succession, which had been cropping up before him, at more or less lengthy intervals, for quite a number of years, and concerning which he had, only a few days before, made an order of court in favour of justin carthew.
captain dove clapped his soft felt hat on his head with a very devil-may-care expression.
"come on, then," said he grimly, and mr. jobling was not slow to lead the way. so that they reached mr. justice gaunt's chambers punctually at the hour appointed, and were ushered into his lordship's presence by mr. spettigrew, the learned counsel retained by mr. jobling on sallie's behalf, a long, lifeless-looking gentleman in a wig and gown and spectacles. and his lordship smiled very pleasantly as sallie raised her heavy veil at counsel's crafty request.
"pray be seated, my dear young lady," his lordship begged with fatherly, old-fashioned kindness, and indicated a chair meant for counsel, much nearer his own than the rest. nor did he often take his eyes from her face throughout the course of a long and convincing dissertation by mr. spettigrew, on her past history, present position in life, and claims on the future, with some reference to the rival claims of mr. justin carthew.
"and i have full proof to place before you, at once, if you wish it, m'lud," concluded mr. spettigrew in his most professional drone, "in support of the fact that the lady before you is the lawful daughter of the late earl and the countess, his second wife, who died in the desert. mr. justin carthew, on the other hand, is related to the family in a very different and distant degree, and there are, as y'r ludship has been good enough to agree, no other survivors.
"i beg leave now to request that y'r ludship will rescind the authority granted to mr. justin carthew, and admit my client's petition ad referendum."
"produce your proofs," ordered his lordship, and mr. spettigrew extracted from a capacious black bag a pile of papers at which mr. justice gaunt looked with no little disgust.
"what are they, in chief?" asked mr. justice gaunt, turning over page after page of closely written law-script, as gingerly as if he believed that one might perhaps explode and blow him to pieces. and mr. spettigrew launched forth again into a long list of certificates, records, researches, findings, orders of court, sworn statements and affidavits, by captain dove--"then trading in his own ship, m'lud, now retired and devoting his time to mission-work among deep-sea sailors;" by mr. jasper slyne, gentleman; by mr. jobling, whom he did not pause to describe; by a couple of dozen other people, living or dead, at home or abroad; all in due legal form and not to be controverted.
"i think you'll find them in perfect order, and absolutely conclusive, m'lud," counsel came to a finish triumphantly, and sat down, greatly to the relief of all present.
"h'm!" said his lordship, still gravely regarding sallie: whose eyes had nothing to conceal from him. "and so this is the long-lost lady josceline!"
his searching glance travelled slowly to captain dove's face, and then to slyne's; both of whom met it without winking, although captain dove was no doubt glad of the protection of his smoked glasses.
"i'll have to go through the proofs, of course," said his lordship reflectively and let his gaze rest on sallie again. "but--if everything's as you say, i don't think it will be long before lady josceline finds herself in full enjoyment of all her rights and privileges. if everything's as you say, i'll do whatever lies in my power to expedite matters; i think i can promise you that the case will be called immediately the vacation is over. meanwhile, however, and till i have looked through the proofs, i can make no further order."
he rose, and they also got up from their chairs as he came round from behind his desk and confronted sallie, a tall, stooping old man with a wrinkled face and tired but kindly eyes.
she looked up into them frankly, and he laid a hand on her shoulder.
"yours has been a very sad history so far, my dear young lady," he said, his head on one side, still studying her. "i hope it will be all the brighter henceforth. i knew--the last earl of jura--when we were both young men--before he married. you remind me of him, as he was then, in many respects. good day to you now; my time here is not my own, you know. but some day, perhaps you will allow me to pay my respects to you--at justicehall, since we're to be neighbours; my own home isn't very far from yours."
outside in the corridor, mr. jobling shook hands rapturously with every one, even with captain dove.
"we've turned the trick already," he declared. "you heard what his lordship said. with him on our side, the whole thing's as good as settled. all we have to do now is to wait until the courts take up again and confirm--"
"how long will that be?" slyne inquired. he, too, was smiling ecstatically.
"not much more than a fortnight," the lawyer informed him. "it will soon pass. we must just be patient."
"we must keep very quiet, too," said slyne, "unless we want to give the whole show away to the enemy in advance. we must clear off out of london till then. i'll tell you what, jobling! why shouldn't we all go down to scotland to-night?"
mr. jobling nodded agreement. "an excellent idea," he declared. "there's nothing to keep us here."
"that's settled, then," slyne asserted. "and we'll all dine together at the savoy before we start. i think we can afford to celebrate the occasion, eh! and i want to show lady josceline a few of her future friends."
"pleasures and palaces"
the duchess of dawn was dining a number of notabilities at the savoy, on her way to a command performance at the gaiety; a fact of which the fashionable world was well aware, because the young duchess is a great lady in london as well as elsewhere, and all her doings are chronicled in advance. the fashionable world had promptly decided to dine there too, and telephoned in breathless haste for tables. it filled the restaurant at an unusually early hour, and a disappointed overflow displayed itself in the foyer.
the duchess of dawn is one of the most beautiful women in england. the eyes of the fashionable world were focussed on her and her guests, among whom were a minor european prince and a famous field-marshal who had not been on show in london for long, until there appeared from the crowded foyer, upon the arm of an old-young man of distinguished appearance and faultless tenue, a tall, slender girl, at whom, as she passed, every one turned to gaze, with undisguised admiration or envy, according to sex and temperament.
she was gowned to distraction, and by an artist in women's wear. her beautiful bare arms and shoulders and bosom were free of superfluous ornament. her pure, proud, sensitive features were faintly flushed,--as though, if that were conceivable, she was wearing evening dress for the first time, and found it trying,--but her curved crimson lips were slightly parted in a most bewitching smile, and, from under their drooping lashes, her radiant eyes looked a demure, amused, impersonal defiance at the frankly curious faces upturned toward her. the shaded lights made most enchanting lights and shadows among her hair, red-gold and heaped about her head in heavy coils, as she moved modestly through the thronged room toward a corner where, about a beautifully decorated table, four motionless waiters were standing guard over four empty chairs.
she sat down there, her back to the bulk of the company, and her escort took the seat opposite. a portly, prosperous-looking, elderly man, with something a little suspicious about one of his eyes, and a squat, queerly-shaped old fellow in semi-clerical garb and wearing smoked glasses, completed the party. their waiters began to hover about them, and the fashionable world went on with its dinner.
"who was that lovely girl?" the duchess of dawn demanded of her vis-à-vis, the veteran soldier, and he, reputed among women to have no heart at all, recalled himself with an evident start from the reverie into which he had fallen. he almost blushed, indeed, under the duchess's blandly discerning smile.
"i don't know, i'm sure, duchess," he returned, smiling also, in spite of himself, and beckoned to a servant behind him, whom he despatched on some errand.
"she's registered as miss harris, your lordship," the man announced in an undertone when he returned.
"miss harris!" echoed the prince, who was also a soldier. he had overheard. and, as he in turn caught the duchess's eyes, he lay back laughing, a little ruefully. but the man opposite him, the master of armies, was not amused.
"i'd like to know who and what those three fellows with miss harris may be," said he.
at their table in the corner, they seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves. the three men were toasting sallie and each other with equal good-will. and even sallie had dismissed from her mind the last of her lingering doubts as to the reality and endurance of her part in that most amazing new life, had put the past with all its horrors resolutely behind her, was too much interested in the entertaining present to trouble about the future at the moment.
captain dove had seemingly forgotten, for the time being at any rate, his grievance against slyne, and was in his most lamb-like mood. while slyne did not even demur against the quantities of expensive wine the old man consumed during dinner. mr. jobling, too, was displaying symptoms of convivial hilarity when they at length left the restaurant. but most of the other tables were empty by then.
mr. jobling and captain dove, arm in arm, affectionately maintained each other as far as their sitting-room, while slyne accompanied sallie to her own door. he had been making himself most agreeable to her, and had pointed out a number of the notorieties and one or two of the celebrities present; although it had somewhat startled her to be told that she would very soon be on familiar terms with them all.
"aren't you glad now that you agreed to the bargain we made on the olive branch--and in monte carlo?" he asked by the way. he was smiling gaily.
she smiled back at him, and, "i'm not sorry--so far, jasper," she answered, looking deep into his eyes.
he nodded, as if quite satisfied, and turned away to escape that embarrassing scrutiny.
"we'll be starting in half an hour or so," he informed her from a safe distance, and, "i'll be all ready," she called cheerfully after him.
a little before eleven he came in again and they all set out for the station to catch their train.
it was a cold, clear, frosty night, and the strand was at its busiest as sallie looked out at it from the taxi into which slyne and ambrizette had followed her at the hotel portico. another, containing captain dove and their legal adviser, still on the most amicable terms, although captain dove as a rule could not stand anyone afflicted with hiccough, crawled close behind them through the turmoil until, at the gaiety corner, a policeman delayed it to let the cross-traffic through.
a crowd had gathered there to gaze at the royalties who would presently be coming out of the theatre. slyne drew sallie back from the open window at sight of two men, one of whom seemed all shirt-front, looking down at the congested street from the empty steps of the principal entrance.
"that ass ingoldsby!" he explained to sallie, and was evidently a good deal disturbed. "and--dubois, as well," he added. "i thought i had shaken him off in paris. i'm sure he saw me, too."
a little farther on he stopped the taxi and beckoned to one of those street-arabs who make a living about the kerb.
"go to the gentleman with the beard, on the steps of the gaiety," he instructed that very alert messenger, "and say to him that a friend wants a word with him here."
sallie observed the suppressed grimace of surprise on the face of the individual who almost at once arrived in the wake of his ragged mercury: and slyne, having tossed the latter a shilling, held out his hand to m. dubois.
"charmed to see you in london, mon confrère," said he. "have you yet discovered your man?"
"i am hard at his heels," the detective answered, his eyes searching slyne's as if, sallie thought, for some sign that that shaft had hit home.
but slyne's expression was one of ingenuous simplicity. he bowed, as if with deep respect.
"i caught a glimpse of some one most amazingly like myself, one day on the faubourg st. honoré, as i was passing through paris," he mentioned reflectively.
"thanks," returned dubois. "it was he, no doubt. and--he's in london now."
slyne did not wince, even at that.
"he was dining at the savoy to-night," said dubois indifferently. "how does your own affair progress?"
"assez bien," slyne answered in an even voice. "i have followed my quarry home and am awaiting developments."
"you will be in london for a little, then?"
"for the next week or ten days, i expect," slyne lied with perfect aplomb.
"we shall meet again, in that case," declared the detective, glancing at sallie; and, "au plaisir de vous revoir, monsieur," slyne returned deferentially.
"to grosvenor square now--and hurry along," he directed the driver in a voice his enemy could not fail to hear. and the taxicab swung into drury lane, on its way west.
for a few minutes he sat silent, with bent head, biting at his moustache. then he looked round at sallie.
"that fellow takes me for another man," he told her querulously. "he's been dogging me ever since he first saw me at monte carlo. you've no idea, sallie, what a dangerous risk i had to run there--for your sake."
"you haven't told me much about--anything, jasper," she reminded him. and he proceeded to describe in lurid detail the fate which would undoubtedly have befallen him had m. dubois been able then to fasten on him responsibility for the misdeeds of that criminal whom he so unfortunately resembled.
sallie listened in silence. she had been wondering whether m. dubois could be in any way concerned with her affairs. she gathered that he was interested only in slyne. the latter's story of grave risk run for her sake fell somewhat flat, since it seemed to rest on the mere possibility of his having been mistaken for somebody else. she could scarcely believe that his fear of m. dubois had no other foundation. she even ventured to suggest that he could easily have proved the detective in the wrong.
"he wouldn't have paid the slightest attention to anything i could say," slyne assured her tartly. "he wouldn't have asked any questions or listened to any statement of mine. you don't know anything about the outrages that are committed every day by fellows like that on men like myself who have no fixed residence, sallie; and no powerful friends to whom to appeal against such infernal injustice. i can't tell you how thankful i'll be, on your account as well as my own, when we're married and safely settled down, with a home of our own to feel safe in!
"look, there's where we'll live when we're in london."
sallie looked out. they were whirling past one of the most imposing houses in grosvenor square. "is it an hotel?" she asked, and observed that all but one or two of its topmost windows were dark.
"it's the earl of jura's town house," said slyne, apparently somewhat piqued by her seeming indifference. "it's yours now--or will be as soon as the chancery court wakes up again."
sallie glanced back and caught another glimpse of it as the taxicab slowed again to take the corner of the square. slyne had picked up the speaking-tube.
"get us to the station now, as fast as you can," he told the driver: and then, having glanced at his watch, lighted a cigarette. he seemed to have no more to say at the moment, and sallie was busy with thoughts of her own. she was wondering whether justin carthew could be living in that great house. she could not understand.... but she did not dare to ask jasper slyne for any information, since he had shown her more than once already that he did not intend to tell her any more than he thought fit.
when they finally reached the station they found mr. jobling awaiting them there and very anxious over their late arrival.
"we drove round by grosvenor square," slyne told the lawyer nonchalantly. "and--we're in lots of time."
mr. jobling looked cross. "five minutes more would have lost you the train," he remarked somewhat sourly. "and where would captain dove and i have been then!"
as it was, however, they found captain dove in his berth, sound asleep, although still fully dressed. and, as slyne ushered sallie into the double compartment reserved for her and ambrizette, "don't go to bed just yet," he begged. "i want to show you something by and by. you'll have lots of time for a long sleep before we arrive."
"all right, jasper," she agreed. "i'll wait up till you come for me."
when he at length knocked at her door again, mr. jobling was still with her. she came out between them into the narrow corridor. slyne rubbed clear one steamy window to let her see the wintry landscape through which they were travelling at express speed. and sallie looked out delighted, at the sleeping english countryside as its broad grass-lands and bare brown acres, coverts and coppices, hedgerows and lanes, with here and there a grange or a group of cottages, all still and silent, flashed into sight and so disappeared; until, overlooking them all from a knoll on the near bank of a broad, winding river, there loomed up a most magnificent mansion, embedded, in lordly seclusion, among many gnarled and age-old oaks, with gardens terrace on terrace about it, tall fountains among their empty flower-beds, a moss-grown sun-dial at the edge of a quiet, silver lake.
the moon was shining full on its innumerable windows, so that it seemed to be lighted up from within, although, in reality, all were shuttered and dark. aloof and very stately it stood on that windless night, an empty palace which came and went in a few moments, wing after wing, with and francesco loosened the sword in the scabbard anticipating an ambush, when he pushed it back with a puzzled look. before a wayside shrine, almost entirely concealed by weeds, there knelt a grotesque figure at orisons. he either had not heard the tramp of francesco's steed, or ignored it on purpose, for not until the latter called to him did he turn, and with much relief francesco recognized his former guide from the camp of the duke of spoleto.
"where is the camp of the duke?" he queried curtly, impatient with the man's exhibition of secular godliness.
"many miles away," replied he of the goat's-beard, as he arose and kissed a little holly-wood cross that he carried.
"lead me to it!"
the godly little man flopped again, scraped some dust together with his two hands, spat upon it, then smeared his forehead with the stuff, uttering the names of sundry saints.
francesco had come to the end of his patience.
"get up, my friend," he said, "we have had enough praying for one day!"
the goatherd offered to anoint him with dust and spittle, pointing a stumpy forefinger, but francesco was filled with disgust. he caught the man by the girdle and lifted him to his feet.
"enough of this!" he said. "is the devil so much your master?"
the goatherd blinked red-lidded and pious eyes, while he scanned the horizon. then he pointed with his holly staff to a blue hill that rose against the eastern sky.
"how far?" queried francesco.
the goatherd was anointing himself with spittle.
"each mile in these parts grows more evil," he said, tracing the sign of the cross. "it behooves a christian to be circumspect!"
francesco prodded him with his scabbard.
"some ten leagues," replied the gnome. "the day is clear, and the place looks nearer than it is!"
it occurred to francesco that there must be some human abode close by, as the goatherd, entirely familiar with the region, would not wander too far from habitations of the living. and upon having made known his request, the little man preceded him at a lively pace. at a lodge in the forest deeps they halted, and here francesco and his guide rested during the hot hours of noon, partaking of such food as the liberality of their host, an old anchorite, set before them.
after men and steed had rested, they set out anew.
the goatherd's inclination to invoke untold saints, whenever there seemed occasion and whenever there was not, was curbed by a hard line round francesco's lips, and they plunged into the great silence. a sense of green mystery encompassed them, as they traversed the green forest-aisles. the sky seemed to have receded to a greater distance. everywhere the smooth dark trunks converged upon one another, sending up a tangle of boughs that glittered in the soft sheen of the sunlight. withered bracken stood in thin silence, and here and there a dead bough lay like a snake with its head raised to strike.
the silence was immense, and yet it was a stillness that suggested sounds. it resembled the silence of a huge cavern, out of which came strange whisperings; innumerable crepitations seemed to come from the dead leaves. francesco fancied he could hear the trees breathing, and from afar he caught the wild note of a bird.
the sun was low when they came at last to the edge of the forest and saw a hill rise steeply against the sky. it was covered with silver birches, whose stems looked like white threads in the level light of the setting sun. and rising against the sky-line from amidst the fretwork of birch-boughs francesco saw the well-remembered outlines of the ruined tower wherein he had spent a memorable night.
the valley before them was flooded with golden light, and, as they crossed it, francesco felt a curious desire for physical pain, something fierce and tangible to struggle with, to drown the ever-pulsing memory of the woman who had gone from him.
as the dusk deepened they went scrambling up the hillside amid the birches, whose white stems glimmered upwards into the blue gloom of the twilight. francesco's thoughts climbed ahead of him, hurrying to deal with the unknown dangers that might be awaiting him. he had to dismount, pull his steed after him; but the scramble upwards gave him the sense of effort and struggle that he needed. it was like scaling a wall to come to grips with an enemy, whose wild eyes and sword-points showed between the crenelations.
at last they had reached the high plateau. a dog barked. the wood suddenly swarmed with bearded and grotesque forms. they did not recognize in francesco the monk who had spent a night in their midst. the goatherd had maliciously disappeared, as if to revenge himself for his interrupted orisons. with glowering faces they thronged around francesco, a babel of voices shouting questions and threatening the intruder.
he waved them contemptuously aside, and his demeanor seemed to raise him in their regards.
at his request to be forthwith conducted into the presence of the duke, one pointed to a low building at the edge of the plateau. wisps of smoke curled out of it and vanished into the night.
"the duke and the abbot are at orisons," the man said with a grimace, the meaning of which was lost upon francesco. "he will not return before midnight."
"i will await him here," said the newcomer, dismounting and leading his steed to a small plot of pasture, where the grass was tall and untrodden. then, spent as he was, he requested food and drink, and as he joined the band of outlaws, listening to their jokes and banter, he thought he could discern among them many a one whom fate had, like himself, buffeted into a life, not of his forming, not of his choice.
the abbey of farfa
the great vaults of the abbey of farfa resounded with glee and merriment.
before a low, massive stone table, resembling a druidical altar, surrounded by giant casks filled with the choicest wines of italy, greece and spain, there sat the duke of spoleto and the abbot hilarius, discoursing largely upon the vanities of the world, and touching incidentally upon questions pertaining to the welfare of church and state. a single cresset shed an unsteady light over the twain, while a lean, cadaverous friar glided noiselessly in and out the transepts, obsequiously replenishing the beverage as it disappeared with astounding swiftness in the feasters' capacious stomachs. and each time he replenished the vessels, he refilled his own with grim impartiality, watching the abbot and his guest from a low settle in a dark recess.
the vault was of singular construction and considerable extent. the roof was of solid stone masonry and rose in a wide semicircular arch to the height of about twelve feet, measured from the centre of the ceiling to the ground floor.
the transepts were divided by obtusely pointed arches, resting on slender granite pillars, and the intervening space was filled up with drinking vessels of every conceivable shape and size.
the abbot of farfa was a discriminating drinker, boasting of an ancestral thirst of uncommonly high degree, the legacy of a teutonic ancestor who had served the church with much credit in his time.
they had been carousing since sunset.
the spectral custodian had refilled the tankards with amber liquid. thereof the abbot sipped understandingly.
"lacrymae christi," he turned to the duke. "vestrae salubritati bibo!"
the duke raised his goblet.
"i would chant twenty psalms for that beverage," he mused after a while.
the abbot suggested "attendite populi!"--"it is one of the longest," he said, with meaning.
"don't trifle with a thirsty belly," growled the duke. "in these troublous times it behooves men to be circumspect!"
"probatum est," said the abbot. "it is a noble vocation! jubilate deo!"
and he raised his goblet.
the duke of spoleto laid a heavy hand upon his arm.
"it is a vigil of the church!"
the abbot gave himself absolution on account of the great company.
"there's no fast on the drink!" he said with meaning. "nor is there better wine between here and salamanca!"
the duke regarded his host out of half-shut watery eyes.
"my own choice is chianti!"
"a difference of five years in purgatory!"
thereupon the duke blew the froth of his wine in the abbot's face.
"purgatory!--a mere figure of speech!"
the abbot emptied his tankard.
"the figures of speech are the pillars of the church!"
he beckoned to the custodian.
"poculum alterum imple!"
the lean friar came and disappeared noiselessly.
they drank for a time in heavy silence. after a time the abbot sneezed, which caused beelzebub, the abbot's black he-goat, who had been browsing outside, to peer through the crescent-shaped aperture in the casement and regard him quizzically.
the duke, who chanced to look up at that precise moment, saw the red inflamed eyes of the abbot's tutelar genius, and, mistaking the goat for another presence, turned to his host.
"do you not fear," he whispered, "lest satan may pay you a visit during some of your uncanonical pastimes?"
"uncanonical!" roared the abbot. "i scorn the charge! i scorn it with my heels! two masses daily,--morning and evening--primes,--nones,--vespers,--aves,--credos,--paters--"
"excepting on moonlight nights," the duke blinked.
"exceptis excipiendis," replied the abbot.
"sheer heresy!" roared the duke. "the devil is apt to keep an eye on such exceptions. does he not go about like a roaring lion?"
"let him roar!" shouted the abbot, bringing his fist down upon the table, and looking about in canonical ire, when the door opened noiselessly and in its dark frame stood francesco.
he had waited at the camp for the return of the duke until his misery and restlessness had mastered every other sensation. sleep, he felt, would not come to his eyes, and he craved for action. he should have liked nothing better than to mount his steed on the spot, ride single-handed into anjou's camp and redeem his honor in the eyes of those who regarded him a bought instrument of the church. the memory of ilaria wailed through the dark chambers of his heart. he felt at this moment, more than ever, what she had been to him, and to himself he appeared as a derelict, tossed on a vast and shoreless sea.
for a moment he gazed as one spellbound at the drinkers, then he strode up to the duke and shook him soundly.
"to the rescue, my lord duke!" he shouted, in the excess of his frenzy, till the vaults re-echoed his cry from their farthest recesses. "conradino has been betrayed by the frangipani!"
at the sound of the name he hated above all on earth, the duke's nebulous haze fell from him like a mantle.
with a great oath he arose.
"where is the king?"
"they have taken him to rome,--or naples,--or to some fortress near the coast," francesco replied.
"into whose hands was he delivered?"
"anjou's admiral,--robert of lavenna!"
the duke paused a moment, as if endeavoring to bring order into the chaos of his thoughts. he scanned francesco from head to toe, as if there was something about the latter's personality which he could not reconcile with his previous acquaintance.
at last francesco's worldly habit flashed upon him.
"what of the cross?" he flashed abruptly.
"there is blood upon it!" retorted francesco.
"all is blood in these days," the duke said musingly. "are you with us?"--
"i have broken the rosary!"--
the duke extended his broad hand, in which francesco's almost disappeared as he closed upon it.
there was a great wrath in his eyes.
"we ride at sun-rise!"
the dawn was streaking the east with faint gold, and transient sunshafts touched the woods, when francesco stood before the doorway of his lodge of pine boughs. the men of the duke of spoleto were gathering in on every side, some girding their swords, others tightening their shield-straps, as they came.
the duke ordered a single horn to sound the rally.
the glade was full of stir and action. companies were forming up, shoulder to shoulder; spears danced and swayed; horses steamed in the brisk morning air.
at last the tents sank down, and, as the sun cleared the trees, the armed array rolled out from the woods into a stretch of open land, that sloped towards the bold curves of a river.
on that morning francesco felt almost happy, as his fingers gripped his sword and he cantered along by the side of the duke. the great heart of the world seemed to beat with his.
"the day of reckoning has come at last!" he said to the leader of the free lances.
the duke's features were hard as steel. yet he read the other's humor and joined him with the zest of the hour.
"you smile once more!" said the grim lord of the woods, turning to the slender form in the saddle.
"i shall smile in the hour when the frangipani lies at my feet," francesco replied with heaving chest. "it is good to be strong!"
the duke's horsemen were scouring ahead, keeping cover, scanning the horizon for the provencals. by noon they had left the open land, plunged up hills covered thick with woods. the duke's squadrons sifted through, and he halted them in the woods under the brow of the hill.
below lay a broad valley running north and south, chequered with pine-thickets and patches of brushwood. on a hill in the centre stood a ruined tower. towards the south a broad loop of the river closed the valley, while all around on the misty hills shimmered the giants of the forest, mysterious and silent. the duke's outriders had fallen back and taken cover in the thickets. down the valley could be seen a line of spears, glittering snake-like towards the tower on the hill. companies of horse were crossing the river, pushing up the slopes, mass on mass. in the midst of the flickering shields and spears blew a great banner with the fleur-de-lis.
it was a contingent of charles of anjou, which had been on the march since dawn. they had thrown their advance guard across the river and were straggling up the green slopes, while the main host crossed the ford.
the sound of a clarion re-echoed from crag to crag: and down towards the river played the whirlwind, with dust and clangor and the shriek of steel. spears went down like trampled corn. the battle streamed down the bloody slope, for nothing could stand that furious charge.
the river shut in the broken host, for the ford was narrow, not easy of passage. from the north came the thundering ranks of horse, and on the south the waters were calm and clear. the provencals, streaming like smoke blown from a fire by a boisterous wind, were hurled in rout upon the water. they were hurled over the banks, slain in the shallows, drowned in struggling to cross at the ford. some few hundred reached the southern bank, and scattered fast for the sanctuary of the woods.
in less than half an hour from the first charge the duke's men had won the day. they gave no quarter; slew all who stood.
the duke rode back up the hill, francesco by his side, amid the cheers of his men.
southwest they rode towards the sea, their hundred lances aslant under the autumnal sky. they were as men challenging a kingdom with their swords, and they tossed their shields in the face of fate. the audacity of the venture set the hot blood spinning in their hearts. to free conradino from anjou's clutches; to hurl damnation in the mouth of the provencals.
as for francesco, he was as a hound in leash. his sword thirsted in its scabbard; he had tasted blood, and was hot for the conflict.
on the fourth day they came upon the ruins of ninfa, a town set upon a hill in a wooded valley. vultures flapped heavenward as they rode into the gate; lean, red-eyed curs snarled and slinked about the streets. francesco smote one brute through with his spear, as it was feeding in the gutter on the carcass of a child. in the market square the provencals had made such another massacre as they had perpetrated in alba. the horrible obscenity of the scene struck the duke's men dumb as the dead. the towns-folk had been stripped, bound face to face, left slain in many a hideous and ribald pose. the vultures' beaks had emulated the sword. the stench from the place was as the breath of a charnel house, and the duke and his men turned back with grim faces from the brutal silence of that ghastly town.
near one of the gates a wild, tattered figure darted out from a half-wrecked house, stood blinking at them in the sun, then sped away, screaming and whimpering at the sight of the duke, as though possessed with a demon. it was a woman, still retaining the traces of her former great beauty, gone mad, yet the only live thing they found in the town.
the duke had reined in his steed at the sight, gone white to the roots of his hair. then he covered his face with his hands, and francesco heard him utter a heart-rending moan.
when his hands fell, after a lapse of time, he seemed to have aged years in this brief space.
"forward, my men," he shouted with iron mouth. "the frangipani shall not complain of our swords!"
they passed out of ninfa through the opposite gate. at dark they reached the moors, and soon the entire host swept silently into the ebony gloom of the great forests, which seemed sealed up against the moon and stars.
beneath the dark cornices of a thicket of wind-stunted pines stood a small company of men, looking out into the hastening night. the half-light of evening lay over the scene, rolling wood and valley into a misty mass, while the horizon stood curbed by a belt of heavy thunder-clouds. in the western vault, a vast rent in the wall of gray shot out a blaze of translucent gold that slanted like a spear shaft to a sullen sea.
the walls of astura shone white and ghostly athwart the plains. sea-gulls came screaming to the cliffs. presently out of the blue bosom of an unearthly twilight a vague wind arose. gusts came, clamored, and died into nothingness. the world seemed to shudder. a red sword flashed sudden out of the skies and smote the hills. thunder followed, growling over the world. the lurid crater of vesuvius poured gold upon the sea, whose hoarse underchant mingled with the fitful wind.
a storm came creeping black out of the west. the sea grew dark. the forests began to weave the twilight into their columned halls. a sudden gust came clamoring through the woods. the myriad boughs tossed and jerked against the sky, while a mysterious gloom of trees rolled back against the oncoming night.
the men upon the hill strained their eyes towards the sea, where the white patch of a sail showed vaguely through the gathering gloom. their black armor stood out ghostly against the ascetic trunks of the trees. grim silence prevailed, and so immobile was their attitude, that they might have been taken for stone images of a dead, gone age.
the wind cried restlessly amid the trees, gusty at intervals, but tuning its mood to a desolate and constant moan. the woods seemed full of a vague woe and of troubled breathings. the trees seemed to sway to one another, to fling strange words with the tossing of hair and outstretched hands. the furze in the valley, swept and harrowed, undulated like a green lagoon.
between the hills and the cliff lay the marshes, threaded by a meagre stream that quavered through the green. a poison mist hung over them despite the wind. the mournful clangor of a bell came up from the valley, with a vague sound as of voices chanting.
after a time the bell ceased pulsing. in its stead sounded a faint eerie whimper, an occasional shrill cry that startled the moorlands, leaped out of silence like a bubble from a pool where death has been.
the men were shaken from their strained vigilance as by a wind. the utter gray of the hour seemed to stifle them, then a sound stumbled out of the silence and set them listening. it dwindled and grew again, came nearer: it was the smite of hoofs in the wood-ways. the rider dismounted, tethered his foam-flecked steed to a tree and stumbled up to where the duke of spoleto and francesco stood, their gaze riveted upon the ghostly masonry of astura.
panting and exhausted he faced the twain.
"they have all died on the scaffold," he said with a hoarse, rasping voice. "the swabian dynasty is no more."
with a cry and a sob that shook his whole being, francesco covered his face with his hands.
for a moment the duke stared blankly at the speaker.
"and the frangipani?" he asked, his features ashen-gray and drawn.
the messenger pointed to astura.
"there is feasting and high glee: the pontiff's bribe was large."--
francesco trembled in every limb.
"such a day was never seen in naples," the messenger concluded with a shudder. "to a man they died under the axe--the soil was dyed crimson with their blood."
there was a silence.
the messenger pointed to the sea, which had melted into the indefinite background of the night.
dim and distant, like a pearl over the purple deeps, one sail after another struck out of the vague west. they came heading for the land, the black hulls rising and falling against the tumultuous blackness of the clouds.
a red gleam started suddenly from the waves. a quick flame leaped up like a red finger above the cliff.
the duke ignited a pine-wood torch. the blue resinous light spluttered in the wind.
three times he circled it above his head, then he flung it into the sea.
"bernardo sarriano and the pisan galleys," he turned to francesco. "they are heading for the cape of circé."
a shout of command rang through the woods.
as with phantom cohorts the forest-aisles teemed with moving shadows.
a ride of some five miles lay between them and the cape of circé. much of that region was wild forest land and moor; bleak rocky wastes let into woods and gloom. great oaks, gnarled, vast, terrible, held giant sway amid the huddled masses of the underbrush. here the wild boar lurked and the wolf hunted. but for the most it was dark and calamitous, a ghostly wilderness forsaken by man.
as they rode along they struck the occasional trail of the crusaders of the church. a burnt hamlet, a smoking farmhouse with a dun mist hanging over it like a shroud, and once they stumbled upon the body of a dead girl. they halted for a brief space to give her burial. the duke's men dug a shallow grave under an oak and they left her there and went on their way with greater caution.
"there is one man on earth to whom i owe a debt," the duke, leading the van beside francesco, turned to the latter, "a debt that shall be paid this night, principal and interest."
francesco looked up into the duke's face, and by the glare of the now more frequent lightnings he saw that it was drawn and gray.
"there lies his lair," the duke pointed to the white masonry of astura, as it loomed out of the night, menacing and spectral, as a thunderbolt hissed into the sea, and again lapsed into gloom. "betrayer of god and man,--his hour is at hand!"--
the duke's beard fairly bristled as he uttered these words, and he gripped the hilt of his sword as if he anticipated a conflict with some wild beast of the forest, some mythical monster born of night and crime.
francesco made no reply. he was bowed down beneath the gloom of the hour, oppressed with unutterable forebodings. he too had an account to settle: yet, whichever way the tongue inclined in the scales, life stretched out from him as a sea at night. he dared not think of ilaria, far away in the convent of san nicandro by the sea; yet her memory had haunted him all day, knocked at the gates of his consciousness, dominated the hours. compared with the ever present sense of her loss, all in life seemed utterly trifling, and he longed for annihilation only.
yet a kindred note which he sounded in the duke's soul found him in a more receptive mood for the latter's confidences; once life had seemed good to him; he had thought men heroes, the world a faerie place. thoughts had changed with time, and that for which he once hungered he now despised. cursed with perversities, baffled and mocked, the eternal trivialities of life made the soul sink within him. not all are mild earth, to be smitten and make no moan. there are sea spirits that lash and foam, fire spirits that leap and burn,--was he to be cursed because he was born with a soul of fire?
they were now in the midst of the great wilderness. on all sides myriads of trees, interminably pillared; through their tops the wind sighed and pined like the soft breath of a sleeping world. away on every hand stretched oblivious vistas, black under multitudinous green spires.
the interminable trees seemed to vex the duke's spirit, as their trunks crowded the winding track and seemed to shut in the twain as with a never ending barrier. and behind them, with the muffled tread of a phantom army, came the duke's armed array striding through the night.
"have you too suffered a wrong at the hands of the frangipani?" francesco at last broke the silence, turning to his companion.
the latter jerked the bridle of his charger so viciously that the terrified animal reared on its haunches and neighed in protest.
"man, know you whereof you speak?" the duke snarled, as he came closer to francesco. "he has made the one woman the duke of spoleto ever loved--a wanton!"--
they pushed uphill through the solemn shadows of the forest. a sound like the raging of a wind through a wood came down to them faintly from afar. it was a sullen sound, deep and mysterious as the hoarse babel of the sea, smitten through with the shrill scream of trumpets, like the cry of gulls above a storm. yet in the aisles of the pine forest it was still as death.
then, like a spark struck from flint and steel falling upon tinder, a red glare blazed out against the background of the night. a horn blared across the moorlands; the castle bell began to ring, jerkily, wildly, a bell in terror. yellow gleams streaked the fretted waters, and again the trumpet challenged the dark walls, like the cry of a sea-bird driven by the storm.
the duke and francesco looked meaningly at each other. the sound needed no words to christen it; they knew that the pisans had attacked. they heard the roar and the cries from the rampart, the cataractine thunder of a distant battle.
pushing on more swiftly as the woods thinned, the din grew more definite, more human, more sinister in detail. it stirred the blood, challenged the courage, racked conjecture with the infinite chaos it portended. victory and despair were trammelled up together in its sullen roar; life and death seemed to swell it with the wind sound of their wings. it was stupendous, chaotic, a tempest cry of steel and passions inflamed.
the duke's face kindled to the sound as he shouted to his men to gallop on. yet another furlong, and the spectral trunks dwindled, the sombre boughs seemed to mingle with the clouds, while gray, indefinite before them, engulfing the lightnings of heaven, loomed the great swell of the tyrrhene, dark and restless under the thunderclouds, that came nearer and nearer. ghostly the plains of torre del greco stretched towards the promontory of circé, and, solitary and impregnable, the castello of astura rose upon its chalk-cliffs, white in the lightnings which hissed around its summit.
the duke's men had come up, forming a wide semicircle around the leaders. at their feet opened a deep ravine, leading into the plain; half a furlong beyond, although it seemed less than a lance's throw across, rose the castle of the frangipani, washed by the waves of the tyrrhene. the pisans had attacked the southern acclivity, and the defenders, roused from their feast of blood, had poured all their defences towards the point of attack, leaving the northern slope to look to itself.
as they rode down the ravine there came from the bottom of the valley the sharp yelp of a dog. it was instantly answered by a similar bark from the very top of the castello.
"no two dogs ever had the same voice," the duke turned to francesco. "they must be hell-hounds, whom the fiend has trained to one tune. but what is that yonder? a goat picking its way?"
"a goat walking on its hind legs!"
"are there horns on its head?"
"then it is not the evil one! forward, my men!"
the pause that preceded the breaking of the storm had been unnaturally long. save for the gleam of the lightnings, the waters had grown to an inky blackness. there came one long moment, when the atmosphere sank under the weight of a sudden heat. then the ever increasing thunder rushed upon the silence with a mighty roar and out of the west, driven by the hurricane, came a long line of white waves, that rose as they advanced, till the very tritons beat their heads and the nymphs scurried down to greener depths.
and now a sudden streak of fire hissed from the clouds, followed by a crash as if all the bolts of heaven had been let off at once. from the ramparts of astura came cries of alarm, the din of battle, the blaring of horns, the shouting of commands.
the duke and francesco had dismounted and were gazing up towards the storm-swept ramparts. shrieks and curses rolled down upon them like the tumbling of a cascade.
then they began to scale the ledge, the path dwindling to a goat's highway.
above them rose a sheer wall on which there appeared not clinging space for a lizard. the abyss below was ready to welcome them to perdition if their feet slipped.
after a brief respite they continued, the duke's men scrambling up behind them, looking like so many ants on the white chalk-cliffs. the air was hot to suffocation; the storm roared, the thunder bellowed in deafening echoes through the skies, and the heavens seemed one blazing cataract of fire, reflected in the throbbing mirror of the sea.
"i feared lest they might clean out the nest before our arrival," he said, then, pointing to a distant glare of torches, he gave the word. they caught the unwary defenders in the rear. no quarter was to be given; the robber brood of astura was to be exterminated.
"conradino!" was the password, and above the taunts and cries of frangipani's hirelings it filled the night with its clamor, rode on the wings of the storm, like the war-cry of a thousand demons.
notwithstanding the fact that a few of the most daring among the pisan admiral's men had scaled the ramparts and, leaping into the frangipani's stronghold, had tried to pave a way for those lagging behind, their companions-in-arms were in dire straits. for those of astura poured boiling pitch upon the heads of the attacking party, hurled rocks of huge dimensions down upon them which crushed into a mangled mass scores of men, unable to retain the vantage they had gained under the avalanche of arrows, rocks and fire.
in a moment's time the situation was changed.
noiselessly as leopards, the duke's men fell upon their rear, raising their war-cry as they leaped from the shadows. those on the ramparts, forced to grapple with the nearer enemy, abandoned their tasks. the pisans, profiting by the lull, swarmed over the walls. taken between two parties, a deadly hand-to-hand conflict ensued. above the din and the roar of the hurricane, of the clashing of arms, above the cries of the wounded, the death-rattle of the dying, sounded the voice of the duke of spoleto.
"onward, my men! kill and slay!"
side by side the duke and francesco leaped into the thickest of the fray, both animated by the same desire to come face to face with the lords of astura, spurning a lesser enemy.
for a time they seemed doomed to disappointment. had the frangipani been slain?
the zest of the conflict pointed rather to their directing the defence. else their mercenaries would have left astura to its fate.
suddenly an unearthly voice startled the combatants.
"guard, devil, guard!"
there was the upflashing of a sword, and a hoarse challenge frightened the night.
giovanni frangipani saw a furious face glaring dead white from under the shadow of a shield.
he stopped in his onward rush, blinked at the duke as one gone mad.
"damnation, what have we here?"
"by the love of god, i have you now!"
"fool, are you mad?"
the hoarse voice echoed him, the eyes flashed fire.
"ten thousand devils! who are you?"
"your obedient servant,--the duke of spoleto!"
the frangipani growled like a trapped bear.
he raised his sword, put forward his shield.
"on with you, dog!" he roared. "join your wanton under the sod!"
"ha, say you so?" cried the duke, closing in.
their swords flashed, yelped, twisted in the air. a down cut hewed the dexter cantrel from the frangipani's shield. his face with a gashed cheek glared at the duke from under his upreared arm. so close were they that blood spattered in the duke's face as the frangipani blew the red stream from his mouth and beard.
the duke broke away, wheeled and came again. he lashed home, split the frangipani's collar-bone even through the rags of his hauberk. the frangipani yelped like a gored hound. rabid, dazed, he began to make blind rushes that boded ill for him. the swords began to leap and to sing, while blinding flashes of lightning followed each other in quick succession and thunder rolled in deafening echoes through the heavens. cut and counter-cut rang through the night, like the cry of axes, whirled by woodmen's hands.
suddenly the frangipani parried an upper cut and stabbed at the duke. the sword point missed him a hair's breadth. before he could guard the duke was upon him like a leopard. both men smote together, both swords met with a sound that seemed to shake the rocks. the frangipani's blade snapped at the hilt.
he stood still for a moment as one dazed, then plucked out his poniard and made a spring. a merciless down cut beat him back. his courage, his assurance seemed to ebb from him on a sudden, as though the blow had broken his soul. he fell on his knees and held up his hands, with a thick, choking cry.
"mercy! god's mercy!"
"curse you! had you pity on your victims?"
thunder crashed overhead; the girdles of the sky were loosed. a torrent of rain beat upon the frangipani's streaming face; he tottered on his knees, but still held his hands to the heavens.
"they lied," he cried. "give me but life."--
the duke looked at him and heaved up his sword.
giovanni frangipani saw the white face above him, gave a great cry and cowered behind his hands. it was all ended in a moment. the rain washed his gilded harness as he lay with his blood soaking into the crevices of the rocks.--
francesco had witnessed neither the fight nor the ending. impelled by an insensate desire to find raniero, to have a final reckoning for all the baseness and insults he had heaped upon him in the past, for his treachery and cruelty to ilaria, he had made his way to the great hall.
the door was closed and locked from within.
francesco dealt it a terrific blow. its shattered framework heaved inward and toppled against the wall.
in the doorway stood raniero and looked out at his opponent. he did not recognize francesco. his face was sullen; the glitter of his little eyes mimicked the ring gleams of his hauberk. he put out the tip of a tongue and moistened his lips.
francesco's face was as the face of a man who has but one purpose left in life and, that accomplished, cares not what happens. raising his vizor, he said:
"i wait for you!"
raniero broke into a boisterous laugh.
"the bastard! the monk! go home, francesco, and don your lady's attire! what would you with a sword?"
francesco's mouth was a hard line. he breathed through hungry nostrils, as he went step by step toward raniero.
then with a swift shifting of his sword from right to left he smote him on each cheek, then, lowering his vizor, he put up his guard.
with an oath raniero's sword flashed, feinted, turned with a cunning twist, and swept low for francesco's thigh.
francesco leaped back, but was slashed by the point a hair's breadth above the knee. it was a mere skin wound, but the pain of it seemed to snap something that had been twisted to a breaking point within him. he gave a great cry and charged down raniero's second blow.
their shields met and clashed, and raniero staggered. francesco rushed him across the hall as a bull drives a rival about a yard. raniero crashed against the wall, and francesco sprang back to use his sword. the blow hewed the top from raniero's shield and smote him slant-wise across the face.
raniero gathered himself and struck back, but the blow was caught on francesco's shield. francesco thrust at him, before he could recover, and the point slipped under the edge of raniero's gorget. he twisted free and blundered forward into a fierce exchange of half-arm blows. once he struck francesco upon the mouth with the pommel of his sword, and was smitten in turn by the beak of francesco's shield.
again francesco rushed raniero to the wall, leaped back and got in his blow. raniero's face was a red blur. he dropped his shield, put both his hands to his sword and swung great blows at francesco, with the huge rage of a desperate and tiring man. francesco led him up and down the hall. raniero's breath came in gasps, and his strength began to wane.
francesco bided his chance and seized it. he ran in, after raniero had missed him with one of his savage sweeping blows, and rushed him against the wall. then he struck and struck again, without uttering a word, playing so fast upon raniero that he had his man smothered, blundering and dazed. the end came with a blow that cut the crown of raniero's helmet. he threw up his hands with a spasmodic gesture, lurched forward, fell, rolled over on his back and lay still.
for a moment francesco stood over him, the point of his sword on raniero's throat. he seemed to waver; then all the misery the frangipani had inflicted on ilaria rushed over him as in a blinding cloud.
his sword went home. a strange cry passed through the hall, then all was still. the torch spluttered once more and went out. francesco was in the darkness beside the dead body of raniero.--
meanwhile the pisans had succeeded in scaling the walls. the clamor of the fight grew less and less, as one by one the defenders of astura were relentlessly struck down and hurled over the ramparts. the storm had increased in violence, the heavens were cataracts of fire.--
in the blood-drenched court the duke and the pisan admiral shook hands. everything living had been slain. astura was a castle of the dead.
"god! what work!" exclaimed the pisan. it was the testimony wrung from him by the stress of sheer hard fighting.
"one of the viper-brood still lives," the duke turned to his companion, kicking with the tip of his steel boot the lifeless form of giovanni frangipani.
the pisan turned to a man-at-arms.
"take twenty men! scour the lair from vault to pinnacle! we must have that other,--dead or alive!"
the rain had ceased for the time. new thunder-clouds came rolling out of the west. flambeaux flared in the court. black shadows danced along the ghostly walls. the wind moaned about the crenelated turrets; sentinels of the pisans stood everywhere, alert for ambush.
the duke and his companions approached the door leading into the great hall. it lay in splinters. stygian darkness held sway within.
suddenly the duke paused, as if turned to stone, at the same time plucking his companion back by the sleeve of his surcoat.
with a choked, inarticulate outcry the duke snatched bow and arrow from the nearest sentry, and ere the pisan could grasp the meaning of what he saw, or prevent, he set and sped the bolt. a moan died on the stillness. a form collapsed, shuddered and lay still.
the duke dropped bow and arrow, staring like a madman, then rushed towards the prostrate form.
bending over it, a moan broke from his lips, as he threw his arms about the lifeless clay of her he had loved in the days of yore, ere the honeyed treachery of the frangipani had sundered and broken their lives. the woman of the red tower had expiated her guilt.
he saw at once that no human agency might here avail. death had been instantaneous. the arrow had pierced the heart.
the duke knelt long by her side, and the strong man's frame heaved with convulsive sobs, as he closed the eyes and muttered an ave for her untimely departed soul.
when he arose, he looked into the pale face of francesco, whose blood-stained sword and garments told a tale his lips would not. he understood without a word. silently he extended his hand to the duke, then, taking off his own mantle, he covered therewith the woman's body.
it was midnight when the pisans and the duke's men groped their way cautiously down the steep winding path to the shore. the pisans made for their ships and spoleto's men for the dusk of their native woods, carrying on a hurriedly constructed bier the body of the woman of the red tower.
not many minutes had passed after their perilous descent when a sphere of fire shot from the clouds, followed by a crash as if the earth had been rent in twain, and the western tower of astura was seen toppling into the sea.
bye and bye sea and land reflected a crimson glow, which steadily increased, fanned by the gale, until it shone far out upon the sea.
astura was in flames, the funeral pyre of the frangipani.
as the world grew gray with waking light, francesco came from the woods and heard the noise of the sea in the hush that breathed in the dawn. the storm had passed over the sea and a vast calm hung upon the lips of the day. in the east a green streak shone above the hills. the sky was still aglitter with sparse stars. an immensity of gloom brooded over the sea.
gaunt, wounded, triumphant, francesco rode up beneath the banners of the dawn, eager yet fearful, inspired and strong of purpose. wood and hill slept in a haze of mist. the birds were only beginning in the thickets, like the souls of children yet unborn, calling to eternity. beyond in the cliffs, san nicandro, wrapped round with night, stood silent and sombre athwart the west.
francesco climbed from the valley as the day came with splendor, a glow of molten gold streaming from the east. wood and hillside glimmered in a smoking mist, dew-bespangled, wonderful. as the sun rose, the sea stretched sudden into the arch of the west, a great expanse of liquid gold. a mysterious lustre hovered over the cliffs, waves of light bent like saffron mist upon san nicandro.
the dawn-light found an echo in francesco's face. he came that morning the ransomer, the champion, defeated in life and hope and happiness, yet with head erect, as if defying fate. his manhood smote him like the deep-throated cry of a great bell, majestic and solemn. the towers on the cliff were haloed with magic hues. life, glory, joy, lay locked in the gray stone walls. his heart sang in him; his eyes were afire.
as he walked his horse with a hollow thunder of hoof over the narrow bridge, he took his horn and blew a blast thereon. there was a sense of desolation, a lifelessness about the place that smote his senses with a strange fear. the walls stared void against the sky. there was no stir, no sound within, no watchful faces at portal or wicket. only the gulls circled from the cliffs and the sea made its moan along the strand.
francesco sat in the saddle and looked from wall to belfry, from tower to gate. there was something tragic about the place, the silence of a sacked town, the ghostliness of a ship sailing the seas with a dead crew upon her decks. francesco's glance rested on the open postern, an empty gash in the great gate. his face darkened and his eyes lost their sanguine glow. there was something betwixt death and worse than death in all this calm.
he dismounted and left his steed on the bridge. the postern beckoned to him. he went in like a man nerved for peril, with sword drawn and shield in readiness. again he blew his horn. no living being answered, no voice broke the silence.
the refectory was open, the door standing half ajar. francesco thrust it full open with the point of his sword and looked in. a gray light filtered through the narrow windows. the nuns lay huddled on benches and on the floor. some lay fallen across the settles, others sat with their heads fallen forward upon the table; a few had crawled towards the door and had died in the attempt to escape. the shadow of death was over the whole.
francesco's face was as gray as the faces of the dead. there was something here, a horror, a mystery, that hurled back the warm courage of the heart.
with frantic despair he rushed from one body to the other, turning the dead faces to the light, fearing every one must be that of his own ilaria. but ilaria was not among them; the mystery grew deeper, grew more unfathomable. for a moment, francesco stood among the dead nuns as if every nerve in his body had been suddenly paralyzed, when his eyes fell upon a crystal chalice, half overturned on the floor. it contained the remnants of a clear fluid. he picked it up and held it to his nostrils. it fell from his nerveless fingers upon the stone and broke into a thousand fragments, a thin stream creeping over the granite towards the fallen dead. it was a preparation of hemlock and bitter almonds. he stared aghast, afraid to move, afraid to call. the nuns had poisoned themselves.
like a madman he rushed out into the adjoining corridor, hither and thither, in the frantic endeavor to find a trace of ilaria. yet not a trace of her did he find. but what he did discover solved the mystery of the grewsome feast of death which he had just witnessed. in a corner where he had dropped it, there lay a silken banderol belonging to a man-at-arms of anjou's provencals. they had been here, and the nuns, to escape the violation of their bodies, had died, thus cheating the fiends out of the gratification of their lusts.
the terrible discovery unnerved francesco so completely that for a time he stood as if turned to stone, looking about him like a traveller who has stumbled blindly into a charnel house. urged by manifold forebodings, he then rushed from room to room, from cell to cell. the same silence met him everywhere. of ilaria he found not a trace. had the fiends of anjou carried her away, or had she, in endeavoring to escape, found her death outside of the walls of san nicandro?
he dared not think out the thought.
the shadows of the place, the staring faces, the stiff hands clawing at things inanimate, were like the phantasms of the night. francesco took the sea-air into his nostrils and looked up into the blue radiance of the sky. all about him the garden glistened in the dawn; the cypresses shimmered with dew. the late roses made very death more apparent to his soul.
as he stood in deep thought, half dreading what he but half knew, a voice called to him, breaking suddenly the ponderous silence of the place. guided by its sound, francesco unlatched the door and found himself face to face with the duke of spoleto.
for a moment they faced each other in silence.
then he gave a great cry.
"ever, ever night!" he said, stretching out his hands despairingly as to an eternal void.
the duke's eyes seemed to look leagues away over moor and valley and hill, where the blackened ruins of astura rose beneath a dun smoke against the calm of the morning sky.
a strange tenderness played upon his lips, as if with the extinction of the frangipani brood peace had entered his soul.
"a man is a mystery to himself," he said.
"but to god?"
"i know no god, save the god, my own soul! let me live and die,--nothing more! why curse one's life with a 'to be?'"
francesco sighed heavily.
the duke's eyes had caught life on the distant hillside, life surging from the valleys, life and the glory of it. harness, helm and shield shone in the sun. gold, azure, silver, scarlet were creeping from the bronzed green of the wilds. silent and solemn the host rolled slowly into the full splendor of the day.
the duke's face had kindled.
"grapple the days to come!" he said. "let scripture and ethics rot! my men are at your command! let them ride by stream and forest, moor and mere! let them ride in quest of your lost one, ride like the wind!"
francesco looked at the duke through a mist of tears.
"you know?" he faltered.
"for this i came!" replied the duke, extending his hand. "you will find her whom your heart seeks. like a golden dawn shall she rise out of the past. blow your horn! let us not tarry!"
the anchoress of narni
six days had passed. once more the sun had tossed night from the sky and kindled hope in the hymning east. the bleak wilderness barriered by sea and crag had mellowed into the golden silence of the autumnal woods. the very trees seemed tongued with prophetic flame. the world leaped radiant out of the dawn.
through the reddened woods rode francesco, the duke of spoleto silent by his side. gloom still reigned on the pale, haggard face and there was no lustre in the eyes that challenged ever the lurking shade of death. six nights and six days had the quest been baffled. near and far armor glimmered in the reddened sanctuaries of the woods. not a trumpet brayed, though a host had scattered in search of a woman's face.
on the seventh day, the trees drew back before francesco where the shimmering waters of the nera streaked the meads. peace dwelled there and calm eternal, as of the spirit that heals the throes of men. rare and golden lay the dawn-light on the valleys. the songs of the birds came glad and multitudinous as in the burgeoning dawn of a glorious day.
francesco had halted under a great oak. his head was bare in the sun-steeped shadows, his face was the face of one weary with long watching under the voiceless stars. great dread possessed him. he dared not question his own soul.
a horn sounded in the woods, wild, clamorous and exultant. it was as the voice of a prophet, clearing the despair of a godless world. even the trees stood listening. far below, in the green shadows of the valley, a horseman spurred his steed.
francesco's eyes were upon him. yet he dared not hope, gripped by a great fear.
"i am even as a child," he said.
the duke's lips quivered.
"the dawn breaks,--the night is past. tidings come to us. let us ride out!"
francesco seemed lost in thought. he bowed his head and looked long into the valley.
"am i he who slew raniero frangipani?"
"courage!" said the duke.
"my blood is as water, my heart as wax. death and destiny are over my head!"
"speak not to me of destiny and look not to the skies! i have closed my account with heaven! in himself is man's power! you have broken the crucifix! now trust your own soul. so long as you did serve a superstition had you lost your true heaven!"
"you have played the god, and the father in heaven must love you for your strength! god does not love a coward! he will let you rule your destiny--not destiny your soul!"
"but true! were i god, should i love the monk puling prayers in a den? nay--that man should i choose who dared to follow the dictates of his own soul and strangle fate with the grip of truth. great deeds are better than mumbled prayers!"
the horseman in the valley had swept at a gallop through a sea of sun-bronzed fern. his eyes were full of a restless glitter, as the eyes of a man, whose heart is troubled. he sprang from the saddle, and, leading his horse by the bridle, bent low before the twain.
"tidings, my lord!"
the horseman looked for a moment in francesco's face but, hardened as he was, he dared not abide the trial. there was such a stare of desperate calm in the dark eyes, that his courage failed and quailed from the truth. he hung his head and stood mute.
"for god's sake, speak out!"
a great silence fell within the hearts of the three, an ecstasy of silence, such as comes after the wail of a storm. the duke's lips were compressed, as if he feared to give expression to his feelings. francesco's face was as the face of one who thrusts back hope out of his soul. he sat rigid on his horse, a stone image fronting fate, grim-eyed and steadfast. all his life had been one long sacrifice, one long denial,--had it all been in vain?
there were tears in the eyes of the man-at-arms.
the horseman leaned against his horse, his arm hooked over its neck.
he pointed to the valley.
"yonder lies narni. beyond the campanile of st. juvenal is a sanctuary. you can see it yonder by the ford. two holy women dwell therein. to them, my lord, i commend you!"
"you know more!"
the voice that spoke was terrible.
"spare me, my lord! the words are for women's lips, not for mine!"
"so be it!"
the three rode in silence, francesco and the duke together, looking mutely into each other's face. francesco's head was bowed to his breast. the reins lay loose on his horse's neck.
a gray cell of roughly hewn stone showed amidst the green boughs beyond the water. at its door stood a woman in a black mantle. a cross hung from her neck and a white kerchief bound her hair. she stood motionless, half in the shadow, watching the horsemen as they rode down to the rippling fords.
autumn had touched the sanctuary garden, and francesco's eyes beheld ruin as he climbed the slope. the woman had come from the cell, and now stood at the wicket-gate with her hands folded as if in prayer.
the horseman took francesco's bridle. the latter went on foot alone to speak with the anchoress.
"my lord," she said, kneeling at his feet, "god save and comfort you!"--
the man's brow was twisted into furrows. his right hand clasped his left wrist. he looked over the woman's head into the woods, and breathed fast through clenched teeth.
"speak!" he said.
"my lord, the woman lives!"
"i can bear the truth!"
the anchoress made the sign of the cross.
"she came to us here in the valley, my lord, tall and white as a lily, her hair loose upon her neck. her feet were bare and bleeding, her soles rent with thorns. and as she came, she sang wild snatches of a song, such as tells of love, and of proserpina, goddess of shades. we took her, my lord, gave her meat and drink, bathed her torn feet, and gave her raiment. she abode with us, ever gentle and lovely, yet speaking like one who had suffered, even to the death. and yet,--even as we slept, she stole away from us last night, and now is gone!"--
the woman had never so much as raised her eyes to the man's face. her hands held her crucifix, and she was ashen pale, even as new-hewn stone.
"and is this all?"
the man's voice trembled in his throat. his face was terrible to behold in the sun.
"not all, my lord!"
the anchoress had buried her face in her black mantle. her voice was husky with tears.
"my lord, you seek one bereft of reason!"
a great cry came from francesco's lips.
"my god! this, then, is the end!"
an undefined melancholy overshadowed the world. autumn breathed in the wind. the year, red-bosomed, was rushing to its doom.
on the summit of a wood-crowned hill, rising like a pyramid above moor and forest, stood two men silent under the shadows of an oak. in the distance glimmered the sea, and by a rock upon the hillside, armed men, a knot of spears, shone like spirit sentinels athwart the west. mists were creeping up the valleys, as the sun went down into the sea. a few sparse stars gleamed out like souls still tortured by the mysteries of life. an inevitable pessimism seemed to challenge the universe, taking for its parable the weird afterglow of the west.
deep in the woods a voice sang wild and solitary in the gathering gloom. like the cry of a ghost, it seemed to set the silence quivering, the leaves quaking with windless awe. the men who looked towards the sea heard it, a song that echoed in the heart like woe.
the duke pointed into the darkening wood.
"trust your own heart: self is the man! through a mistaken sense of duty have you been brought nigh unto death and despair! trust not in sophistry: the laws of men are carven upon stone, the laws of heaven upon the heart! be strong! from henceforth, scorn mere words! trample tradition in the dust! trust yourself, and the god in your heart!"
the distant voice had sunk into silence. francesco listened for it with hands aloft.
"i must go," he said.
"i must be near her through the night!"
"the moon stands full upon the hills! i will await you here!"
dim were the woods that autumn evening, dim and deep with an ecstasy of gloom. stars flickered in the heavens; the moon came and enveloped the trees with silver flame. a primeval calm lay heavy upon the bosom of the night. the spectral branches of the trees pointed rigid and motionless towards the sky.
francesco had left the duke gazing out upon the shimmering sea. the voice called to him from the woods with plaintive peals of song. the man followed it, holding to a grass-grown track that curled at random into the gloom. moonlight and shadow lay alternate upon his armor. hope and despair battled in his face. his soul leaped voiceless and inarticulate into the darkened shrine of prayer.
the voice came to him clearer in the forest calm. the gulf had narrowed, the words flew as over the waters of death. they were pure, yet meaningless, passionate, yet void; words barbed with an utter pathos, that silenced desire.
a hollow glade opened suddenly in the woods, a white gulf in a forest gloom. water shone there, a mere rush-ringed and full of mysterious shadows, girded by the bronzed foliage of a thousand oaks. moss grew thick about the roots, dead leaves covered the grass.
and ever and anon a dead leaf dropped silently to earth, like a hope that has died on the tree of life.
francesco knelt in a patch of bracken and looked out over the glades. a figure went to and fro by the water's brim, a figure pale in the moonlight, as the form of the restless dead. the man kneeling in the bracken pressed his hands over his breast; his face seemed to start out of the gloom as the face of one who struggles in the sea, submerged, yet desperate.
francesco saw the woman halt beside the mere. he saw her bend, take water in her palms and dash it in her face. standing in the moonlight, she smoothed her hair between her fingers, her hands shining white as ivory against the dark bosom of her dress. she seemed to murmur to herself the while, words wistful and full of woe. once she thrust her hands to the sky and cried: "francesco! francesco!" the man kneeling in the shadows quivered like a wind-shaken reed.
the moon climbed higher and the woman by the mere spread her cloak upon a patch of heather and laid herself thereon. not a sound broke the silence; the woods were mute, the air lifeless as the steely water. an hour passed. the figure on the heather lay still as an effigy on a tomb. the man in the bracken cast one look at the stars, then crossed himself and crept out into the moonlight.
holding the scabbard of his sword, he skirted the mere with shimmering armor, went down upon his knees and crawled slowly over the grass. hours seemed to elapse before the black patch of heather spread crisp and dry beneath his hands. breathing through dilated nostrils, he trembled like one who creeps to stab a sleeping friend. the moonlight seemed to shower sparks upon him, as with supernatural glory. tense anguish seemed to fill the night with sound.
francesco knelt with upturned face, his eyes shut to the sky. he seemed like one faint with pain; his lips moved as in prayer. a hundred inarticulate pleadings surged heavenward from his heart.
again he bent over her and watched the pure girlish face as she slept. a strange calm fell for a time upon him; his eyes never wavered from the white arm and the glimmering hair. vast awe held him in thrall. he was as one who broods tearless and amazed over the dead, calm face of one beloved above all on earth.
hours passed and francesco found no sustenance, save in prayer. the unuttered yearnings of a world seemed molten in his soul. the moon waned. the stars grew dim. strange sounds stirred in the forest-deeps; the mysterious breathing of a thousand trees. life ebbed and flowed with the sigh of a moon-stupored sea. visions blazed in the night-sky and faded away.
hours passed. neither sleeper nor watcher stirred. the night grew faint. the water flickered in the mere. the very stars seemed to gaze upon the destinies of two wearied souls.
far and faint came the quaver of a bird's note. gray and mysterious stood the forest spires. light! light at last! spears of amber darting in the east. a shudder seemed to shake the universe. the great vault kindled. the sky grew luminous with gold.
it was the dawn.
even as the light increased, francesco knelt and looked down upon her. hope and life, glorious, sudden, seemed to fall out of the east, a radiant faith begotten of spirit-power. banners of gold were streaming in the sky. the gloom fled. a vast expectancy hung solemn, breathless, upon the red lips of the day.
a sigh, and the long, silken lashes quivered. the lips moved, the eyes opened.
sudden silence followed, a vast hush as of undreamed hope. the woman's eyes were silently searching the man's face. he bent and cowered over her as one who weeps. his hands touched her body, yet she did not stir.
it was a hoarse, passionate outcry that broke the golden stupor of the dawn. a sudden light leaped lustrous into the woman's eyes, her face shone radiant in its etherealized beauty.
"ah! at last!"
a great shudder passed through her body. her eyes grew big with fear.
"speak to me!"
a great silence held for a moment. the woman's head sank upon the man's shoulder. madness had passed. her eyes were fixed upon his with a wonderful earnestness, a splendid calm.
"is this a dream?"
"it is the truth!"
through the forest aisles rode the duke of spoleto.
he saw and paused.
"i return beyond the alps to join the forces of rudolf of hapsburg. my men are at your disposal. i shall wait for you on yonder hillock."
he wheeled about and was gone.
again silence held for a pace.
presently ilaria gave a great sigh and looked strangely at the sun.
"i have dreamed a dream," she crooned, "and all was dark and fearful. death seemed near; lurid phantoms,--things from hell! i knew not what i did, nor where i wandered, nor what strange stupor held my soul. all my being cried out to you--yet all was dark about me, horrible midnight, peopled with foul forms! oh, that night,--that night--"
shivering, she covered her eyes as if trying to banish the memory.
"it has passed," she breathed after a pause, during which francesco had taken her in his arms, kissing her eyes, her lips, and the sylph-like, flower-soft face. "i see the dawn!"
"our dawn!"--francesco replied, pointing to the hillock beyond.
for a time there was a great silence, as if the fates of two souls were being weighed in the scales of destiny.
it was francesco who spoke.
"how you have suffered!"
she crept very close to him, smiling up at him with the old-time smile through tear-dimmed eyes.
"it counts for naught now! are not you with me?"
the sky burned azure above the tree-tops. transient sunshafts quivered through the vaulted dome of breathless leaves, as slowly francesco and ilaria strode towards the camp of the duke of spoleto on the sun-bathed hillock above the nera.
by eleanor h. porter
author of "miss billy," "miss billy's decision," etc.
"enter pollyanna! she is the daintiest, dearest, most irresistible maid you have met in all your journeyings through bookland. and you forget she is a story girl, for pollyanna is so real that after your first introduction you will feel the inner circle of your friends has admitted a new member. a brave, winsome, modern american girl, pollyanna walks into print to take her place in the hearts of all members of the family."
of "miss billy" the critics have written as follows:
"to say of any story that it makes the reader's heart feel warm and happy is to pay it praise of sorts, undoubtedly. well, that's the very praise one gives 'miss billy.'"--edwin l. shuman in the chicago record-herald.
"the story is delightful and as for billy herself--she's all right!"--philadelphia press.
"there is a fine humor in the book, some good revelation of character and plenty of romance of the most unusual order."--the philadelphia inquirer.
"there is something altogether fascinating about 'miss billy,' some inexplicable feminine characteristic that seems to demand the individual attention of the reader from the moment we open the book until we reluctantly turn the last page."--boston transcript.
"the book is a wholesome story, as fresh in tone as it is graceful in expression, and one may predict for it a wide audience."--philadelphia public ledger.
"miss billy is so carefree, so original and charming, that she lives in the reader's memory long after the book has been laid aside."--boston globe.
"you cannot help but love dear 'billy;' she is winsome and attractive and you will be only too glad to introduce her to your friends."--brooklyn eagle.
the career of dr. weaver
by mrs. henry w. backus
a big and purposeful story interwoven about the responsibilities and problems in the medical profession of the present day. dr. weaver, a noted specialist, and head of a private hospital, had allowed himself to drift away from the standards of his youth in his desire for wealth and social and scientific prestige. when an exposé of the methods employed by him in furthering his schemes for the glorifying of the name of "weaver" in the medical world is threatened, it is frustrated through the efforts of the famous doctor's younger brother, dr. jim. the story is powerful and compelling, even if it uncovers the problems and temptations of a physician's career. perhaps the most important character, not even excepting dr. weaver and dr. jim, is "the girl," who plays such an important part in the lives of both men.
"the story becomes one of those absorbing tales of to-day which the reader literally devours in an evening, unwilling to leave the book until the last page is reached, and constantly alert, through the skill of the author, in following the characters through the twisted ways of their career."--boston journal.
"the story is well-written, unique, quite out of the usual order, and is most captivating."--christian intelligencer.
the hill of venus
by nathan gallizier
author of "castel del monte," "the sorceress of rome," "the court of lucifer," etc.
this is a vivid and powerful romance of the thirteenth century in the times of the great ghibelline wars, and deals with the fortunes of francesco villani, a monk, who has been coerced by his dying father to bind himself to the church through a mistaken sense of duty, but who loves ilaria, one of the famous beauties of the court at avellino. the excitement, splendor and stir of those days of activity in rome are told with a vividness and daring, which give a singular fascination to the story.
the press has commented as follows on the author's previous books:
"the author displays many of the talents that made scott famous."--the index.
"the book is breathless reading, as much for the adventures, the pageants, the midnight excursions of the minor characters, as for the love story of the prince and donna lucrezia."--boston transcript.
"mr. gallizier daringly and vividly paints in glowing word and phrases, in sparkling dialogue and colorful narrative, the splendor, glamor and stir in those days of excitement, intrigue, tragedy, suspicion and intellectual activity in rome."--philadelphia press.
"a splendid bit of old roman mosaic, or a gorgeous piece of tapestry. otto is a striking and pathetic figure. description of the city, the gorgeous ceremonials of the court and the revels are a series of wonderful pictures."--cincinnati enquirer.
"the martial spirit of these stirring times, weird beliefs in magic and religion are most admirably presented by the author, who knows his subject thoroughly. it belongs to the class of bulwer-lytton's romances; carefully studied, well wrought, and full of exciting incident."--cleveland enquirer.
"romance at its best."--boston herald.
the what-shall-i-do girl
or, the career of joy kent
by isabel woodman waitt
when joy kent finds herself alone in the world, thrown on her own resources, after the death of her father, she looks about her, as do so many young girls, fresh from the public schools, wondering how she can support herself and earn a place in the great business world about her. still wondering, she sends a letter to a number of girls she had known in school days, asking that each one tell her just how she had equipped herself for a salary-earning career, and once equipped, how she had found it possible to start on that career. in reply come letters from the milliner, the stenographer, the librarian, the salesgirl, the newspaper woman, the teacher, the nurse, and from girls who had adopted all sorts of vocations as a means of livelihood. real friendly girl letters they are, too, not of the type that preach, but of the kind which give sound and helpful advice in a bright and interesting manner. of course there is a splendid young man who also gives advice. any "what-shall-i-do" young girl can read of the careers suggested for joy kent with profit and pleasure, and, perhaps, with surprise!
the harbor master
by theodore goodridge roberts
author of "comrades of the trails," "rayton: a backwoods mystery," etc.
the scene of the story is newfoundland. the story deals with the love of black dennis nolan, a young giant and self-appointed skipper of the little fishing hamlet of chance along, for flora lockhart, a beautiful professional singer, who is rescued by dennis from a wreck on the treacherous coast of newfoundland, when on her way from england to the united states. the story is a strong one all through, with a mystery that grips, plenty of excitement and action, and the author presents life in the open in all its strength and vigor. mr. roberts is one of the younger writers whom the critics have been watching with interest. in "the harbor master" he has surely arrived.
of mr. roberts' previous books the critics have written as follows:
"the action is always swift and romantic and the love is of the kind that thrills the reader. the characters are admirably drawn and the reader follows with deep interest the adventures of the two young people."--baltimore sun.
"mr. roberts' pen has lost none of its cunning, while his style is easier and breezier than ever."--buffalo express.
"it is a romance of clean, warm-hearted devotion to friends and duty. the characters are admirable each in his own or her own way, and the author has made each fit the case in excellent fashion."--salt lake city tribune.
"in this book mr. roberts has well maintained his reputation for the vivid coloring of his descriptive pictures, which are full of stirring action, and in which love and fighting hold chief place."--boston times.
"its ease of style, its rapidity, its interest from page to page, are admirable; and it shows that inimitable power--the story-teller's gift of verisimilitude. its sureness and clearness are excellent, and its portraiture clear and pleasing."--the reader.
at the sign of the town pump
the further adventures of peggy of spinster farm
by helen m. winslow
miss winslow calls us again away from the strenuous and noisy confusion of modern cities to the charm and contentment of life "under the greenwood tree." peggy's adventures had only just begun in the first book. in this new record of life at spinster farm and "elysium," "at the sign of the town pump," there is plenty of romantic adventure of the kind that proves truth to be stranger sometimes than fiction. there is humor, too, in even greater quantities than in the preceding book, sparkling humor that places the author well up in the list of our new england humorists. "at the sign of the town pump" will be welcomed not only by those who enjoyed making the acquaintance of spinster farm, but by thousands of new readers who appreciate a clever story and a fascinating heroine.
on "peggy at spinster farm" the press opinions are as follows:
"very alluring are the pictures she draws of the old-fashioned house, the splendid old trees, the pleasant walks, the gorgeous sunsets, and--or it would not be helen winslow--the cats."--the boston transcript.
"'peggy at spinster farm' is a rewarding volume, original and personal in its point of view, redolent of unfeigned love for the country and the sane, satisfying pleasures of country life."--milwaukee free press.
"it is an alluring, wholesome tale."--schenectady star.
"is a story remarkably interesting, and no book will be found more entertaining than this one, especially for those who enjoy light-hearted character sketches, and startling and unexpected happenings."--northampton gazette.
"an exceptionally well-written book."--milwaukee evening wisconsin.
"the spinster and peggy have a quiet sense of humor of their own and they convey their experiences with a quaint enjoyment that holds us irresistibly."--the argonaut.
"this is a thoroughly enjoyable story. mary wilkins at her best was never more interesting, and she has never produced a book more normal and as wholesome as this."--journal of education.
selections from l. c. page and company's list of fiction
works of robert neilson stephens
the flight of georgiana
a romance of the days of the young pretender. illustrated by h. c. edwards.
"a love-story in the highest degree, a dashing story, and a remarkably well finished piece of work."--chicago record-herald.
the bright face of danger
being an account of some adventures of henri de launay, son of the sieur de la tournoire. illustrated by h. c. edwards.
"mr. stephens has fairly outdone himself. we thank him heartily. the story is nothing if not spirited and entertaining, rational and convincing."--boston transcript.
the mystery of murray davenport
"this is easily the best thing that mr. stephens has yet done. those familiar with his other novels can best judge the measure of this praise, which is generous."--buffalo news.
or, the maid of cheapside. (52d thousand.) a romance of elizabethan london. illustrations by howard pyle and other artists.
not since the absorbing adventures of d'artagnan have we had anything so good in the blended vein of romance and comedy.
the continental dragoon
a romance of philipse manor house in 1778. (53d thousand.) illustrated by h. c. edwards.
a stirring romance of the revolution, with its scenes laid on neutral territory.
an enemy to the king
the road to paris
a story of adventure. (35th thousand.) illustrated by h. c. edwards.
an historical romance of the eighteenth century, being an account of the life of an american gentleman adventurer.
a gentleman player
his adventures on a secret mission for queen elizabeth. (48th thousand.) illustrated by frank t. merrill.
the story of a young gentleman who joins shakespeare's company of players, and becomes a protégé of the great poet.
illustrated by a. everhart.
the story is laid in the mid-georgian period. it is a dashing, sparkling, vivacious comedy.
tales from bohemia
illustrated by wallace goldsmith.
these bright and clever tales deal with people of the theatre and odd characters in other walks of life which fringe on bohemia.
a soldier of valley forge
by robert neilson stephens and theodore goodridge roberts.
with frontispiece by frank t. merrill.
"the plot shows invention and is developed with originality, and there is incident in abundance."--brooklyn times.
the sword of bussy
by robert neilson stephens and herman nickerson.
with frontispiece by edmund h. garrett. (2) any person, being a british subject, who, without the license of her majesty, is about to quit her majesty's dominions with the intent to accept any commission or engagement in the military or naval service of any foreign state at war with a friendly state:
such master or owner shall be guilty of an offence against this act, and the following consequences shall ensue; that is to say,--
illegal shipbuilding and illegal expeditions.
8. if any person within her majesty's dominions, without the license of her majesty, does any of the following acts; that is to say,--
such person shall be deemed to have committed an offence against this act, and the following consequences shall ensue:
provided that a person building, causing to be built, or equipping a ship in any of the cases aforesaid, in pursuance of a contract made before the commencement of such war as aforesaid, shall not be liable to any of the penalties imposed by this section in respect of such building or equipping if he satisfies the conditions following; (that is to say,)
9. where any ship is built by order of or on behalf of any foreign state when at war with a friendly state, or is delivered to or to the order of such foreign state, or any person who to the knowledge of the person building is an agent of such foreign state, or is paid for by such foreign state or such agent, and is employed in the military or naval service of such foreign state, such ship shall, until the contrary is proved, be deemed to have been built with a view to being so employed, and the burden shall lie on the builder of such ship of proving that he did not know that the ship was intended to be so employed in the military or naval service of such foreign state.
10. if any person within the dominions of her majesty, and without the license of her majesty,--
by adding to the number of guns, or by changing those on board for other guns, or by the addition of any equipment for war, increases or augments, or procures to be increased or augmented, or is knowingly concerned in increasing or augmenting the warlike force of any ship which at the time of her being within the dominions of her majesty was a ship in the military or naval service of any foreign state at war with any friendly state,--
such person shall be guilty of an offence against this act, and shall be punishable by fine and imprisonment, or either of such punishments, at the discretion of the court before which the offender is convicted; and imprisonment, if awarded, may be either with or without hard labour.
11. if any person within the limits of her majesty's dominions, and without the license of her majesty,--
prepares or fits out any naval or military expedition to proceed against the dominions of any friendly state, the following consequences shall ensue:
12. any person who aids, abets, counsels, or procures the commission of any offence against this act shall be liable to be tried and punished as a principal offender.
13. the term of imprisonment to be awarded in respect of any offence against this act shall not exceed two years.
14. if during the continuance of any war in which her majesty may be neutral, any ship, goods, or merchandize captured as prize of war within the territorial jurisdiction of her majesty, in violation of the neutrality of this realm, or captured by any ship which may have been built, equipped, commissioned, or despatched, or the force of which may have been augmented, contrary to the provisions of this act are brought within the limits of her majesty's dominions by the captor, or any agent of the captor, or by any person having come into possession thereof with the knowledge that the same was prize of war so captured as aforesaid, it shall be lawful for the original owner of such prize, or his agent, or for any person authorised in that behalf by the government of the foreign state to which such owner belongs, to make application to the court of admiralty for seizure and detention of such prize, and the court shall, on due proof of the facts, order such prize to be restored.
every such order shall be executed and carried into effect in the same manner, and subject to the same right of appeal as in the case of any order made in the exercise of the ordinary jurisdiction of such court; and in the meantime and until a final order has been made on such application the court shall have power to make all such provisional and other orders as to the care or custody of such captured ship, goods, or merchandize, and (if the same be of perishable nature, or incurring risk of deterioration) for the sale thereof, and with respect to the deposit or investment of the proceeds of any such sale, as may be made by such court in the exercise of its ordinary jurisdiction.
15. for the purpose of this act, a license by her majesty shall be under the sign manual of her majesty, or be signified by order in council or by proclamation of her majesty.
16. any offence against this act shall, for all purposes of and incidental to the trial and punishment of any person guilty of any such offence, be deemed to have been committed either in the place in which the offence was wholly or partly committed, or in any place within her majesty's dominions in which the person who committed such offence may be.
17. any offence against this act may be described in any indictment or other document relating to such offence, in cases where the mode of trial requires such a description, as having been committed at the place where it was wholly or partly committed, or it may be averred generally to have been committed within her majesty's dominions, and the venue or local description in the margin may be that of the county, city, or place in which the trial is held.
18. the following authorities, that is to say, in the united kingdom any judge of a superior court, in any other place within the jurisdiction of any british court of justice, such court, or, if there are more courts than one, the court having the highest criminal jurisdiction in that place, may, by warrant or instrument in the nature of a warrant in this section included in the term "warrant," direct that any offender charged with an offence against this act shall be removed to some other place in her majesty's dominions for trial in cases where it appears to the authority granting the warrant that the removal of such offender would be conducive to the interests of justice, and any prisoner so removed shall be triable at the place to which he is removed, in the same manner as if his offence had been committed at such place.
any warrant for the purposes of this section may be addressed to the master of any ship or to any other person or persons, and the person or persons to whom such warrant is addressed shall have power to convey the prisoner therein named to any place or places named in such warrant, and to deliver him, when arrived at such place or places, into the custody of any authority designated by such warrant.
every prisoner shall, during the time of his removal under any such warrant as aforesaid, be deemed to be in the legal custody of the person or persons empowered to remove him.
19. all proceedings for the condemnation and forfeiture of a ship, or ship and equipment, or arms and munitions of war, in pursuance of this act shall require the sanction of the secretary of state or such chief executive authority as is in this act mentioned, and shall be had in the court of admiralty, and not in any other court; and the court of admiralty shall, in addition to any power given to the court by this act, have in respect of any ship or other matter brought before it in pursuance of this act all powers which it has in the case of a ship or matter brought before it in the exercise of its ordinary jurisdiction.
20. where any offence against this act has been committed by any person by reason whereof a ship, or ship and equipment, or arms and munitions of war, has or have become liable to forfeiture, proceedings may be instituted contemporaneously or not, as may be thought fit, against the offender in any court having jurisdiction of the offence, and against the ship, or ship and equipment, or arms and munitions of war, for the forfeiture in the court of admiralty; but it shall not be necessary to take proceedings against the offender because proceedings are instituted for the forfeiture, or to take proceedings for the forfeiture because proceedings are taken against the offender.
21. the following officers, that is to say,--
22. any officer authorised to seize or detain any ship in respect of any offence against this act may, for the purpose of enforcing such seizure or detention, call to his aid any constable or officers of police, or any officers of her majesty's army or navy or marines, or any excise officer or officers of customs, or any harbour-master or dock-master, or any officers having authority by law to make seizures of ships, and may put on board any ship so seized or detained any one or more of such officers to take charge of the same, and to enforce the provisions of this act, and any officer seizing or detaining any ship under this act may use force, if necessary, for the purpose of enforcing seizure or detention, and if any person is killed or maimed by reason of his resisting such officer in the execution of his duties, or any person acting under his orders, such officer so seizing or detaining the ship, or other person, shall be freely and fully indemnified as well against the queen's majesty, her heirs and successors, as against all persons so killed, maimed, or hurt.
23. if the secretary of state or the chief executive authority is satisfied that there is a reasonable and probable cause for believing that a ship within her majesty's dominions has been or is being built, commissioned, or equipped contrary to this act, and is about to be taken beyond the limits of such dominions, or that a ship is about to be despatched contrary to this act, such secretary of state or chief executive authority shall have power to issue a warrant stating that there is reasonable and probable cause for believing as aforesaid, and upon such warrant the local authority shall have power to seize and search such ship, and to detain the same until it has been either condemned or released by process of law, or in manner herein-after mentioned.
the owner of the ship so detained, or his agent, may apply to the court of admiralty for its release, and the court shall as soon as possible put the matter of such seizure and detention in course of trial between the applicant and the crown.
if the applicant establish to the satisfaction of the court that the ship was not and is not being built, commissioned, or equipped or intended to be despatched contrary to this act, the ship shall be released and restored.
if the applicant fail to establish to the satisfaction of the court that the ship was not and is not being built, commissioned, or equipped, or intended to be despatched contrary to this act, then the ship shall be detained till released by order of the secretary of state or chief executive authority.
the court may in cases where no proceedings are pending for its condemnation release any ship detained under this section on the owner giving security to the satisfaction of the court that the ship shall not be employed contrary to this act, notwithstanding that the applicant may have failed to establish to the satisfaction of the court that the ship was not and is not being built, commissioned, or intended to be despatched contrary to this act. the secretary of state or the chief executive authority may likewise release any ship detained under this section on the owner giving security to the satisfaction of such secretary of state or chief executive authority that the ship shall not be employed contrary to this act, or may release the ship without such security if the secretary of state or chief executive authority think fit so to release the same.
if the court be of opinion that there was not reasonable and probable cause for the detention, and if no such cause appear in the course of the proceedings, the court shall have power to declare that the owner is to be indemnified by the payment of costs and damages in respect of the detention, the amount thereof to be assessed by the court, and any amount so assessed shall be payable by the commissioners of the treasury out of any moneys legally applicable for that purpose. the court of admiralty shall also have power to make a like order for the indemnity of the owner, on the application of such owner to the court, in a summary way, in cases where the ship is released by the order of the secretary of state or the chief executive authority, before any application is made by the owner or his agent to the court for such release.
nothing in this section contained shall apply to any foreign non-commissioned ship despatched from any part of her majesty's dominions after having come within them under stress of weather or in the course of a peaceful voyage, and upon which ship no fitting out or equipping of a warlike character has taken place in this country.
24. where it is represented to any local authority, as defined by this act, and such local authority believes the representation, that there is a reasonable and probable cause for believing that a ship within her majesty's dominions has been or is being built, commissioned, or equipped contrary to this act, and is about to be taken beyond the limits of such dominions, or that a ship is about to be despatched contrary to this act, it shall be the duty of such local authority to detain such ship, and forthwith to communicate the fact of such detention to the secretary of state or chief executive authority.
upon the receipt of such communication the secretary of state or chief executive authority may order the ship to be released if he thinks there is no cause for detaining her, but if satisfied that there is reasonable and probable cause for believing that such ship was built, commissioned, or equipped or intended to be despatched in contravention of this act, he shall issue his warrant stating that there is reasonable and probable cause for believing as aforesaid, and upon such warrant being issued further proceedings shall be had as in cases where the seizure or detention has taken place on a warrant issued by the secretary of state without any communication from the local authority.
where the secretary of state or chief executive authority orders the ship to be released on the receipt of a communication from the local authority without issuing his warrant, the owner of the ship shall be indemnified by the payment of costs and damages in respect of the detention upon application to the court of admiralty in a summary way in like manner as he is entitled to be indemnified where the secretary of state having issued his warrant under this act releases the ship before any application is made by the owner or his agent to the court for such release.
26. any powers or jurisdiction by this act given to the secretary of state may be exercised by him throughout the dominions of her majesty, and such powers and jurisdiction may also be exercised by any of the following officers, in this act referred to as the chief executive authority, within their respective jurisdictions; that is to say,
a copy of any warrant issued by a secretary of state or by any officer authorised in pursuance of this act to issue such warrant in ireland, the channel islands, or the isle of man shall be laid before parliament.
27. an appeal may be had from any decision of a court of admiralty under this act to the same tribunal and in the same manner to and in which an appeal may be had in cases within the ordinary jurisdiction of the court as a court of admiralty.
28. subject to the provisions of this act providing for the award of damages in certain cases in respect of the seizure or detention of a ship by the court of admiralty no damages shall be payable, and no officer or local authority shall be responsible, either civilly or criminally, in respect of the seizure or detention of any ship in pursuance of this act.
29. the secretary of state shall not, nor shall the chief executive authority, be responsible in any action or other legal proceedings whatsoever for any warrant issued by him in pursuance of this act, or be examinable as a witness, except at his own request, in any court of justice in respect of the circumstances which led to the issue of the warrant.
30. in this act, if not inconsistent with the context, the following terms have the meanings herein-after respectively assigned to them; that is to say,
"foreign state" includes any foreign prince, colony, province, or part of any province or people, or any person or persons exercising or assuming to exercise the powers of government in or over any foreign country, colony, province, or part of any province or people:
"military service" shall include military telegraphy and any other employment whatever, in or in connection with any military operation:
"naval service" shall, as respects a person, include service as a marine, employment as a pilot in piloting or directing the course of a ship of war or other ship when such ship of war or other ship is being used in any military or naval operation, and any employment whatever on board a ship of war, transport, store ship, privateer or ship under letters of marque; and as respects a ship, include any user of a ship as a transport, store ship, privateer or ship under letters of marque:
"united kingdom" includes the isle of man, the channel islands, and other adjacent islands:
"british possession" means any territory, colony, or place being part of her majesty's dominions, and not part of the united kingdom, as defined by this act:
"the secretary of state" shall mean any one of her majesty's principal secretaries of state:
"the governor" shall as respects india mean the governor general or the governor of any presidency, and where a british possession consists of several constituent colonies, mean the governor general of the whole possession or the governor of any of the constituent colonies, and as respects any other british possession it shall mean the officer for the time being administering the government of such possession; also any person acting for or in the capacity of a governor shall be included under the term "governor":
"court of admiralty" shall mean the high court of admiralty of england or ireland, the court of session of scotland, or any vice-admiralty court within her majesty's dominions:
"ship" shall include any description of boat, vessel, floating battery, or floating craft; also any description of boat, vessel, or other craft or battery, made to move either on the surface of or under water, or sometimes on the surface of and sometimes under water:
"building" in relation to a ship shall include the doing any act towards or incidental to the construction of a ship, and all words having relation to building shall be construed accordingly:
"equipping" in relation to a ship shall include the furnishing a ship with any tackle, apparel, furniture, provisions, arms, munitions, or stores, or any other thing which is used in or about a ship for the purpose of fitting or adapting her for the sea or for naval service, and all words relating to equipping shall be construed accordingly:
"ship and equipment" shall include a ship and everything in or belonging to a ship:
repeal of acts, and saving clauses.
31. from and after the commencement of this act, an act passed in the fifty-ninth year of the reign of his late majesty king george the third, chapter sixty-nine, intituled "an act to prevent the enlisting or engagement of his majesty's subjects to serve in foreign service, and the fitting out or equipping, in his majesty's dominions, vessels for warlike purposes, without his majesty's license," shall be repealed: provided that such repeal shall not affect any penalty, forfeiture, or other punishment incurred or to be incurred in respect of any offence committed before this act comes into operation, nor the institution of any investigation or legal proceeding, or any other remedy for enforcing any such penalty, forfeiture, or punishment as aforesaid.
32. nothing in this act contained shall subject to forfeiture any commissioned ship of any foreign state, or give to any british court over or in respect of any ship entitled to recognition as a commissioned ship of any foreign state any jurisdiction which it would not have had if this act had not passed.
33. nothing in this act contained shall extend or be construed to extend to subject to any penalty any person who enters into the military service of any prince, state, or potentate in asia, with such leave or license as is for the time being required by law in the case of subjects of her majesty entering into the military services of princes, states, or potentates of asia.
whereas it is expedient to enact permanently, with amendments, such provisions concerning naval prize, and matters connected therewith, as have heretofore been usually passed at the beginning of a war:
be it therefore enacted by the queen's most excellent majesty, by and with the advice and consent of the lords spiritual and temporal, and commons, in this present parliament assembled, and by the authority of the same, as follows:
1. this act may be cited as the naval prize act, 1864.
2. in this act--
the term "the lords of the admiralty" means the lord high admiral of the united kingdom, or the commissioners for executing the office of lord high admiral:
the term "the high court of admiralty" means the high court of admiralty of england:
the term "any of her majesty's ships of war" includes any of her majesty's vessels of war, and any hired armed ship or vessel in her majesty's service:
the term "officers and crew" includes flag officers, commanders, and other officers, engineers, seamen, marines, soldiers, and others on board any of her majesty's ships of war:
the term "ship" includes vessel and boat, with the tackle, furniture, and apparel of the ship, vessel, or boat:
the term "ship papers" includes all books, passes, sea briefs, charter parties, bills of lading, cockets, letters, and other documents and writings delivered up or found on board a captured ship:
the term "goods" includes all such things as are by the course of admiralty and law of nations the subject of adjudication as prize (other than ships).
3. the high court of admiralty, and every court of admiralty or of vice-admiralty, or other court exercising admiralty jurisdiction in her majesty's dominions, for the time being authorised to take cognizance of and judicially proceed in matters of prize, shall be a prize court within the meaning of this act.
every such court, other than the high court of admiralty, is comprised in the term "vice-admiralty prize court," when hereafter used in this act.
high court of admiralty.
4. the high court of admiralty shall have jurisdiction throughout her majesty's dominions as a prize court.
the high court of admiralty as a prize court shall have power to enforce any order or decree of a vice-admiralty prize court, and any order or decree of the judicial committee of the privy council in a prize appeal.
appeal; judicial committee.
5. an appeal shall lie to her majesty in council from any order or decree of a prize court, as of right in case of a final decree, and in other cases with the leave of the court making the order or decree.
every appeal shall be made in such manner and form and subject to such regulations (including regulations as to fees, costs, charges, and expenses) as may for the time being be directed by order in council, and in the absence of any such order, or so far as any such order does not extend, then in such manner and form and subject to such regulations as are for the time being prescribed or in force respecting maritime causes of appeal.
6. the judicial committee of the privy council shall have jurisdiction to hear and report on any such appeal, and may therein exercise all such powers as for the time being appertain to them in respect of appeals from any court of admiralty jurisdiction, and all such powers as are under this act vested in the high court of admiralty, and all such powers as were wont to be exercised by the commissioners of appeal in prize causes.
7. all processes and documents required for the purposes of any such appeal shall be transmitted to and shall remain in the custody of the registrar of her majesty in prize appeals.
8. in every such appeal the usual inhibition shall be extracted from the registry of her majesty in prize appeals within three months after the date of the order or decree appealed from if the appeal be from the high court of admiralty, and within six months after that date if it be from a vice-admiralty prize court.
the judicial committee may, nevertheless, on sufficient cause shown, allow the inhibition to be extracted and the appeal to be prosecuted after the expiration of the respective periods aforesaid.
vice-admiralty prize courts.
9. every vice-admiralty prize court shall enforce within its jurisdiction all orders and decrees of the judicial committee in prize appeals and of the high court of admiralty in prize causes.
10. her majesty in council may grant to the judge of any vice-admiralty prize court a salary not exceeding five hundred pounds a year, payable out of money provided by parliament, subject to such regulations as seem meet.
a judge to whom a salary is so granted shall not be entitled to any further emolument, arising from fees or otherwise, in respect of prize business transacted in his court.
an account of all such fees shall be kept by the registrar of the court, and the amount thereof shall be carried to and form part of the consolidated fund of the united kingdom.
11. in accordance, as far as circumstances admit, with the principles and regulations laid down in the superannuation act, 1859, her majesty in council may grant to the judge of any vice-admiralty prize court an annual or other allowance, to take effect on the termination of his service, and to be payable out of money provided by parliament.
12. the registrar of every vice-admiralty prize court shall, on the first day of january and first day of july in every year, make out a return (in such form as the lords of the admiralty from time to time direct) of all cases adjudged in the court since the last half-yearly return, and shall with all convenient speed send the same to the registrar of the high court of admiralty, who shall keep the same in the registry of that court, and who shall, as soon as conveniently may be, send a copy of the returns of each half year to the lords of the admiralty, who shall lay the same before both houses of parliament.
13. the judicial committee of the privy council, with the judge of the high court of admiralty, may from time to time frame general orders for regulating (subject to the provisions of this act) the procedure and practice of prize courts, and the duties and conduct of the officers thereof and of the practitioners therein, and for regulating the fees to be taken by the officers of the courts, and the costs, charges, and expenses to be allowed to the practitioners therein.
any such general orders shall have full effect, if and when approved by her majesty in council, but not sooner or otherwise.
every order in council made under this section shall be laid before both houses of parliament.
every such order in council shall be kept exhibited in a conspicuous place in each court to which it relates.
14. it shall not be lawful for any registrar, marshal, or other officer of any prize court, or for the registrar of her majesty in prize appeals, directly or indirectly to act or be in any manner concerned as advocate, proctor, solicitor, or agent, or otherwise, in any prize cause or appeal, on pain of dismissal or suspension from office, by order of the court or of the judicial committee (as the case may require).
15. it shall not be lawful for any proctor or solicitor, or person practising as a proctor or solicitor, being employed by a party in a prize cause or appeal, to be employed or concerned, by himself or his partner, or by any other person, directly or indirectly by or on behalf of any adverse party in that cause or appeal, on pain of exclusion or suspension from practice in prize matters, by order of the court or of the judicial committee (as the case may require).
ii.--procedure in prize causes.
proceedings by captors.
16. every ship taken as prize, and brought into port within the jurisdiction of a prize court, shall forthwith and without bulk broken, be delivered up to the marshal of the court.
if there is no such marshal, then the ship shall be in like manner delivered up to the principal officer of customs at the port.
the ship shall remain in the custody of the marshal, or of such officer, subject to the orders of the court.
17. the captors shall, with all practicable speed after the ship is brought into port, bring the ship papers into the registry of the court.
the officer in command, or one of the chief officers of the capturing ship, or some other person who was present at the capture, and saw the ship papers delivered up or found on board, shall make oath that they are brought in as they were taken, without fraud, addition, subduction, or alteration, or else shall account on oath to the satisfaction of the court for the absence or altered condition of the ship papers or any of them.
where no ship papers are delivered up or found on board the captured ship, the officer in command, or one of the chief officers of the capturing ship, or some other person who was present at the capture, shall make oath to that effect.
18. as soon as the affidavit as to ship papers is filed, a monition shall issue, returnable within twenty days from the service thereof, citing all persons in general to show cause why the captured ship should not be condemned.
19. the captors shall, with all practicable speed after the captured ship is brought into port, bring three or four of the principal persons belonging to the captured ship before the judge of the court or some person authorised in this behalf, by whom they shall be examined on oath on the standing interrogatories.
the preparatory examinations on the standing interrogatories shall, if possible, be concluded within five days from the commencement thereof.
21. where, on production of the preparatory examinations and ship papers, it appears to the court doubtful whether the captured ship is good prize or not, the court may direct further proof to be adduced, either by affidavit or by examination of witnesses, with or without pleadings, or by production of further documents; and on such further proof being adduced the court shall with all convenient speed proceed to adjudication.
22. the foregoing provisions, as far as they relate to the custody of the ship, and to examination on the standing interrogatories, shall not apply to ships of war taken as prize.
23. at any time before final decree made in the cause, any person claiming an interest in the ship may enter in the registry of the court a claim, verified on oath.
within five days after entering the claim, the claimant shall give security for costs in the sum of sixty pounds; but the court shall have power to enlarge the time for giving security, or to direct security to be given in a larger sum, if the circumstances appear to require it.
24. the court may, if it thinks fit, at any time direct that the captured ship be appraised.
every appraisement shall be made by competent persons sworn to make the same according to the best of their skill and knowledge.
delivery on bail.
25. after appraisement, the court may, if it thinks fit, direct that the captured ship be delivered up to the claimant, on his giving security to the satisfaction of the court to pay to the captors the appraised value thereof in case of condemnation.
26. the court may at any time, if it thinks fit, on account of the condition of the captured ship, or on the application of a claimant, order that the captured ship be appraised as aforesaid (if not already appraised), and be sold.
27. on or after condemnation the court may, if it thinks fit, order that the ship be appraised as aforesaid (if not already appraised), and be sold.
29. the proceeds of any sale, made either before or after condemnation, and after condemnation the appraised value of the captured ship, in case she has been delivered up to a claimant on bail, shall be paid under an order of the court either into the bank of england to the credit of her majesty's paymaster general, or into the hands of an official accountant (belonging to the commissariat or some other department) appointed for this purpose by the commissioners of her majesty's treasury or by the lords of the admiralty, subject in either case to such regulations as may from time to time be made, by order in council, as to the custody and disposal of money so paid.
small armed ships.
30. the captors may include in one adjudication any number, not exceeding six, of armed ships not exceeding one hundred tons each, taken within three months next before institution of proceedings.
31. the foregoing provisions relating to ships shall extend and apply, mutatis mutandis, to goods taken as prize on board ship; and the court may direct such goods to be unladen, inventoried, and warehoused.
monition to captors to proceed.
32. if the captors fail to institute or to prosecute with effect proceedings for adjudication, a monition shall, on the application of a claimant, issue against the captors, returnable within six days from the service thereof, citing them to appear and proceed to adjudication; and on the return thereof the court shall either forthwith proceed to adjudication or direct further proof to be adduced as aforesaid and then proceed to adjudication.
claim on appeal.
33. where any person, not an original party in the cause, intervenes on appeal, he shall enter a claim, verified on oath, and shall give security for costs.
iii.--special cases of capture.
34. where, in an expedition of any of her majesty's naval or naval and military forces against a fortress or possession on land, goods belonging to the state of the enemy or to a public trading company of the enemy exercising powers of government are taken in the fortress or possession, or a ship is taken in waters defended by or belonging to the fortress or possession, a prize court shall have jurisdiction as to the goods or ship so taken, and any goods taken on board the ship as in case of prize.
conjunct capture with ally.
35. where any ship or goods is or are taken by any of her majesty's naval or naval and military forces while acting in conjunction with any forces of any of her majesty's allies, a prize court shall have jurisdiction as to the same as in the case of prize, and shall have power, after condemnation, to apportion the due share of the proceeds to her majesty's ally, the proportionate amount and the disposition of which share shall be such as may from time to time be agreed between her majesty and her majesty's ally.
36. before condemnation, a petition on behalf of asserted joint captors shall not (except by special leave of the court) be admitted, unless and until they give security to the satisfaction of the court to contribute to the actual captors a just proportion of any costs, charges, and expenses or damages that may be incurred by or awarded against the actual captors on account of the capture and detention of the prize.
after condemnation, such a petition shall not (except by special leave of the court) be admitted unless and until the asserted joint captors pay to the actual captors a just proportion of the costs, charges, and expenses incurred by the actual captors in the case, and give such security as aforesaid, and show sufficient cause to the court why their petition was not presented before condemnation.
provided, that nothing in the present section shall extend to the asserted interest of a flag officer claiming to share by virtue of his flag.
offences against law of prize.
37. a prize court, on proof of any offence against the law of nations, or against this act, or any act relating to naval discipline, or against any order in council or royal proclamation, or of any breach of her majesty's instructions relating to prize, or of any act of disobedience to the orders of the lords of the admiralty, or to the command of a superior officer, committed by the captors in relation to any ship or goods taken as prize, or in relation to any person on board any such ship, may, on condemnation, reserve the prize to her majesty's disposal, notwithstanding any grant that may have been made by her majesty in favour of captors.
38. where a ship of a foreign nation passing the seas laden with naval or victualling stores intended to be carried to a port of any enemy of her majesty is taken and brought into a port of the united kingdom, and the purchase for the service of her majesty of the stores on board the ship appears to the lords of the admiralty expedient without the condemnation thereof in a prize court, in that case the lords of the admiralty may purchase, on the account or for the service of her majesty, all or any of the stores on board the ship; and the commissioners of customs may permit the stores purchased to be entered and landed within any port.
capture by ship other than a ship of war.
39. any ship or goods taken as prize by any of the officers and crew of a ship other than a ship of war of her majesty shall, on condemnation, belong to her majesty in her office of admiralty.
40. where any ship or goods belonging to any of her majesty's subjects, after being taken as prize by the enemy, is or are retaken from the enemy by any of her majesty's ships of war, the same shall be restored by decree of a prize court to the owner, on his paying as prize salvage one eighth part of the value of the prize to be decreed and ascertained by the court, or such sum not exceeding one eighth part of the estimated value of the prize as may be agreed on between the owner and the re-captors, and approved by order of the court; provided, that where the re-capture is made under circumstances of special difficulty or danger, the prize court may, if it thinks fit, award to the re-captors as prize salvage a larger part than one eighth part, but not exceeding in any case one fourth part, of the value of the prize.
provided also, that where a ship after being so taken is set forth or used by any of her majesty's enemies as a ship of war, this provision for restitution shall not apply, and the ship shall be adjudicated on as in other cases of prize.
41. where a ship belonging to any of her majesty's subjects, after being taken as prize by the enemy, is retaken from the enemy by any of her majesty's ships of war, she may, with the consent of the re-captors, prosecute her voyage, and it shall not be necessary for the re-captors to proceed to adjudication till her return to a port of the united kingdom.
the master or owner, or his agent, may, with the consent of the re-captors, unload and dispose of the goods on board the ship before adjudication.
in case the ship does not, within six months, return to a port of the united kingdom, the re-captors may nevertheless institute proceedings against the ship or goods in the high court of admiralty, and the court may thereupon award prize salvage as aforesaid to the re-captors, and may enforce payment thereof, either by warrant of arrest against the ship or goods, or by monition and attachment against the owner.
42. if, in relation to any war, her majesty is pleased to declare, by proclamation or order in council, her intention to grant prize bounty to the officers and crews of her ships of war, then such of the officers and crew of any of her majesty's ships of war as are actually present at the taking or destroying of any armed ship of any of her majesty's enemies shall be entitled to have distributed among them as prize bounty a sum calculated at the rate of five pounds for each person on board the enemy's ship at the beginning of the engagement.
43. the number of the persons so on board the enemy's ship shall be proved in a prize court, either by the examinations on oath of the survivors of them, or of any three or more of the survivors, or if there is no survivor by the papers of the enemy's ship, or by the examinations on oath of three or more of the officers and crew of her majesty's ship, or by such other evidence as may seem to the court sufficient in the circumstances.
the court shall make a decree declaring the title of the officers and crew of her majesty's ship to the prize bounty, and stating the amount thereof.
the decree shall be subject to appeal as other decrees of the court.
44. on production of an official copy of the decree the commissioners of her majesty's treasury shall, out of money provided by parliament, pay the amount of prize bounty decreed, in such manner as any order in council may from time to time direct.
45. her majesty in council may from time to time, in relation to any war, make such orders as may seem expedient, according to circumstances, for prohibiting or allowing, wholly or in certain cases, or subject to any conditions or regulations or otherwise, as may from time to time seem meet, the ransoming or the entering into any contract or agreement for the ransoming of any ship or goods belonging to any of her majesty's subjects, and taken as prize by any of her majesty's enemies.
any contract or agreement entered into, and any bill, bond, or other security given for ransom of any ship or goods, shall be under the exclusive jurisdiction of the high court of admiralty as a prize court (subject to appeal to the judicial committee of the privy council), and if entered into or given in contravention of any such order in council shall be deemed to have been entered into or given for an illegal consideration.
if any person ransoms or enters into any contract or agreement for ransoming any ship or goods, in contravention of any such order in council, he shall for every such offence be liable to be proceeded against in the high court of admiralty at the suit of her majesty in her office of admiralty, and on conviction to be fined, in the discretion of the court, any sum not exceeding five hundred pounds.
46. if the master or other person having the command of any ship of any of her majesty's subjects, under the convoy of any of her majesty's ships of war, wilfully disobeys any lawful signal, instruction, or command of the commander of the convoy, or without leave deserts the convoy, he shall be liable to be proceeded against in the high court of admiralty at the suit of her majesty in her office of admiralty, and upon conviction to be fined, in the discretion of the court, any sum not exceeding five hundred pounds, and to suffer imprisonment for such time, not exceeding one year, as the court may adjudge.
customs duties and regulations.
47. all ships and goods taken as prize and brought into a port of the united kingdom shall be liable to and be charged with the same rates and charges and duties of customs as under any act relating to the customs may be chargeable on other ships and goods of the like description; and
all goods brought in as prize which would on the voluntary importation thereof be liable to forfeiture or subject to any restriction under the laws relating to the customs, shall be deemed to be so liable and subject, unless the commissioners of customs see fit to authorise the sale or delivery thereof for home use or exportation, unconditionally or subject to such conditions and regulations as they may direct.
48. where any ship or goods taken as prize is or are brought into a port of the united kingdom, the master or other person in charge or command of the ship which has been taken or in which the goods are brought shall, on arrival at such port, bring to at the proper place of discharge, and shall, when required by any officer of customs, deliver an account in writing under his hand concerning such ship and goods, giving such particulars relating thereto as may be in his power, and shall truly answer all questions concerning such ship or goods asked by any such officer, and in default shall forfeit a sum not exceeding one hundred pounds, such forfeiture to be enforced as forfeitures for offences against the laws relating to the customs are enforced, and every such ship shall be liable to such searches as other ships are liable to, and the officers of the customs may freely go on board such ship and bring to the queen's warehouse any goods on board the same, subject, nevertheless, to such regulations in respect of ships of war belonging to her majesty as shall from time to time be issued by the commissioners of her majesty's treasury.
49. goods taken as prize may be sold either for home consumption or for exportation; and if in the former case the proceeds thereof, after payment of duties of customs, are insufficient to satisfy the just and reasonable claims thereon, the commissioners of her majesty's treasury may remit the whole or such part of the said duties as they see fit.
50. if any person wilfully and corruptly swears, declares, or affirms falsely in any prize cause or appeal, or in any proceeding under this act, or in respect of any matter required by this act to be verified on oath, or suborns any other person to do so, he shall be deemed guilty of perjury, or of subornation of perjury (as the case may be), and shall be liable to be punished accordingly.
limitation of actions, &c.
51. any action or proceeding shall not lie in any part of her majesty's dominions against any person acting under the authority or in the execution or intended execution or in pursuance of this act for any alleged irregularity or trespass, or other act or thing done or omitted by him under this act, unless notice in writing (specifying the cause of the action or proceeding) is given by the intending plaintiff or prosecutor to the intended defendant one month at least before the commencement of the action or proceeding, nor unless the action or proceeding is commenced within six months next after the act or thing complained of is done or omitted, or, in case of a continuation of damage, within six months next after the doing of such damage has ceased.
in any such action the defendant may plead generally that the act or thing complained of was done or omitted by him when acting under the authority or in the execution or intended execution or in pursuance of this act, and may give all special matter in evidence; and the plaintiff shall not succeed if tender of sufficient amends is made by the defendant before the commencement of the action; and in case no tender has been made, the defendant may, by leave of the court in which the action is brought, at any time pay into court such sum of money as he thinks fit, whereupon such proceeding and order shall be had and made in and by the court as may be had and made on the payment of money into court in an ordinary action; and if the plaintiff does not succeed in the action, the defendant shall receive such full and reasonable indemnity as to all costs, charges, and expenses incurred in and about the action as may be taxed and allowed by the proper officer, subject to review; and though a verdict is given for the plaintiff in the action he shall not have costs against the defendant, unless the judge before whom the trial is had certifies his approval of the action.
any such action or proceeding against any person in her majesty's naval service, or in the employment of the lords of the admiralty, shall not be brought or instituted elsewhere than in the united kingdom.
petitions of right.
52. a petition of right, under the petitions of right act, 1860, may, if the suppliant thinks fit, be intituled in the high court of admiralty, in case the subject matter of the petition or any material part thereof arises out of the exercise of any belligerent right on behalf of the crown, or would be cognizable in a prize court within her majesty's dominions if the same were a matter in dispute between private persons.
any petition of right under the last-mentioned act, whether intituled in the high court of admiralty or not, may be prosecuted in that court, if the lord chancellor thinks fit so to direct.
the provisions of this act relative to appeal, and to the framing and approval of general orders for regulating the procedure and practice of the high court of admiralty, shall extend to the case of any such petition of right intituled or directed to be prosecuted in that court; and, subject thereto, all the provisions of the petitions of right act, 1860, shall apply, mutatis mutandis, in the case of any such petition of right; and for the purposes of the present section the terms "court" and "judge" in that act shall respectively be understood to include and to mean the high court of admiralty and the judge thereof, and other terms shall have the respective meanings given to them in that act.
orders in council.
53. her majesty in council may from time to time make such orders in council as seem meet for the better execution of this act.
54. every order in council under this act shall be published in the london gazette, and shall be laid before both houses of parliament within thirty days after the making thereof, if parliament is then sitting, and, if not, then within thirty days after the next meeting of parliament.
55. nothing in this act shall--
56. this act shall commence on the commencement of the naval agency and distribution act, 1864.
be it enacted by the queen's most excellent majesty, by and with the advice and consent of the lords spiritual and temporal, and commons, in this present parliament assembled, and by the authority of the same, as follows:
1. this act may be cited as the prize courts act, 1894.
2.--(1) any commission, warrant, or instructions from her majesty the queen or the admiralty for the purpose of commissioning or regulating the procedure of a prize court at any place in a british possession may, notwithstanding the existence of peace, be issued at any time, with a direction that the court shall act only upon such proclamation as herein-after mentioned being made in the possession.
3.--(1) her majesty the queen in council may make rules of court for regulating, subject to the provisions of the naval prize act, 1864, and this act, the procedure and practice of prize courts within the meaning of that act, and the duties and conduct of the officers thereof, and of the practitioners therein, and for regulating the fees to be taken by the officers of the courts, and the costs, charges, and expenses to be allowed to the practitioners therein.
4. her majesty the queen in council may make rules of court for regulating the procedure and practice, including fees and costs, in a vice-admiralty court, whether under this act or otherwise.
5. section twenty-five of the government of india act, 1800, is hereby repealed.
naval prize bill of 1911 passed by the house of commons, but thrown out by the house of lords a bill to consolidate, with amendments, the enactments relating to naval prize of war.
whereas at the second peace conference held at the hague in the year nineteen hundred and seven a convention, the english translation whereof is set forth in the first schedule to this act, was drawn up, but it is desirable that the same should not be ratified by his majesty until such amendments have been made in the law relating to naval prize of war as will enable effect to be given to the convention:
and whereas for the purpose aforesaid it is expedient to consolidate the law relating to naval prize of war with such amendments as aforesaid and with certain other minor amendments:
be it therefore enacted by the king's most excellent majesty, by and with the advice and consent of the lords spiritual and temporal, and commons, in this present parliament assembled, and by the authority of the same, as follows:--
part i.--courts and officers.
the prize court in england.
1.--(1) the high court shall, without special warrant, be a prize court, and shall, on the high seas, and throughout his majesty's dominions, and in every place where his majesty has jurisdiction, have all such jurisdiction as the high court of admiralty possessed when acting as a prize court, and generally have jurisdiction to determine all questions as to the validity of the capture of a ship or goods, the legality of the destruction of a captured ship or goods, and as to the payment of compensation in respect of such a capture or destruction.
for the purposes of this act the expression "capture" shall include seizure for the purpose of the detention, requisition, or destruction of any ship or goods which, but for any convention, would be liable to condemnation, and the expressions "captured" and "taken as prize" shall be construed accordingly, and where any ship or goods have been so seized the court may make an order for the detention, requisition, or destruction of the ship or goods and for the payment of compensation in respect thereof.
2. the high court as a prize court shall have power to enforce any order or decree of a prize court in a british possession, and any order of the supreme prize court constituted under this act in a prize appeal.
prize courts in british possessions.
3. his majesty may, by commission addressed to the admiralty, empower the admiralty to authorise, and the admiralty may thereupon by warrant authorise, either a vice-admiralty court or a colonial court of admiralty, within the meaning of the colonial courts of admiralty act, 1890, to act as a prize court in a british possession, or may in like manner establish a vice-admiralty court for the purpose of so acting; and any court so authorised shall, subject to the terms of the warrant from the admiralty, have all such jurisdiction as is by this act conferred on the high court as a prize court.
4.--(1) any commission, warrant, or instructions from his majesty the king or the admiralty for the purpose of commissioning a prize court at any place in a british possession may, notwithstanding the existence of peace, be issued at any time, with a direction that the court shall act only upon such proclamation as herein-after mentioned being made in the possession.
5. every prize court in a british possession shall enforce within its jurisdiction all orders and decrees of the high court and of any other prize court in a british possession in prize causes, and all orders of the supreme prize court constituted under this act in prize appeals.
6.--(1) his majesty in council may, with the concurrence of the treasury, grant to the judge of any prize court in a british possession, other than a colonial court of admiralty within the meaning of the colonial courts of admiralty act, 1890, remuneration, at a rate not exceeding five hundred pounds a year, payable out of money provided by parliament, subject to such regulations as seem meet.
7. the registrar of every prize court in a british possession shall, on the first day of january and first day of july in every year, make out a return (in such form as the admiralty from time to time direct) of all cases adjudged in the court since the last half-yearly return, and shall with all convenient speed send the same to the admiralty registrar of the probate, divorce, and admiralty division of the high court, who shall keep the same in the admiralty registry of that division, and who shall as soon as conveniently may be, send a copy of the returns of each half year to the admiralty, and the admiralty shall lay the same before both houses of parliament.
8. if any colonial court of admiralty within the meaning of the colonial courts of admiralty act, 1890, is authorised under this act or otherwise to act as a prize court, all fees arising in respect of prize business transacted in the court shall be fixed, collected, and applied in like manner as the fees arising in respect of the admiralty business of the court under the first-mentioned act.
9.--(1) any appeal from the high court when acting as a prize court, or from a prize court in a british possession, shall lie only to a court (to be called the supreme prize court) consisting of such members for the time being of the judicial committee of the privy council as may be nominated by his majesty for that purpose.
10.--(1) an appeal shall lie to the supreme prize court from any order or decree of a prize court, as of right in case of a final decree, and in other cases with the leave of the court making the order or decree or of the supreme prize court.
11. the supreme prize court shall have jurisdiction to hear and determine any such appeal, and may therein exercise all such powers as are under this act vested in the high court, and all such powers as were wont to be exercised by the commissioners of appeal or by the judicial committee of the privy council in prize causes.
rules of court.
12. his majesty in council may make rules of court for regulating, subject to the provisions of this act, the procedure and practice of the supreme prize court and of the prize courts within the meaning of this act, and the duties and conduct of the officers thereof, and of the practitioners therein, and for regulating the fees to be taken by the officers of the courts, and the costs, charges, and expenses to be allowed to the practitioners therein.
officers of prize courts.
13. it shall not be lawful for any registrar, marshal, or other officer of the supreme prize court or of any other prize court, directly or indirectly to act or be in any manner concerned as advocate, proctor, solicitor, or agent, or otherwise, in any prize appeal or cause.
14. the public authorities protection act, 1893, shall apply to any action, prosecution, or other proceeding against any person for any act done in pursuance or execution or intended execution of this act or in respect of any alleged neglect or default in the execution of this act whether commenced in the united kingdom or elsewhere within his majesty's dominions.
continuance of proceedings.
15. a court duly authorised to act as a prize court during any war shall after the conclusion of the war continue so to act in relation to, and finally dispose of, all matters and things which arose during the war, including all penalties, liabilities and forfeitures incurred during the war.
part ii.--procedure in prize causes.
16. where a ship (not being a ship of war) is taken as prize, and is or is brought within the jurisdiction of a prize court, she shall forthwith be delivered up to the marshal of the court, or, if there is no such marshal, to the principal officer of customs at the port, and shall remain in his custody, subject to the orders of the court.
17.--(1) the captors shall in all cases, with all practicable speed, bring the ship papers into the registry of the court.
18. the captors shall also, unless the court otherwise directs, with all practicable speed after the captured ship is brought into port, bring a convenient number of the principal persons belonging to the captured ship before the judge of the court or some person authorised in this behalf, by whom they shall be examined on oath.
19. the court may, if it thinks fit, at any time after a captured ship has been appraised direct that the ship be delivered up to the claimant on his giving security to the satisfaction of the court to pay to the captors the appraised value thereof in case of condemnation.
20. the court may at any time, if it thinks fit, on account of the condition of the captured ship, or on the application of a claimant, or on or after condemnation, order that the captured ship be appraised (if not already appraised), and be sold.
22.--(1) the provisions of this part of this act relating to ships shall extend and apply, with the necessary adaptations, to goods taken as prize.
part iii.--international prize court.
23.--(1) in the event of an international prize court being constituted in accordance with the said convention or with any convention entered into for the purpose of enabling any power to become a party to the said convention or for the purpose of amending the said convention in matters subsidiary or incidental thereto (hereinafter referred to as the international prize court), it shall be lawful for his majesty from time to time to appoint a judge and deputy judge of the court.
24. any sums required for the payment of any contribution towards the general expenses of the international prize court payable by his majesty under the said convention shall be charged on and paid out of the consolidated fund and the growing proceeds thereof.
25. in cases to which this part of this act applies an appeal from the supreme prize court shall lie to the international prize court.
26. if in any case to which this part of this act applies final judgment is not given by the prize court, or on appeal by the supreme prize court, within two years from the date of the capture, the case may be transferred to the international prize court.
27. his majesty in council may make rules regulating the manner in which appeals and transfers under this part of this act may be made and with respect to all such matters (including fees, costs, charges, and expenses) as appear to his majesty to be necessary for the purpose of such appeals and transfers, or to be incidental thereto or consequential thereon.
28. the high court and every prize court in a british possession shall enforce within its jurisdiction all orders and decrees of the international prize court in appeals and cases transferred to the court under this part of this act.
29. this part of this act shall apply only to such cases and during such period as may for the time being be directed by order in council, and his majesty may by the same or any other order in council apply this part of this act subject to such conditions, exceptions and qualifications as may be deemed expedient.
30. where any ship or goods belonging to any of his majesty's subjects, after being taken as prize by the enemy, is or are retaken from the enemy by any of his majesty's ships of war, the same shall be restored by decree of a prize court to the owner.
31.--(1) where a ship belonging to any of his majesty's subjects, after being taken as prize by the enemy, is retaken from the enemy by any of his majesty's ships of war, she may, with the consent of the re-captors, prosecute her voyage, and it shall not be necessary for the re-captors to proceed to adjudication till her return to a port of his majesty's dominions.
32. if, in relation to any war, his majesty is pleased to declare, by proclamation or order in council, his intention to grant prize bounty to the officers and crews of his ships of war, then such of the officers and crew of any of his majesty's ships of war as are actually present at the taking or destroying of any armed ship of any of his majesty's enemies shall be entitled to have distributed among them as prize bounty a sum calculated at such rates and in such manner as may be specified in the proclamation or order in council.
33.--(1) a prize court shall make a decree declaring the title of the officers and crew of his majesty's ship to the prize bounty, and stating the amount thereof.
34. where, in an expedition of any of his majesty's naval or naval and military forces against a fortress or possession on land goods belonging to the state of the enemy, or to a public trading company of the enemy exercising powers of government, are taken in the fortress or possession, or a ship is taken in waters defended by or belonging to the fortress or possession, a prize court shall have jurisdiction as to the goods or ships so taken, and any goods taken on board the ship, as in case of prize.
35. where any ship or goods is or are taken by any of his majesty's naval or naval and military forces while acting in conjunction with any forces of any of his majesty's allies, a prize court shall have jurisdiction as to the same as in case of prize, and shall have power, after condemnation, to apportion the due share of the proceeds to his majesty's ally, the proportionate amount and the disposition of which share shall be such as may from time to time be agreed between his majesty and his majesty's ally.
36.--(1) in any case where a petition of right under the petitions of right act, 1860, is presented and the subject-matter of the petition or any material part thereof arises out of the exercise of any belligerent right on behalf of the crown, or would be cognizable in a prize court within his majesty's dominions if the same were a matter in dispute between private persons, the petition may, if the subject thinks fit, be intituled in the high court as a prize court.
her eyes. it was the first he had ever seen bent on him, and he was struck afresh with the pure unsullied beauty of this girl’s face. truth to tell, his first attraction towards her had been the rumour of her fortune, for he was more deeply in debt than he wished the world to know; but something in the remoteness and isolation in which she seemed to wrap herself piqued and interested him; for his jaded palate required fresh food when it was to be had, and the vein of manliness and strength which his life had never altogether warped or destroyed responded to the sincerity he read in lady geraldine’s fair face.
the curtain was down now. for a few minutes he spoke of the play and the water apparatus, worked by a windmill on the roof, which was exciting so much interest in london. geraldine’s eyes meantime travelled round the box. she saw her mother engrossed in gay talk with a small circle of admirers; but one of these edged himself somewhat away from the rest, and finally stood apart, leaning against the wall of the box and surveying the house from that vantage point.
geraldine’s eyes were riveted with some interest upon this newcomer, whom she was certain she had never seen before. in some indefinable way he was different from the men she had been used to meet at such places. for one thing, he wore his own hair; and the floating brown curls, like cavalier love-locks, seemed to her infinitely more becoming than the mass of false hair which was so much in vogue in all ranks save the lowest. his dress, too, though far more simple than that of the beaux fluttering round her mother, seemed to her far more graceful and distinguished. his stockings, breeches, and vest were all of white, with a little silver frosting. his coat was of pale blue, with silver buttons; and his lace cravat, though small and unostentatious, was rich in quality, and fastened by a beautiful pearl. he carried neither muff nor snuff-box, cane nor toothpick. he did not simper nor ogle, nor look as though he desired to attract the eyes of the house upon himself. but he was, notwithstanding, a rather notable figure as he stood looking gravely and thoughtfully downwards; there was something very graceful in his attitude, and in the carriage of his head, and his features were so remarkably handsome that lady romaine turned her eyes upon him many times, and exerted all her artifices to draw him back to her immediate neighbourhood. but he was perfectly unconscious of this, not hearing the chatter which went on about him, lost in some reverie of his own, which brought a peculiar dreamy softness into his eyes.
lord sandford, following the direction of geraldine’s glance, looked at this motionless figure, then back at the girl, and laughed.
"lady geraldine, pray permit me to present to you my newly-made friend and comrade, sir grey dumaresq, who, i doubt not, is dying to make his bow to so fair a lady."
she flashed him a glance half merry, half reproachful, and he suddenly laid his hand upon his lips, a laugh rolling from them hearty and full.
"i’ faith i had forgot! how shall i teach my rebel tongue a new language? but sir grey will atone for all my defects.—here is a lady, if you will believe it, o friend, who loves not the sugared and honeyed phrase of adulation, but seeks in all things truth, virtue, and i know not what else beside. it is whispered to me that she is a mistress of all the belles lettres, and perchance a poetess herself."
"nay, my lord," answered geraldine, with a blush and a smile—"only one who loves the poesy of those who have lived before, and left their treasures for us who come after, and would fain drink in all the beauty of their thoughts and of their lives."
lord sandford good-naturedly yielded his seat to grey, whose sensitive face had lighted at the girl’s words.
"methought i had come to a world where naught was dreamed of save fashion and frippery, false adulation and falser scorn. i am well-nigh stunned by the clamour of tongues, the strife of parties, the bustle of this gay life of fashion."
"oh, and i too—i too!" breathed the girl softly: and he flashed at her a quick, keen glance of sympathy and interest.
"still there is life here," spoke grey quickly, "and it behoves us to know men as well as books. i have studied both. i will study them again. i would fain learn all that life has to teach, whether for weal or woe. no hermit-monk was ever truly a man. yet there be times when one shrinks in amaze from all one sees and hears."
the chord of sympathy was struck. they passed from one thing to another. she found one at last who knew and loved the poets of her childhood’s dreams—who could talk of spenser and sidney, of watson, greville, and drayton, quoting their verses, and often lighting upon her favourite passages. here was a man who knew milton and clarendon, hobbes, herbert, lovelace and suckling, lord herbert of cherbury and izaak walton. he had read eagerly, like herself, poetry and prose, drama and epic, lyric and sonnet. he could speak of poetry as one who had loved and courted her as a mistress. the girl longed to ask him if he had written himself, but maiden shyness withheld her. yet her eyes brightened as she talked, and the peach-like colour rose and deepened in her cheeks; and lord sandford, turning back once again from the mother to look at the daughter, was struck dumb with admiration and delight.
"there is a rose worth winning and wearing, though the stem may not be free from a sharp thorn," he said to himself; and lady romaine, who chanced to catch sight of geraldine during a shifting of the admirers who surrounded her, gave something very like a start, and felt a curious thrill run through her in which pride and envy were blended.
"gracious! i did not know i had so handsome a daughter! i must wed her as fast as may be, else shall i find my beaux going from me to her," was her unspoken thought; and aloud she said, tapping lord sandford with her fan, "pray tell my daughter that i am about to depart. we have had enough of the naiads and dryads, and i am tired and hungry. who will come home with me to supper—to take pot-luck with us?"
there was an eager clamour in response; but when the supper-party assembled round lady romaine’s chocolate tables in her favourite private parlour, she noted that geraldine had disappeared to bed, and that sir grey dumaresq had not availed himself of her open invitation.
if grey dumaresq was a man who craved a variety of experiences, and wished to see life under different aspects, he was getting his wish now; for the gay world of fashion, into which he suddenly found himself plunged, differed in toto from any of his former experiences; and so swift was the pace, and so shifting the throng amid which he moved, that he often felt as though his breath were fairly taken away, and as though he had suddenly stepped into a new existence.
lord sandford had chanced upon the young baronet at a moment when a blank had been made in his own life by the sudden and violent death of one who had been his boon companion and friend. the gay young man, who had fallen in a foolish duel a few weeks before, had been the inmate of his house and the companion in all his freaks and follies; so much so, that without him the young nobleman felt for the moment bewildered and lost, and had absented himself from town with a view to "getting over it," as he hoped: for he despised himself for any sign of weakness, and would not for worlds have had his comrades and boon companions know how the loss had affected him.
then, as it seemed just by a lucky chance, this young and attractive man had fallen as from the very skies at his feet. grey dumaresq, new to the world of london, curious and speculative, willing to see all, learn all, participate in all, seemed exactly the person to fill the gap in his life. grey had no place of abode; why, then, should he not occupy the vacant chambers in the wing of the great mansion in the strand which lord sandford used as his customary lodging, when he was not spending his time with friends, or making one of a gay party elsewhere? grey had no valid reason for declining the invitation pressed upon him. lord sandford was a masterful man, and his strong personality impressed itself upon grey with something between attraction and repulsion. but, on the whole, attraction seemed the stronger power, and curiosity to know more of this man and his life held grey’s soul in thrall. he had always experienced a vivid curiosity to taste life in its various forms, to know and understand the thoughts, the feelings, the aspirations, the ambitions of other men. his travels had given him insight into many matters; but he felt that these new experiences were likely to be more searching, more exciting, more full of keen personal interest. he had been, as it were, a spectator heretofore; now he was to be a participator.
he had not meant to be any man’s guest; he had meant to take a modest lodging of his own, and look about him for something in the way of employment, but lord sandford had roared with laughter over such a notion.
"what! sir grey dumaresq going cap in hand to some proud place-giver to ask for patronage, or i know not what! gadzooks, man, with that face, that figure, that horse, and a purse full of guineas, you can do better than that! trust yourself to me. i’ll show you where fame and fortune lie. you shall redeem your rat-infested old house in a very brief while, if you will but trust yourself to my guidance. you be damon to my pythias—or is it t’other way round, eh?—and i’ll show you the royal road to the goal you want."
for lack of any definite plans, grey had consented for the nonce to accept lord sandford’s advice, and had quickly found himself installed in some gloomy and stately yet luxurious chambers in a vast house, of which only a portion was open for use, and the rest given over to a neglect and decay that hartsbourne itself could scarcely rival.
"but we shall change all that some day," spoke lord sandford, with a careless laugh, as grey expressed his surprise at the vast rooms and long galleries shut up and infested by rats and spiders. "oh yes, we shall change all that some day; but what does a bachelor want with such a house as this? what should i be the better for a crowd of liveried servants, eating off their heads, idling away their time dicing and drinking? what have i to give an army of scullions and cooks to do—i who seldom take a meal at home after my morning chocolate? no, no; i know a trick worth two of that. i don’t ruin myself to keep a crew of fat, lazy rogues about me, cheating me at every turn. half a dozen fellows and a few kitchen wenches do well enow for me; but when lady sandford comes to her husband’s home—ah well! then we shall see the difference."
but though he talked jestingly from time to time of the lady sandford that was to be, he gave grey no hint as to whether his fancy inclined more to one or another of the many gay maidens with whom he chatted and flirted, danced and romped, in the fashion of the day; and so bewildering and dazzling were these young madams and their surroundings that the newcomer was lost in a maze of wonder and bewilderment, and found it hard to distinguish one face from another, until he met one, different from all the rest.
but grey was not left idle; he had small time for musing. the very first day of his sojourn in london he was surrounded by a fluttering crowd of tailors, glove-sellers, barbers, fencers, sellers and purveyors of every imaginable ware, who all professed their eagerness to serve him, and quoted lord sandford as a patron who could swear to their honesty and the excellence of their goods.
into the midst of this motley throng lord sandford thrust himself, laughing his great hearty laugh, and quickly sent to the right-about two-thirds of the importunate crowd—a jest here, a keen thrust there, a slap on back or shoulder in another quarter, emphasizing his forcible hints. and when the room was cleared of all but the lucky few, he flung himself into an armchair with another laugh, telling grey he was sorry his knaves of servants, who looked for perquisites everywhere, had let in this flood of rogues upon him, but added that he must needs have the wherewithal to cut a proper figure in london town, and forthwith set about the business of ordering an outfit for the young man which almost took his guest’s breath away.
"poof!" he cried, when the latter strove to remonstrate, "you have plenty of money; and these rascals can wait if it suits your pleasure. father’s memory! oh, be hanged to all such mawkish sentiment! you need not think less of your father because you wear a blue coat in lieu of a black! rabbit me! but you are of a different world from this if you keep alive your father’s memory for six months after his decease! no, no; you must cut a figure. sir hugh’s name is clean forgot by now. i’ll eat my boots if ’tis not so. i’ll have you as gay as my fancy paints you. no black—no sables for the gentleman, i tell you. let us see those other patterns. ah! here is something more like."
grey submitted. in sooth, he cared but little for the colour of his clothes, or the set of his hat, or the cut of his coat. he let lord sandford have his way for the most part, only insisting here and there upon soft and tender tints, and showing a predilection for white, which his friend quite approved.
"you shall be a foil to me, not a rival. i have learned that art from the ladies. i like to blaze like old sol in his strength; you shall rather recall gentle luna amid her galaxy of stars. faugh! one’s tongue gets into this silly trick of speech, so that one cannot drop it even betwixt man and man! but you are right to think that white becomes you well. you will look a pretty fellow, in all conscience, when you have added a peruke to your other adornments."
but here grey stood firm. nothing would induce him to cumber his head with one of those mountains of hair. in vain the perruquiers displayed their wares; in vain lord sandford bantered and laughed, and made out that he would be reckoned as a mad fellow by the young bloods of the city. grey would not yield an inch. he had always found his own hair sufficient and comfortable, and he would wear it to the end. and as the discomfited perruquier at last departed, lord sandford broke into another of his great laughs.
"i’ faith you are right, man. i like you the better that you have the courage of your opinions, and care no whit for fashion. you’ll be a match for more than the perruquiers yet. there’s a fighting strain in your blood. i can see it in the glint of your eye. well, you shall not lack opportunity to fight as well as to laugh here in london town; but we’ll not have cold steel or hot lead again. i’ve seen enough of that cursed duelling to last me for a lifetime."
grey was quickly to discover the nature of the battles in which he was to take a part, and at the first he shrank from them with an instinctive aversion he could not well have defined, being no grave moralist or philosopher. contests of skill or of luck at the gaming tables were all the rage of the day with the young dandies of the town, and the man who could keep a steady head, and in some cases a steady hand, was certain in the long run to obtain advantage over his fellows. at one club a game something like our modern billiards was all the rage; and, of course, a man who was moderate in his cups could score heavily over the reckless, dissipated bloods, who were seldom sober after sundown. dice and cards had their vogue at other places; and though some of the games played were those purely of chance, others required no small skill and a clear head to ensure success, and it was here that lord sandford’s strong head and grey’s cool blood and temperate habits gave them the advantage.
the young man had not been a fortnight in town before finding his capital doubled, as well as all bills paid to the astonished tradesmen, who seldom looked to receive their money within a twelvemonth. he was disposed to be troubled at this easy fashion of making money; but lord sandford laughed him to scorn.
"zounds, man, what does it matter? those young popinjays are bound to lose their money to some one. why not then to honest fellows like you and me, who pay our bills and do good to the community with the money? scruples! faugh! you must rid yourself of them! sir hugh dumaresq’s son need not trouble himself thus. let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die. isn’t that good scripture?" but the reckless young lord paled a little at the sound of his own words. he had seen sudden death once too often for his peace of mind of late.
in sooth, grey felt but little scruple in taking his winnings. the young man was not greatly in advance of his age, although he was indued with a nature more finely strung and aspirations more lofty than belonged to most. gambling was so much a matter of course both in this and in other lands, and the devotees of the amusement so numerous and so bent upon their sport, that it would have needed stronger convictions than grey as yet possessed to make any stand on such a point. he took the same risks as the others, and if his coolness of head, steadiness of hand, and quick observation and memory served to make for success in his case, he rather regarded this as a witness to his superiority, and felt only a small sense of reluctance in pocketing his gains; which reluctance he could only attribute to a lingering memory of words spoken by his mother when he was a growing boy, and news came to them from time to time of sir hugh’s losses over cards, and the necessity for further retrenchments upon the already impoverished estate.
but the cases being so dissimilar, grey did not see that he need debar himself from this easy highroad to fortunes, as it then seemed. nobody was dependent upon him. nobody was there to grieve over his troubles or to rejoice over his success. his honest serving-man was in sooth the only being in any way deeply attached to him; and dick was as delighted at his master’s brave appearance, and at the golden stream running into his pocket, as though he had achieved some great success or triumph.
there was one way by which grey had pocketed considerable sums of money that was very congenial to him, and had given him some very happy hours. this was the speed and strength of his horse, which lord sandford had made boast of, vowing in the hearing of some of the smartest dandies of the town that don carlos would beat any steed against whom he was pitted—a challenge eagerly taken up by the young bloods, proud of their own horses and horsemanship, to whom trials of skill and strength, and contests over which wagers might freely be exchanged, were as the very salt of life.
so either out at hampstead, or at richmond or hampton court, don carlos had been set to show the metal of which he was made, and had come off easy victor in every race and every match, whether flat running, or leaping, or a course of the nature of a steeplechase had been elected. his strength and speed, sagacity and endurance, had never once failed him, and already he was the talk of the town, and grey could have sold him for a great price had he been willing to part with his favourite.
many bright eyes had smiled upon the young centaur, many languishing glances had been cast at him. he had been called up again and again to be presented to some high-born dame, or some bevy of laughing maidens, and he had bowed with courtly grace, and received their sugared compliments with suitable acknowledgments. but no face had attracted him as that face he had seen once at the water theatre, almost upon his first appearance in the gay world. he knew that it belonged to lady geraldine romaine; and often his eyes roved round some gay assemblage, searching half unconsciously for a sight of her tall and graceful figure, and the sweet, earnest face, so different from the laughing and grimacing crowd in which he now moved. grey had not known much of women, so far. his college life first, and then his roving career of adventure, had hindered him from making friendships save with those of his own sex; and his deep love for his mother had preserved as a living power his chivalrous belief in women, and a resolute determination to disbelieve the idle, malicious, and vicious tales he heard of them on all sides. womanhood was sacred to him, and should be sacred to the world. that was his inalienable conviction; and he had striven to be blind and deaf to much of what had often been passing around him, that he might not sink to the level of the men he met, who would tear to tatters a woman’s reputation for an evening’s pastime, or revel in every ugly bit of scandal or tittle-tattle that the young beaux’ valets learned from the lackeys of other fine folk, and retailed with additions at the door of the theatre, the gates of the park, or on the staircases of the fashionable houses whither their masters and mistresses flocked for amusement, unconscious or heedless of the gossip spread abroad about them by their servants at the doors.
grey took no pleasure in the society of these fashionable dames. his tongue had not learned the trick of the artificial language then in vogue. he was disgusted by the gross flattery every lady looked to receive, and the lisping platitudes of the attendant beaux filled him with scorn. it was small wonder that he chose rather the society of men of more virility and stronger fibre, such as lord sandford and his chosen friends; for though many of them were wild young rakes, and not a few had a very doubtful record, yet grey knew little enough about that, and found them not without attraction, although the higher part of his nature revolted from much that he saw and heard. nevertheless, he regarded it all as a part of the experience in life which he craved, and he might have become in a short while just such another as these, had it not been for an incident which suddenly arrested him in his career of dissipation, and turned his thoughts into different channels.
it had been early june when he came to town, and now july had come, with its sultry suns and breathless nights, when grey ofttimes felt after an evening over cards that it was mockery to go to bed, and lounged away the residue of the night at his open window, enjoying the only coolness and freshness that was to be had, as the wind came whispering from the river charged with refreshing moisture.
sometimes the river seemed to call him; and at such times he would lay aside his finery, clothe himself in some plainer habit, and betake himself through the silent house, where the night watchman was always found slumbering at his post, out through the big courts and down to the river steps, where a few light wherries were always kept moored, one of which he would select, and shoot out upon the glimmering river to meet the new day there.
some of his happiest hours were spent thus; and at such times as these he felt rising within him a vague sense of unrest and of disgust. he had come to the world of london to conquer fate, to make for himself a name and a career; and here he was wasting day after day in coffee-houses or clubs, with a crowd of idlers whose thoughts never rose above the fancy of the hour, whose only ambition was to kill time as easily and pleasantly as possible, and to line their pockets with gold, that they might have more to throw away on the morrow.
was this what he would come to? was this what he was made for? would he become like unto them, a mere roisterer and boon companion, a man without aspirations and without ambition? his cheeks burned at the thought; and he sent his light craft spinning rapidly up the stream as the questions formed themselves.
it was an exquisite summer morning. the bells in the many towers and steeples of the city had chimed the hour of five. the sun had long been up, yet the glamour and glory of the new-born day still lay upon the sleeping city and the dewy meadows of the opposite shore. grey rowed on rapidly, yet drinking in the beauty of all he saw. he knew not how far he had rowed; he had lost count of his surroundings; he was absorbed in a deep reverie, when he was suddenly brought up breathless and wondering by the sound of a voice singing—a voice so clear and sweet and true that he asked himself whether it could be any creature of earth that sang, or whether it might be some nymph or mermaid such as sailors spoke of in their wondrous tales.
he gazed about him. he saw that he was passing a garden, and that a group of weeping willows overhung the water at this spot. the singing seemed to come from thence. burning curiosity possessed him, and he very slowly and softly rowed himself onwards, till the prow of his boat met the drooping boughs with a soft rustle. the song ceased suddenly. grey turned in his seat, and drew himself within the sheltering shade; as he did so, a quick exclamation broke from him. he dropped his oars as he exclaimed,—
"the lady geraldine!"
how had it come about? grey never could have said. but now it was all told—the story of his chequered life. she had been silent at the first—not exactly resentful of his intrusion, not unwilling to let him have speech of her again, but quiet, with a maidenly reserve and dignity which had acted upon him like a charm. it brought back to him the memory of his mother, and her noble dignity. the look in her eyes recalled those things that he had learned at her knee, and those aspirations after true greatness of life which she had cherished and fostered. suddenly his present life looked to him utterly sordid, mean, and unworthy; and in a burst of confidence, for which he could have given no reason, he told her all his tale, encouraged by the soft and earnest glances of her beautiful eyes, although she scarcely spoke a word from beginning to end.
and now she looked at him with a great compassion in her face.
"oh, it is sad, it is sad!" she said in her earnest musical tones. "i know a little how sad it is. i see it too. but you are a man. you are strong, you are your own master. why do you let yourself be made the sport and plaything of fate? oh, do not do it! rise to your calling as a man, as a gentleman, as a christian! you can—i know you can! i read it in your face! what is lord sandford to you? the acquaintance of a few weeks. what are his comrades to you? you know that in your heart you despise them. then will you make yourself as one of them? will you sink to their level? oh no, no, no! break the fetters; they cannot be fast riveted yet. break them, and stand a free man, and then see what the world has to offer you."
she was gazing at him now, not shyly, not as a maiden archly coquetting with a handsome young swain, but as a woman yearning to reclaim one whose footsteps had well-nigh slipped in the mire, and whose whole soul was stirred by the effort.
grey listened like a man who dreams; and yet his eyes were on fire, and his heart was kindled to a great flame—shame at his own weakness, yearnings after vanished memories and half-forgotten aspirations struggling together with some new and utterly unknown emotion which seemed to come surging over him like a flood, leaving him speechless, motionless.
she had risen, and now held out her hand.
"you will triumph yet. i am assured of it. and i shall pray god to give you his strength and grace. farewell, sir; we may meet again sometimes. i shall hear of you. i shall listen to hear naught but good. your mother’s voice shall plead through mine. give up evil companions; give up idle dissipation, and all that it brings in its train. lead the higher life of the courteous knight, the spotless knight, the knight of the holy grail. did we not speak of them all when first we met, and methought you looked such a one yourself? be true to that better self; and so i say farewell again. may god be with you!"
she was gone, and grey stood looking after her as a man who sees a vision.
as grey dumaresq drifted downstream with the tide that sunny july morning, he felt as though something new and wonderful had come into his life, as though some great and marvellous change had fallen upon him, which, for good or ill, must leave its mark upon his life.
he did not try to analyze the strange feelings which possessed him. for a time he did not even consciously think. he seemed to be drifting along a shining pathway—drifting, he scarce knew whither, and did not care to ask. his heart was strangely heavy, and yet strangely light. a curious loathing and shame at himself was blended with a sense of exultant triumph, which held him in a mood of ecstasy. for a long while he drifted onwards, scarce thinking or knowing whither he went, till a sudden consciousness that he was passing lord sandford’s house brought him to himself with a sense of shock. he had left that house only two hours before; yet it might have been as many years that had rolled over his head, so different were his feelings, so changed was his outlook upon life.
he moored his boat, and went up to his room. before long he would be expected to drink coffee or chocolate at his friend’s levee, meet all those of his comrades who had energy to pay their customary devoirs to their patron, and discuss the plans for the ensuing day and night. grey dashed some cold water over his hot head, and sat down to think.
what would lord sandford say if he suddenly expressed his intention of giving up gambling in all its many insidious forms, in order to enter upon a life totally different from that of the past weeks? it was not as though he had any alternative plan to unfold to him. he was as ignorant how his fortune was to be made now, after several weeks in gay london town, as he had been on his first approach to that city. he could almost hear the great guffaw of laughter with which lord sandford would greet his confession. he half feared the powerful personality and the imperious temper of the man who had been a good friend to him, and who had the reputation of being a dangerous enemy when his will was crossed. grey knew that this man liked him—went near to loving him—would not easily let him go. he knew that he would appear both ungrateful and capricious; and the young man writhed at the thought of seeming either the one or the other. but yet he must break away. pacing up and down the room, he seemed to see the soft earnest eyes of the lady geraldine bent upon him. he had pledged his word to her, and in spirit to his dead mother. from that pledge there was no drawing back. yet how could the break best be made?
he thought over the engagements already entered into. was it needful that these should be kept? he thought not—at least not those which were but promises to meet at such and such clubs or coffee-houses for the purposes of card-playing and similar recreations. but there was one engagement that grey did not see his way honourably to break. he had promised to ride don carlos the following saturday in a course against three other picked horses, and heavy wagers, he knew, had been laid upon or against his steed. this engagement he felt he could not break; but the rest he would. he might even make the excuse that don carlos wanted attention, and that he was going to take him into the country for purposes of training; and, once away from sandford house, he ought to be able to pen a letter to the master which might excuse his return, and explain the nature of the change which had come over him.
yes, that would be the way. he would not go open-mouthed to him this morning, to be perhaps scoffed or cajoled into some rash compromise. grey knew that his ability to see both sides of a question often led him into difficulties and the appearance of vacillation. surely he could keep his pledge if he made the break with a certain diplomatic skill. not only would it be easier to himself, but it might prove the safer method also.
when he saw lord sandford in the midst of his friends, laughing at the last bit of scandal, passing jokes over the latest repartee of the redoubtable duchess of marlborough to the meek queen, discussing the rivalries of the ministers, and the other rivalries (to them more important) of the reigning beauties of the gay world, grey felt that it would indeed be impossible to speak in this company of any of those things which were in his mind. he contented himself by standing aloof, looking out of the window and sipping his chocolate, whilst the gay flood of talk surged around him, and he caught a word here and a phrase there, but always heard when lord sandford’s resonant tones dominated those of all others.
"talk of rival beauties; we shall see sport to-night. lady romaine and lady saltire—dearest friends and dearest foes—are to go to vauxhall gardens to-night, each in a new toilet specially designed and ordered for the occasion. it will be a ladies’ battle, in very truth; and public opinion must needs decide which of the rival queens is fairest to look upon. i have promised both the dear creatures to be there, to give my admiration to both alike. shall i risk the undying enmity of either by giving the palm to one? no such fool, gentlemen—no such fool is sandford. i vow i will have ready such a pretty speech or couplet for each that she shall go away with a better opinion of me than ever! ha, ha, ha! i love to see the pretty dears, tricked out in their finery, and ready to tear each other’s eyes out! so, gentlemen, i cancel all previous engagements for to-night. i am for vauxhall, and heaven only knows how late we shall be detained there by the battle of beauty."
"we will all be there!" cried the young bloods, who were at all times ready to follow lord sandford to whatever place of entertainment he elected to go; and one voice followed with a laughing question,—
"will the snow maiden be there in the train of her mother?"
grey felt himself start, and was glad his face was turned away. he would not for worlds that the sharp mocking eyes of lord sandford should see him at this moment, albeit he had no notion of any sort that he had special interest in his spotless lady geraldine.
"i trow so," was the carelessly-spoken reply of lord sandford, as he adjusted his wig and suffered his valet to spray some delicate perfume over his person, as a finishing touch to his toilet. "the lady geraldine is no longer to lead the life of a nun. it has been decreed that she is to show her lovely face abroad, and add thereby a lustre to her mother’s charms."
"a lustre her ladyship would well dispense with," laughed another. "she would sooner pose as the stepmother than the mother of a grown-up daughter—ha, ha! how comes it that this young beauty hath never been shown before to the world? other damsels make their début at sixteen; but the lady geraldine can scarce be less than twenty, and has the dignity of matronhood."
"a vast deal more dignity than the most part of our matrons do show forth," spoke lord sandford incisively. "doubtless she learned it from her grandam, her mother’s mother and her father’s aunt; for my lord and my lady romaine are cousins, and mrs. adair was trusted and revered by both. young children are in the way of such gay ladies of fashion, wherefore the babe was sent to its grandam, and remained with her till the virtuous and discreet old lady died, having bequeathed her store of wisdom and discretion to the beautiful maid she had reared."
"and her fortune too," sniggered one gay dandy. "do not forget that item, my lord. it is whispered that it will make the biggest of her charms. what is the figure? doth anybody know?"
all disclaimed any precise information, and lord sandford spoke no word; his brow was slightly furrowed, and there was a subdued gleam in his eye which warned those who saw it that something in the conversation was not to his mind. they therefore hastened to change it, and many of them said adieu and sauntered away. only a small knot remained with their patron, discussing the plans for the day; and grey stood still in the embrasure of the window, his heart still beating with curious violence and rapidity. when those men were speaking of geraldine, he had scarce been able to keep his fingers from their throats. what business had they taking her pure name upon their lips? and why had they spoken of her fortune? could it be true that she was so great an heiress? he hated to believe it; yet what was it to him? he was wakened from his reverie by a quick question from lord sandford, which he heard as through the mists of a dream, and answered,—
"’tis true i am not quite myself. i slept not at all last night, and have been on the river well-nigh since sunrise to rid me of the vapours. methinks i will seek some sleep in mine own rooms ere night. reckon not on me for to-day’s pastime."
"ay, you have the air of a man squeamish and in need of rest. go get thee a good sleep, friend grey, for we must keep you in fettle for the match on saturday. man and beast must come to the field strong and robust, with nerve and wind and muscle true and taut. but you must make one of our party to vauxhall to-night. there will be many bright eyes on the lookout for the gay cavalier, as the ladies call you for your love-locks. you must not fail us there."
for a moment grey hesitated, prudence and passion fighting together for mastery. but the overwhelming desire to see geraldine again—perhaps to speak a word of farewell—overcame him, and he answered briefly as he strolled through the room on his way out,—
"i shall be ready enough for that; you can reckon on me."
how the day passed grey never knew, and it was still broad daylight when he and his comrades started for the gardens of vauxhall, where it was the fashion to spend the evening hours when nothing more attractive offered, and where such music and such illuminations as the times had to offer were to be enjoyed, and where ladies and their attendant beaux fluttered about like so many gay butterflies, and found opportunity as the dusk fell for walks and talks of a more private nature in the bosky alleys and shady paths than they could hope to gain in crowded routs and card-parties. supper could be obtained too, and pleasant little parties made up; and the fashionable world found it agreeable on these hot summer nights to take their pleasure out in the open air.
grey detached himself from his friends upon the first opportunity, and wandered alone through the gardens, avoiding encounters with persons he knew, though often accosted with laugh and jest and challenge by masked ladies, or young bloods eager to make friends with one whose face and figure began to be known, owing to his successes in horsemanship with don carlos, and his friendship with lord sandford. but grey made small response to overtures, quickly shook himself free, and pursued his solitary ramble, till at length a sound of gay voices, laughter, and almost uproarious mirth, in which the tones of lord sandford could plainly be heard, drew him to a wide open space where an illuminated fountain seemed to have drawn a great concourse of people; and there, amid a tossing crowd of gaudy gallants, and ladies with towering heads, mincing, giggling, uttering little shrieks, little jests, or playing off an infinitude of coquetries and artifices to attract admiration, he beheld the stately white-robed figure around which his thoughts and fancies had been playing all through the long hours of the day.
he saw not the rival queens of beauty in their gorgeous apparel. he saw not the surging crowd that eddied around them, appraising, flattering, admiring, laughing. he only saw one white figure, standing aloof and for the moment alone, the moonbeams glimmering upon the shining whiteness of her dress, the fair face bent, as though in some sort of sorrow or shame. he saw it, and he was instantly at her side.
whether or not he spoke, he knew not. he offered his arm, and the next moment he was leading her away from that giddy, mocking crowd; and he felt the clinging clasp of her fingers thrilling him to his heart’s core. he heard the breath of relief as the chorus of flippant merriment died away in the distance. he paused, and a quick exclamation escaped his lips.
"this is no place for you, lady geraldine. why do they bring you hither?"
she answered not, but turned her gaze for a moment towards him, and then dropped her eyes. with an impulse for which he could not account, he covered the fingers which lay upon his arm with his own disengaged hand, and passionate words sprang to his lips.
"give me only the right, fair lady, and i will save you from them all. i ask only to live and die as your knight—your champion—without wages—without reward!"
then he was silent. his breath came thick and fast. he felt the quiver of the hand he held. he knew not how long the silence lasted, it was so strangely sweet, so full of mysterious meaning.
"i thank you, sir. i trow that you speak truth, and that your words are not idle froth—gone in a moment—as the words of so many of yonder gallants. but it may not be. i may not give you such a right. a maiden is not free to choose her friends; and the knights of chivalry are long since vanished from the earth. i would that i might call you friend, that sometimes we might meet and hold converse together. i trust that i may learn a good report of you, that one day i may speak with pride of having known you in your youth. but that must suffice us. let it be enough for both. i may not—"
she hesitated, and her voice died into silence. she spoke with a repressed emotion which he scarcely understood. the tumult of his own heart was such that he could not seek to gauge the depths of her feelings.
"if i may not be your knight, let me at least be your friend—your servant!" he pleaded. "and if there is anything wherein i can serve you—"
she seemed struck by the phrase. she lifted her bent head and gazed earnestly at him; but the words she spoke seemed strange.
"you are the friend of lord sandford; is it not so?"
"and you must know him well, i doubt not. tell me, sir grey—and i pray you deceive me not—what kind of a man is this same lord sandford? is he leal and true, faithful, loving, and loyal? is he better than the crowd who follow at his heels and ape his manners, use his name as a watchword, and fawn upon his favour? tell me, what think you of him? a friend must needs speak sooth."
"lady, you have asked a hard question, inasmuch as i know but little of the man, albeit i have lived with him above a month. he attracts me, and yet there be moments when he repels me too. he is a good friend—i would not speak a word against him; yet it is said that he can be a bitter and an unscrupulous enemy; and those who have lost his favour withdraw themselves as speedily as possible from his notice, fearful lest some evil may befall them."
"is he then cruel and rancorous?"
"i can believe that he might be, were his passions roused. he has that forceful nature which tends to vehement liking and bitter hatred. i have experienced the one; i have not tasted of the other. for the rest, he is a man of parts, and can do all well to which he puts his hand. methinks he would be strong enough to break off his reckless and vicious habits, had he but motive sufficient to make him! desire to do so. but for the nonce he floats with the current, and lives as the world lives. more i cannot say."
at that moment a swift, firm tread was heard approaching along the dim alley; and geraldine looked hastily round, her hand dropping from grey’s arm.
"it is he!" she whispered, and there was a catch in her voice which the young man heard without understanding. he faced round, and beheld the towering figure of lord sandford beside them.
"well chanced upon!" quoth he in his resonant tones. "i was sent by your mother in search of you, lady geraldine. the court of beauty has sat. to her has been adjudged the prize. she now desires the presence of her daughter, to share her triumph. we shall sup anon, and the table will not be complete without one gracious and lovely presence. lady geraldine, honour me by accepting my escort.—grey, will you join us?"
he spoke the last words over his shoulder, and there was a note in his voice which the young man had never heard before, and which he did not fully understand. it seemed to sting him, but he knew not why.
"i thank you—no," he answered. "i am going home."
and then he stood quite still to watch lord sandford lead away the fair geraldine, who threw him one strange, half-appealing glance over her shoulder, but spoke no word of farewell.
grey had meant to go home, but somehow he could not bring himself to do so. his brain seemed on fire, and his heart with it. he knew not what ailed him, but a fever was consuming him. he left the gardens, but walked on and on, not knowing or caring whither he went. the night was far spent, and the dawn was beginning to blush in the eastern sky, before he found himself in the region of sandford house again.
the place was still and deserted. the revellers and roisterers seemed all at home. a watchman dozed at his post, thankful for the peace of the streets, and grey met no interruption, till suddenly, round a corner, he came face to face with his host, who gave him a look, uttered a short laugh, and linked his arm within his.
"well met, friend grey! you too have had no desire to woo the somnolent god? we find metal more attractive elsewhere. say now, what think you of the future lady sandford? methought you had eyes but for her to-night. will she not queen it right royally here—the beautiful stately creature? you have taste, grey, and i am well pleased that you have. those painted, patched, and powdered jezebels, smirking and ogling and running all over the town for the adulation of the crowd, are as little to your mind as to mine. we can flatter and fool and make mock with the best; but when it comes to marriage! faugh! one’s soul sickens at the thought. what man in his senses would trust his happiness or his honour in the hands of that tawdry crew? gilt and tinsel do very well to play with; but when one desires to purchase, one asks for gold."
grey’s heart seemed to stand still within him. he felt growing numb and cold. as they passed beneath the gateway, and the lamp shone upon his face, lord sandford saw that it was white as death, and a strange gleam came into his own eyes.
"come, my friend, you do not answer. what think you of the wife that i have chosen? what think you of the lady geraldine adair? is she not a matchless creature? who would have believed such a sport could come from such a tree?"
grey commanded himself by a great effort.
"is the lady geraldine adair, then, your affianced wife?"
"that, or next door to it. my suit is approved of her parents. we shall be betrothed ere long. i thought you might be learning as much from her own lips to-night. did i not hear my name pass between you twain?"
"she did ask some question anent you," answered grey, who had no desire to fence or parry—he felt too stunned and bewildered; "but she spoke not of any troth-plight. why should she?"
"true, why should she? she is not one of your empty-headed chatterers. she wears not her heart upon her sleeve. and your acquaintance is of the slightest; is it not so? have you met before, since that evening in the water theatre when i did first present you to each other?"
"i have seen her but once between," answered grey, still in the same quiet, stunned fashion; and when they had entered the house, he made excuse to go at once to his room, declining all proffer of refreshment or further converse.
lord sandford looked after him with an intent look upon his face, which slowly clouded over, till there was something almost malignant and ferocious in his aspect.
"so it is as i thought. he has been hit, and hard hit. where can he have seen her in the interim? they would not have been standing thus, talking thus, if some bond had not been established between them. yet i thought i had kept an eye upon him. i knew there might be danger. i saw it the first moment that they met. there is something akin in their natures. they feel it themselves. hr-r-r-rr! that must be put a stop to. i will have no rival in geraldine’s heart. she does not love me yet; but she fears me a little, and she thinks of me. that is no bad basis to build upon. i shall win her yet, if i have a fair field. but a rival—no, that must not be! and yet i read somewhat in her eyes to-night which had not been there before. the fiend take all false friends! i must rid myself of this one, and that speedily. i have liked him; but he shall not stand in my way. well, ’tis i have made him: i can quickly unmake him. let me but think of the way and the means. grey dumaresq, you are a pretty fellow and a pleasant comrade; but you shall never be suffered to stand in the light of sandford’s hopes and plans and desires. look to yourself, my friend; for evil is abroad for you!"
"master, master, wake up! what ails you? have you forgot the day, and what has to be done?"
dick, with an expression of uneasiness and determination upon his face, was shaking grey somewhat vehemently by the shoulder. the latter seemed to find it hard to wake; and when his eyes opened at last, there was a lack-lustre expression in them that was strange and unnatural. dick’s honest face clouded over yet more.
"i was certain there was some devilry afoot when they all came here last night. i have never seen my master in such a mad mood of merriment," he muttered half aloud, as he turned away to get a brimming glass of pure cold water from the table. "what has come over them, i don’t know. but i like not the change. i liked not the look in lord sandford’s eyes. he is a great man, i doubt it not; but i wish my master had chanced upon another as a friend and comrade in this great babylon of a city. there is more going on here than i well understand."
"what are you grumbling over there to yourself, dicon?" asked grey from his bed, and his voice sounded more natural and quiet than his servant had heard it yet; "and where am i? for sure this room is strange to mine eyes, nor have i any recollection of it overnight; and how come you to be here, for that matter, honest dicon? methought you were at hampstead, watching over don carlos, that he might be ready for saturday’s race."
"yes, master, and so i am; and this is the hostelry at hampstead where i have taken up my quarters with the horse; and hither it was that you came yestere’en, with lord sandford and his friends, to be ready for the match to-day. but beshrew me if i did think yesterday you would be fit for the saddle to-day! is it strange i should mutter and grumble to myself when such things happen?"
"nay now, what things, good dicon? i pray you tell me," spoke grey, as he drained at one draught the ice-cold water, and drew a long breath of relief. "i feel like a man waking from a strange and fevered dream; for, in sooth, i know but little of what has been passing these last days. some strange madness seems to have possessed me. i had meant to say farewell to lord sandford and his world, and seek mine own fortunes in some other field. yet methinks i have not made the break. i have visions of wild orgies and furious gaming—such as i held aloof from before. dicon, i fear me i have made a desperate fool of myself, and of my fortunes too. tell me, what money have i with me now?"
"not much, master. i took what you had—a matter of some twenty guineas perhaps. i have it safe in a bag. but surely that is not all. you had won a fortune, you did tell me—"
"ay, and now i have lost it. i can recollect how the guineas flew, and how the stakes were doubled, and how i lost again and yet again. i take it i am a ruined man, good dicon. these twenty guineas saved from the wreck are all the fortune i possess, and belike it is better so—better so."
"better!" echoed the dismayed dick; "nay, my master. but you will win it back again. the luck cannot always be against you. think how it was at the first!"
"yes, dicon, and perchance it had been better had the luck been worse. i love not such gains as these. besides, there is somewhat in this beyond my ken. lord sandford desired my friendship and company then, and luck was with me. now that he desires it no more, the luck has changed, and that so strangely and desperately that one might almost say there was magic in it."
dick’s jaw dropped; he longed to know more, but feared to intrude too much upon his master’s secrets. grey, however, knew how faithful and attached was his stanch henchman, and as he went through his morning toilet he told him a little of the events of the past three days, in as far as he himself could remember them.
"i have offended lord sandford doubly," he said, "though he will not openly admit it. but i know—i feel the change. i trow that he is my enemy. nay, dicon, look not so aghast; it will matter little in the future, since to-day i take my leave of him, and most like in this great whirling world our paths will not again cross, either for weal or woe."
"but how?—what? he did seem to love you well."
"i think he did; but a mischance befell. he did not tell me of his troth-plight to a fair lady—a lady of surpassing beauty, and of a virtue and purity which make her like a bright particular star amid the painted dames and mincing damsels of this giddy london town. twice or thrice did i meet her and pay homage to her wondrous beauty and goodness. it was words she spoke to me that decided me, ere ever any ill-blood had been aroused, to leave off from this life of pleasure-seeking and distraction, and seek a nobler career than that of the butterfly dandy fluttering round the town. but lord sandford thought that there was somewhat more than this betwixt us. of that i am assured. a flame of jealousy swept over him; and when i told him of my resolution, i trow that his suspicions received confirmation. i did not see it then, but i see it now. he thought i left him to pursue my ends alone, and, perchance, to seek to win the lady of his choice. but he spoke nothing of this—only insisted that for this week my engagements should be kept, and that after to-day’s race i might go my own way, an i was so resolved. he was not unkindly; yet there was something strange and stern in his bearing and language, and you have seen how his imperious temper and will sweep all before them. i myself was strangely dazed and something sorrowful. i scarce do know why my heart was so heavy within me. i let him have his way; and you behold what that way has been. i am a ruined man, beggared of all my winnings; and methinks my lord sandford has plotted for this very thing."
"it is a shame! would i could take my horsewhip to him—"
"nay, nay, good dicon; be not so wroth," spoke grey calmly and quietly. "in sooth, i know not that i owe him aught but thanks. when all is said and done, it was but ill-gotten gain. i would sooner face life with none of it upon me. i had a few guineas to start with—well, it was more than a few; yet had i spent my time in london, i should have had but little left by now. i have learned many lessons, and i shall start clear of debt, and without my pockets filled with other men’s gold."
dick was scarce moralist enough to understand or appreciate his master’s scruples—scruples new, indeed, to grey himself—but the faithful fellow was ready to accept any verdict and any decision made by the man he loved and served; and as he put the finishing touches to the workmanlike riding toilet which he had in readiness, he remarked with a short laugh,—
"faith, master, you and i betwixt us, with don carlos and my good nag for company, and a few guineas in our pockets, need not fear the future; and i trow it will be well for you to be quit for ever of my lord sandford’s company. i liked him not greatly for your friend; i hate him with a goodly hatred since he shows himself your foe. shall we turn our backs upon him and upon london town, and seek our fortunes with the army over the water, where his grace of marlborough will give you welcome?"
"i scarce know what the future will bring for me, dicon," was the reply, spoken gravely, yet with a certain listless indifference not lost upon the servant; "i have made no plans as yet. let us see what this day brings forth first."
"i wager it will fill our pockets anew with gold!"
"i will not touch their gold!" spoke grey with eyes that suddenly flashed fire. "i have cancelled all my wagers. i will take nothing at their hands. i will ride don carlos and ride my best for mine own honour and that of the good steed i shall bestride; but their money will i not touch. i have done with all that. nay, stare not in such amaze, good dicon. i have not taken leave of my senses; rather, i trow, i have come to my better mind. now get me somewhat to eat here, and then we will to the stables to see my beauty. this match once over, we turn a new page in our life’s story. who knows what the next will be?"
it was not much that grey could eat. the three days which had passed since he and lord sandford had come to an understanding, which was well-nigh a rupture, had left a mark upon him. moreover there was a weary ache at his heart which he did not fully understand, and which was harder to bear than aught beside. dimly he knew that it had some connection with the lady geraldine adair; but he feared to search too deeply into that matter. she was as far removed from him as the moon in the heavens, and he believed her plighted to another, and that one a man who had stood his friend, even though suspicion, jealousy, and an imperious temper had changed friendship into something very like enmity. grey never for a moment dreamed of regarding himself as an aspirant for that fair hand; but he knew that the motive which was urging him to change the manner of his life and become a worthier and a better man was the hope that she might watch his career, and hear a whisper of his fame or his success; or that he might win some laurels in the fields of literature, art, or politics, which he might perchance in some sort lay at her feet.
this, however, lurked in the background of his thoughts. he scarcely owned to himself that he expected ever to look upon that fair face again; hence the sensation of heart sickness which had rendered him well-nigh desperate for a few days, and had helped him to squander without a qualm the hoard which his previous successes had accumulated. and now the end of this mad life of gay folly had come. he had drained the cup to the dregs, and found it bitter to the taste. he had neither liking nor respect for the companions with whom he had associated. towards lord sandford his feelings were very mixed. the power of the man was too great to be shaken off entirely, nor could he despise or dislike him. but the tie of friendship had snapped asunder. a chasm had opened between them, and he felt that he was regarded, if not as a foe, yet as something akin, and it needed not dick’s words of warning to tell him that the less he saw of this man in the future the better it would be for himself.
sounds of laughter and revelry greeted his ears as he slipped quietly out towards the paddock and shed where his horse had been stabled these past weeks, tended and exercised by dick, and ready for whatever demand might be made upon him. he greeted his master with a neigh of recognition, dropped his nose in the extended hand, and stood tranquil and content under grey’s quiet caresses. the glossy coat was satin smooth, the delicate tracery of veins could be distinctly seen, and each muscle stood out hard and taut; there was no superfluous flesh, but a firmness and excellence of condition that brought a smile of satisfaction to grey’s face. he turned with a smile to dick, who stood by beaming.
"not much fear of him to-day, eh, dicon?"
"he would jump the moon, master, if you asked it of him," was the proud and confident answer.
"how do the others look? have you seen them?"
"pretty bits of horseflesh every one; and there is a black stallion of mr. artheret’s that will take some beating. but he’s too heavy for some of the jumps. he don’t take off fast enough. and he’s a nasty temper too. there’s a gray arab with pace; but he falls away behind, as they all do. i don’t think don carlos will be troubled long by him. none of the others will take much beating. pretty to look at, but not trained for what they’ve got to do. lord sandford was here yesterday early, looking at the jumps, and he had several of them made stiffer; but there’s nothing don carlos cannot sail over like a bird!"
"let us go and see," said grey. "i will take a canter on the turf to warm myself to the saddle. soh, boy, soh!" as he lightly vaulted to his seat, and the horse curveted beneath him. "we will take a look at these obstructions. the stiffer they are, the better you and i will be pleased—eh, my beauty?"
"it was here they were busy yesterday, but i could not see all they did. i was afraid to leave don carlos with so many strangers about. some of the grooms with the other horses looked up to mischief. but i heard them say afterwards that lord sandford had not been satisfied with the field as it was. he said they must have something that really would be a test, or the black stallion and don carlos were like to come in together."
but now a horn blew gaily, and horsemen were seen approaching from many quarters. in the neighbourhood of the inn all was bustle and excitement, whilst from all sides there appeared streams of people converging to this spot. some fine carriages had been driven out from london, with bedecked ladies eager to witness the contest. others had stayed the night in the neighbourhood to be ready; and all the natives of the place who could get a holiday had come to gape at the fine folks, and see the grand gentlemen racing their own horses.
grey, all unconscious of the favour bestowed upon him, rode up and saluted courteously the gentlemen who were to meet him and each other in rivalry. lord sandford, splendidly mounted, was to act as judge at the winning post. another of his friends was to be starter; and gentlemen were posted at various points along the course to see that all the rules laid down were observed, and that no rider deviated from the well-pegged-out route prescribed for all. the spectators scattered hither and thither, taking up stations wherever their fancy prompted. the course seemed marked out by a glittering border extending down both sides. the sun shone brilliantly in the sky, and all nature seemed in gladsome mood.
grey cast a keen look at the seven rival steeds as they were brought into line for the start. he picked out in a moment the two of whom dicon had spoken, and saw that he had judged well. then he gave his whole mind to the task in hand, checked with hand and voice the prancing of the excited don carlos, and brought him up to his appointed place docile and motionless.
the word was given, but the black stallion had bounded off a few seconds too soon, and had to be recalled. a second start was spoiled by two other competitors, who suddenly reared at each other, and strove to fight. one iron hoof, indeed, inflicted such a wound upon the shoulder of his neighbour that that horse had to be taken away limping and bleeding.
it was trying to all, horses and riders alike; but at the third start all got off, though grey saw that again the black stallion had made his bound a second too soon. this gave him a few yards the advantage, which, as his rider pressed him hard from the first, and his temper was evidently up, he increased in the next minute to more than a length. the arab and don carlos were neck and neck, and sailed over the first easy jump side by side, the stallion having cleared it with a tremendous bound a couple of seconds earlier.
the water jump was next, and it was obvious that one spot offered greater advantages to the horse than any other. the stallion made for this spot with a rush, took off and bounded clear over, just as don carlos and the arab came rushing up neck and neck, each rider desirous of the advantage of the sound bank. grey set his teeth and glanced at his adversary. a collision at the leap might be fatal to one or both, so far as the race went. his rival would not budge an inch—that he saw. with a muttered oath between his teeth, he pulled his left rein, and used his knees. don carlos felt, and instantly understood: swerving slightly, he gathered himself together, and rose magnificently where the water was wider and the bank less safe; but he landed safely, and with a hardly perceptible scramble found his feet again, and amid the plaudits of the people raced on after the arab, who, having got a momentary advantage, was now slightly in advance.
the black stallion had just reached the downward dip leading to the deep ditch filled with gorse bushes. his rider had had perforce to pull him up somewhat, lest he should slip and fall, for the ground was sandy and treacherous. but don carlos had been born and bred to this sort of wild work, and dashing onwards and downwards with the agility of a deer, came neck and neck with his rival, and having passed the arab, cleared with a bound the treacherous gully, landing true and safe upon the opposite side. the arab followed in his tracks, his rider taking advantage of the lead given; but the black stallion slipped and snorted, could not be made to try the leap till another of the horses came up and took it, after which he sprang across with a vicious energy which tried the horsemanship of his rider, and tore like a wild thing after the leading pair.
these had cleared one after the other the wall and ditch; but the arab was showing signs of distress, whilst don carlos looked fresh and eager as at the start. there now remained only a quarter of a mile of smooth sward, and then the last critical jump; and grey, knowing himself first, and not knowing what had betided his rivals, sailed happily onward, secure of victory, though he heard behind him the thud of flying horse hoofs, and knew that the black stallion was not beaten yet. it was he who snorted with such excitement and fury, and seemed to awaken thunders with his iron-shod hoofs.
one glance over his shoulder, and grey passed his whip very lightly across the neck of don carlos. the gallant animal sprang forward like an arrow from a bow, showing how well within himself he had been travelling so far. the sound of other beating hoofs was fainter now. grey looked keenly at the great obstacle looming up in his path, and measured the height at various places, deciding where the leap could best be taken.
next moment he felt strong hands lifting and dragging him upwards. dick’s white face looked into his own, and the first words he heard were hissed in his ear by his faithful henchman.
"foul play, foul play, my master. that ditch was dug and concealed—ay, and more than concealed; it has been an old well at some time, and it will open with a spring. you have been grossly tricked and cozened. it has been a trap cleverly laid and baited. but let me only get at them—my lord sandford—"
dick almost choked in his fury; but grey was now on his feet, and his one thought was for the good horse, who had dropped downwards into this unseen, unsuspected pit, and was gasping in affright, but might possibly have escaped serious injury. he himself felt little ill effects, having had a marvellous escape. but his soul was stirred within him, and in getting out the horse he saw plainly that dick had been right, and that some sort of old trap-door concealed an opening into the ground which might have been at one time a well, but was now silted up with sand. by luring the foremost rider to this particular spot to take the leap, any astute enemy aware of the nature of the ground could almost certainly ensure his overthrow and defeat; and grey had his suspicions that lord sandford had hoped that he might then and there break his neck—a thing which might very well have happened.
there was a crowd round the spot now, and great horror was expressed by many at sight of the unsuspected well, no voice being louder than lord sandford’s in proclaiming astonishment and indignation. but grey took no notice of the clamour, only busying himself about his horse; and presently, with some difficulty, the sagacious and docile creature was got out, and it appeared that no limb was broken, though one hock was deeply cut, and one shoulder badly strained.
grey stood in silent thought awhile, his hand upon the neck of his favourite, who stood with drooping head and dejected mien, as though wondering whether he would ever be whole and sound again. dick was binding up the wound, his face like a thunder-cloud. a knot of persons of all ranks stood watching at a little distance; but grey had courteously waved away all proffers of help, and indicated that he desired no attentions.
"dicon," he said in a low tone, "we must now part for a while. don carlos will need you more than i. he is now my sole fortune, and must be respected as such. take him and your own nag, and walk them both by easy stages to hartsbourne. there are paddocks enough and to spare, and i surely have the right to pasture my horse in one; but if the thing should come to my kinsman’s ears, give him what is due in money, and i will repay you. old jock jarvis will be your friend. he will rejoice in your company and give you house-room with him, and it is not so far but that i can get news of you from time to time. your good horse will bring you to london in three hours or less any day you have a mind to come; and you can watch for me what goes on yonder, and bring me word again."
it was a grief to dick to part from his master; but he saw the need, and he loved the horse only second to grey himself.
"i will do your behest, master. nay, i want no money; i have plenty for all my needs. i too have made some modest wealth here in this great city. only tell me where i may find you, and i will be gone, and do what can be done for the poor beast."
"you shall always get news of me at wills’ coffee house, good dicon," was the answer. "where i go and how i live, i know not yet; but i will leave word there for you. so now, farewell. i turn a new page in my life from this day forth."
grey dumaresq, having settled matters with his servant, and adjusted the disarray of his own dress and person, turned towards a group of men who were standing round lord sandford, making believe to laugh and jest, but showing some vague symptoms of uneasiness as they cast sidelong glances in the direction of their erstwhile comrade.
grey walked straight up to lord sandford, and looked him full in the eyes. did the glance of the other quail ever so little before his? he thought so, but could scarce be certain.
"my lord," he said, "i have to thank you for many acts of kindness and courtesy, and a certain liberality of treatment which i have received at your hands and within your doors. in taking my farewell, i wish freely to acknowledge all this debt. but other matters which i need not specify, yet which are well understood by your lordship, have transpired to change the relations betwixt us; and i wish to add that i desire to be beholden to no man. in the rooms allotted to me in your lordship’s house there is a quantity of wearing apparel, jewels, trinkets, for which i have no more use. i pray you have them sold, and the amount thus realized will reimburse you for all charges you have been at in my maintenance during the time i have dwelt beneath your roof. that is all i have to say.—gentlemen, i wish you a very good day."
and lifting his hat with quiet dignity and grace, grey made them a general salute and turned upon his heel.
but lord sandford’s voice came thundering after him. "do you desire to insult me, sir? am i a beggarly inn-keeper, that i should sell a guest’s belongings to pay my bill? what do you mean by such words? do you desire that i should demand satisfaction for them at your hands?"
grey did not know whether this man desired to fasten a quarrel upon him or not, and, truth to tell, he did not care. he just turned his head over his shoulder, and threw back an answer in tones of scarcely veiled contempt.
"that is for your lordship to decide. i shall have pleasure in giving any satisfaction demanded at any time, and in any place appointed. for the rest, a man who has sought to compass the death of a comrade by a foul trick need scarcely fear to soil his hands by the touch of his gold. again i wish you good-day, my lord."
and without so much as turning his head again, grey dumaresq walked off, his head held high, neither observing nor returning the many salutes and bright arch glances shot at him from the lane of bystanders through which he needs must pass, but walking like a man in a dream, and so disappearing from view along the white road which led londonwards.
round lord sandford men were buzzing like bees disturbed.
"insolent young jackanapes!" "what did he mean?" "what was his motive in such an insult?" "what will you do, my lord?" "whither has he gone? whither will he go?" "is it true that he is ruined?" "he has lost his horse, at least. none will give him a score of guineas for the beast now." "how did it chance?" "was it an accident?" "what meant he by his words?" all were pouring out these and like questions; but there was none to answer them, till lord sandford himself spoke.
"the fellow’s wits are gone astray," he cried in his loud, dominating tones. "it is the dumaresq blood. sir hugh was just such another—mad as a march hare half his time, flinging his gold to the winds, and quarrelling with every man he met. like father, like son. it has been coming on for days. i misdoubted me if ever he would ride this race. he came and told me he must reform. that was ever his father’s cry, and he would disappear into the country for a while, and reappear again as gay as ever. ’tis the same with the son. i saw it then, and i strove to combat the madness; but ’tis ill dealing with the lunatic. you see what we get for our pains! tush! let the fellow alone. i did wrong to answer him. let him go his own way, and we will think of him no more."
and lord sandford, with a heavy cloud upon his brow, and a look about the corners of his mouth which warned those about him to say no more, but leave matters as they were, flung away from them, and made his way back alone to the inn, from which he was presently seen to issue forth in his gorgeous chariot, driving furiously along the road which led to st. albans.
his boon companions, thus left to their own devices, went over to the spot where the strange thing had befallen at the race, and where the country folk had gathered with shakings of the head and questionings beneath their breath; and there, plain for all men to see, was the yawning hole with the open trap hanging down, and the marks of the heavy fall of the good horse, whose escape with whole bones was little short of a miracle.
an old countryman was holding forth to a knot of eager questioners, now swelled by lord sandford’s friends.
lord sandford’s comrades looked each other in the eyes, and drew a little away. all knew that something strange had passed upon him of late, and that there was some rupture betwixt him and the man who had but lately accused him of seeking to compass his death.
"did he know?" "was it plot or plan of his?" whispered one and another; but none could give the answer.
a wild, wet september day was drawing to its close, amid pelting squalls of cold rain, when a tall young man, gaunt and hollow-eyed, pushed his way into a small coffee-house in an obscure thoroughfare somewhere in the region of drury lane, and took a seat in a dark corner as near to the stove as he could get, for he looked pinched with cold, and his plain and rather threadbare black suit was pretty well wet through. as soon as he was seated, he drew from his breast a roll of paper, which he regarded with solicitude. that at least was dry, and he heaved a sigh that sounded like one of satisfaction.
in this narrow street the daylight had completely faded, though it was not yet six o’clock. the room was furthermore darkened by clouds of tobacco smoke which the guests were puffing forth. the smell of coffee mingled with the ranker fumes of the tobacco, and the clink of cup and spoon made ceaseless accompaniment to the talk, which went on in a continuous stream.
grey (for it was he) leaned his head on his hand wearily, and fell into something like a doze as he sat in his shadowy corner. he was exhausted in mind and in body. he was faint with hunger, and yet half afraid to order food; for his funds were dwindling almost to the vanishing point, and as yet he had found no means of replenishing his exchequer. but he had not been able to resist the temptation to escape from the buffetings of the tempest, and when the boy in attendance upon the guests came to ask his pleasure, he ordered some coffee and bread, and devoured it with a ravenous appetite when it was set before him.
the pangs of hunger stayed, if not appeased, he began to look about him, and to wonder into what manner of company he had thrust himself. he had never before been inside this house, though he had, in the first days of his new career, taken his meals in some of the numerous coffee or chocolate houses, or the taverns which abounded throughout the town. latterly he had generally bought his food at the cheapest market, and had eaten it in the attic to which he had removed himself and his few belongings. he was beginning to wonder how long he should be able even to retain that humble abode as his own. dame fortune’s smiles seemed quite to have deserted him, and abject poverty stared him grimly in the face.
a smoking lamp had been brought in, and hung overhead, lighting up the faces of the company with its yellow glare. there was something strange and rembrandt-like in the effect of the picture upon which grey’s eyes rested. leaning back dreamily with his head against the wall, he could almost fancy himself back in one of those foreign picture galleries, in which heretofore he had delighted, and where so many hours of his time had been spent.
but this was a living picture, shifting, changing, breaking up into groups and re-forming again; and the hum of talk went on unceasingly, as one after another took up the word and launched forth his opinions, generally in florid and flowery language, and with much gesticulation and indignation.
what first struck grey as strange was the anger which seemed to possess all these men. that they were in no good case was well-nigh proved by the shabbiness of their dress, and by the fact of their being gathered in this very humble and cheap place of resort, which would not tempt any but those in adverse circumstances. but over and above their poverty, they seemed to be railing at neglect or injustice of some sort, and ever and anon would break out into virulent abuse of some person or persons, whose names were unknown to grey, but who evidently were characters well known to the others of the company.
"there is no such thing as justice left, or purity of taste, or any such thing!" shouted a handsome, well-proportioned fellow, whose face had attracted grey’s notice several times, and seemed dimly familiar to him. "look at the mouthing mountebanks that walk the boards now! they strut like peacocks, they gibber like apes. they have neither voice, nor figure, nor talent, nor grace. but, forsooth, because some fine dame has smiled upon them, or they are backed by a nobleman’s patronage, they can crow it over the rest of us like a cock upon his dunghill, and we, who have the talent and the gifts, may rot like rats in our holes!"
"shame! shame! shame!" cried an admiring chorus.
"look at me!" thundered the young man, his eyes flashing. "who dares say i cannot act? have i not held spellbound, hanging on my lips, whole houses of beauty and fashion? have i lost my skill or cunning? has my voice or has my grace departed from me? wherefore, then, do i sit here idle and hungry, whilst men not fit to black my boots hold the boards and fill their pouches with gold? why such injustice, i say?"
a chorus of indignation again arose; but out of the shadows came a deep voice.
"the answer is easy, friend lionel; arrogance and drink have been the cause of your downfall. how could any manager continue to engage you? how many times has it happened that you have come to the theatre sodden with drink? how many representations have you spoiled by your bestial folly? they were patient with you. oh yes, they were very patient; for they knew your gifts and recognized them. but you met friendly rebuke or warning with haughtiness and scorn. you would listen to no counsel; you would heed no warnings. the end should have been plain to you from the beginning, an you would not mend your ways. i told you how it needs must be; and now the time has come when you see it for yourself. worse men are put in the parts that you excelled in, because they can be depended upon. no drunkard can ever become great. put that in your pipe and smoke it, lionel field."
at the sound of this new voice, speaking out of the shadows of the ingle-nook, a great hush had fallen upon the room. grey leaned forward to obtain a view of the speaker, and the firelight played upon the striking features and iron-gray hair of a very remarkable-looking old man of leonine aspect, whose voice was of that penetrating quality which makes itself heard without being raised; and it was plain that something in the personality of the man lifted him above his fellows, for all listened in silence whilst he spoke, and even the arrogant young actor looked for the moment abashed.
"who is it?" whispered grey to the man next him; and the answer came readily, though spoken in a cautious whisper.
"his name is jonathan wylde. once he, too, was a famous actor; but long illness crippled his limbs, and he has fallen into poverty. he is always called the old lion, and methinks the name suits him well. he is a very lion for courage, else would he not dare to rebuke master lionel field. for he is one who is ready with his fist, or with knife or bludgeon, and it is ill work meeting him when he is in his cups."
grey looked with interest and attention at the old man in the shadows; but he was leaning back again, and spoke no more. the talk surged round him again from the rest; they spoke of the plays that were being enacted at the various theatres, and of those who were playing the various rôles. some of them stood up and rolled forth bits of congreve’s witty and sparkling dramas, and disputed as to whether the "old bachelor" or the "way of the world" were his happiest effort; whilst some declared that the "double dealer" was the best of all. they talked excitedly of the revival at drury lane of farquhar’s "love and a bottle," which had scored such a success some fourteen or fifteen years previously. and there were some who lauded and some who depreciated colley cibber and his "careless husband" and "love’s last shift," which were favourites throughout the town.
it was a new world to grey; but he listened with a certain fascination, for the drama had always attracted him, and he watched the gestures of the actors and listened to their mouthing periods with something between wonder and amusement. he could understand that these men had been failures. only lionel field appeared to have any true histrionic gift, and the cause of his downfall was plain to be read after the speech of the "old lion." from time to time, as the light flickered upon the striking face in the ingle, grey caught a fine-lipped smile upon it, and once or twice he thought the old actor’s eyes met his in a gleam of humour. but of that he could not be sure—it might be but the trick of the firelight; and presently wearied nature asserted itself, and the young man passed from drowsiness to actual sleep, and knew nothing more till a sharp grip upon his arm roused him to a sense of his surroundings.
it was the tapster who thus shook him; and when he opened his eyes, grey saw—or thought, at least—that the room was empty. what the time was he had no idea; but it must be late, and he rose hastily to his feet with a muttered apology at having overstayed the closing time.
at that moment there emerged out of the shadows of the ingle-nook a bent figure, dignified even in its infirmity, and the voice which grey had heard before spoke in quietly authoritative accents.
"bring hither coffee and a dish of eggs for two. the wind and rain yet howl around the house. this gentleman will sup with me ere we go home. go and serve us quickly, for we have both a good stomach, and would eat ere we depart hence."
the tapster vanished quickly to do the bidding of the guests, and grey turned a wondering glance upon the old lion, whose face, framed in its shaggy gray hair, looked more leonine than ever, the bright eyes shining out of deep caverns from under bushy brows, the rugged features full of power, not unmixed with a curious underlying ferocity. but the glance bent upon grey was kindly enough.
"sit down, young man; i would know more of you. i have a gift for reading faces. i have marked yours ever since you entered this room. tell me your name. tell me of yourself, for you were not born to the state to which you have now fallen."
"my name is grey," was the ready answer. grey had dropped his title and patronymic with his fallen fortunes, and used his mother’s name alone. "my father was a country gentleman. i was gently reared, and was at one time a scholar at oxford, where i dreamed many dreams. afterwards i travelled abroad, returning to find my father dead and my home in the hands of a kinsman to whom it was mortgaged by my father. the small fortune i received i squandered foolishly in a few weeks of gay living with young bloods of the town. i wakened from my dream to find myself well-nigh penniless, disgusted alike with myself and those i had called my friends. i have ever been something ambitious. i misdoubt me i am a fool; but i did think that i might win laurels upon the field of literature. i have never lost the trick of rhyming, and jotting down such things as pleased my fancy, whether in prose or in verse. do i weary you with my tale?"
"no, sir—far from it. let me hear you to the end. i did see you take forth a roll of paper from your breast as you came in. that action, together with your face, told me much. you have the gift of a creative fancy. you have written a poem or a play."
"neither the one nor the other, but a romance," answered grey, the colour flushing his face as it flushes that of a maiden when the love of her heart is named by her. "i scarce know how to call it, but methinks it savours more of a romance than of aught besides. when i was rudely awakened from my pleasure-loving life, saw the folly and futility thereof, and desired to amend, i did take a quiet lodging high up in a building off holborn, and there i did set myself to the task, and right happy was i in it. i had a score of gold pieces still left me, and my needs i did think modest; though, looking back, they seem many to me now. the weeks fled by, and my work reached its close. when my romance was finished, my money was all but spent. for the past week or more i have been seeking a publisher for it. in my folly i did think that it would bring me gold as fast as i wanted. my eyes have been rudely opened these last days."
the old lion nodded his head many times.
"you made a mistake in seeking a publisher, young sir. you should first have sought a patron."
grey’s face flushed slightly, and he hesitated before he spoke.
"others have said the same to me; but there are difficulties. i have not learned to go cap in hand to cringe for patronage to the great ones of the earth." but, as grey saw a slight smile flicker in the old man’s eyes, he added rather hastily, "and then i desire not to be known and recognized by those whom i did know ha my former life. there is scarce an antechamber in those fine houses where patrons dwell where i might not meet the curious and impertinent regard of those who would know me again. that i will not brook." and now grey’s eyes flashed, thinking of lord sandford, and how he would chuckle to hear how low his rival had fallen. "no; if i am to succeed at all, i must needs do so without a patron. if i fail, there is one resource left. able-bodied paupers are sent to the wars. i can go thither and fight."
again a smile flickered over the old lion’s face; but the tapster was entering with the smoking viands, and the gleam in grey’s eyes bespoke the wolf within him.
"set to, my friend, and make a good meal. when we have cleared the trenchers, you shall come with me to my lodging. i would hear the end of your tale; but that can wait till after supper."
"welcome to the lion’s den!" spoke the man wylde, as he threw open the door of a room which he had unlocked, and kicking a smouldering log upon the hearth, evoked a cheery blaze, by the aid of which he lighted a lamp that swung over a table littered with books, papers, and quills.
grey stepped within the threshold, and looked about him with curious eyes. the house they had entered a few minutes before was a tall and narrow one in harpe alley, leading from shoe lane. it was not an old house, for it came within the area of the great fire of fifty years back, and had been rebuilt, like the whole of the surrounding buildings, with greater speed than discretion. grey had once come across sir christopher wren in his other life, and had talked with him of the short-sighted policy observed in the rebuilding of the city. the great architect declared that had his plans been carried out, london would have been the finest city in the world: but the haste and false economy of the citizens and city companies had thwarted his plans, and the old lines of narrow and crooked streets were kept as before, to the cost of succeeding generations.
this house had been hastily run up, like those surrounding it, and the tempest from without rattled and shook the walls and windows as though to drive them in. but the room itself, though no more than an attic, bore an air of comfort very pleasant to the eyes of the homeless grey, whose own quarters only contained the barest necessities of life; for there were some rough shelves full of books in one corner, and a rug before the fire gave a look of comfort to the place. two armchairs of rude pattern, but furnished with down cushions, seemed to invite repose; and everything was scrupulously clean, even to the boards of the floor.
"’a poor thing, but mine own,’" spoke the old lion, with his grim smile, as he motioned to grey to take one chair, and he himself pulled up the other. "i have dwelt here two years and more now, and i have not been unhappy; albeit i never thought to end my days in a garret, as belike i shall do now."
"fortune has been hard upon you," spoke grey earnestly. "you have the gifts and the powers; it is cruel that your limbs should have become crippled."
"we must take the rough and the smooth of life as we find it," answered the other. "i have had my moments of rebellion—i have them still; but i seek the consolations of philosophy; and i have never yet wanted for bread or shelter. but there be times when the future looks dark before me. those who remember me, and pity my misfortunes, drop away one by one. i lacked not for patrons at the first. when i could not longer tread the boards, i was ofttimes engaged to make men laugh or weep at some gay rout at a nobleman’s house. then, too, my jests and quips were in request at gay supper-parties, and i was paid to set the table in a roar, which in all sooth was not difficult when the wine-bottle was going round and round. oh, i knew gay times for many a year after my stage career closed. but patrons have died off one by one. i am more crippled than i was, and the young wits are pushing to the front, whilst the old lion has been crowded out. my pen still serves me in a measure. i can turn an epigram, or write a couplet, or even make shift to pen a sonnet that lacks not the true ring. grist yet comes to the mill, but more and more slowly. there come moments when i wonder what will be the end of the old lion’s career—the poorhouse, or a death by slow starvation in some garret!"
"no, no," cried grey almost fiercely; "that would be shame indeed. surely, if nothing better turn up, there must be places of refuge for fallen genius. have not almshouses been built, again and again, by the well-disposed for such men as sickness has laid aside? you smile, but in sooth it is so."
"ay, and how many are there to claim the benefits of pious founders? yet no matter. i brought you not here to talk of my troubles, but of yours. that romance of which you speak—"
"it would seem the world cares little for such things. i did hear the same tale everywhere. was it a pamphlet i had to give them, a lampoon upon some great man, an attack against the tories, the whigs, the dissenters? if so, they would read it; for there was great eagerness amongst the people to read such things, and no matter what side was attacked, there were hundreds eager to buy and to read. but a romance—no; that was a mistake altogether. a writer of successful pamphlets might perhaps find readers for a merry tale, or even a romance; but for an unknown aspirant to fame—no, that was another matter. no one would buy it; no one would even read it; though there were one or two who took it and glanced through some pages, praised the style and the easy flow of words, and advised me to take to pamphleteering, promising that they would read anything like that."
"how should i write these party diatribes—i who know little of their cries? whig or tory, tory or whig—what care i? the tory of one parliament is the whig of the next. have not lords marlborough and godolphin gone over to the whigs? the queen herself, they say, is changing slowly."
"nay, the queen herself will never change!" cried wylde, with an emphatic gesture. "the duchess has changed, and she seeks to use her influence with the queen to make her change also, and give up her tory advisers altogether. but she will not succeed. the queen may be timid and gentle, but she has all her father’s tenacity and obstinacy. let my lady of marlborough look to it! she may strain the cord to breaking point. already they say that the new favourite, mrs. masham, is ousting her kinswoman, the duchess, from the foremost place in the queen’s affections. favourites have fallen ere this through too great arrogance. the victories of ramillies and oudenarde, and the successes that have followed, make the duke the idol of the nation and the favourite of the queen yet; but the day may come when this may change, and then the high tories may come in once more with a rush."
"i should be sorry for the duke to lose favour," spoke grey thoughtfully. "i did see him once, and had speech with him after the battle of ramillies, and a more gracious and courtly gentleman it has never been my lot to meet."
suddenly the old lion’s eyes flashed fire.
"you have seen and had speech with the duke on the field of ramillies? you saw the battle, or something of it? speak! tell me all! i must hear this tale. it may mean much to us both."
"in sooth it is little i can tell you of the battle, for i was in the thick of it myself. it was by accident that my servant and i came upon the rival armies; and another happy accident gave me the chance of doing a small service for the duke. after the battle, when we were hard by louvain, he called me to him, and spoke many gracious words. i would fain hope that some day i may see him again."
"you had speech with him? you saw his manner and his port? tell me—show me—how did he carry himself?"
"boy!" he cried, with a new access of energy, "i trow i see for both of us a way to fame and fortune."
grey’s eyes lighted as he eagerly asked his meaning.
"that is soon told. have you heard how, after the victory of blenheim, none could be found to hymn the praises of the great general till the poet addison was introduced to notice, and penned his immortal lines? now, since the victory of ramillies, i have burned with desire to show the world by somewhat more than verse alone the power and genius of england’s mighty soldier. see here!"
the old man rose and crossed to his table, where he fetched from a drawer a scroll covered with writing, which he put in the hands of his companion. grey saw that it was a dialogue cast in dramatic form, and though he could not read it then and there, he could see, by casting his eyes over it, that there were many very fine periods in it, and that it was filled with descriptive passages of some great battle, and the energy and glory of the general in command. he raised his eyes inquiringly to the impassioned face of the author, which was working with excitement.
"see you not something of the form? it is a dramatic interlude. it should be played upon the stage during the intervals of the play. time sits aloft, aged and grim, his scythe in his hand, his hour-glass beside him, and he speaks of the decay of mankind—that the world’s greatness is vanishing, its men of genius growing ever fewer and fewer. that is my part. i take the rôle of time. to him then enters one in the guise of youth—one in the flush of manhood’s prime—one who has seen great and doughty deeds, and comes to rehearse the same in the ears of old time, to bid him change his tune, to tell him that giants yet live upon the earth. this youth comes with songs of victory; he speaks of what he has seen; he describes in burning words and glowing colours that last great fight wherein england’s general put to flight the hosts of the haughty monarch of france. for months has this been written; for months have i gone about seeking the man to take the part of youth and manhood. but i have sought in vain. all those whom i would have chosen have other work to do, and did but laugh at me. those who would gladly do my bidding, i will none of. you saw how they did mouth and rant to-night, thinking to show their talent, when they only displayed their imbecile folly. but here have i found the very man for whom i have long waited. you have youth, beauty—that manly beauty which transcends, to my thinking, the ephemeral loveliness of woman; you have the gift; you have seen the great hero: you have caught the very trick of his words and speech. oh, i know it! once did i hear him address the house of lords, and when you spoke i seemed to see and hear him again. the great world of fashion will go mad over you. we shall draw full houses; we shall succeed. i know it! i feel it! the old lion is not dead yet! he shall roar again in his native forest. say, boy, will you be my helper in this thing? and in the gains which we shall make we will share and share alike."
it was a very different sort of fame from anything grey had pictured for himself, and for a moment he hesitated; for he realized that were this dramatic sketch to take hold of the imagination of the town, and draw fashionable audiences, he could scarcely avoid recognition, disguise himself as he might. but as against this there was the pressing need of the moment. he was well-nigh penniless; his romance seemed likely to be but so much waste paper. he was hiding now even from dick, who periodically visited london to see him, lest the honest fellow should insist upon maintaining him from his own small hoard. here was an opening, as it seemed, to something like prosperity; and the alternative of being drafted into the army as a pauper recruit was scarcely sufficiently attractive to weigh in the balance. moreover, there was something so earnest and pathetic in the glance bent upon him by the old lion that he had not the heart to say him nay, and he held out his hand with a smile.
"i will be your helper; and as for the gains, let them be yours, and you shall give me what wage i merit. the play is yours, the thought is yours: it is for you to reap the harvest. i am but the labourer—worthy of his hire, and no more."
the compact was sealed, and the old man then insisted that grey should take his bed for the night, as he must sit up and remodel his play upon lines indicated by the young man, who had seen the field of ramillies and the disposition of troops. grey furnished him with sundry diagrams and notes, and left him perfectly happy at his task, which would doubtless occupy him during the night, whilst the weary guest slumbered peacefully upon the humble bed in the little alcove beyond the larger room.
when grey awoke next morning, the sun was shining; a frugal but sufficient meal was spread upon the table; a fire was blazing cheerily upon the hearth; and there was the old lion, with his manuscript before him, muttering beneath his breath, and throwing out his hand in telling gesture, making so fine a picture with his leonine face and shaggy mane of hair that grey watched him awhile in silence before advancing.
the removal of grey’s simple belongings took but little time, and lucky did he feel himself to be able to call this comfortable abode his home. a small attic upon the same floor of the house made him a sleeping chamber at very small cost, and his days were spent in the sunny south garret, which was called the lion’s den; and there they studied, and wrote, and rehearsed this eulogy upon the duke, and the prowess of the english arms, the old man introducing here and there allusions and innuendoes which grey scarcely understood, but which wylde declared would bring down thunders of applause from the house—as, indeed, proved to be the case.
grey had a faint misgiving at the first that no manager might be forthcoming to admit the dialogue to his boards; but there the old actor knew his ground. he succeeded in inviting two of the most successful managers to listen to a performance in the attic, without the accessories which would add much to the effect upon the stage; and even so the scene proved so telling, the acting of the old lion was so superb in its quiet dignity, and grey (who had learned and studied patiently and diligently) went through his part with such spirit, such power, such dramatic energy, that even his instructor was surprised at his success, and the managers exchanged glances of astonishment and pleasure.
it was just the sort of piece to catch the public favour at this juncture. marlborough was still the idol of the nation, and might be expected home some time before the winter closed—perhaps before christmas itself. the nation was discussing how to do him honour, and would flock to see a piece wherein his praises were so ably sung.
"with a wig such as the duke wears, and with military dress, mr. grey could be made to look the very image of the great general," cried one.
"he has something the same class of face—handsome, regular features, grace of action and bearing. he does but want to be transformed from fair to dark, and his acting of the duke will bring down veritable thunders of applause from all."
and then began a gratifying rivalry as to terms, in which the old lion sustained his part with dignity and firmness. both managers desired to secure this interlude for their respective theatres, and at the last it was settled that the performance was to be given two nights a week at drury lane, and two at sadler’s wells, the astute old actor retaining the right to make his own terms at private houses upon the two remaining nights of the working week. the costumes were to be provided by the managers, but were to be the property of the actors, who would undertake to replace them should any harm befall them at private representations.
when these matters had been satisfactorily settled, and certain other details arranged, the great men took their leave in high good humour; and the old lion, shaking back his mane of shaggy hair, grasped grey by the hands, his eyes sparkling in his head.
"your fortune is made, young man! your fortune is made! you will never need to fear poverty again. what life so grand as that of the man who can sway the multitude, make men laugh or weep at his bidding, hold them suspended breathless upon his lips, move them to mirth, or rouse them to the highest realm of passion? ah, that is life! that is life! have i not tasted it? do i not know? and that life lies before you, my son. what the principles of wycliffe have done for england, the principles of savonarola may yet do for italy. at any rate, his work for italy is not done yet.
december 19, 1902.
the four chief objects of interest at pisa are all in a group at the northern end of the town, and a wonderfully effective group it is: the cloistered cemetery, or camp santo, with its fifty-five shiploads of earth from the holy land; the baptistery, with its remarkable echo; the cathedral, with the pendent lamp in the nave which suggested to galileo the idea of the pendulum; and that wonder of the world, the white marble tower, which leans thirteen feet out of the perpendicular. we all tried in vain to stand with heels and back to the inside of the north wall on the ground floor--it cannot be done; one falls forward at once. from the top there is a magnificent view of the city and the surrounding plain, of the mountains on the east and the sea on the west, of the city of leghorn and the island of elba.
from the windows of our hotel at pisa we saw for the first time the red gold of ripe oranges shining amid their dark green leaves in the gardens, and rejoiced to think that at last we had reached a somewhat milder climate, and were now leaving rigorous winter behind us.
the journey from pisa to rome is a long one, and the schedule was such that we did not arrive till late at night. from the car windows we had some impressive views of the mediterranean by moonlight, and of the solemn campagna, and, thus prepared, we crossed the tiber at midnight, and passed through the breach in the walls which has been made for the railway, feeling, perhaps even more deeply than is usual, the thrill with which all travellers except those who are utterly devoid of imagination first enter the eternal city.
some little adventures by the way.
december 21, 1902.
the margin of leisure left to a traveller in europe for the writing of letters is, after all, a very narrow one, as those of my readers who have been abroad will readily remember. one generally moves from place to place in such rapid succession that the feeling of being settled, which is essential to the most satisfactory writing, is almost unknown. then, when one does stop for a few days in a historic city, each day is so full of interest, and the golden opportunity to see its sights seems so fleeting, that one hesitates to take any part of such time for writing, to say nothing of the weariness and drowsiness of an evening that follows a day of sightseeing.
add to this the amount of time required of one who acts as general director of the tour, and has to take account of all manner of business details, and the number of questions to be answered when there are three or four young people in the party who have read just enough general history to make their minds bristle with interrogations at every interesting place, and who have to be read to daily en masse on the spot in order to improve the psychological moment of excited curiosity; add also the physician's injunction to take abundance of exercise in the open air, in order to the full recovery of health and the laying up of strength for future work, and his earnest counsel not to linger much at a writing desk or a study table--and it will be seen that if the continuity of this series of letters suffers an occasional break, it is but the natural result of the conditions of tourist life.
it may interest some of my younger readers to know that the member of our party who receives the most attention is a little blue-eyed girl, just two years old to-day, who is the most extraordinary traveller of her age that i ever saw or ever heard of, accepting all the irregularities, inconveniences and discomforts of this migratory mode of life with the serene indifference of a veteran. we naturally supposed that, being so young, she would give us more or less trouble on so long a journey, and this proved to be true on the cold and rough sea voyage, but, from the day that we landed on this side of the ocean, she has been a delight to our whole party, a maker of friends wherever we have gone, and an immensely interesting object to the populace of the cities through which we have passed. at leyden, in holland, as we passed along the streets, we were followed all over town by an admiring throng of dutch children, just out of school, to whom our baby's bright red coat and cap were no less interesting than their wooden shoes were to us; and so we found out how the elephants and monkeys and musicians and other people who make up the street parade of a circus may be supposed to feel when they pass through a town followed by the motley gang of school boys, ragamuffins, and general miscellanies of humanity.
at wiesbaden, in germany, we bought one of those odd little german baby carts with two wheels and two handles, like plow handles, between which the person who pushes it walks, the baby really riding backwards, instead of forwards, as in our american baby carriages. you will see from this description that german baby carriages are like the german language--all turned the wrong way, though it must be said for this arrangement that the baby is not so likely to be lonesome as when riding face forward, since she always has some one to look at. well, at venice, which is almost a dead town now, so far as business is concerned, and which has perhaps as large a leisure class--that is, street loafers--as any city of equal size on this terraqueous planet, a lady of our party essayed to take the baby out for an airing in her german cart. it would appear that it was the first time since the foundation of that pile-driven city in the sea that a pair of wheels was ever seen on her streets. at any rate, from the moment that the lady and the baby and the cart emerged from the hotel door they were attended by an ever-increasing throng of unwashed venetians, whose interest could not have been keener had santos dumont's air-ship or a japanese jinriksha suddenly appeared in their gondola-ridden town, and who commented in shrill italian on this wheeled apparition. the lady is not easily beaten when she decides to do anything, but, after standing that for half a block or so, she made a hasty retreat to the hotel, and wheels disappeared, probably forever, from the streets of venice.
although venice, with its population of one hundred and sixty-three thousand, is seven miles in circumference, and is divided by one hundred and forty-six canals into one hundred and seventeen islands, yet these are so joined together by means of four hundred bridges that it is possible to walk all over the city. but the bridges are built in steps, and cannot be used by wheeled vehicles. there are no horses or carriages of any kind. the funereal-looking gondola, always painted black, is the only conveyance upon these streets of water, and does duty for cab, omnibus, wagon, cart, wheelbarrow and hearse. it is used for pleasure riding, shopping, church-going, theatre-going, visiting, carrying prisoners to jail, carrying the dead to the cemetery--in short, for everything.
in propelling this black but graceful and easy-going boat, the gondolier does not sit. he stands, on a sort of deck platform towards the stern, and to balance his weight there is affixed to the prow a heavy piece of shining steel, which rears itself at the front almost like a figure-head, only this is always of the same pattern, simply a broad, upright blade of steel, notched deeply on the front edge. the gondolier does not pull the oar, he pushes it--there is only one oar--and he does not change it from side to side, as in paddling a canoe, but makes all the strokes on one side, a thing that looks very easy, but is in fact extremely difficult. the dexterity of these men with their long single oar is wonderful. they glide in and out among scores of gondolas on the crowded canals without collision or jerking, and they turn a corner within an inch.
these remarks upon the skill of the gondoliers, and the ease and safety of the gondolas, remind me, by contrast, of the destructive bungling of a porter in cologne, who undertook to cart a load of trunks and handbags and shawl-straps down from our hotel to the rhine steamer, and who, in turning a corner on a down grade, made the turn too short, and hurled the whole lot of our belongings into the muddy street with such violence that many of them were defaced, some permanently damaged, and one valise broken to pieces and utterly ruined.
that german baby carriage had an exciting adventure also on the night of our arrival in rome. as usual, it was made the apex of the pyramid of trunks and grip-sacks which constitute our sign manual, so to speak, on the top of every omnibus that takes us from the station to the hotel; but in this instance it was carelessly left untied, so that as we went steeply down one of the seven hills of rome, the cart tumbled from its high perch to the stone-paved street, snapping off one of the handles, and suffering sundry other shattering experiences. a few days after we had the pleasure of paying a fraudulent cabinetmaker more for repairing it than it cost in the first instance. the italian workmen and shopkeepers uniformly charge you more than their work and goods are worth. i think i have had more counterfeit money passed on me in the short time i have been in italy than i have had in all the rest of my life before, and the very first swindle of this kind to which i was subjected was in a church, when the sacristan gave me a counterfeit two-franc piece in change as i paid the admission fees to see certain paintings and sculptures behind the high altar.
however, i am wandering from my subject; i may conclude my eulogy on the baby above mentioned by saying that, young as she is, she sits through the seventy or eighty minutes of the customary tedious european dinner almost as circumspectly as a graven image might, but reminding us of one of raphael's cherubs in her blue-eyed combination of sweetness, archness and dignity.
next time we will resume our account of matters of more general interest.
relics in general, and the iron crown of lombardy in particular.
rome, december 23, 1902.
i had heard of relics before. years ago i had read mark twain's account of the large piece of the true cross which he had seen in a church in the azores; and of another piece which he had seen in the cathedral of notre dame in paris, besides some nails of the true cross and a part of the crown of thorns; and of the marble chest in the cathedral of san lorenzo at genoa, which he was told contained the ashes of st. john, and was wound about with the chain that had confined st. john when he was in prison; and of the interesting collection shown him in the cathedral of milan, including two of st. paul's fingers and one of st. peter's, a bone of judas iscariot (black, not white), and also bones of all the other disciples (presumably of the normal color), a handkerchief in which the saviour had left the impression of his face, part of the crown of thorns, a fragment of the purple robe worn by christ, a picture of the virgin and child painted by st. luke, and a nail from the cross--adding in another place that he thought he had seen in all not less than a keg of these nails.
but i had hardly taken mark twain seriously in these statements, not knowing at the time that his innocents abroad was, notwithstanding its broad humor, really one of the best guide-books to europe that was ever written.
i had read repeatedly the story of the bringing of st. mark's bones from alexandria, in egypt, to their present resting-place in st. mark's cathedral at venice--a story which is related as follows in that same lively volume:
"st. mark died at alexandria, in egypt. he was martyred, i think. however, that has nothing to do with my legend. about the founding of the city of venice--say four hundred and fifty years after christ--(for venice is much younger than any other italian city), a priest dreamed that an angel told him that until the remains of st. mark were brought to venice, the city could never rise to high distinction among the nations; that the body must be captured, brought to the city, and a magnificent church built over it; and that if ever the venetians allowed the saint to be removed from his new resting-place, in that day venice would perish from off the face of the earth. the priest proclaimed his dream, and forthwith venice set about procuring the corpse of st. mark. one expedition after another tried and failed, but the project was never abandoned during four hundred years. at last it was secured by stratagem, in the year eight hundred and something. the commander of the venetian expedition disguised himself, stole the bones, separated them, and packed them in vessels filled with lard. the religion of mahomet causes its devotees to abhor anything in the nature of pork, and so when the christian was stopped at the gate of the city, they only glanced once into the precious baskets, then turned up their noses at the unholy lard, and let him go. the bones were buried in the vaults of the grand cathedral, which had been waiting long years to receive them, and thus the safety and the greatness of venice were secured. and to this day there be those in venice who believe that if those holy ashes were stolen away, the ancient city would vanish like a dream, and its foundation be buried forever in the unremembering sea."
more recently i had read of what has been well called the burlesque enacted at arundel castle no longer ago than in july, 1902, in which the duke of norfolk, cardinal vaughan, and many lesser ornaments and dignitaries of the romish church, took part.
i had read with cordial approval mark twain's animadversions upon the fraud which is regularly practiced on the people of naples by the priests in the cathedral:
"and here, also, they used to have a grand procession of priests, citizens, soldiers, sailors, and the high dignitaries of the city government, once a year, to shave the head of a made-up madonna--a stuffed and painted image, like the milliner's dummy--whose hair miraculously grew and restored itself every twelve months. they still kept up this shaving procession as late as four or five years ago. it was a source of great profit to the church that possessed the remarkable effigy, and the public barbering of her was always carried out with the greatest éclat and display--the more the better, because the more excitement there was about it the larger the crowds it drew and the heavier the revenues it produced--but at last the day came when the pope and his servants were unpopular in naples, and the city government stopped the madonna's annual show.
"there we have two specimens of these neapolitans--two of the silliest possible frauds, which half the population religiously and faithfully believed, and the other half either believed or else said nothing about, and thus lent themselves to the support of the imposture."
i had read the story of the casa santa, or holy house, the little stone building, thirteen and one-half feet high and twenty-eight feet long, in which the virgin mary had lived at nazareth. in 336 the empress helena, mother of constantine the great, made a pilgrimage to nazareth and built a church over the holy house. this church fell into decay when the saracens again got the upper hand in palestine, and when the christians lost ptolemais the holy house was carried by angels through the air from nazareth to the coast of dalmatia. this miraculous transportation took place in 1291. a few years later it was again removed by angels during the night, and set down in the province of ancona, near the eastern coast of italy, on the ground of a widow named laureta. hence the name, loretto, given to the town which sprang up around it for the accommodation of the thousands of pilgrims who flocked thither, and which is now a place of some six thousand inhabitants, whose principal business is begging and the sale of rosaries, medals and images. in a niche inside the casa santa is a small black image of the virgin and child, of cedar, attributed, of course, to st. luke. we did not visit loretto, but at bologna we had the satisfaction of seeing a fac-simile of the casa santa, with its little window and fireplace, and the replica of st. luke's handi-work in the niche above. a large number of women, some of them handsomely dressed, were saying their prayers and counting their beads before the altar that had been erected in front of these images and the holy house, and a few were kneeling in the narrow space behind the altar, close to the fireplace of the house. as we passed, one of these women, in plainer garb, interrupted her devotions long enough to hold out her hand to us, begging for pennies, but without rising from her knees. there was nothing unusual about this, except that this beggar made her appeal to us while actually on her knees to the image of the virgin, for nothing is more common in italy than for visitors to a roman catholic church to pass through such "an avenue of palms" when leaving it.
i had even seen a few relics, not mere reproductions like that of the casa santa at bologna, but the relics themselves. for instance, three summers ago, when in quebec, i had made a special trip to the church of st. anne beaupre, some twenty miles below the city, for the purpose of seeing the wonder-working relics of st. anne, the alleged mother of the virgin mary--a bit of her finger bone and a bit of her wrist bone--which are devoutly kissed and adored by thousands of pilgrims to this magnificent church from all the french and irish portions of canada, and which are said to have wrought miraculous cures of all manner of maladies, cures which are attested by two immense stacks of canes, crutches, wooden legs, and the like, which rise from the floor almost to the roof on either side of the entrance. in the store in another part of the church i had got a clue to it all by seeing the poor pilgrims buying all sorts of cheap, tawdry, worthless little images and pictures, and especially little vials of oil of remarkable curative virtue because it had stood for a while before the image of st. anne, and for which they paid probably five times as much as the oil had cost the priests who were selling it.
these, then, are potent bones and images and oils, but by far the most interesting relic i had seen before reaching rome itself was the iron crown of lombardy, at monza, a little town in northern italy. this is the place where the good king humbert was assassinated on the 29th of july, 1900, and it is not without interest for other reasons. for instance, it has a cathedral built of black and white marble in horizontal stripes, and containing, besides the tomb of queen theodolinda and other interesting objects in the nave and its chapels, a great number of costly articles of gold and silver, set with precious stones, in the treasury, as well as various relics, such as some of the baskets carried by the apostles, a piece of the virgin mary's veil, and one of john the baptist's teeth. but we should never have made a special trip to monza in such weather as we were having at the time of our visit, last november, had it not been for our intense desire to see its chief treasure, the iron crown, the most sacred and most celebrated diadem in the world, a relic possessing real historical interest, not because of any probability whatever in the story of its origin, but because of the extraordinary uses and associations of it within the last thousand years.
so, regardless of the wet, cold, foggy weather that we found in milan, and the rivers of mud and slush that were then doing duty for streets, and the splotches of snow that lay here and there in the forlorn-looking olive orchards, we took the electric tram, which was comfortably heated, and ran out to monza, a distance of some ten miles. when we stepped into the chilly cathedral and looked about us, we could not at first see anybody to show us around, though there were a good many poor people saying their prayers there. evidently the custodians were not expecting tourists at such a season and in such weather. but presently, in an apartment to the left, we found a number of the priests warming their hands over a dish of twig coals covered with a light layer of white ashes, which they kindly stirred a little to make them give forth more heat as they saw us stretch our cold hands also towards the grateful warmth.
when we asked if we could see the iron crown, they said we could; but instead of going at once to the chapel in which it is kept, they got a great bag of keys, large keys, thirty-seven in number, as the observant statistician of our party ascertained, and led us into the treasury and unlocked a great number of doors (one of which had seven locks), and showed us the costly objects and precious relics above mentioned. we were only mildly interested in these--even in the apostolic baskets, the virgin's veil, and john the baptist's tooth--partly because we were so cold and partly because of our greater interest in the more famous relic which we had come especially to see.
at last one of the priests, attended by an acolyte, took up a censer, placed a little incense on the coals with a teaspoon, and, swinging it in his hand by the chain, led us back into the cathedral, turned to a chapel on the left, unlocked an iron gate in a tall railing which separated this chapel from the body of the building, closed the gate again when our party had come inside, and, while a dozen or so of the people who had been at their devotions crowded up to the railing and peered curiously through, he and his attendant began to kneel repeatedly before the altar and to swing the smoking censer on every side. above the altar was a strong, square steel box, over which, in plain view, was suspended a fac-simile of the iron crown, made of cheaper materials, while the real crown was still concealed within the steel safe.
handing the censer to his attendant, that it might be kept swinging without intermission, the priest produced another series of keys and proceeded to unlock a succession of small doors in the side of the metal safe, which proved to be a "nest" of caskets, one within another, the last of which was a glass case. drawing this out, he brought into full view the venerated crown of the lombard kings, and told us to step up on the stool by the altar so as to see it better. it is made of six plates of gold, joined end to end, richly chased, and set with splendid jewels. but one would see at a glance that neither the material, nor the workmanship, nor the gems, could account for the unique reverence with which it has been regarded for centuries, and an indication of which we had just seen in the service conducted by the priest. among the regalia in the tower of london, and at several other places in europe, we had seen crowns which far surpassed this one in costliness and beauty, but none of which, nor all of which combined, had ever excited a thousandth part of the interest attaching to this old crown in monza.
the explanation is this: within that ring of jointed plates of gold runs a thin band of iron, which priestly tradition says was made of one of the spikes that fastened the feet of our lord jesus christ to the cross. it was this band of iron that we tiptoed to see, hardly noticing the bejewelled rim of gold around it. it was on account of this band of iron that the priest and his attendant swung their censer and performed their ceremony as we entered. it was this band of iron that gave to the crown its sacred place above the altar. it was for the safe keeping of this band of iron that the steel case, with its numerous locks, was made. it was from this band of iron that the diadem received its name, the iron crown of lombardy.
and what were the historical uses of it, referred to above, which made it so much more interesting to us than the many other so-called nails of the true cross elsewhere? well, this among others: on the last christmas day of the eighth century, while charlemagne was kneeling with uncovered head before the high altar of st. peter's in rome, the pope approached him from behind, and, placing the iron crown of lombardy on his head, hailed him as emperor of the holy roman empire.
a thousand years later on the 26th of may, 1805, napoleon bonaparte, "watched by an apparently invincible army which adored him and a world which feared him," standing in the vast marble cathedral at milan, with fifteen thousand of his soldiers around him, lifted this same iron crown of lombardy into their view, and placed it upon his brow, saying, "god has given it to me, let him touch it who dares!"
that men who, like charlemagne and napoleon, had reached the highest pinnacle of human power, should seek to enhance their influence by crowning their heads with one of the nails which, as their followers believed, had pierced the galilean's foot, is a richly suggestive fact. but we must keep our tempted thoughts to another and less edifying line at present.
when we had examined all the parts of the famous crown to our satisfaction, we stepped to the desk in the ante-room and paid our five francs (one dollar), the regular price for the exhibition of the iron crown, then left the cathedral, bought one or two post-card pictures of the crown, and took the tram through the dreary weather back to milan, well pleased with the results of our first pilgrimage to the shrine of a real roman catholic relic in italy.
but on our arrival at rome, a month later, we found that, interesting as were the relics which we had seen or read of elsewhere, they were nothing to those in the eternal city itself. in this, as in everything else except such little matters as cleanliness and morality and truthfulness and honesty, rome outvies all her rivals. it is only fair to add, however, that, since the overthrow of the papal sovereignty and the establishment of a capable government, rome has improved immensely in the matter of cleanliness, and even her immorality is not so flaunting as it was. this is attested by the hon. guiseppe zanardelli, the present premier of italy, who says:
"the church appears better than it once was. i no longer see in rome what i used often to see in my young days, ladies driving about its streets with their coachmen and footmen in the liveries of their respective cardinals. has this improvement come about because the church is really growing better? nothing of the kind. it is because the strong arm of the law checks the villainy of the priests." that is the testimony of the prime minister of italy.
a few weeks after my return from italy, while driving one afternoon with a friend of mine, a lawyer of high intelligence and wide information, our conversation turned to the subject of the recent death of pope leo xiii., and from that drifted to the alleged liquefaction of the blood of st. januarius, and from that to relics in general. i mentioned some of the facts above stated concerning the numerous pieces of the true cross and the miracle-working bones and oils to be seen in roman catholic churches in europe. "but," he said, "surely the roman catholics in america do not believe in such mediæval superstitions." i happened to have in hand a couple of copies of a daily newspaper, published in one of our southern towns, dated august 9, 1903, and august 17, 1903, respectively, containing extracts from the letters of a roman catholic bishop, the highest dignitary of his church in that state; and, for answer to my friend's remark, i cited the following passage from the bishop's letter of july 10th, written from munich, concerning the abbey church of scheyern:
"the chapel of the holy cross is specially sacred, as within is preserved a very large piece of the true cross upon which christ was crucified, brought to scheyern in 1156 by count conrad, the crusader, who afterwards entered the monastery as lay-brother, and lies buried near the altar upon which the sacred relic is preserved."
also the following passage from his letter of july 12th, written from eichstadt:
"i remained the guest of prince ahrenberg for the night, and early in the morning, accompanied by some benedictine students, i made a pilgrimage to the shrine of st. walburg. above the altar is the large silver receptacle into which flows the miraculous oil from her sacred relics, which is known the world over."
writing from vienna, july 20, 1903, concerning the imperial palaces, he says, "they are awfully big and grand, and cost a lot of good people's money," but adds that "the pride and glory of vienna" is the cathedral, and then exclaims: "how often have i wished we could have some such church in ----, so that our good people who cannot visit the achievements of catholic life in europe could form some idea of the greatness of the religion of their fathers!"
one hesitates to differ from so good an authority on such matters as this bishop, but really would he not agree, on reflection, that what this benighted and decaying country of ours needs to bring it up to a level with italy and austria and spain is not a big church, but some relics? would not some miraculous oil, or some wonder-working bones, or a piece of the true cross, or one of the nails, if placed on exhibition here attract far more attention than a big church, and enable "our good people who cannot visit the achievements of catholic life in europe" to form a much better "idea of the greatness of the religion of their fathers"? does it not seem strange that so many hundreds of these relics should be kept in those enlightened and happy countries like italy, where "the achievements of catholic life" are so well known, and where mother church has for centuries had full sway, and that none of them should be brought to these benighted protestant regions, where they could effect such a salutary change in the faith of the people? but, seriously, as i added to my friend in the conversation referred to, i have a better opinion of the intelligence of our good roman catholic people in america than to believe that they put the slightest credence in these childish superstitions. whatever the bishop above quoted may believe, i am confident that the intelligent roman catholic people of our country have no more faith in many of these alleged relics than we have.
roman catholic relics at rome.
we reached rome at a good time for seeing relics, as the special services of the christmas season were just beginning. one of the most splendid of these ceremonies is the procession in honor of the santa culla; that is, the cradle in which the priestly tradition says the infant jesus was carried into egypt. this is the great relic and chief distinction of the church of santa maria maggiore, though it contains a number of others, such as the bodies of st. matthew and st. jerome, and two little bags of the brains of thomas á becket, and "one of the pictures attributed to st. luke (and announced to be such in a papal bull attached to the walls!), much revered for the belief that it stayed the plague which decimated the city during the reign of pelagius ii., and that (after its intercession had been sought by a procession by order of innocent viii.) it brought about the overthrow of the moorish dominion in spain."
moreover, this church of santa maria maggiore is by no means lacking in legendary and architectural interest. it was founded a. d. 352, by pope liberius and john, a roman patrician, to commemorate an alleged miraculous fall of snow, which covered this spot of ground and no other, on the 5th of august, and an alleged appearance of the virgin mary, in a vision, at the same time, showing them that she had thus appropriated the site of a new temple, all of which is duly represented in a fine painting on the wall of the church, and in two of murillo's most beautiful pictures in the academy at madrid, and commemorated every year on the 5th of august by a solemn high mass, and by showers of white rose leaves thrown down constantly through two holes in the ceiling, "like a leafy mist between the priests and the worshippers."
the worshippers of the virgin have not been lacking in their efforts to erect a suitably sumptuous building on the site of this "miracle." the magnificent nave, with its avenue of forty-two columns of greek marble, surmounted by a frieze of mosaic pictures; the glorious pavement of opus alexandrinum, whose "crimson and violet hues temper the white and gold of the walls"; the grand baldacchino, with its four porphyry columns wreathed with gilt leaves; and the splendid tomb chamber of pius ix. (predecessor of the late pope leo xiii.), with its riot of rich marbles and alabaster, in front of the high altar--to say nothing of the almost incredibly costly chapels opening into the nave--combine to give s. maria maggiore a proud place among the very finest of the fine basilicas of rome.
but not all the splendors of the building, nor all the fascination of its "miracles" and legends, nor all the spell of its other relics, can equal the interest attaching to the "santa culla," the holy cradle. on the afternoon of christmas day, we walked through the wet streets to the front of the church, pushed back the heavy, dirty screen of padded canvas, such as hangs at the door of every great church in italy, however fine, and, stepping within, found ourselves in the midst of a scene of the most dazzling splendor. the building was brilliantly illuminated with hundreds of electric lights and huge candles, which were sharply reflected by the glistening marbles on every hand; the air was heavy with clouds of incense, through the blue smoke of which the lofty ceiling looked higher than ever, and the organ and choir were pouring forth the richest music, while a dense crowd of people, many thousands, all standing, watched with eager interest a small, crate-like object, made of slats of dark wood, which rested on the high altar, enclosed in a glass case, with a gold baby on top and gold ornaments round about.
we pushed our way through the crowd, so as to get a satisfactory view of it while the service was in progress--the genuflections, the robing and disrobing of the archbishop, the chanting, and the rest--after which six men, dressed in pure white from head to foot (white gloves included), except for a red circle and cross on the breast, knelt before the cradle, then lifted it from the altar, with its gold and glass setting, and placing it on a kind of litter on their shoulders, under a gilt and white canopy borne by other attendants, marched with it thus, in procession around the church, along with a large crucifix under another canopy, and followed by a long line of cardinals, bishops, priests and acolytes, carrying it back finally to its place in the sacristy, where it will remain till next christmas day.
we squeezed our way through the great crowd at the door, and walked back to our hotel, wondering to what extent the usual roman catholic conception of christ had deprived that organization of real spiritual energy; for, almost invariably, roman catholic art represents him either as a dead christ on the cross, or a babe in his mother's arms, and hardly ever as the risen and glorified lord, the conqueror of death, the leader of his people, to whom all power is given in heaven and on earth--the more usual protestant conception. and we asked ourselves whether this difference did not help to explain the greater hopefulness, vigor and growth of protestant christianity in these strenuous latter days.
but we were soon to learn that the roman catholics did not think of the infant christ as lacking in power of a certain sort; on the contrary they ascribe miraculous agency even to an image of the divine babe. on the afternoon of december 29th, as two of our party were returning to our hotel, they passed at the foot of the capitoline hill a carriage, out of the window of which hung a ribbon or sash of cloth of gold, and they were not a little astonished to observe that, as this carriage rolled along, people knelt reverently before it on the street. inside they saw two bareheaded men holding a child on a pillow with a wealth of lace about it. they thought perhaps it was the royal carriage with the baby princess, but they could not imagine why men should be nursing the baby, as that is usually the employment of women, nor why the people should kneel so reverently before the young princess, a thing which they never did even for the king himself. the fact is that, as they learned on the following afternoon when visiting the church of ara coeli, on the capitoline hill, the carriage in question belonged to a far more important personage in rome than any princess, though that personage was not even a living baby, but only a doll. it was the coach of the famous bambino--il santissimo bambino--which with its dress of gold and silver tissue and its magnificent diamonds, emeralds and rubies, is the chief attraction of this church.
dr. alexander robertson, in his book on the roman catholic church in italy, says: "the bambino is a doll about three feet high, and it stands on a cushion in a glass case. it is clad in rich robes with a crown on its head, a regal order across its breast, and embroidered slippers on its feet. from head to foot it is one mass of dazzling jewelry, gold chains, strings of pearls, and diamond bracelets and rings, which not only cover the neck, arms and fingers, but are suspended, intermixed with crosses, stars, hearts, monograms, and every kind of precious stone, to all parts of its body. the only part unweighted with gems is its round, priest-like, wax face. but all this display of wealth, great in itself, is really only suggestive of that untold quantity which it has brought, and is still daily bringing, into the coffers of the church. people are continually kneeling before this dumb idol, offering petitions and leaving gifts, whilst letters containing requests, accompanied with post-office orders and checks to pay for the granting of the same, arrive by post for it from various parts of the globe."
hare's walks in rome gives the following account of the bambino and one of its most remarkable experiences:
"it has servants of its own, and a carriage in which it drives out with its attendants, and goes to visit the sick; for, though an infant, it is the oldest medical practitioner in rome. devout peasants always kneel as the blessed infant passes. formerly it was taken to sick persons and left on their beds for some hours, in the hope that it would work a miracle. now it is never left alone. in explanation of this, it is said that an audacious woman formed the design of appropriating to herself the holy image and its benefits. she had another doll prepared of the same size and appearance as the santissimo, and having feigned sickness and obtained permission to have it left with her, she dressed the false image in its clothes, and sent it back to ara coeli. the fraud was not discovered till night, when the franciscan monks were awakened by the most furious ringing of bells and by thundering knocks at the west door of the church, and hastening thither, could see nothing but a wee naked pink foot peeping in from under the door; but when they opened the door, without stood the little naked figure of the true bambino of ara coeli, shivering in the wind and rain--so the false baby was sent back in disgrace, and the real baby restored to its home, never to be trusted away alone any more."
but if i dwell on all these interesting relics and images as i have done on the holy cradle and the miraculous bambino, i shall never finish even the brief list of them which i had in mind when i began. i must hasten on, contenting myself with a bare mention of a few of the more notable relics at the other churches.
but the great relic of pilate's house, and one of the most interesting of all the relics in rome, is across the street from st. john lateran, viz., the world-renowned scala santa, or holy stairway, a flight of twenty-eight marble steps, once ascended by our saviour in the palace of pilate, and brought from jerusalem to rome in 326 by the empress helena, mother of constantine the great. they are covered with a wooden casing, but holes have been left through which the marble steps can be seen. two of them are stained with the saviour's blood. these spots are covered with glass. the light was rather dim, and as we entered a gentleman struck a match and held it over one of these glass-covered stains to show it to his little girl, so that, passing just at that moment, we also had a good view.
no foot is allowed to touch the scala santa; it must be ascended on the knees. a number of people were going up in this way when we entered, pausing on each step to repeat a prayer, for which indulgences are granted by the pope. there are stairways on each side, by which those who have thus crawled up may walk down. the only man i know of that ever walked down the holy stairs themselves, and the most illustrious man that ever crawled up them on his knees, was martin luther. when he had mounted slowly half way up, step by step on his knees, he seemed to hear a voice saying, "the just shall live by faith." martin luther rose from his knees, walked down the staircase, and left the place a free man so far as this superstition was concerned, and shortly afterwards became the most formidable foe that ever assailed the falsehood and corruption of the romish church.
a short walk beyond the scala santa and the lateran brings us to the church of s. croce in gerusalemme, which is specially rich in relics. here our party was shown a piece of the true cross of christ and the original plank bearing the inscription, "jesus, nazarene king," in hebrew, greek and latin, which was placed over his head; also one of the nails used in his crucifixion, and two of the thorns of his crown; besides a large piece of the cross of the penitent thief who was executed with him; and, most interesting of all in some respects, the finger used by thomas to resolve his doubts as to the resurrection of christ (john xx. 24-28).
but our party saw none of these except the finger of thomas. it is to be hoped that the others have been withdrawn from exhibition, for surely superstition and vulgarity can no further go. i fear, however, that those who are willing to pay enough can still see "one bottle of the most precious blood of our lord jesus christ," and "another of the milk of the most blessed virgin"! there is also "una ampulla lactis beatae mariae virginis" among the many relics to be seen in the church of ss. cosmo and damiano, near the forum.
the mention of this column reminds me of the two columns in the church of s. maria transpontina, on the other side of the tiber, near st. peter's, which bear inscriptions stating that they were the pillars to which st. peter and st. paul were fastened, respectively, when they suffered flagellation by order of nero. a little farther on towards st. peter's is the piazza scossa cavalli, with a pretty fountain. "its name bears witness to a curious legend, which tells how when s. helena returned from palestine, bringing with her the stone on which abraham was about to sacrifice isaac, and that on which the virgin mary sat down at the time of the presentation of the saviour in the temple, the horses drawing these precious relics stood still at this spot, and refused every effort to make them move. then christian people, 'recognizing the finger of god,' erected a church on this spot--s. giacomo scossa cavalli--where the stones are still to be seen."
while speaking of interesting stones, i must not omit to mention those in the church of s. francesca romana, near the forum, containing the marks of the knees of st. peter--(which show, by the way, that this apostle was a giant in size)--when he knelt to pray that simon magus might be dropped by the demons he had invoked to support him in the air in fulfilment of his promise to fly. one of these stones used to lie in the via sacra, and the water which collected in the two holes or knee prints was looked upon as so potent a remedy of disease that groups of infirm people used to gather around them on the approach of a shower. according to the legend, the place where peter knelt when he thus effected the discomfiture of simon magus and brought him to the ground with such force that his thigh was fractured, never to be healed, was the ancient via sacra. but, after the priests had removed the stone from the roadway into the church, the inconsiderate and iconoclastic explorers of our day, who have made so many discoveries in their excavations about the forum, proved that the roadway from which this relic was taken was not the ancient via sacra at all, but a more modern roadway which had been mistaken for it!
in the mamertine prisons, which are also quite close to the forum, a depression on the stone wall by which we descend to the lower dungeon is shown as the spot against which st. peter's head rested, though our guide had just told us that these stairs were not in existence then and prisoners were let down into the dungeon through the hole in the middle of the stone floor. such trifling discrepancies do not seem to trouble the average italian mind.
st. peter and st. paul are said to have been bound in this prison for nine months to a pillar, which is shown here. "a fountain of excellent water beneath the floor of the prison is attributed to the prayers of st. peter, that he might have wherewith to baptize his gaolers, processus and martinianus; but, unfortunately for this ecclesiastical tradition, the fountain is described by plutarch as having existed at the time of jugurtha's imprisonment" here, long before the time of st. peter.
but the most interesting of all the miraculous springs in or around rome are the three fountains, about two miles from the city, where the apostle paul was executed. when his head was severed from his body it bounded from the earth three times, crying out thrice, "jesus! jesus! jesus!" a fountain burst from the ground at each of the three spots where the severed head struck. it is asserted, in proof of this origin of the fountains, that the water of the first is still warm, of the second tepid, and of the third cold, but we drank of them one after another without being able to detect any difference in temperature. the apostle's head is shown in bas relief upon the three altars above the fountains. in the church which has been built over them we were shown the pillar to which he was bound, and the block of marble upon which he was decapitated, and, in the vault of another church hard by, the prison in which he was placed just before his execution.
we could not help asking the priest who was our escort whether this extraordinary story was still believed. his answer was: "certainly! there is no reason whatever to doubt it. the facts have been handed down in an unbroken succession from eye-witnesses," a position which he proceeded to defend at length and with great warmth when one of our party in particular manifested much slowness to believe.
furthermore, the opening of these three fountains was not the only miracle wrought by the apostle after his death. mrs. jameson says: "the legend of his death relates that a certain roman matron named plautilla, one of the converts of s. peter, placed herself on the road by which s. paul passed to his martyrdom, to behold him for the last time; and when she saw him she wept greatly and besought his blessing. the apostle then, seeing her faith, turned to her, and begged that she would give him her veil to blind his eyes when he should be beheaded, promising to return it to her after his death. the attendants mocked at such a promise; but plautilla, with a woman's faith and charity, taking off her veil, presented it to him. after his martyrdom, s. paul appeared to her and restored the veil, stained with his blood. in the ancient representations of the martyrdom of s. paul, the legend of plautilla is seldom omitted. in the picture by giotto in the sacristy of s. peter's, plautilla is seen on an eminence in the background, receiving the veil from the hands of s. paul, who appears in the clouds above; the same representation, but little varied, is executed in bas-relief on the bronze doors of st. peter's."
about two miles northeast of the three fountains, and the same distance from the city, on the appian way, stands the church of st. sebastian. over an altar on the right, as you enter, the attendant priest, drawing aside a curtain, shows you a slab of dark red stone with two enormous footprints on it. these, we are told, were made by the feet of christ during an interview with peter which took place near here, on the site of the small church of domine quo vadis. the story is as follows: after the burning of rome, nero charged the christians with having fired the city. straightway the first persecution broke forth, and many of the christians were put to death with dreadful torture. the survivors besought peter not to expose his life. as he fled along the appian way, christ appeared to him travelling towards the city. the fleeing apostle exclaimed in amazement, "domine, quo vadis?" (lord, whither goest thou?), to which, with a look of mild sadness, the saviour replied, "venio iterum crucifigi" (i come to be crucified a second time), then vanished, whereupon the apostle, ashamed of his weakness, returned to rome, and shortly afterwards was crucified there himself.
we may close this running account of the relics at rome with a brief mention of those that are to be seen in st. peter's itself, the largest and costliest church in the world. the construction of it extended over one hundred and seventy-six years. the cost of the main building alone was fifty million dollars. the annual outlay for repairs is thirty-one thousand five hundred dollars. but it cost the romish church far more than money--it cost her the loss of all the leading nations of the world, which had been under her dominion till that time. for the expense of the vast structure, with its "insolent opulence of marbles," was so great that julius ii. and leo x. were obliged to meet the enormous outlay by the sale of indulgences, and that, as is well known, precipitated the reformation. so that protestants may well feel a peculiar interest in this mighty cathedral.
at the other end of the church we are shown an ancient wooden chair, encrusted with ivory, which we are told was the cathedra petri, the episcopal throne of st. peter and his immediate successors. a magnificent festival in honor of this chair has been annually celebrated here for hundreds of years.
my party seems to be made up of very determined protestants. at any rate, the sight of this relic leads an inquisitive person in the party to ask whether the bible does not say that "peter's wife's mother lay sick of a fever."
"yes," replies the unfortunate gentleman to whose lot it falls to answer all questions of all kinds.
"then," continues the inquisitive person, "peter was married?"
unfortunate gentleman: "yes."
u. g.: "no."
u. g.: "these questions are becoming too hard for me. come, let me show you the tomb which contains the bones of st. peter and st. paul. only half of their bodies are preserved here, the other portion of st. peter's being in the church of st. john lateran and the other portion of st. paul's at the magnificent basilica of st. paul's without the walls."
"a circle of eighty-six gold lamps is always burning around the tomb of the poor fisherman of galilee.... hence one can gaze up into the dome, with its huge letters in purple-blue mosaic upon a gold ground (each six feet long)--tu es petrus, et super hanc petram ædificabo ecclesiam meam, et tibi dabo claves regni coelorum.' above this are four colossal mosaics of the evangelists.... the pen of st. luke is seven feet in length."
but we must not permit ourselves to be diverted from our proper subject by the vastness and splendor of the building, natural as it is to do so when standing under this matchless dome. the four huge piers which support the dome are used as shrines for the four great relics of the church, viz.: 1. the lance of st. longinus, the soldier who pierced the saviour's side; 2. a portion of the true cross; 3. the napkin of st. veronica, containing the miraculous impression of our lord's face; and 4. the head of the apostle andrew.
i did not see these relics myself, as i was in the east when they were exhibited, but on april 11th, the day before easter, other members of my party did, that is, they saw all of them but andrew's head, and from a letter written me by the youngest of my correspondents in my own family, giving not only description, but drawings of the spear head, the cross and the handkerchief in their several frames, i infer that, notwithstanding the great height of the veronica balcony from which they are exhibited, my young correspondent and his companions fared better in the matter of a good view than fritz in chronicles of the schönberg cotta family, who says: "to-day we gazed on the veronica--the holy impression left by our saviour's face on the cloth s. veronica presented to him to wipe his brow, bowed under the weight of the cross. we had looked forward to this sight for days, for seven thousand years of indulgence from penance are attached to it. but when the moment came we could see nothing but a black board hung with a cloth, before which another white cloth was held. in a few minutes this was withdrawn, and the great moment was over, the glimpse of the sacred thing on which hung the fate of seven thousand years."
the legends, the popes, and the pasquinades.
before quitting the subject of the relics at rome, i must give my readers what hare calls "the extraordinary history of the manufacture of s. filomena, now one of the most popular saints in italy, and one towards whom idolatry is carried out with frantic enthusiasm both at domo d'ossola and in some of the neapolitan states."
"in the year 1802, while some excavations were going forward in the catacombs of priscilla, a sepulchre was discovered containing the skeleton of a young female; on the exterior were rudely painted some of the symbols constantly recurring in these chambers of the dead--an anchor, an olive branch (emblems of hope and peace), a scourge, two arrows, and a javelin; above them the following inscription, of which the beginning and end were destroyed:
--"lumena pax te cum fi"--
but, after all, the most extraordinary case of saint-manufacture is not that of philomena, but that of buddha! i have not room for the story here, but if any one wishes to know how the papacy made buddha a christian saint, he will find the whole story, with the proofs, in a history of the warfare of science and theology, by andrew d. white, ll. d., late president and professor of history at cornell university, and until recently united states ambassador to germany.
a few days ago we visited the church of st. laurence without the walls, where in a silver shrine under the high altar, the remains of st. laurence and st. stephen are said to rest. the walls of the portico of the church are covered with a series of frescoes, lately repainted. one series represents the story of st. stephen and that of the translation of his relics to this church. "the relics of st. stephen were preserved at constantinople, whither they had been transported from jerusalem by the empress eudoxia, wife of theodosius ii. hearing that her daughter, eudoxia, wife of valentinian ii., emperor of the west, was afflicted with a devil, she begged her to come to constantinople, that her demon might be driven out by the touch of the relics. the younger eudoxia wished to comply, but the devil refused to leave her unless st. stephen was brought to rome. an agreement was therefore made that the relics of st. stephen should be exchanged for those of st. laurence. st. stephen arrived, and the empress was immediately relieved of her devil; but when the persons who had brought the relics of st. stephen from constantinople were about to take those of st. laurence back with them, they all fell down dead! pope pelagius prayed for their restoration to life, which was granted for a short time, to prove the efficacy of prayer, but they all died again ten days later! thus the romans knew that it would be criminal to fulfil their promise, and part with the relics of st. laurence, and the bodies of the two martyrs were laid in the same sarcophagus." and thus we know how much more the romans think of relics than of honor and truth. "it is related that when they opened the sarcophagus, and lowered into it the body of st. stephen, st. laurence moved on one side, giving the place of honor on the right hand to st. stephen; hence, the common people of rome have conferred on st. laurence the title of 'il cortese spagnuolo'--the courteous spaniard."
another series of these pictures in the portico represents the story of a sacristan who, coming to pray in this church before day, found it filled with worshippers, and was told by st. laurence himself that they were the apostle peter, the first martyr, stephen, and other apostles, martyrs and virgins from paradise, and was ordered to go and tell the pope what he had seen, and bid him come and celebrate a solemn mass. the sacristan objected that the pope would not believe him, and asked for some visible sign. then st. laurence ungirt his robe and gave him his girdle. when the pope was accompanying him back to the basilica they met a funeral procession. to test the powers of the girdle, the pope laid it on the bier, and at once the dead arose and walked.
that is not the only miracle of resurrection offered to our credulity by these ecclesiastical legends. the three principal frescoes in the chapter house of the church of st. sisto, recently painted by the padre besson, represent three miracles of st. dominic--in each case of raising from the dead--the subjects being a mason who had fallen from a scaffold when building this monastery, a child, and the young lord napoleone orsini, who had been thrown from his horse and instantly killed, and who was brought to life by st. dominic on this spot, as is further commemorated by an inscription on the wall. but miracles were nothing uncommon in the history of the founder of the powerful dominican order. in the refectory of st. marco, at florence, we had seen the fine fresco which represents the miraculous provision made for him and his forty friars at a time of scarcity by two angels. the refectory in which this miracle took place is at the church of st. sabina, on the aventine, in rome; but there are three other things at this church which interested us hardly less than the scene of that miracle. one of them is the huge, pumpkin-shaped, black stone, two or three times as big as a man's head, which the devil is said to have hurled at st. dominic one day when he found him lying prostrate in prayer. this stone is the most conspicuous object in the church, being set up on a pillar about three feet high, right in the middle of the nave. not far away is the marble slab on which the saint was lying at the time that the formidable missile was thrown. the adversary's aim was not good, and the saint was not harmed. the second thing of chief interest here is the chapel of the rosary, at the other end of the same aisle in which the marble slab lies, built on the very spot where st. dominic had the vision in which he received the rosary from the hands of the virgin. the supernatural gift is commemorated in a beautiful painting by sassoferato. it is hardly necessary to explain to any of my readers that a rosary is a string of beads used by roman catholics to keep the count of the number of pater-nosters and ave-marias which they repeat, and that this manner of "vain repetitions" was first used by the dominicans among roman catholics, though the custom was really borrowed from the mohammedans and brahmins, who still use rosaries. the third object is the famous orange tree, now six hundred and seventy years old, which is said to have been brought from spain and planted in the court here by st. dominic himself, orange trees having been unknown in rome before that time, and "which still lives, and is firmly believed to flourish or fail with the fortunes of the dominican order." ladies are not allowed to approach this tree, so, as there were ladies in our party, we all contented ourselves with a look at it through a window. hard by, of course, there is a room where things are sold to pilgrims and visitors. there we bought a rosary, the beads of which are made of the fruit of the plant called the thorn of christ, with the exception of the bead next to the cross, which is a tiny dried orange from st. dominic's tree. enclosed in the cross are a little piece of the wood of the tree, and some earth from the catacombs where the bodies of sts. peter and paul, and of the holy virgin martyrs, sts. agnes and cecilia, reposed for some time. the printed leaflet which accompanies our purchase tells us that "these rosaries, when sold or ordered, are blessed and enriched with the indulgences of the rosary confraternity and the papal blessing. when blessed they may be distributed; but if resold they lose all the indulgences." (italics ours.)
not far from the church of st. gregory we were shown the hermitage where st. giovanni de matha lived. "before he came to reside here he had been miraculously brought from tunis (whither he had gone on a mission) to ostia, in a boat without helm or sail, in which he knelt without ceasing before the crucifix throughout the whole of his voyage!"
time would fail me to tell of the miraculous surgical operation performed by sts. cosmo and damian upon a man who was praying in the church dedicated to them, and who had a diseased leg amputated without pain by the good saints while he slept; and not only so, but had a sound leg, which they had taken from the body of a man just buried, substituted for the diseased one. nor can i dwell on the miraculous blindness with which the guard sent to seize pope st. martin i. was stricken the moment he caught sight of the pontiff in st. maria maggiore, or the miraculous tears shed by an image of the virgin attached to a neighboring wall when she saw a cruel murder committed in the street below, or the madonnas and crucifixes that spoke to saints on various occasions. one of these, however, is too significant to be omitted altogether. there is in the church of st. agostino a sculptured image of the madonna and child. "it is not long since the report was spread that one day a poor woman called upon this image of the madonna for help; it began to speak, and replied, 'if i had only something, then i could help thee, but i myself am so poor!' this story was circulated, and very soon throngs of credulous people hastened hither to kiss the foot of the madonna, and to present her with all kinds of gifts." (italics mine.)
the evil methods employed at various times to replenish the papal treasury are known to all readers of history. the best known, perhaps, is the shameless traffic in indulgences by tetzel, which helped to precipitate the reformation. hare closes his account of the execution of beatrice cenci for complicity in the murder of her father with the statement that "sympathy will always follow one who sinned under the most terrible of provocations, and whose cruel death was due to the avarice of clement viii. for the riches which the church acquired by the confiscation of the cenci property," and cites the petition of gaspare guizza (1601), in which he claims a reward from the pope for his service in apprehending one of the assassins of francesco cenci, on the ground that thus "the other accomplices and their confessions were secured, and so many thousands of crowns brought into the papal treasury." the venality of pope alexander vi., rodrigo borgia (1492-1503), "the wicked and avaricious father of cæsar and lucretia, who is believed to have died of the poison which he intended for one of his cardinals," is thus hit off by pasquino:
"vendit alexander claves, altaria, christum; emerat ille prius, vendere jure potest."
of innocent x. (1644-'55), pasquino says, "magis amat olympiam quam olympium," referring to the shameful relations existing between this pope and his avaricious sister-in-law, olympia maidalchini, who made it her business to secure the profits of the papacy in hard cash. trollope, in his life of olympia, says: "no appointment to office of any kind was made except in consideration of a proportionable sum paid down into her own coffers. this often amounted to three or four years' revenue of the place to be granted. bishoprics and benefices were sold as fast as they became vacant. one story is told of an unlucky disciple of simon, who in treating with the pope for a valuable see, just fallen vacant, and hearing from her a price at which it might be his, far exceeding all he could command, persuaded the members of his family to sell all they had for the purpose of making this profitable investment. the price was paid, and the bishopric was given him, but, with a fearful resemblance to the case of ananias, he died within the year, and his ruined family saw the see a second time sold by the insatiable and incorrigible olympia.... during the last year of innocent's life, olympia literally hardly ever quitted him. once a week, we read, she left the vatican, secretly by night, accompanied by several porters carrying sacks of coins, the proceeds of the week's extortions and sales, to her own palace. and during these short absences she used to lock the pope into his chamber, and take the key with her!" she finally "deserted him on his death-bed, making off with the accumulated spoils of his ten years' papacy, which enabled her son, don camillo, to build the palazzo doria pamfili, in the corso, and the beautiful villa doria pamfili," west of the janiculan hill. this villa, with its casino, garden, lake, fountain, pine-shaded lawns and woods, and its fine view of st. peter's standing out against the green campagna beyond, and the blue sabine mountains in the distance, is to this day one of the loveliest villas in italy, and the favorite resort of the latter-day romans and visitors to their city on the two afternoons of the week on which it is open to pedestrians and two-horse carriages.
the notorious simony practiced by the popes, in which, as we have just seen, olympia became such an adept, gave rise to the biting latin couplet--
"an petrus romæ fuerit, sub judice lis est; simonem romæ nemo fuisse negat."
some of the modern methods of making use of the pope for purposes of gain are less objectionable than those of olympia. dr. alexander robertson, in his roman catholic church in italy, just published, says: "one of the very latest novelties of the 'pope's shop' is a penny-in-the-slot blessing machine. specimens of this were lately to be seen in the corso, rome, about half way between the piazza colonna and the piazza del popolo. a penny is dropped into it. the cinematograph, or wheel of life, goes round, when, lo! there appears a long procession of richly clothed cardinals and monsignori, and then the pope in a sedan chair, accompanied by his swiss guards. as he is carried past the spectator, he turns towards the window of his chair, a smile overspreads his face, he raises his hands, and gives his blessing. on these machines there is an inscription to the effect that the blessing thus given and received is equivalent to that given by the pope in person in st. peter's. truly a novel way of turning an honest penny!" we hear that a rash churchman, not liking the facts just stated, undertook to deny them in the public prints, when up spoke some english gentlemen, who had been in rome recently, and bowled the churchman over with the statement that they had themselves seen this blessing machine on the corso.
one never touches this subject of the vast wealth of the papacy without calling to mind the well-known rejoinder of the great theologian, thomas aquinas, when the pope was showing him all his money and riches, and said, "you see, thomas, the church cannot now say what it said in early times, 'silver and gold have i none.'" "no," answered aquinas, "nor can it say, 'rise up and walk'" (acts iii. 6). this loss of spiritual power, this loss of ability to minister salvation to others, is one of the most melancholy results of the corruption of the papacy.
these are some of the things that help to explain not only the tone of the pasquinades, not only the indictments of the world's leading historians, which are to be presently cited, but also the present attitude of something like twenty millions of the thirty-odd millions of italy's inhabitants, who have forsaken the church altogether.
what idea the people have of the jesuits in particular is well shown by the legend connected with the piazza del gesu, the great open space in front of the jesuit church, which is considered the windiest place in rome. the story is that the devil and the wind were one day taking a walk together. "when they came to this square, the devil, who seemed to be very devout, said to the wind, 'just wait a minute, mio caro, while i go into this church.' so the wind promised, and the devil went into the gesu, and has never come out again--and the wind is blowing about in the piazza del gesu to this day."
one of the interesting objects in rome is a mutilated statue called pasquino, which stands at the corner of the orsini palace, one of the most central and public places in the city. the reason for the interest attaching to this almost shapeless piece of marble is that for centuries it was used for placarding those satires upon the popes which, by their exceeding cleverness and biting truth, have made the name of pasquinade famous the world over. no squib that was ever affixed to that column had a keener edge than the one known as "the antithesis of christ," which appeared at the beginning of the sixteenth century, and runs as follows:
christ said, "my kingdom is not of this world." the pope conquers cities by force.
christ had a crown of thorns: the pope wears a triple diadem.
christ washed the feet of his disciples: the pope has his kissed by kings.
christ paid tribute: the pope takes it.
christ fed the sheep: the pope wishes to be master of the world.
christ carried on his shoulders the cross: the pope is carried on the shoulders of his servants in liveries of gold.
christ despised riches: the pope has no other passion than for gold.
christ drove out the merchants from the temple: the pope welcomes them.
christ preached peace: the pope is the torch of war.
christ was meekness: the pope is pride personified.
christ promulgated the laws that the pope tramples under foot.
"but," some one may say, "the pasquinades were written long ago, and, while they are doubtless true descriptions of the papacy of the past, surely no one would take the same view now." for answer i may quote the statement of dr. raffaelle mariano, professor of philosophy in the university of naples, who is not a protestant, but, as he tells us, was "born in the roman catholic church," and was "a fervent catholic from infancy." speaking of the vast difference which he found between the teachings of the church and those of the new testament as to what is necessary to salvation, he says, "therefore, roman catholicism is not only not christianity, but it is the very antithesis of christianity," a statement every whit as strong as pasquino's. some american protestants, especially those who have personal friends in the roman catholic church whom they honor and love--and there are many people in that church who are richly worthy of honor and love, and who do not approve of the evils we have been describing any more than we do--are sometimes disposed to think that protestant writers are too severe in their condemnation of the romish church as a system. a visit to italy, the centre of romanism, would quickly disabuse these overcharitable protestants of that impression. we have all read of such things as are described above in connection with the relics and legends, but they seem far away and unreal, and almost impossible, until we come to the home of romanism and find them all around us. then it ceases to surprise us that so large a proportion of the most intelligent men in italy occupy a position of indifference and unbelief, or hostility and scorn, towards the christian religion, for romanism is the only christianity that most of them know. let it be remembered, too, that the king, able, conscientious, patriotic, devoted to the welfare of his people, and the prime minister, zanardelli, like his predecessor, crispi, and the members of parliament, and the army and navy, and the whole government which has given italy such wonderful stability and prosperity since the overthrow of the papal dominion and opened before the nation a future of so much promise, are all standing aloof from the pope. let any one see one of the great pilgrimages from every part of the country to the tomb of victor emmanuel, who freed italy, as we saw it the other day, and observe the immense popularity of the great liberator and his successors of the house of savoy, and let him note the firm opposition of italy's leading men to the papacy, and he will see that the view of the pope which the secular newspapers so persistently seek to force upon the people of the english-speaking world simply cannot be that of the thoughtful men of italy.
most of the facts above cited, especially those concerning the legends and the popes, except where specific acknowledgment is made to other writers, have been drawn from hare's invaluable walks in rome. let us conclude the list with the testimonies of a few eminent men of unimpeachable competence and veracity as to the character and influence of the roman catholic church as a system.
in the first chapter of his history of england, lord macaulay says: "from the time when the barbarians overran the western empire to the time of the revival of letters, the influence of the church of rome had been generally favorable to science, to civilization, to good government. but during the last three centuries, to stunt the growth of the human mind has been her chief object. throughout christendom, whatever advance has been made in knowledge, in freedom, in wealth, and in the arts of life, has been made in spite of her, and has everywhere been in inverse proportion to her power. the loveliest and most fertile provinces of europe have, under her rule, been sunk in poverty, in political servitude, and in intellectual torpor, while protestant countries, once proverbial for sterility and barbarism, have been turned by skill and industry into gardens, and can boast of a long list of heroes and statesmen, philosophers and poets. whoever, knowing what italy and scotland naturally are, and what, four hundred years ago, they actually were, shall now compare the country round rome with the country round edinburgh, will be able to form some judgment as to the tendency of papal domination. the descent of spain, once the first among the monarchies, to the lowest depths of degradation, the elevation of holland, in spite of many natural disadvantages, to a position such as no commonwealth so small has ever reached, teach the same lesson. whoever passes in germany from a roman catholic to a protestant principality, in switzerland from a roman catholic to a protestant canton, in ireland from a roman catholic to a protestant county, finds that he has passed from a lower to a higher grade of civilization. on the other side of the atlantic the same law prevails. the protestants of the united states have left far behind them the roman catholics of mexico, peru and brazil. the roman catholics of lower canada remain inert, while the whole continent round them is in a ferment with protestant activity and enterprise. the french have doubtless shown an energy and intelligence which, even when misdirected, have justly entitled them to be called a great people. but this apparent exception, when examined, will be found to confirm the rule, for in no country that is called roman catholic has the roman catholic church, during several generations, possessed so little authority as in france."
charles dickens, in a letter written from switzerland, in 1845, to his friend and biographer, forster, says: "in the simplon, hard by here, where (at the bridge of st. maurice over the rhone) the protestant canton ends and a catholic canton begins, you might separate two perfectly distinct and different conditions of humanity by drawing a line with your stick in the dust on the ground. on the protestant side--neatness, cheerfulness, industry, education, continued aspiration, at least, after better things. on the catholic side--dirt, disease, ignorance, squalor and misery. i have so constantly observed the like of this since i came abroad that i have a sad misgiving that the religion of ireland lies at the root of all its sorrows." writing from genoa, in 1846, dickens says, "if i were a swiss, with a hundred thousand pounds, i would be as steady against the catholic canons and the propagation of jesuitism as any radical among them; believing the dissemination of catholicity to be the most horrible means of political and social degradation left in the world."
mr. gladstone, in an article on "italy and her church," in the church quarterly review for october, 1875, says: "profligacy, corruption and ambition, continued for ages, unitedly and severally, their destructive work upon the country, through the curia and the papal chair; and in doing it they of course have heavily tainted the faith of which that chair was the guardian." elsewhere he says, "there has never been any more cunning blade devised against the freedom, the virtue and the happiness of a people than romanism."
nathaniel hawthorne, in his marble faun, which, by the way, contains the most charming of all the descriptive writing about rome, put the case none too strongly when he spoke of being "disgusted with the pretense of holiness and the reality of nastiness, each equally omnipresent" in the city of the popes. the new government has wrought a great change in this respect, and rome is in many parts of it now quite a clean city.
there, then, are the facts as to the influence of the roman catholic church. i am, of course, very far from saying that there are no good people in that church. as i have already stated, i believe that there are many good people in it, but my own observation has satisfied me that the verdict of history as to the baleful influence of the system is absolutely correct.
"what, then," some one may ask, "do the good people in that church think of all the immoralities and frauds that it has condoned and fostered?" the answer is that the really good people in that church must grieve over them and deplore them just as the good people in other churches do.
the old forces and the new in the eternal city.
well, we have seen the pope. hearing that a body of italian pilgrims were to be received by the pontiff at the vatican, and having assured ourselves that the function was one which would involve no official recognition of the pope on our part, and that we should be merely protestant spectators, we gladly accepted the offer of tickets for the audience, and, supposing in our simplicity that, as the reception was set for noon, we should be sufficiently early if we went at eleven o'clock, we drove up to the main entrance of the vatican at that hour. there was a great throng of people about the door, but our tickets obtained for us immediate entrance along with a stream of other ladies and gentlemen. the regulation attire for these functions is full evening dress for gentlemen, while ladies wear black, with no hat, but with a lace mantilla on the head. we first passed through a double line of the famous swiss guards, in their extraordinary uniform of crimson, yellow and black, designed by no less a person than michael angelo. then we were shown up the great stairway, and passing through a couple of large rooms, one of which was adorned with raphael's frescoes, we found ourselves at the entrance of a long and spacious hall, already densely crowded, as it seemed to us, but with a space kept open down the centre between the rows of seats on either side. looking down this open space, we could see at the other end, on a slightly raised platform, the pontifical throne, upholstered in red velvet, with golden back and arms, effectively set in the midst of crimson hangings, which swept in rich masses from the lofty ceiling to the floor. preceded by guards, we travelled the whole length of the hall, and found, to our great gratification, that our seats were quite close to the throne, so that we had an excellent position for seeing and hearing all that was going on. we soon noticed that many of the hundreds of people present, like some of us, had not observed the regulations as to dress. many others had. mingled with the soberer attire of the spectators, pilgrims and priests, we saw now and then a violet cassock, as one bishop after another drifted in. apart from these vestments, there was no semblance of a religious gathering. it was more like a social function, and the people were chatting gaily, the jolliest and noisiest crowd being a group of young seminarians, prospective priests, who occupied the same bench with us and the two or three nearest to it. after we had been there an hour the great clock of st. peter's struck twelve. instantly all the noisy young seminarians rose to their feet and began to recite, in a lower, humming tone, their ave-marias and pater-nosters. as soon as the reciting and counting of beads was over, as it was in a minute, they struck in again with their gay conversation. we had plenty of time to take it all in. the pope is always late, and it was an hour after the time fixed for the audience when he appeared; but at last he did, and instantly everybody, men and women, sprang up on the benches and chairs, frantically waving their handkerchiefs and shouting at the top of their voices, "evviva il papa-re! evviva il papa-re!"--"long live the pope-king! long live the pope-king!"--the ablest performer in this part of the ceremony being a leather-lunged young priest at my elbow, with a voice as powerful and persistent as that of a hungry calf, and who made known his desire for the restoration of the temporal power to the pope with such energy that the perspiration rolled down his fat face in shining rivulets. i never heard anything like it except in a political convention or a stock exchange. accompanied by the noble guard, a body of picked men renowned for their superb physique and clad in resplendent uniform, the holy father was borne in on an arm-chair, carried by twelve men, also in uniform. occasionally he would rise to his feet with evident effort, leaning on, or rather grasping, one arm of his chair, and bless the people he was passing, with two fingers outstretched in the familiar attitude that we have seen in the pictures. at such times the furious acclamations, and waving of handkerchiefs, and clapping of hands, would be redoubled. he passed within arm's length of us, a little knot of protestants, silent amid the uproar. it was a pitiful spectacle. a pallid, feeble, tottering old man, with slender, shrunken neck, and excessively sharp and prominent features, nose and chin almost meeting--we now understood zola's description: "the simious ugliness of
accordingly, within four hours of receiving his appointment, terence bade his parent farewell and proceeded by rail to devonport, where the "sunderland" was lying. it was nearly dark when he alighted at millbay station. here he called a taxi and was whirled off to the dockyard, whence a picquet boat conveyed him to the cruiser, which was lying at a buoy in the hamoaze.
"we're off under sealed orders at six o'clock tomorrow morning," announced one of his new shipmates, a junior lieutenant, teddy barracombe by name. "of course, we are quite in the dark, but there's a strong idea floating around that the ship's off to the near east. just my mark! according to all accounts we'll be pretty busy in the dardanelles."
"that's all very fine for you," commented oswestry, the torpedo lieutenant, "but where do i come in? we can't use torpedoes against fortifications, you know, and there's precious little floating about for us to go for."
"don't take on, torps," said barracombe cheerfully. "you never know your luck. wait and see."
as soon as the "sunderland" was clear of the breakwater the momentous orders were opened. it was not to the near east; the cruiser had to proceed to dover and await further instructions.
being the first day of the month the ship's company was to be paid, and soon after six bells final preparations for the solemn rite were in progress.
at a quarter to one two "g's"--the officers' call--sounded, and the first hundred men, mustering by open list, assembled in the port battery. on the quarter-deck tables were placed in position, on each of which were teak trays divided into small compartments by brass strips. in each of these divisions a man's monthly pay and allowance money had already been placed and checked by the paymaster and his staff.
owing to the conditions of war-time the captain was not present, his duty of superintending the payment being taken by the commander. at the tables stood the staff-paymaster, the r.n.r. assistant-paymaster, and the chief writer.
the staff-paymaster glanced at the commander, indicating that all was in readiness. the commander gave the word to carry on, and the disbursing of coin began.
the assistant-paymaster called the men's names from a book. each seaman stepped briskly forward to the chalk line, removed his cap, and, according to instructions, looked the accountant officer squarely in the face and gave his name and rating. then, receiving his money in the crown of his cap, the recipient saluted and moved away to make room for the next man.
all was proceeding smoothly and with the regularity of clockwork when suddenly a diversion occurred.
the ship's company had a mascot in the shape of a young african monkey, that had been presented to the "sunderland" by a french cruiser during a visit to an algerian port. although usually good-tempered "mephisto" could and did exhibit fits of sulkiness and outbursts of insubordination that would have earned a lower deck man ninety days' "confined to detention quarters." but the monkey being a sort of chartered libertine, was idolized by the ship's company and mildly tolerated by the officers.
mephisto was lazily sunning himself under the lee of the quarter-deck 6-in gun shield when his eye caught sight of the chief writer's silver watch, which that petty officer had occasion to consult.
probably the monkey imagined that it was one of the tins of condensed milk for which he had great partiality.
getting on his four feet mephisto ambled across the quarter-deck, past the line of men drawn up at attention. before he could cross the chalk line, a symbol for which he had no respect, the chief writer had replaced his timepiece.
foiled in that direction the monkey made a grab at a pile of brand new copper coins, and before any of the officers and men could prevent, had made a rush for the weather-shrouds.
"stop him!" yelled the commander.
a dozen men hastened to comply, jolting against each other in their alacrity to pursue the animal, which with marvellous agility had gained the extremity of the signal yard-arm.
here he perched, hanging on with his hind paws while he tasted each coin with his teeth--at first with an expression of hopefulness upon his features that rapidly changed into one of profound disgust.
holding the rest of the coins against his chest mephisto hurled one on to the sacred precincts of the quarter-deck. it landed in one of the compartments of the pay-table, displacing a sovereign, that rolled between the staff-paymaster and the assistant-paymaster.
both officers simultaneously stooped to recover the errant piece of gold. the result was that their heads met with a thud in spite of the protection afforded by their peaked caps.
several of the men could not conceal a grin. one broke into a laugh, and meeting the stern glance of the commander tried to side-track into a painful cough.
fortunately for the culprit the commander was inwardly affected by a similar complaint, for he, too, saw the humour of the business.
"confound you!" shouted the staff-paymaster, removing his cap and rubbing his bald head. "confound you, you brute! throwing away the money from the public chest!"
the only reply from mephisto was another penny that, thrown with splendid aim, rebounded from the staff-paymaster's shiny pate.
"the ship's company will have to make up the loss," he muttered. "they're responsible for their confounded pet."
"but you're responsible for the money, staggles," remarked the commander drily. "at any rate, mephisto is paying you back by instalments."
it wanted all the self-control at their command to keep the lookout men's attention from the comic scene to a duty of a serious nature, while the gun's crews temporarily forgot their duties to watch the encounter between the mascot and the staff-paymaster.
"you're condoning an offence, staggles," said the commander in an undertone, with a humorous gleam in his eye.
another coin tinkled on the deck. the commander promptly placed his foot on it to check its career towards the side.
"where did that go?" asked the staff-paymaster, who, curiously enough, had a miserly regard for any money except his own, which he spent liberally.
the commander shifted his foot and pointed to the retrieved coin; as he did so, another penny, hurtling through the air, hit him smartly on his bent neck and promptly slithered inside his collar and down his back.
unfortunately the commander was a man of a most ticklish temperament. the contact of the metal disc with his back caused him to writhe like a lost soul in torment. he had recently unflinchingly faced death in a hotly-contested engagement in the north sea, but this rear attack completely unnerved him. his grotesque efforts to capture the elusive coin was too much for the rest of the officers and men. they were unable to conceal their amusement. finally the commander dived down below and divested himself of his uniform.
just then the ship's steward appeared with the tin of condensed milk, and handed the unopened can to a seaman. away aloft the man made his way till he gained the cross-trees. owing to the "sunderland" altering her course she was swinging considerably to starboard, and the motion made the man advance cautiously, his feet sliding along the foot-ropes while he held on grimly with his free hand to the spar.
a snarl warned the bluejacket that if he advanced it would be at his peril, and unwilling to risk an encounter with an agile monkey on the swaying yard, he followed the precept of discretion being the better part of valour, and regained the deck, leaving the spoils in the hands of the elated ape.
presently the monkey had another disappointment. the intact tin baffled him. he tried his teeth upon it--but unavailingly, so he began to batter it upon the metal eye of a band encircling the spar.
"there'll be an unholy mess, by jove!" ejaculated the commander, who had now reappeared upon the scene, for the tin showed signs of capitulating to the strenuous frontal attacks on the part of mephisto.
"bring up another tin--and take care to open it this time," ordered the staff-paymaster recklessly, who had now taken the precaution of covering the pay-tables with a green baize cloth.
"bang, bang, bang!" went the tin under the muscular efforts of mephisto. already large drops of the viscous fluid were descending upon the hallowed quarter-deck, bespattering officers and men indiscriminately, for owing to the ship's speed a strong current of air was drifting aft and spraying the stuff far and wide.
"clear the quarter-deck," ordered the commander. "up aloft a couple of hands and collar the brute. by jove! if it gives much more trouble, i'll have it shot."
suddenly, above the scuffling of feet as the men doubled for'ard, came the shout: "submarine on the port quarter."
sharply the bugle sounded "action," and as the "sunderland" began to circle to starboard in answer to a quick movement of her helm, the quick-firers began to bark at a pole-like object four hundred yards off.
the unexpected detonation, as a gun was discharged fifty feet under his nose, completed mephisto's brief spell of unalloyed liberty. temporarily stunned by the terrific concussion the monkey relaxed his grip and fell.
just at that moment the staff-paymaster, who was scurrying below with one of the pay-trays, happened to be passing in the direct line of mephisto's descent. the next instant the portly officer was rolling on the deck in a puddle of condensed milk with the monkey's paws clutching at his scanty crop of hair, while to complete the staff-paymaster's discomfiture most of the money he was carrying rolled overboard.
regaining his feet staff-paymaster staggles contrived to reach the companion, and with mephisto still firmly attached to him, disappeared below.
but the men's attention was now directed towards more serious matters. an ever-diverging line that rippled the placid water denoted the approach of a deadly torpedo. now it was heading as if about to hit the bows of the "sunderland," a second later and the arrow-like ripples seemed to be approaching directly abeam; then, as the cruiser swung almost on her heel the wake of the formidable missile was merged into the churning froth astern. it had missed by a bare yard.
from the fire-control platform telephone bells were clanging and men shouting through the voice-tubes. from their elevated position the watchers could discern a long, dark shadow that marked the position of the submarine.
completely circling the "sunderland" was steadied on her helm and steered straight for the spot. in vain the submerged craft attempted to dive to a depth greater than that of her enemy's draught.
terence, who was stationed on the after-bridge, felt a faint shock as the five thousand tons vessel literally cut the luckless submarine in twain. for a brief instant the lieutenant caught sight of the after-portion of the "u" boat, as, rendered buoyant by the trapped air, it drifted past. then amidst a smother of foam and oil the wreckage vanished.
"the eleventh to my certain knowledge," remarked the commander, as coolly as if he were reckoning up the score at an athletic meeting.
"any damage for'ard, mr. black?"
"no, sir; all as tight as a bottle as far as i can see," replied the carpenter, who immediately after the impact had hurried below to see if any plates had been "started."
a little later in the afternoon several of the ward-room officers were enjoying their cups of tea and biscuits, when the staff-paymaster entered.
"well, staggles, what's the shortage?" asked the commander facetiously.
the accountant officer eyed his tormentor reproachfully, as if that officer were responsible for his former discomfiture.
"one pound three shillings and threepence--and two tins of condensed milk," he announced stiffly. "according to paragraph 445 of the admiralty instructions there will have to be two separate reports on the shortage."
the staff-paymaster spoke seriously. the man was heart and soul in his work, and his mental horizon was bounded by official forms and other red-tapeism connected with the accountant branch of h.m. service.
"what for?" inquired the staff-paymaster innocently.
the commander entrenched himself behind a double number of an illustrated periodical.
"for bringing mephisto in out of action," he replied with a chuckle.
the foiled air raid.
late that evening the "sunderland" brought up in the admiralty harbour at dover, in company with three other light cruisers, two monitors, and a flotilla of destroyers. all night long the men slept at their guns, while the cruiser's searchlights aided those of the forts both ashore and on the breakwater in sweeping the approach to the sheltered harbour.
"nothing to report," announced barracombe, as aubyn relieved him as officer of the watch. "a jolly fine night. i shouldn't wonder if we were favoured by a visit from a zeppelin or two."
"a pretty jamb in the harbour," said terence, giving a quick glance at the maze of vessels. "fortunately, i hear, we've several seaplanes at our disposal."
barracombe wished his relief good-night and descended the ladder to retire to the seclusion of his cabin and sleep the sleep of exhaustion, for he had had a strenuous time before the cruiser left devonport.
during the first hour nothing unusual occurred. the midshipman of the watch reported "rounds all correct, sir," to which aubyn replied with the stereotyped "very good." across the harbour came the faint hail of the night guard as the picquet boat studiously visited every vessel within the limits of the breakwater.
the masthead light of the flagship began to blink. a signalman on the "sunderland's" bridge snatched up a slate.
"general call, sir," he announced.
deftly the man took down the message, then hurried to the chart-room to decipher the code.
"submarine e27 reports three hostile aeroplanes passing s.w. by w. position eleven miles n.n.e. of north goodwin."
the warning was a brief one, for hardly had the ship's company been called to their action stations when a faint buzzing, immediately becoming louder and louder, announced that the raiders were approaching the town and harbour of dover.
searchlights flashed skywards, while from beneath the old castle on the lofty chalk cliffs half a dozen intrepid british airmen ascended to meet the foe. already the anti-aerial guns were stabbing the darkness with lurid spurts of flame, while their shells, bursting perilously close to the hostile aeroplanes, caused the calculating teutons to think better of the attempt.
it was an easy matter to steal over an unfortified town or village and drop explosives; but for once the germans were to learn the wisdom of discrimination. higher and higher they banked, until catching a glimpse of the british seaplanes as they passed through the path of one of the searchlights they precipitately turned tail.
"'sunderland' and destroyer flotilla to proceed in support of seaplanes," came the signal.
hastily the pins of the mooring shackle were knocked out. steam was already raised, and in a very few minutes the light cruiser and her attendant destroyers were slipping between the heads of the detached breakwater and the admiralty pier.
but swift as were the light cruisers the seaplanes were quicker. already they were five or six miles out to sea, their position being revealed by the flashes of the light guns as they exchanged shots with the fugitive taubes.
suddenly with a dazzling flash a bomb exploded hardly twenty feet from the "sunderland's" starboard quarter. five seconds later another struck the water almost under the cruiser's bows, and a waft of evil-smelling gas drifted across the navigation bridge, causing officers and men to cough and gasp for breath.
the captain tried to give an order, but was unable to utter a sound. mutely he signed for the helm to be put hard over.
terence understood. literally groping his way through the thick vapour, that even in the darkness showed an unmistakable greenish hue, he found the quartermaster, who was clutching his throat and struggling for breath.
pushing the man aside aubyn rapidly revolved the steam steering-gear. obediently the cruiser swung round, narrowly escaping a high explosive missile that, had she maintained her course, would have played havoc with her fo'c'sle.
all around the "sunderland" the destroyers were dodging hither and thither in order to attempt to avoid the hail of bombs that rained from the sky. it was little short of a miracle that collisions did not take place, for owing to the darkness, the suffocating fumes from the missiles, and to the fact that most of the helmsmen were temporarily blinded and choked, all attempt at formation was out of the question.
from the after-bridge of the cruiser a searchlight flashed skywards. for a few seconds even its powerful rays failed to penetrate the pall of smoke, till an eddying gust freed the "sunderland" from the noxious fumes.
then the source of the mysterious missiles was revealed. at a height of over two thousand feet were a couple of zeppelins. taking advantage of the fact that the attention of the british seaplanes and destroyers was centred on the fugitive taubes, these giant airships, by reason of their altitude, were able to manoeuvre immediately above the flotilla.
it was an opportunity too good to be missed, for although the objective of the zeppelins was a raid on london--they having decided upon a circuitous course over kent and sussex borders in order to avoid the air-stations at the isle of grain--the chance of raining a shower of bombs upon the british cruiser and her attendant destroyers was too tempting.
for once, at least, the german admiralty had not been kept well posted as to the details of armament of the cruisers of the "town class," for the "sunderland" and her consorts had recently been equipped with a couple of 12-pounder anti-aircraft guns. these weapons fired a shell of unique character. somewhat resembling a shrapnel, the missile was packed with short lengths of chain and charged with a high explosive.
almost as soon as the zeppelins were discovered both guns barked venomously. from the point of view of the observers on the "sunderland's" bridge the shells appeared to burst close to the frail targets. both airships were observed to pitch violently, while one, with her nose tilted downwards, began to descend.
"she's done for!" exclaimed terence.
a round of cheering burst from the throats of the crew. it seemed as if nothing could arrest the seaward plunge of one of the kaiser's gas-bags. not only had her bow compartments been holed but the nacelle containing the propelling machinery was completely wrecked.
both zeppelins began to throw out ballast with frantic haste. they also released the whole of their remaining supply of bombs, which fell with a rapid series of deafening detonations more than half a mile from the nearest destroyer.
with the release of the ballast the undamaged zeppelin shot skywards until her altitude was not less than ten thousand feet. comparatively safe for the time being from the effect of the anti-aircraft shells, she floated, a mere speck in the concentrated yet diminished glare of a dozen searchlights, and awaited events.
meanwhile, the damaged zeppelin had checked her plunge, and, in spite of a hot fire, was slowly rising. by dint of strenuous efforts her crew succeeded in shifting aft the travelling weight that served to trim the unwieldy craft. even then her longitudinal axis was sharply inclined to the horizontal.
everything that could be jettisoned was thrown overboard. guns, ammunition, stores, and the metal framework of the wrecked car were sacrificed, till without being hit by the british guns, she rose to a terrific height.
"we've lost her!" exclaimed oswestry savagely.
"one thing, she won't trouble us again," added the commander. "and i'm not so certain that she will get clear. we've wirelessed the seaplanes, and they'll have a chip in. hullo! what's the game now?"
a searchlight flashed from the undamaged zeppelin and played in ever-widening circles until it picked up her damaged consort. the latter was consequently more plainly discernible to the crew of the "sunderland" than it had hitherto been, since the distance between the two airships was less than a thousand yards and was visibly decreasing.
"they're going to take her in tow, by jove!" ejaculated aubyn, who had brought his binoculars to play upon the scene.
oswestry gave a snort that implied disbelief in his brother-officer's assertion, but presently he exclaimed:--
"well, blest if you aren't right, old man. and a deuced smart move," he added, with a true sailor's admiration for a smart manoeuvre, whether executed by friend or foe.
"what a chance for our seaplanes!" said the torpedo lieutenant. "they ought to have been on the spot before this."
"they're on the way all right, torps," declared the commander. "i wouldn't mind betting a month's pay that they've spotted their quarry. by jove, they've established communication!"
the undamaged zeppelin had circled round her consort and was now forging gently ahead. an upward jerk of the other's bows announced that the strain on the towing hawser was beginning to be felt. gradually the hitherto uncontrollable airship began to gather way, both vessels rolling sluggishly in the light air-currents.
the aerial searchlight had now been switched off, but by means of the rays directed from the british ships the progress of the two zeppelins could be followed as their huge shapes, showing ghost-like in the silvery light, moved slowly in a north-easterly direction.
having resumed their respective stations the cruiser and the destroyer flotilla followed. owing to the greatly reduced speed of the hostile aircraft it was an easy matter to maintain a fixed relative distance between them and the british vessels, whose attention was divided between the prospect of an aerial meeting with seaplanes and the risk of being intercepted by the torpedo of a german submarine, to say nothing of floating mines.
"she's cast off!" shouted a dozen voices.
such was the case. the two zeppelins had parted company, one flying off at a terrific speed, rising rapidly as she did so, while the other, being without means of propulsion, drifted at the mercy of the winds.
it was now dawn. the grey light of morning was already overcoming the strength of the searchlights and it was already possible to discern the outlines of the abandoned zeppelin by the natural light of day.
pelting up from the eastward came the air squadron of seaplanes. half a dozen circled and started off in pursuit of the fugitive airship, which, travelling at high speed, was now but a faint speck against the ruddy sky.
the rest advanced boldly upon the disabled zeppelin, although ignorant of the fact that she had jettisoned her guns, and, save for a few rifles, was without means of defence.
the seaplanes' automatic guns spat viciously, and as the range decreased almost every shot began to tell. the huge fabric once more began to drop, as the small projectile ripped through the flimsy aluminium envelope.
presently the seaplanes ceased firing and circled triumphantly over their vanquished foe. they knew that the zeppelin was doomed, and instincts of humanity forbade them to take undue advantage of the plight of her crew.
"away, boats!" ordered the "sunderland's" captain.
instantly there was a rush to man the boats and to stand by the falls. with an alacrity that was part of his nature, jack tar prepared to rescue his enemy, in spite of the fact that that enemy had sallied forth with the deliberate intention of hurling bombs with the utmost indiscrimination upon combatants and non-combatants alike, not excepting helpless women and children.
before the boats could be lowered a lurid blaze of light rolled out, rivalling the rays of the rising sun. where the zeppelin had been only a cloud of flame-tinged smoke remained, while from the mushroomed pall of vapour that marked a funereal pyre of yet another unit of the kaiser's air-fleet, scorched and twisted girders and other débris streamed seawards.
whether by accident or design the only remaining petrol tank had exploded, and the flames instantly igniting the huge volume of hydrogen had in the twinkling of an eye completed the work of destruction.
for ten minutes the destroyers cruised over the spot where the débris had disappeared, but there were no signs of survivors, not even of wreckage. the remains of the zeppelin had been swallowed up by the insatiable sea, and no visible trophy remained in the hands of the men who had baulked an attempted raid on the largest city of the world.
before the flotilla regained dover harbour the remaining seaplanes came in sight. unfortunately their efforts at pursuit were futile. the zeppelin developing a turn of speed far in excess of which she had been credited by her detractors, had shaken off the british aircraft, and when last seen she was high over the belgian coast.
nevertheless, her wings had been clipped, although she survived to tell the tale that the hated english were still able vigorously and successfully to dispute the mastery of the air.
"lieutenant aubyn, r.n., d.s.o."
on the evening following the return of the "sunderland" to dover, terence obtained leave to go ashore in order to visit a brother-officer who, owing to his ship being under repairs, was temporarily installed in the lord warden hotel.
aubyn was proceeding along the admiralty pier when his progress was barred by a tall, bronzed young fellow in the uniform of a flight-lieutenant of the naval air service.
"hullo, aubyn, old man!" exclaimed the latter cordially, as he extended his hand. "forgotten me already?"
"waynsford, by jove!" ejaculated terence. "bless you, dick, i never expected to see you here and in this rig. what has happened?"
"oh, i chucked the motor boat reserve," declared waynsford. "it was a bit too dull. they sent me to southampton, and that was the limit. a superannuated postman could have done my job, which was delivering letters to transports. so i applied for the naval air service. it's more in my line."
"been across yet?" asked terence, indicating the twenty odd mile strip of water that separated great britain from the scene of land hostilities.
"dunkirk twice," replied waynsford. "was there when the germans started shelling the place. but we're off again early to-morrow morning."
"yes, i heard," said aubyn. "big operations. we are to engage the zeebrugge and ostend batteries while the allied airmen play with the german lines of communication. so i may see something of you."
"i hope so--after the fun is over," replied the young airman. "well, i must be moving. early hours and a good night's rest are essential to this sort of work."
the two friends parted, terence making for the hotel, while waynsford walked off in the direction of the castle, in which the airmen detailed for the great raid were temporarily quartered.
precisely at one hour before sunrise the first british waterplane rose from the surface of dover harbour. almost simultaneously an army aeroplane "kicked off" from the sloping ground beyond the chalk cliffs. each was followed at regular intervals, until a double row of swift air-craft flying with methodical precision headed towards the flanders shore.
already the "sunderland" and three other light cruisers, accompanied by a torpedo-boat destroyer flotilla, were shaping a course for the belgian coast.
off the east goodwins they were joined by two monitors and three pre-dreadnought battleships, and the battle line was formed. away steamed the destroyers to act as screens to the heavier vessels, and to guard them from submarine attack. the monitors led the main division, the cruisers acting as links between them and the battleships, which, owing to their greater draught, could not approach the coast nearer than a distance of from four to seven miles.
from aubyn's point of view the forthcoming operations were entirely new. for the first time in his experience he was to take part in an action between ships and shore batteries, the latter being both fixed and mobile. it was a comparatively easy matter to plant shells into forts the position of which were known, but the germans had brought up heavy guns mounted on travelling platforms, which could be moved with considerable celerity behind the long, low-lying sand dunes between nieuport and zeebrugge.
it was partly to locate the latter that the airmen had preceded the bombarding ships, and also to harass the enemy's lines of communication. moreover, hostile submarines were reported to have been brought in sections to zeebrugge, where they were being bolted together ready to take the offensive against the british vessels operating off the belgian coast.
the "sunderland," like her consorts, was already cleared for action. all the crew were behind the protected portions of the ship, but the captain and seven of the officers elected to fight the ship not from the armoured conning-tower but from the fore-bridge.
"by jove! they're at it already," exclaimed oswestry, as a series of rapid detonations came from across the dunes.
by the aid of their glasses the officers could discern the fleecy mushrooms of smoke caused by the bursting of the anti-aerial guns directed against the british airmen. viewed from a distance it seemed impossible that a frail aeroplane could exist amid that tornado of shell.
"wireless reports mobile battery three hundred yards sou'-sou'-east of clemskercke church, sir," reported a signalman.
promptly the news was transmitted to the fire-control platform. in his lofty perch a gunnery-lieutenant was busy with a complication of instruments, assisted by a midshipman and three seamen.
"fire-control to for'ard 6-inch gun: stand by!" came the telephonic order. "fire-control to port battery stand by."
round swung the guns, "laid" by the master hand of the gunnery-lieutenant on the fire-control platform. docilely obedient to the delicate mechanism they reared their muzzles high in the air.
then, with a crash that shook the ship, five of the 6-inch guns spoke simultaneously. to the accompaniment of a long-drawn shriek the 100-pound missiles hurtled through space.
"eighty yards short," came the wireless report of the observing seaplane that, hovering a bare five hundred feet above the german mobile battery, had marked the point of impact of the shells.
again a salvo was let loose. this time came the encouraging statement that the hostile guns were knocked clean out of action, and that swarms of artillerymen and infantry were scurrying across the dunes.
the next discharge practically annihilated the fugitives. in one minute and twenty-five seconds the "sunderland's" particular task was accomplished. it was but the beginning, for acting upon orders from the flagship she was ordered to engage a battery at close range.
meanwhile, the rest of the battleships and cruisers had not been idle. a perfect tornado of shell was being directed upon the belgian shore.
"hard aport!" shouted the captain of the "sunderland."
round swung the cruiser, only just avoiding the tell-tale line of bubbles that marked the track of a torpedo. with consummate daring a german submarine had dived under a part of the torpedo-boat destroyer flotilla, and had discharged a weapon at the british cruiser. the torpedo, having missed the "sunderland," was tearing straight for one of the monitors, which, having to go full speed astern to avoid a collision with a couple of damaged destroyers, was now practically stationary.
owing to the light draught the weapon passed six feet beneath her keel, and finishing its run rose to the surface three hundred yards beyond; for, instead of the torpedo sinking at the end of its course, the germans, in direct contravention of the laws of naval warfare, had closed the sinking valve so that the torpedo virtually became a floating mine.
in this instance the trick did not avail, for a well-directed shot from one of the monitor's quick-firers exploded the war-head and sent the missile into a thousand fragments.
"a feeble reply," observed oswestry to terence. "these fellows seem afraid to stand to their guns."
even as he spoke the air was torn by a terrific salvo of shells from powerful batteries hitherto well concealed in the dunes. the "sunderland," being fairly close, seemed the special mark, for in six seconds she received as many direct hits. one of her funnels showed a jagged gash ten feet in length and was only prevented from toppling overboard by the steel-wire guys. a three-pounder gun, that fortunately was not manned, was blown completely from its mountings, while the rest of the shells passed clean through the unprotected parts of the ship, totally wrecking the ward-room and the stokers' mess-deck.
terence felt a strong desire to make a hasty rush for the shelter of the conning-tower, for splinters were flying and wafts of pungent smoke from the hostile shells were drifting over the bridge, but the sight of his captain standing cool and collected and without a vestige of protection tended to restore his confidence.
with unabated fury her guns replied to the german fire. the "sunderland" proved that she could receive as well as give hard knocks.
it was time to give the almost overheated starboard guns a chance to cool, so orders were given for the helm to be starboarded. seeing the cruiser in the act of turning, a destroyer tore across her bows, purposely throwing out huge volumes of black smoke from her four funnels in order to mask the "sunderland" as she circled.
terence recognized the destroyer as his old ship the "livingstone," as she darted swiftly round the turning cruiser, then, leaving a thick pall of smoke in her wake, hastened off to assist another destroyer that was evidently in difficulties.
the "livingstone's" manoeuvre undoubtedly saved the "sunderland" from destruction, for a fifty-two centimetre shell, aimed to hit the exact position where the cruiser would have been had she not altered course, struck the water with a tremendous splash not fifty yards on her beam.
before the "sunderland" had drawn clear of the friendly cloud of smoke she had increased her distance from shore by nearly five cables' lengths; while, until the german gunners had found the range anew, she was able to enjoy a brief respite.
"seaplanes returning," announced the gunnery-lieutenant on the fire-control platform, who from his elevated post could command a wide and almost uninterrupted view.
their task done, the seaplanes, which had been engaged in dropping bombs on the railway stations in the rear of the german batteries, were on their homeward way. anxiously terence counted them. thank heaven! not one was missing.
apparently the last but one of the aerial procession was in difficulties, for the seaplane was rocking violently, and in spite of a dangerous tilt of the elevating planes was appreciably descending.
suddenly the frail craft plunged, literally on end, towards the sea, the force of gravity, acting with the pull of the propeller, greatly increasing its velocity.
"by jove! he'll be drowned for a dead cert," exclaimed terence, for he knew for a fact that the aviator had not been thrown from the chassis when the seaplane "looped the loop," and in consequence must be strapped to his seat.
"away sea-boat," ordered the captain, at the same time giving directions for both engines to be reversed.
the "sunderland" was considerably the nearest warship to the descending airman. already the "livingstone" and her two sister-ship destroyers were a mile or so away, and wearing at full speed to investigate a suspicious swirl in the water.
shells were again dropping unpleasantly near to the cruiser as aubyn hurried towards the boat which was, owing to being cleared for action, secured inboard, abreast the after funnel.
before he reached this spot the seaplane had struck the surface of the water. falling obliquely and at a sharp angle, the impact had shattered one of the floats. when the cascade of spray had subsided the wrecked craft could be seen still afloat but listing acutely. the aviator had survived the shock and was hurriedly unbuckling the strap that held him to his seat.
"boat's done for, sir," announced one of the would-be crew. such was the case. the explosion of a shell had wrenched her keel and garboards out of her.
"then overboard with that!" ordered terence, indicating a carley life-buoy, which, though scorched by the blast of the shells, was still practically intact.
the carley life-buoy is a "new departure" in life-saving appliances on board ships of the royal navy. it is a glorified edition of an ordinary buoy, but elongated in shape and provided with gratings, and capable of being propelled by oars.
half a dozen bluejackets seized the huge buoy and slung it overboard. held by means of a line it floated alongside the cruiser until terence and three men clambered into it.
although the rate of propulsion was not by any means so rapid as that of a boat the progress of the rescuers was far from slow. more than once they were splashed by the spray thrown up by a ricochetting projectile, as the german gunlayers were gradually correcting their aim, yet unscathed the rescue party came alongside the gradually sinking seaplane.
"hullo, aubyn!" shouted a well-known voice.
the airman was waynsford. in his pneumatic helmet and huge goggles he was unrecognizable, but his voice proclaimed his identity.
"hurt, old man?" asked terence.
"not a bit," replied waynsford coolly. "they clipped a couple of stays just as i was getting out of range. but we did the trick, by jove! blew the railway station to jericho."
"hurry up," interposed terence. "she's going."
the young airman methodically gathered together several important instruments, and giving a final look round at the aircraft that had served him so faithfully, stepped into the waiting "carley."
before the men had pulled five yards the wrecked machine gave a lurch and capsized completely. supported by trapped air in the partially intact float the seaplane sank slowly, and with hardly a ripple disappeared from view.
with the least possible delay rescuers and rescued were taken on board the cruiser. gathering way the "sunderland" steamed in a westerly direction in order to baffle the range of the shore batteries, using her after guns with terrific speed.
somewhat unceremoniously leaving his friend terence hastened towards the bridge. just as he was abreast of the wreckage of the shattered funnel a deafening detonation, that completely surpassed the roar of the cruiser's guns, seemed to burst over his head. staggering under the blast of the explosion and temporarily blinded by the pungent smoke, the lieutenant groped his way until his progress was checked by a jagged mass of plating rendered almost red-hot by the impact of a huge shell.
recoiling, he stood stock still for quite thirty seconds, his senses numbed by the nerve-racking concussion. then, as the smoke drifted away, he could discern the débris of the bridge. charthouse, stanchions, semaphore, signal-lockers--all had vanished, and with them the captain and those of the officers and men who had dared fate by rejecting the shelter afforded by the conning-tower, which, stripped of its surroundings, stood out a gaunt, fire-pitted steel box.
the shell, a 42-centimetre, had literally cleared the forepart of the ship, from the for'ard 6-inch gun to the second funnel. everything in its path had been literally pulverized, with the exception of the conning-tower. had the projectile burst on or below the main deck the fate of the "sunderland" would have been sealed; as it was, she was still intact under the waterline.
instinctively aubyn realized that the ship was not under control. steaming rapidly she was heading towards the "bradford"--her sister ship--which was steering in a north-easterly direction at about five cables' distance on her port bow.
with a tremendous effort of will-power terence cleared at a bound the formidable glowing plate of metal that obstructed his path. making his way across the scorched and splintered planks, some of which gave under his weight, he reached the entrance to the conning-tower.
the steel citadel was full of acrid-smelling smoke that eddied in the air-currents which drifted in through the observation slits.
bending, and holding his left hand over his mouth and nostrils, terence entered. as he did so he stumbled over the body of the quartermaster.
propped against the circular walls were the first lieutenant and two seamen. all the occupants of the conning-tower had been overcome by the noxious fumes from the highly-charged projectile.
gasping for fresh air terence flung himself upon the steam-steering gear and put the helm hard over. a glimpse through one of the slits revealed the fact that the cruiser was answering to her helm. yet so narrowly had a collision been averted that the "sunderland's" starboard side was within twenty feet of the "bradford's" port quarter as the two vessels swung apart.
the guns were now silent, for with the destruction of the foremast the fire-control platform and its occupants had been swept out of existence. the cruiser was temporarily out of action.
terence was beginning to feel dizzy and faint. why, he knew not. perhaps it was the pungent fumes. leaning over the mouthpiece of the speaking tube he ordered a couple of quartermasters to be sent to the conning-tower. he could hardly recognize the sound of his own voice. it seemed miles away.
again he looked ahead. the cruiser was still drawing further and further out of range. having satisfied himself on that score and that there was no fresh danger of colliding with any of the rest of the fleet, he staggered into the open air and leaned heavily against the outer wall of the conning-tower, he was barely conscious that the metal was still hot.
up came the quartermasters. at their heels was a sub-lieutenant, his face grimed with smoke and his uniform torn.
"take over, garboard," ordered the lieutenant brokenly. "report to the flagship and ask instructions. i'm feeling deucedly queer."
"why, you're wounded!" exclaimed the sub-lieutenant, noticing a dark and increasing patch upon aubyn's coat.
"am i?" asked terence incredulously.
turning his head to ascertain the nature of his injury, of which hitherto he was unconscious, his shoulder slipped along the curved steel wall. garboard was only just in time to save him from collapsing inertly upon the deck of the ship he had brought safely out of action.
"congratulations, old man. you'll have to get your tailor to make some alteration in your uniform."
"what do you mean?" asked terence.
two months had elapsed since the day on which lieutenant aubyn had received a dangerous wound in his right side in the fight off ostend.
he was sitting in the grounds of the royal naval hospital at chatham, having made a fairly rapid recovery.
the officer who offered his congratulations was oswestry, the torpedo-lieutenant of the "sunderland," who was also a convalescent, having managed to intercept a flying fragment of metal during the momentous engagement.
"torps" flourished a newspaper with his left hand, for his right arm was in a sling.
"stop press--latest news and appointments," he read. "the admiralty has approved of the following transfer. from r.n.r. to r.n.: lieutenant terence aubyn, to date 3rd of june, 1915."
for a moment terence looked incredulously at the torpedo-lieutenant. "torps," he knew, was fond of a practical joke, but if he were playing a prank it was carrying the game a little too far.
"here you are," continued oswestry, noting the expression on terence's face. "read it for yourself."
"it's worth getting this," said aubyn, indicating the position of his wound. "all i want now is to be afloat again."
"young fire-eater!" exclaimed "torps" facetiously. "don't you worry--you'll have a look-in before the day comes. by jove, aubyn, you'll have to ask the surgeon if he'll allow you to hold a fête----"
the crunching of boots upon the gravel path caused both officers to turn. standing at attention was a marine orderly; behind him a telegraph boy.
"congratulations pouring in already," remarked "torps."
terence took the buff envelope and opened it.
"great scott!" he exclaimed brokenly, and without another word he handed the telegram to his companion.
"it never rains but it pours," quoted "torps." "you'll attain flag-rank in another fifteen years, mark my words. lieutenant aubyn, d.s.o."
the "wire" was a private tip from a personal friend at the admiralty, informing terence that his majesty had been graciously pleased to bestow upon him the distinguished service order for gallantry in bringing h.m.s. "sunderland" out of action during operations off the belgian coast.
"torps" was not far short of the mark, for a d.s.o. almost invariably means a rapid promotion to the fortunate and heroic recipient.
"flag-rank," echoed terence. "there's plenty of time for that. meanwhile, that's where duty calls," and with a wave of his hand he indicated the distant north sea, on which the supreme contest for the supremacy of the waves will prove that the heritage of nelson is still worthily upheld by britannia's sons.
aberdeen: the university press
this book contains a number of misprints. the following misprints have been corrected:
a few cases of punctuation errors were corrected, but are not mentioned here.
by john galsworthy
contents: the fugitive the pigeon the mob
a play in four acts
persons of the play
george dedmond, a civilian clare, his wife general sir charles dedmond, k.c.b., his father. lady dedmond, his mother reginald huntingdon, clare's brother edward fullarton, her friend dorothy fullarton, her friend paynter, a manservant burney, a maid twisden, a solicitor haywood, a tobacconist malise, a writer mrs. miler, his caretaker the porter at his lodgings a boy messenger arnaud, a waiter at "the gascony" mr. varley, manager of "the gascony" two ladies with large hats, a lady and gentleman, a languid lord, his companion, a young man, a blond gentleman, a dark gentleman.
act i. george dedmond's flat. evening.
act ii. the rooms of malise. morning.
act iii. scene i. the rooms of malice. late afternoon.
between acts i and ii three nights elapse.
between acts ii and act iii, scene i, three months.
between act iii, scene i, and act iii, scene ii, three months.
between act iii, scene ii, and act iv, six months.
"with a hey-ho chivy hark forrard, hark forrard, tantivy!"
the scene is the pretty drawing-room of a flat. there are two doors, one open into the hall, the other shut and curtained. through a large bay window, the curtains of which are not yet drawn, the towers of westminster can be seen darkening in a summer sunset; a grand piano stands across one corner. the man-servant paynter, clean-shaven and discreet, is arranging two tables for bridge.
burney, the maid, a girl with one of those flowery botticellian faces only met with in england, comes in through the curtained door, which she leaves open, disclosing the glimpse of a white wall. paynter looks up at her; she shakes her head, with an expression of concern.
paynter. where's she gone?
burney. just walks about, i fancy.
paynter. she and the governor don't hit it! one of these days she'll flit--you'll see. i like her--she's a lady; but these thoroughbred 'uns--it's their skin and their mouths. they'll go till they drop if they like the job, and if they don't, it's nothing but jib--jib--jib. how was it down there before she married him?
burney. oh! quiet, of course.
paynter. country homes--i know 'em. what's her father, the old rector, like?
burney. oh! very steady old man. the mother dead long before i took the place.
paynter. not a penny, i suppose?
burney withdraws through the curtained door.
george dedmond enters from the hall. he is in evening dress, opera hat, and overcoat; his face is broad, comely, glossily shaved, but with neat moustaches. his eyes, clear, small, and blue-grey, have little speculation. his hair is well brushed.
paynter. i asked the mistress, sir.
george. in future--see?
but george has crossed to the curtained door; he opens it and says: "clare!" receiving no answer, he goes in. paynter switches up the electric light. his face, turned towards the curtained door, is apprehensive.
paynter. i hardly know, sir.
george. dined in?
paynter. she had a mere nothing at seven, sir.
george. has she gone out, since?
paynter. yes, sir--that is, yes. the--er--mistress was not dressed at all. a little matter of fresh air, i think; sir.
george. what time did my mother say they'd be here for bridge?
paynter. sir charles and lady dedmond were coming at half-past nine; and captain huntingdon, too--mr. and mrs. fullarton might be a bit late, sir.
george. it's that now. your mistress said nothing?
paynter. not to me, sir.
george. send burney.
george stares gloomily at the card tables. burney comes in front the hall.
george. did your mistress say anything before she went out?
burney. yes, sir.
burney. i don't think she meant it, sir.
george. i don't want to know what you don't think, i want the fact.
burney. yes, sir. the mistress said: "i hope it'll be a pleasant evening, burney!"
burney. i've put out the mistress's things, sir.
he again goes to the curtained door, and passes through. paynter, coming in from the hall, announces: "general sir charles and lady dedmond." sir charles is an upright, well-groomed, grey-moustached, red-faced man of sixty-seven, with a keen eye for molehills, and none at all for mountains. lady dedmond has a firm, thin face, full of capability and decision, not without kindliness; and faintly weathered, as if she had faced many situations in many parts of the world. she is fifty five.
sir charles. hullo! where are they? h'm!
as he speaks, george re-enters.
george. afraid she's late.
lady dedmond. are we early?
george. as a matter of fact, she's not in.
lady dedmond. oh?
sir charles. h'm! not--not had a rumpus?
sir charles. gone out on purpose? what!
lady dedmond. what was the trouble?
george. i told her this morning you were coming in to bridge. appears she'd asked that fellow malise, for music.
lady dedmond. without letting you know?
george. i believe she did tell me.
lady dedmond. but surely----
george. i don't want to discuss it. there's never anything in particular. we're all anyhow, as you know.
sir charles. who's that?
lady dedmond. that mr. malise.
sir charles. oh! that chap!
george. clare isn't that sort.
lady dedmond. i know. but she catches up notions very easily. i think it's a great pity you ever came across him.
sir charles. where did you pick him up?
george. italy--this spring--some place or other where they couldn't speak english.
sir charles. um! that's the worst of travellin'.
sir charles. we'll make him play bridge. do him good, if he's that sort of fellow.
lady dedmond. is anyone else coming?
george. reggie huntingdon, and the fullartons.
george. god knows! i try, and i believe she does.
sir charles. it's distressin'--for us, you know, my dear fellow-- distressin'.
lady dedmond. i know it's been going on for a long time.
george. oh! leave it alone, mother.
lady dedmond. but, george, i'm afraid this man has brought it to a point--put ideas into her head.
george. you can't dislike him more than i do. but there's nothing one can object to.
lady dedmond. could reggie huntingdon do anything, now he's home? brothers sometimes----
george. i can't bear my affairs being messed about----
lady dedmond. well! it would be better for you and clare to be supposed to be out together, than for her to be out alone. go quietly into the dining-room and wait for her.
sir charles. good! leave your mother to make up something. she'll do it!
lady dedmond. that may be he. quick!
george goes out into the hall, leaving the door open in his haste. lady dedmond, following, calls "paynter!" paynter enters.
lady dedmond. don't say anything about your master and mistress being out. i'll explain.
paynter. the master, my lady?
lady dedmond. yes, i know. but you needn't say so. do you understand?
sir charles. by jove! that fellow smells a rat!
lady dedmond. be careful, charles!
sir charles. i should think so.
lady dedmond. i shall simply say they're dining out, and that we're not to wait bridge for them.
paynter, reappearing, announces: "captain huntingdon." sir charles and lady dedmond turn to him with relief.
lady dedmond. ah! it's you, reginald!
she charles. what!
huntingdon. i was going into the dining-room to get rid of my cigar; and he said: "not in there, sir. the master's there, but my instructions are to the effect that he's not."
she charles. i knew that fellow----
lady dedmond. the fact is, reginald, clare's out, and george is waiting for her. it's so important people shouldn't----
they draw together, as people do, discussing the misfortunes of members of their families.
lady dedmond. it's getting serious, reginald. i don't know what's to become of them. you don't think the rector--you don't think your father would speak to clare?
huntingdon. afraid the governor's hardly well enough. he takes anything of that sort to heart so--especially clare.
sir charles. can't you put in a word yourself?
huntingdon. don't know where the mischief lies.
sir charles. i'm sure george doesn't gallop her on the road. very steady-goin' fellow, old george.
huntingdon. oh, yes; george is all right, sir.
lady dedmond. they ought to have had children.
huntingdon. expect they're pretty glad now they haven't. i really don't know what to say, ma'am.
sir charles. saving your presence, you know, reginald, i've often noticed parsons' daughters grow up queer. get too much morality and rice puddin'.
sir charles. what was she like when you were kids?
sir charles. i'm fond of her. nothing she wants that she hasn't got, is there?
huntingdon. never heard her say so.
lady dedmond. there's a mr. malise coming here to-night. i forget if you know him.
huntingdon. yes. rather a thorough-bred mongrel.
huntingdon. i asked greyman, the novelist, about him; seems he's a bit of an ishmaelite, even among those fellows. can't see clare----
sir charles. what are we goin' to say?
huntingdon. say they're dining out, and we're not to wait bridge for them.
sir charles. good!
the door is opened, and paynter announces "mr. kenneth malise." malise enters. he is a tall man, about thirty-five, with a strongly marked, dark, irregular, ironic face, and eyes which seem to have needles in their pupils. his thick hair is rather untidy, and his dress clothes not too new.
lady dedmond. how do you do? my son and daughter-in-law are so very sorry. they'll be here directly.
huntingdon. we've met, i think.
he gives malise that peculiar smiling stare, which seems to warn the person bowed to of the sort of person he is. malise's eyes sparkle.
lady dedmond. clare will be so grieved. one of those invitations
malise. on the spur of the moment.
sir charles. you play bridge, sir?
malise. afraid not!
sir charles. don't mean that? then we shall have to wait for 'em.
lady dedmond. i forget, mr. malise--you write, don't you?
malise. such is my weakness.
lady dedmond. delightful profession.
sir charles. doesn't tie you! what!
malise. only by the head.
sir charles. i'm always thinkin' of writin' my experiences.
malise. too much.
sir charles. ah! must smoke when you think a lot.
malise. or think when you smoke a lot.
the door is opened. clare dedmond in a cream-coloured evening frock comes in from the hall, followed by george. she is rather pale, of middle height, with a beautiful figure, wavy brown hair, full, smiling lips, and large grey mesmeric eyes, one of those women all vibration, iced over with a trained stoicism of voice and manner.
lady dedmond. well, my dear!
sir charles. ah! george. good dinner?
george. paynter! take that table into the dining room.
malise. let me give you a hand.
paynter and malise carry one of the bridge tables out, george making a half-hearted attempt to relieve malise.
sir charles. very fine sunset!
quite softly clare begins to laugh. all look at her first with surprise, then with offence, then almost with horror. george is about to go up to her, but huntingdon heads him off.
huntingdon. bring the tray along, old man.
george takes up the tray, stops to look at clare, then allows huntingdon to shepherd him out.
malise. never apologize for being fey. it's much too rare.
malise. don't spoil it!
clare. i'd been walking up and down the embankment for about three hours. one does get desperate sometimes.
malise. thank god for that!
clare. only makes it worse afterwards. it seems so frightful to them, too.
malise. mrs. dedmond, there's a whole world outside yours. why don't you spread your wings?
malise. prison. break out!
malise. thank god for beauty!
malise. who are they?
she goes forward. mrs. fullerton is a rather tall woman, with dark hair and a quick eye. he, one of those clean-shaven naval men of good presence who have retired from the sea, but not from their susceptibility.
clare. they're playing bridge in the dining-room. mr. malise doesn't play. mr. malise--mrs. fullarton, mr. fullarton.
fullarton. most awfully jolly dress, mrs. dedmond.
malise. i'll say good-night.
he shakes hands with clare, bows to mrs. fullarton, and makes his way out. huntingdon and fullerton foregather in the doorway.
mrs. fullarton. why not?
clare. i don't want to torture him. if i strike--i'll go clean. i expect i shall strike.
mrs. fullarton. my dear! you'll have the whole world against you.
clare. even you won't back me, dolly?
mrs. fullarton. of course i'll back you, all that's possible, but i can't invent things.
clare. you wouldn't let me come to you for a bit, till i could find my feet?
mrs. fullarton, taken aback, cannot refrain from her glance at fullarton automatically gazing at clare while he talks with huntingdon.
mrs. fullarton. of course--the only thing is that----
mrs. fullarton. oh! don't do anything desperate, clare--you are so desperate sometimes. you ought to make terms--not tracks.
mrs. fullarton. but, clare----
clare. no, dolly; even you don't understand. all day and every day --just as far apart as we can be--and still--jolly, isn't it? if you've got a soul at all.
mrs. fullarton. it's awful, really.
clare. i suppose there are lots of women who feel as i do, and go on with it; only, you see, i happen to have something in me that--comes to an end. can't endure beyond a certain time, ever.
she has taken a flower from her dress, and suddenly tears it to bits. it is the only sign of emotion she has given.
huntingdon sees them out. left alone clare clenches her hands, moves swiftly across to the window, and stands looking out.
clare. well, reggie?
clare. get married, and find out after a year that she's the wrong person; so wrong that you can't exchange a single real thought; that your blood runs cold when she kisses you--then you'll know.
huntingdon. my dear old girl, i don't want to be a brute; but it's a bit difficult to believe in that, except in novels.
clare. yes, incredible, when you haven't tried.
huntingdon. i mean, you--you chose him yourself. no one forced you to marry him.
clare. it does seem monstrous, doesn't it?
huntingdon. my dear child, do give us a reason.
clare. it's not all--it's nothing. i can't explain, reggie--it's not reason, at all; it's--it's like being underground in a damp cell; it's like knowing you'll never get out. nothing coming--never anything coming again-never anything.
clare. i know.
huntingdon. and you've got to think of the girls. any trouble would be very beastly for them. and the poor old governor would feel it awfully.
clare. if i didn't know all that, reggie, i should have gone home long ago.
huntingdon. well, what's to be done? if my pay would run to it--but it simply won't.
clare. thanks, old boy, of course not.
huntingdon. can't you try to see george's side of it a bit?
clare. i do. oh! don't let's talk about it.
huntingdon. well, my child, there's just one thing you won't go sailing near the wind, will you? i mean, there are fellows always on the lookout.
clare. "that chap, malise, you'd better avoid him!" why?
huntingdon. well! i don't know him. he may be all right, but he's not our sort. and you're too pretty to go on the tack of the new woman and that kind of thing--haven't been brought up to it.
huntingdon. don't head for trouble, old girl. take a pull. bless you! good-night.
clare kisses him, and when he has gone turns away from the door, holding herself in, refusing to give rein to some outburst of emotion. suddenly she sits down at the untouched bridge table, leaning her bare elbows on it and her chin on her hands, quite calm. george is coming in. paynter follows him.
clare. nothing more wanted, thank you, paynter. you can go home, and the maids can go to bed.
paynter. we are much obliged, ma'am.
clare. i ran over a dog, and had to get it seen to.
paynter. naturally, ma'am!
paynter. i couldn't get you a little anything, ma'am?
clare. no, thank you.
paynter. no, ma'am. good-night, ma'am.
clare. is it worth while to rag me? i know i've behaved badly, but i couldn't help it, really!
george. couldn't help behaving like a shop-girl? my god! you were brought up as well as i was.
george. to let everybody see that we don't get on--there's only one word for it--disgusting!
clare. i know.
clare. i'm sorry.
clare. no--really! only--i must break out sometimes.
george. there are things one does not do.
clare. i came in because i was sorry.
george. and at once began to do it again! it seems to me you delight in rows.
clare. you'd miss your--reconciliations.
george. for god's sake, clare, drop cynicism!
clare. and truth?
george. you are my wife, i suppose.
clare. and they twain shall be one--spirit.
george. don't talk wild nonsense!
clare. five years, and four of them like this! i'm sure we've served our time. don't you really think we might get on better together--if i went away?
george. i've told you i won't stand a separation for no real reason, and have your name bandied about all over london. i have some primitive sense of honour.
clare. you mean your name, don't you?
george. look here. did that fellow malise put all this into your head?
clare. no; my own evil nature.
george. i wish the deuce we'd never met him. comes of picking up people you know nothing of. i distrust him--and his looks--and his infernal satiric way. he can't even 'dress decently. he's not--good form.
george. why do you let him come? what d'you find interesting in him?
clare. a mind.
george. deuced funny one! to have a mind--as you call it--it's not necessary to talk about art and literature.
clare. we don't.
clare. you had better ask him.
george. i tell you plainly, as a man of the world, i don't believe in the guide, philosopher and friend business.
clare. thank you.
a silence. clare suddenly clasps her hands behind her head.
clare. let me go! you'd be much happier with any other woman.
clare. i believe--i'm sure i could earn my living. quite serious.
george. are you mad?
clare. it has been done.
moulton was a handsome man of past fifty with a youthful face against his iron gray hair and mustache, well dressed, genial, a man who seemed keenly in love with the good things of life.
“it is rumored,” began kennedy, “that an attempt was made on your safe here at the office last night.”
“yes,” he admitted, taking off his glasses and polishing them carefully. “i suppose there is no need of concealment, especially as i hear that a somewhat similar attempt was made on the safe of my friend herman schloss in maiden lane.”
“you lost nothing?”
moulton put his glasses on and looked kennedy in the face frankly.
“nothing, fortunately,” he said, then went on slowly. “you see, in my later years, i have been something of a collector of precious stones myself. i don’t wear them, but i have always taken the keenest pleasure in owning them and when i was married it gave me a great deal more pleasure to have them set in rings, pendants, tiaras, necklaces, and other forms for my wife.”
he had risen, with the air of a busy man who had given the subject all the consideration he could afford and whose work proceeded almost by schedule. “this morning i found my safe tampered with, but, as i said, fortunately something must have scared off the burglars.”
he bowed us out politely. what was the explanation, i wondered. it seemed, on the face of things, that antoinette moulton feared her husband. did he know something else already, and did she know he knew? to all appearances he took it very calmly, if he did know. perhaps that was what she feared, his very calmness.
“i must see mrs. moulton again,” remarked kennedy, as we left.
the moultons lived, we found, in one of the largest suites of a new apartment hotel, the deluxe, and in spite of the fact that our arrival had been announced some minutes before we saw mrs. moulton, it was evident that she had been crying hysterically over the loss of the paste jewels and what it implied.
“i missed it this morning, after my return from seeing you,” she replied in answer to craig’s inquiry, then added, wide-eyed with alarm, “what shall i do? he must have opened the wall safe and found the replica. i don’t dare ask him point-blank.”
“are you sure he did it?” asked kennedy, more, i felt, for its moral effect on her than through any doubt in his own mind.
“not sure. but then the wall safe shows no marks, and the replica is gone.”
“might i see your jewel case?” he asked.
“surely. i’ll get it. the wall safe is in lynn’s room. i shall probably have to fuss a long time with the combination.”
in fact she could not have been very familiar with it for it took several minutes before she returned. meanwhile, kennedy, who had been drumming absently on the arms of his chair, suddenly rose and walked quietly over to a scrap basket that stood beside an escritoire. it had evidently just been emptied, for the rooms must have been cleaned several hours before. he bent down over it and picked up two scraps of paper adhering to the wicker work. the rest had evidently been thrown away.
i bent over to read them. one was:
—rest nettie— —dying to see—
the other read:
—cherche to-d —love and ma —rman.
what did it mean? hastily, i could fill in “dearest nettie,” and “i am dying to see you.” kennedy added, “the recherche to-day,” that being the name of a new apartment uptown, as well as “love and many kisses.” but “—rman”—what did that mean? could it be herman—herman schloss?
she was returning and we resumed our seats quickly.
kennedy took the jewel case from her and examined it carefully. there was not a mark on it.
“mrs. moulton,” he said slowly, rising and handing it back to her, “have you told me all?”
“why—yes,” she answered.
kennedy shook his head gravely.
“i’m afraid not. you must tell me everything.”
“no—no,” she cried vehemently, “there is nothing more.”
we left and outside the deluxe he paused, looked about, caught sight of a taxicab and hailed it.
“where?” asked the driver.
“across the street,” he said, “and wait. put the window in back of you down so i can talk. i’ll tell you where to go presently. now, walter, sit back as far as you can. this may seem like an underhand thing to do, but we’ve got to get what that woman won’t tell us or give up the case.”
perhaps half an hour we waited, still puzzling over the scraps of paper. suddenly i felt a nudge from kennedy. antoinette moulton was standing in the doorway across the street. evidently she preferred not to ride in her own car, for a moment later she entered a taxicab.
“follow that black cab,” said kennedy to our driver.
sure enough, it stopped in front of the recherche apartments and mrs. moulton stepped out and almost ran in.
we waited a moment, then kennedy followed. the elevator that had taken her up had just returned to the ground floor.
“the same floor again,” remarked kennedy, jauntily stepping in and nodding familiarly to the elevator boy.
then he paused suddenly, looked at his watch, fixed his gaze thoughtfully on me an instant, and exclaimed. “by george—no. i can’t go up yet. i clean forgot that engagement at the hotel. one moment, son. let us out. we’ll be back again.”
considerably mystified, i followed him to the sidewalk.
“where?” i asked.
“that’s what i am going through all this elaborate preparation to find out. i have no more idea than you have.”
it could not have been more than twenty minutes later when mrs. moulton emerged rather hurriedly, and drove away.
while we had been waiting i had observed a man on the other side of the street who seemed unduly interested in the recherche, too, for he had walked up and down the block no less than six times. kennedy saw him, and as he made no effort to follow mrs. moulton, kennedy did not do so either. in fact a little quick glance which she had given at our cab had raised a fear that she might have discovered that she was being followed.
kennedy and i paid off our cabman and sauntered into the recherche in the most debonair manner we could assume.
“now, son, we’ll go up,” he said to the boy who, remembering us, and now not at all clear in his mind that he might not have seen us before that, whisked us to the tenth floor.
“let me see,” said kennedy, “it’s number one hundred and—er——”
“three,” prompted the boy.
he pressed the buzzer and a neatly dressed colored maid responded.
“i had an appointment here with mrs. moulton this morning,” remarked kennedy.
“she has just gone,” replied the maid, off her guard.
“and was to meet mr. schloss here in half an hour,” he added quickly.
it was the maid’s turn to look surprised.
“i didn’t think he was to be here,” she said. “he’s had some—”
“trouble at the office,” supplied kennedy. “that’s what it was about. perhaps he hasn’t been able to get away yet. but i had the appointment. ah, i see a telephone in the hall. may i?”
he had stepped politely in, and by dint of cleverly keeping his finger on the hook in the half light, he carried on a one-sided conversation with himself long enough to get a good chance to look about.
there was an air of quiet and refinement about the apartment in the recherche. it was darkened to give the little glowing electric bulbs in their silken shades a full chance to simulate right. the deep velvety carpets were noiseless to the foot, and the draperies, the pictures, the bronzes, all bespoke taste.
but the chief objects of interest to craig were the little square green baize-covered tables on one of which lay neatly stacked a pile of gilt-edged cards and a mahogany box full of ivory chips of red, white and blue.
it was none of the old-time gambling places, like danfield’s, with its steel door which craig had once cut through with an oxyacetylene blowpipe in order to rescue a young spendthrift from himself.
kennedy seemed perfectly well satisfied merely with a cursory view of the place, as he hung up the receiver and thanked the maid politely for allowing him to use it.
“this is up-to-date gambling in cleaned-up new york,” he remarked as we waited for the elevator to return for us. “and the worst of it all is that it gets the women as well as the men. once they are caught in the net, they are the most powerful lure to men that the gamblers have yet devised.”
we rode down in silence, and as we went down the steps to the street, i noticed the man whom we had seen watching the place, lurking down at the lower corner. kennedy quickened his pace and came up behind him.
“why, winters!” exclaimed craig. “you here?”
“i might say the same to you,” grinned the detective not displeased evidently that our trail had crossed his. “i suppose you are looking for schloss, too. he’s up in the recherche a great deal, playing poker. i understand he owns an interest in the game up there.”
kennedy nodded, but said nothing.
“i just saw one of the cappers for the place go out before you went in.”
“capper?” repeated kennedy surprised. “antoinette moulton a steerer for a gambling joint? what can a rich society woman have to do with a place like that or a man like schloss?”
winters smiled sardonically. “society ladies to-day often get into scrapes of which their husbands know nothing,” he remarked. “you didn’t know before that antoinette moulton, like many of her friends in the smart set, was a gambler—and loser—did you?”
craig shook his head. he had more of human than scientific interest in a case of a woman of her caliber gone wrong.
“but you must have read of the famous moulton diamonds?”
“yes,” said craig, blankly, as if it were all news to him.
“schloss has them—or at least had them. the jewels she wore at the opera this winter were paste, i understand.”
“does moulton play?” he asked.
“i think so—but not here, naturally. in a way, i suppose, it is his fault. they all do it. the example of one drives on another.”
instantly there flashed over my mind a host of possibilities. perhaps, after all, winters had been right. schloss had taken this way to make sure of the jewels so that she could not redeem them. suddenly another explanation crowded that out. had mrs. moulton robbed the safe herself, or hired some one else to do it for her, and had that person gone back on her?
then a horrid possibility occurred to me. whatever antoinette moulton may have been and done, some one must have her in his power. what a situation for the woman! my sympathy went out to her in her supreme struggle. even if it had been a real robbery, schloss might easily recover from it. but for her every event spelled ruin and seemed only to be bringing that ruin closer.
we left winters, still watching on the trail of schloss, and went on uptown to the laboratory.
chapter xviii the burglar’s microphone
that night i was sitting, brooding over the case, while craig was studying a photograph which he made of the smudge on the glass door down at schloss’. he paused in his scrutiny of the print to answer the telephone.
“something has happened to schloss,” he exclaimed seizing his hat and coat. “winters has been watching him. he didn’t go to the recherche. winters wants me to meet him at a place several blocks below it come on. he wouldn’t say over the wire what it was. hurry.”
we met winters in less than ten minutes at the address he had given, a bachelor apartment in the neighborhood of the recherche.
“schloss kept rooms here,” explained winters, hurrying us quickly upstairs. “i wanted you to see before anyone else.”
as we entered the large and luxuriously furnished living room of the jeweler’s suite, a gruesome sight greeted us.
there lay schloss on the floor, face down, in a horribly contorted position. in one hand, clenched under him partly, the torn sleeve of a woman’s dress was grasped convulsively. the room bore unmistakable traces of a violent struggle, but except for the hideous object on the floor was vacant.
kennedy bent down over him. schloss was dead. in a corner, by the door, stood a pile of grips, stacked up, packed, and undisturbed.
winters who had been studying the room while we got our bearings picked up a queer-looking revolver from the floor. as he held it up i could see that along the top of the barrel was a long cylinder with a ratchet or catch at the butt end. he turned it over and over carefully.
“by george,” he muttered, “it has been fired off.”
“look,” i cried, my eye catching a little hole in the baseboard of the woodwork near it.
“it must have fallen and exploded on the floor,” remarked kennedy. “let me see it, winters.”
craig held it at arm’s length and pulled the catch. instead of an explosion, there came a cone of light from the top of the gun. as kennedy moved it over the wall, i saw in the center of the circle of light a dark spot.
“a new invention,” craig explained. “all you need to do is to move it so that little dark spot falls directly on an object. pull the trigger—the bullet strikes the dark spot. even a nervous and unskilled marksman becomes a good shot in the dark. he can even shoot from behind the protection of something—and hit accurately.”
it was too much for me. i could only stand and watch kennedy as he deftly bent over schloss again and placed a piece of chemically prepared paper flat on the forehead of the dead man.
when he withdrew it, i could see that it bore marks of the lines on his head. without a word, kennedy drew from his pocket a print of the photograph of the smudge on schloss’ door.
“it is possible,” he said, half to himself, “to identify a person by means of the arrangement of the sweat glands or pores. poroscopy, dr. edmond locard, director of the police laboratory at lyons, calls it. the shape, arrangement, number per square centimeter, all vary in different individuals. besides, here we have added the lines of the forehead.”
he was studying the two impressions intensely. when he looked up from his examination, his face wore a peculiar expression.
“this is not the head which was placed so close to the glass of the door of schloss’ office, peering through, on the night of the robbery, in order to see before picking the lock whether the office was empty and everything ready for the hasty attack on the safe.”
“that disposes of my theory that schloss robbed himself,” remarked winters reluctantly. “but the struggle here, the sleeve of the dress, the pistol—could he have been shot?”
“no, i think not,” considered kennedy. “it looks to me more like a case of apoplexy.”
“what shall we do?” asked winters. “far from clearing anything up, this complicates it.”
“where’s muller?” asked kennedy. “does he know? perhaps he can shed some light on it.”
the clang of an ambulance bell outside told that the aid summoned by winters had arrived.
we left the body in charge of the surgeon and of a policeman who arrived about the same time, and followed winters.
muller lived in a cheap boarding house in a shabbily respectable street downtown, and without announcing ourselves we climbed the stairs to his room. he looked up surprised but not disconcerted as we entered.
“what’s the matter?” he asked.
“muller,” shot out winters, “we have just found mr. schloss dead!”
“d-dead!” he stammered.
the man seemed speechless with horror.
“yes, and with his grips packed as if to run away.”
muller looked dazedly from one of us to the other, but shut up like a clam.
“i think you had better come along with us as a material witness,” burst out winters roughly.
kennedy said nothing, leaving that sort of third degree work to the detective. but he was not idle, as winters tried to extract more than the monosyllables, “i don’t know,” in answer to every inquiry of muller about his employer’s life and business.
a low exclamation from craig attracted my attention from winters. in a corner he had discovered a small box and had opened it. inside was a dry battery and a most peculiar instrument, something like a little flat telephone transmitter yet attached by wires to earpieces that fitted over the head after the manner of those of a wireless detector.
“what’s this?” asked kennedy, dangling it before muller.
he looked at it phlegmatically. “a deaf instrument i have been working on,” replied the jeweler. “my hearing is getting poor.”
kennedy looked hastily from the instrument to the man.
“i think i’ll take it along with us,” he said quietly.
winters, true to his instincts, had been searching muller in the meantime. besides the various assortment that a man carries in his pockets usually, including pens, pencils, notebooks, a watch, a handkerchief, a bunch of keys, one of which was large enough to open a castle, there was a bunch of blank and unissued pawn-tickets bearing the name, “stein’s one per cent. a month loans,” and an address on the bowery.
was muller the “fence” we were seeking, or only a tool for the “fence” higher up? who was this stein?
what it all meant i could only guess. it was a far cry from the wealth of diamond lane to a dingy bowery pawnshop, even though pawnbroking at one per cent. a month—and more, on the side—pays. i knew, too, that diamonds are hoarded on the east side as nowhere else in the world, outside of india. it was no uncommon thing, i had heard, for a pawnbroker whose shop seemed dirty and greasy to the casual visitor to have stored away in his vault gems running into the hundreds of thousands of dollars.
“mrs. moulton must know of this,” remarked kennedy. “winters, you and jameson bring muller along. i am going up to the deluxe.”
i must say that i was surprised at finding mrs. moulton there. outside the suite winters and i waited with the unresisting muller, while kennedy entered. but through the door which he left ajar i could hear what passed.
“mrs. moulton,” he began, “something terrible has happened—”
he broke off, and i gathered that her pale face and agitated manner told him that she knew already.
“where is mr. moulton?” he went on, changing his question.
“mr. moulton is at his office,” she answered tremulously. “he telephoned while i was out that he had to work to-night. oh, mr. kennedy—he knows—he knows. i know it. he has avoided me ever since i missed the replica from-”
“sh!” cautioned craig. he had risen and gone to the door.
“winters,” he whispered, “i want you to go down to lynn moulton’s office. meanwhile jameson can take care of muller. i am going over to that place of stein’s presently. bring moulton up there. you will wait here, walter, for the present,” he nodded.
he returned to the room where i could hear her crying softly.
“now, mrs. moulton,” he said gently, “i’m afraid i must trouble you to go with me. i am going over to a pawnbroker’s on the bowery.”
“the bowery?” she repeated, with a genuinely surprised shudder. “oh, no, mr. kennedy. don’t ask me to go anywhere to-night. i am—i am in no condition to go anywhere—to do anything—i—”
“but you must,” said kennedy in a low voice.
“i can’t. oh—have mercy on me. i am terribly upset. you—”
“it is your duty to go, mrs. moulton,” he repeated.
“i don’t understand.” she murmured. “a pawnbroker’s?”
“come,” urged kennedy, not harshly but firmly, then, as she held back, added, playing a trump card, “we must work quickly. in his hands we found the fragments of a torn dress. when the police—”
she uttered a shriek. a glance had told her, if she had deceived herself before, that kennedy knew her secret.
antoinette moulton was standing before him, talking rapidly.
“some one has told lynn. i know it. there is nothing now that i can conceal. if you had come half an hour later you would not have found me. he had written to mr. schloss, threatening him that if he did not leave the country he would shoot him at sight. mr. schloss showed me the letter.
“it had come to this. i must either elope with schloss, or lose his aid. the thought of either was unendurable. i hated him—yet was dependent on him.
“i carried a new pistol in my muff, one which lynn had just bought. i don’t know how i did it. i was desperate.
“he told me he loved me, that lynn did not, never had—that lynn had married me only to show off his wealth and diamonds, to give him a social! position—that i was merely a—a piece of property—a dummy.
“he tried to kiss me. it was revolting. i struggled away from him.
“and in the struggle, the revolver fell from my muff and exploded on the floor.
“at once he was aflame with suspicion.
“‘so—it’s murder you want!’ he shouted. ‘well, murder it shall be!’
“i saw death in his eye as he seized my arm. i was defenseless now. the old passion came over him. before he killed—he—would have his way with me.
“i screamed. with a wild effort i twisted away from him.
“he raised his hand to strike me, i saw his eyes, glassy. then he sank back—fell to the floor—dead of apoplexy—dead of his furious emotions.
“and now you have found me.”
she had turned, hastily, to leave the room. kennedy blocked the door.
“mrs. moulton,” he said firmly, “listen to me. what was the first question you asked me? ‘can i trust you?’ and i told you you could. this is no time for—for suicide.” he shot the word out bluntly. “all may not be lost. i have sent for your husband. muller is outside.”
“muller?” she cried. “he made the replica.”
it was all confused to me, the dash in a car to the little pawnbroker’s on the first floor of a five-story tenement, the quick entry into the place by one of muller’s keys.
over the safe in back was a framework like that which had covered schloss’ safe. kennedy tore it away, regardless of the alarm which it must have sounded. in a moment he was down before it on his knees.
“this is how schloss’ safe was opened so quickly,” he muttered, working feverishly. “here is some of their own medicine.”
he had placed the peculiar telephone-like transmitter close to the combination lock and was turning the combination rapidly.
suddenly he rose, gave the bolts a twist, and the ponderous doors swung open.
“what is it?” i asked eagerly.
“a burglar’s microphone,” he answered, hastily looking over the contents of the safe. “the microphone is now used by burglars for picking combination locks. when you turn the lock, a slight sound is made when the proper number comes opposite the working point. it can be heard sometimes by a sensitive ear, although it is imperceptible to most persons. but by using a microphone it is an easy matter to hear the sounds which allow of opening the lock.”
he had taken a yellow chamois bag out of the safe and opened it.
inside sparkled the famous moulton diamonds. he held them up—in all their wicked brilliancy. no one spoke.
then he took another yellow bag, more dirty and worn than the first. as he opened it, mrs. moulton could restrain herself no longer.
“the replica!” she cried. “the replica!”
without a word, craig handed the real necklace to her. then he slipped the paste jewels into the newer of the bags and restored both it and the empty one to their places, banged shut the door of the safe, and replaced the wooden screen.
“quick!” he said to her, “you have still a minute to get away. hurry—anywhere—away—only away!”
the look of gratitude that came over her face, as she understood the full meaning of it was such as i had never seen before.
“quick!” he repeated.
it was too late.
“for god’s sake, kennedy,” shouted a voice at the street door, “what are you doing here?”
it was mclear himself. he had come with the hale patrol, on his mettle now to take care of the epidemic of robberies.
they were winters and moulton.
without a word, taking advantage of the first shock of surprise, kennedy had clapped a piece of chemical paper on the foreheads of mrs. moulton, then of moulton, and on muller’s. oblivious to the rest of us, he studied the impressions in the full light of the counter.
“i’ve been told of the paste replica—and i wrote schloss that i’d shoot him down like the dog he is, you—you traitress,” he hissed.
she drew herself up scornfully.
“and i have been told why you married me—to show off your wicked jewels and help you in your—”
“you lie!” he cried fiercely. “muller—some one—open this safe—whosever it is. if what i have been told is true, there is in it one new bag containing the necklace. it was stolen from schloss to whom you sold my jewels. the other old bag, stolen from me, contains the paste replica you had made to deceive me.”
it was all so confused that i do not know how it happened. i think it was muller who opened the safe.
“there is the new yellow bag,” cried moulton, “from schloss’ own safe. open it.”
mclear had taken it. he did so. there sparkled not the real gems, but the replica.
“the devil!” moulton exclaimed, breaking from winters and seizing the old bag.
he tore it open and—it was empty.
“one moment,” interrupted kennedy, looking up quietly from the counter. “seal that safe again, mclear. in it are the schloss jewels and the products of half a dozen other robberies which the dupe muller—or stein, as you please—pulled off, some as a blind to conceal the real criminal. you may have shown him how to leave no finger prints, but you yourself have left what is just as good—your own forehead print. mclear—you were right. there’s your criminal—lynn moulton, professional fence, the brains of the thing.”
chapter xix the germ letter
lynn moulton made no fight and kennedy did not pursue the case, for, with the rescue of antoinette moulton, his interest ceased.
blackmail takes various forms, and the moulton affair was only one phase of it. it was not long before we had to meet a much stranger attempt.
“read the letter, professor kennedy. then i will tell you the sequel.”
mrs. hunter blake lay back in the cushions of her invalid chair in the sun parlor of the great blake mansion on riverside drive, facing the hudson with its continuous reel of maritime life framed against the green-hilled background of the jersey shore.
her nurse, miss dora sears, gently smoothed out the pillows and adjusted them so that the invalid could more easily watch us. mrs. blake, wealthy, known as a philanthropist, was not an old woman, but had been for years a great sufferer from rheumatism.
i watched miss sears eagerly. full-bosomed, fine of face and figure, she was something more than a nurse; she was a companion. she had bright, sparkling black eyes and an expression about her well-cut mouth which made one want to laugh with her. it seemed to say that the world was a huge joke and she invited you to enjoy the joke with her.
kennedy took the letter which miss sears proffered him, and as he did so i could not help noticing her full, plump forearm on which gleamed a handsome plain gold bracelet. he spread the letter out on a dainty wicker table in such a way that we both could see it.
we had been summoned over the telephone to the blake mansion by reginald blake, mrs. blake’s eldest son. reginald had been very reticent over the reason, but had seemed very anxious and insistent that kennedy should come immediately.
craig read quickly and i followed him, fascinated by the letter from its very opening paragraph.
“dear madam,” it began. “having received my diploma as doctor of medicine and bacteriology at heidelberg in 1909, i came to the united states to study a most serious disease which is prevalent in several of the western mountain states.”
so far, i reflected, it looked like an ordinary appeal for aid. the next words, however, were queer: “i have four hundred persons of wealth on my list. your name was—”
kennedy turned the page. on the next leaf of the letter sheet was pasted a strip of gelatine. the first page had adhered slightly to the gelatine.
“chosen by fate,” went on the sentence ominously.
“by opening this letter,” i read, “you have liberated millions of the virulent bacteria of this disease. without a doubt you are infected by this time, for no human body is impervious to them, and up to the present only one in one hundred has fully recovered after going through all its stages.”
i gasped. the gelatine had evidently been arranged so that when the two sheets were pulled apart, the germs would be thrown into the air about the person opening the letter. it was a very ingenious device.
the letter continued, “i am happy to say, however, that i have a prophylactic which will destroy any number of these germs if used up to the ninth day. it is necessary only that you should place five thousand dollars in an envelope and leave it for me to be called for at the desk of the prince henry hotel. when the messenger delivers the money to me, the prophylactic will be sent immediately.
“first of all, take a match and burn this letter to avoid spreading the disease. then change your clothes and burn the old ones. enclosed you will find in a germ-proof envelope an exact copy of this letter. the room should then be thoroughly fumigated. do not come into close contact with anyone near and dear to you until you have used the prophylactic. tell no one. in case you do, the prophylactic will not be sent under any circumstances. very truly yours, dr. hans hopf.”
“blackmail!” exclaimed kennedy, looking intently again at the gelatine on the second page, as i involuntarily backed away and held my breath.
“yes, i know,” responded mrs. blake anxiously, “but is it true?”
there could be no doubt from the tone of her voice that she more than half believed that it was true.
“i cannot say—yet,” replied craig, still cautiously scanning the apparently innocent piece of gelatine on the original letter which mrs. blake had not destroyed. “i shall have to keep it and examine it.”
on the gelatine i could see a dark mass which evidently was supposed to contain the germs.
“i opened the letter here in this room,” she went on. “at first i thought nothing of it. but this morning, when buster, my prize pekinese, who had been with me, sitting on my lap at the time, and closer to the letter even than i was, when buster was taken suddenly ill, i—well, i began to worry.”
she finished with a little nervous laugh, as people will to hide their real feelings.
“i should like to see the dog,” remarked kennedy simply.
“miss sears,” asked her mistress, “will you get buster, please?”
the nurse left the room. no longer was there the laughing look on her face. this was serious business.
a few minutes later she reappeared, carrying gingerly a small dog basket. mrs. blake lifted the lid. inside was a beautiful little “peke,” and it was easy to see that buster was indeed ill.
“who is your doctor?” asked craig, considering.
“dr. rae wilson, a very well-known woman physician.”
kennedy nodded recognition of the name. “what does she say?” he asked, observing the dog narrowly.
“we haven’t told anyone, outside, of it yet,” replied mrs. blake. “in fact until buster fell sick, i thought it was a hoax.”
“you haven’t told anyone?”
“only reginald and my daughter betty. betty is frantic—not with fear for herself, but with fear for me. no one can reassure her. in fact it was as much for her sake as anyone’s that i sent for you. reginald has tried to trace the thing down himself, but has not succeeded.”
she paused. the door opened and reginald blake entered. he was a young fellow, self confident and no doubt very efficient at the new dances, though scarcely fitted to rub elbows with a cold world which, outside of his own immediate circle, knew not the name of blake. he stood for a moment regarding us through the smoke of his cigarette.
“tell me just what you have done,” asked kennedy of him as his mother introduced him, although he had done the talking for her over the telephone.
“done?” he drawled. “why, as soon as mother told me of the letter, i left an envelope up at the prince henry, as it directed.”
“with the money?” put in craig quickly.
“oh, no—just as a decoy.”
“yes. what happened?”
“well, i waited around a long time. it was far along in the day when a woman appeared at the desk. i had instructed the clerk to be on the watch for anyone who asked for mail addressed to a dr. hopf. the clerk slammed the register. that was the signal. i moved up closer.”
“what did she look like?” asked kennedy keenly.
“i couldn’t see her face. but she was beautifully dressed, with a long light flowing linen duster, a veil that hid her features and on her hands and arms a long pair of motoring doeskin gloves. by george, she was a winner—in general looks, though. well, something about the clerk, i suppose, must have aroused her suspicions. for, a moment later, she was gone in the crowd. evidently she had thought of the danger and had picked out a time when the lobby would be full and everybody busy. but she did not leave by the front entrance through which she entered. i concluded that she must have left by one of the side street carriage doors.”
“and she got away?”
“yes. i found that she asked one of the boys at the door to crank up a car standing at the curb. she slid into the seat, and was off in a minute.”
kennedy said nothing. but i knew that he was making a mighty effort to restrain comment on the bungling amateur detective work of the son of our client.
reginald saw the look on his face. “still,” he hastened, “i got the number of the car. it was 200859 new york.”
“you have looked it up?” queried kennedy quickly.
“i didn’t need to do it. a few minutes later dr. rae wilson herself came out—storming like mad. her car had been stolen at the very door of the hotel by this woman with the innocent aid of the hotel employees.”
kennedy was evidently keenly interested. the mention of the stolen car had apparently at once suggested an idea to him.
“mrs. blake,” he said, as he rose to go, “i shall take this letter with me. will you see that buster is sent up to my laboratory immediately?”
she nodded. it was evident that buster was a great pet with her and that it was with difficulty she kept from smoothing his silky coat.
“you—you won’t hurt buster?” she pleaded.
“no. trust me. more than that, if there is any possible way of untangling this mystery, i shall do it.”
mrs. blake looked rather than spoke her thanks. as we went downstairs, accompanied by miss sears, we could see in the music room a very interesting couple, chatting earnestly over the piano.
betty blake, a slip of a girl in her first season, was dividing her attention between her visitor and the door by which we were passing.
she rose as she heard us, leaving the young man standing alone at the piano. he was of an age perhaps a year or two older than reginald blake. it was evident that, whatever miss betty might think, he had eyes for no one else but the pretty debutante. he even seemed to be regarding kennedy sullenly, as if he were a possible rival.
“you—you don’t think it is serious?” whispered betty in an undertone, scarcely waiting to be introduced. she had evidently known of our visit, but had been unable to get away to be present upstairs.
“really, miss blake,” reassured kennedy, “i can’t say. all i can do is to repeat what i have already said to your mother. keep up a good heart and trust me to work it out.”
“thank you,” she murmured, and then, impulsively extending her small hand to craig, she added, “mr. kennedy, if there is anything i can do to help you, i beg that you will call on me.”
“i shall not forget,” he answered, relinquishing the hand reluctantly. then, as she thanked him, and turned again to her guest, he added in a low tone to me, “a remarkable girl, walter, a girl that can be depended on.”
we followed miss sears down the hall.
“who was that young man in the music room?” asked kennedy, when we were out of earshot.
“duncan baldwin,” she answered. “a friend and bosom companion of reginald.”
“he seems to think more of betty than of her brother,” craig remarked dryly.
miss sears smiled. “sometimes, we think they are secretly engaged,” she returned. we had almost reached the door. “by the way,” she asked anxiously, “do you think there are any precautions that i should take for mrs. blake—and the rest?”
“hardly,” answered kennedy, after a moment’s consideration, “as long as you have taken none in particular already. still, i suppose it will do no harm to be as antiseptic as possible.”
“i shall try,” she promised, her face showing that she considered the affair now in a much more serious light than she had before our visit.
“and keep me informed of anything that turns up,” added kennedy handing her a card with the telephone number of the laboratory.
as we left the blake mansion, kennedy remarked, “we must trace that car somehow—at least we must get someone working on that.”
half an hour later we were in a towering office building on liberty street, the home of various kinds of insurance. kennedy stopped before a door which bore the name, “douglas garwood: insurance adjuster.”
briefly, craig told the story of the stolen car, omitting the account of the dastardly method taken to blackmail mrs. blake. as he proceeded a light seemed to break on the face of garwood, a heavyset man, whose very gaze was inquisitorial.
“yes, the theft has been reported to us already by dr. wilson herself,” he interrupted. “the car was insured in a company i represent.”
“i had hoped so,” remarked kennedy, “do you know the woman?” he added, watching the insurance adjuster who had been listening intently as he told about the fair motor car thief.
“know her?” repeated garwood emphatically. “why, man, we have been so close to that woman that i feel almost intimate with her. the descriptions are those of a lady, well-dressed, and with a voice and manner that would carry her through any of the fashionable hotels, perhaps into society itself.”
“one of a gang of blackmailers, then,” i hazarded.
garwood shrugged his shoulders. “perhaps,” he acquiesced. “it is automobile thieving that interests me, though. why,” he went on, rising excitedly, “the gangs of these thieves are getting away with half a million dollars’ worth of high-priced cars every year. the police seem to be powerless to stop it. we appeal to them, but with no result. so, now we have taken things into our own hands.”
“what are you doing in this case?” asked kennedy.
“what the insurance companies have to do to recover stolen automobiles,” garwood replied. “for, with all deference to your friend, deputy o’connor, it is the insurance companies rather than the police who get stolen cars back.”
he had pulled out a postal card from a pigeon hole in his desk, selecting it from several apparently similar. we read:
we will pay $100.00 for car, $150.00 additional for information which will convict the thief. when last seen, driven by a woman, name not known, who is described as dark-haired, well-dressed, slight, apparently thirty years old. the car is a dixon, 1912, seven-passenger, touring, no. 193,222, license no. 200,859, new york; dark red body, mohair top, brass lamps, has no wind shield; rear axle brake band device has extra nut on turnbuckle not painted. car last seen near prince henry hotel, new york city, friday, the 10th.
communicate by telegraph or telephone, after notifying nearest police department, with douglas garwood, new york city.
“the secret of it is,” explained garwood, as we finished reading, “that there are innumerable people who keep their eyes open and like to earn money easily. thus we have several hundreds of amateur and enthusiastic detectives watching all over the city and country for any car that looks suspicious.”
kennedy thanked him for his courtesy, and we rose to go. “i shall be glad to keep you informed of anything that turns up,” he promised.
chapter xx the artificial kidney
in the laboratory, kennedy quietly set to work. he began by tearing from the germ letter the piece of gelatine and first examining it with a pocket lens. then, with a sterile platinum wire, he picked out several minute sections of the black spot on the gelatine and placed them in agar, blood serum, and other media on which they would be likely to grow.
“i shall have to wait until to-morrow to examine them properly,” he remarked. “there are colonies of something there, all right, but i must have them more fully developed.”
what to read. this is like giving a loaded gun to a boy and saying, 'shoot away! ... no matter in which direction you point your aim, . . shoot yourself if you like, and others too,--anyhow, you've got the gun!' of course there are a few fellows who have occasionally drawn up a list of books as suitable for everybody's perusal,--but then these lists cannot be taken as true criterions, as they all differ from one another as much as church sects. one would-be instructor in the art of reading says we ought all to study 'tom jones'--now i don't see the necessity of that! and, oddly enough, these lists scarcely ever include the name of a poet,--which is the absurdest mistake ever made. a liberal education in the highest works of poesy is absolutely necessary to the thinking abilities of man. but, alwyn, you need not trouble yourself about what is good for the million and what isn't, . . whatever you write is sure to be read now--you've got the ear of the public,--the 'fair, large ear' of the ass's head which disguises bottom the weaver, who frankly says of himself, 'i am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, i must scratch!'"
alwyn smiled. he was thinking of what his shadow-self had said on this very subject--"a book or poem, to be great, and keep its greatness hereafter, must be judged by the natural instinct of peoples. this world-wide decision has never yet been, and never will be, hastened by any amount of written criticism,--it is the responsive beat of the enormous pulse of life that thrills through all mankind, high and low, gentle and simple,--its great throbs are slow and solemnly measured, yet if once it answers to a poet's touch, that poet's name is made glorious forever!" he.. in the character of sah-luma.. had seemed to utter these sentiments many ages ago,--and now the words repeated themselves in his thoughts with a new and deep intensity of meaning.
"of course," added villiers suddenly--"you must expect plenty of adverse criticism now, as it is known beyond all doubt that you are alive and able to read what is written concerning you,--but if you once pay attention to critics, you may as well put aside pen altogether, as it is the business of these worthies never to be entirely satisfied with anything. even shelley and byron, in the critical capacity, abused keats, till the poor, suffering youth, who promised to be greater then either of them, died of a broken heart as much as disease. this sort of injustice will go on to the end of time, or till men become more christianized than paul's version of christianity has ever yet made them."
here a knock at the door interrupted the conversation. the servant entered, bringing a note gorgeously crested and coroneted in gold. villiers, to whom it was addressed, opened and read it.
"what shall we do about this?" he asked, when his man had retired. "it is an invitation from the duchess de la santoisie. she asks us to go and dine with her next week,--a party of twenty--reception afterward. i think we'd better accept,--what do you say?"
alwyn roused himself from his reverie. "anything to please you, my dear boy!" he answered cheerfully--"but i haven't the faintest idea who the duchess de la santoisie is!"
"no? ... well, she's an englishwoman who has married a french duke. he is a delightful old fellow, the pink of courtesy, and the model of perfect egotism. a true parisian, and of course an atheist,--a very polished atheist, too, with a most charming reliance on his own infallibility. his wife writes novels which have a slight leaning toward zolaism,--she is an extremely witty woman sarcastic, and cold-blooded enough to be a female robespierre, yet, on the whole, amusing as a study of what curious nondescript forms the feminine nature can adopt unto itself, if it chooses. she has an immense respect for genius,--mind, i say genius advisedly, because she really is one of those rare few who cannot endure mediocrity. everything at her house is the best of its kind, and the people she entertains are the best of theirs. her welcome of you will be at any rate a sincerely admiring one,--and as i think, in spite of your desire for quiet, you will have to show yourself somewhere, it may as well be there."
alwyn looked dubious, and not at all resigned to the prospect of "showing himself."
"your description of her does not strike me as particularly attractive,"--he said--"i cannot endure that nineteenth-century hermaphroditic production, a mannish woman."
"oh but she isn't altogether mannish,"--declared villiers, . . "besides, i mustn't forget to add, that she is extremely beautiful."
alwyn shrugged his shoulders indifferently. his friend noticed the gesture and laughed.
"still impervious to beauty, old boy?"--he said gayly--"you always were, i remember!"
alwyn flushed a little, and rose from his chair.
"not always,"--he answered steadily,--"there have been times in my life when the beauty of women,--mere physical beauty--has exercised great influence over me. but i have lately learned how a fair face may sometimes mask a foul mind,--and unless i can see the substance of soul looking through the semblance of body, then i know that the beauty i seem to behold is mere appearance, and not reality. hence, unless your beautiful duchess be like the 'king's daughter' of david's psalm, 'all glorious within'--her apparent loveliness will have no charm for me!--now"--and he smiled, and spoke in a less serious tone.. "if you have no objection, i am off to my room to scribble for an hour or so. come for me if you want me--you know i don't in the least mind being disturbed."
but villiers detained him a moment, and looked inquisitively at him full in the eyes.
"you've got some singular new attraction about you, alwyn,"--he said, with a strange sense of keen inward excitement as he met his friend's calm yet flashing glance,--"something mysterious, . . something that compels! what is it? ... i believe that visit of yours to the ruins of babylon had a more important motive than you will admit, . . moreover.. i believe you are in love!"
"in love!"--alwyn laughed a little as he repeated the words.. "what a foolish term that is when you come to think of it! for to be in love suggests the possibility of getting out again,--which, if love be true, can never happen. say that i love!--and you will be nearer the mark! now don't look so mystified, and don't ask me any more questions just now--to-night, when we are sitting together in the library, i'll tell you the whole story of my babylonian adventure!"
and with a light parting wave of the hand he left the room, and villiers heard him humming a tune softly to himself as he ascended the stairs to his own apartments, where, ever since he arrived, he had made it his custom to do two or three hours' steady writing every morning. for a moment or so after he had gone villiers stood lost in thought, with knitted brows and meditative eyes, then, rousing himself, he went on to his study, and sitting down at his desk wrote an answer to the duchess de la santoisie accepting her invitation.
rewards of fame.
an habitual resident in london who is gifted with a keen faculty of hearing and observation, will soon learn to know instinctively the various characteristics of the people who call upon him, by the particular manner in which each one handles his door-bell or knocker. he will recognize the timid from the bold, the modest from the arrogant, the meditative thinker from the bustling man of fashion, the familiar friend from the formal acquaintance. every individual's method of announcing his or her arrival to the household is distinctly different,--and villiers, who studied a little of everything, had not failed to take note of the curiously diversified degrees of single and double rapping by means of which his visitors sought admittance to his abode. in fact, he rather prided himself on being able to guess with almost invariable correctness what special type of man or woman was at his door, provided he could hear the whole diapason of their knock from beginning to end. when he was shut in his "den," however, the sounds were muffled by distance, and he could form no just judgment,--sometimes, indeed, he did not hear them at all, especially if he happened to be playing his 'cello at the time. so that this morning he was considerably startled, when, having finished his letter to the duchess de la santoisie, a long and persistent rat-tat-tatting echoed noisily through the house, like the smart, quick blows of a carpenter's hammer--a species of knock that was entirely unfamiliar to him, and that, while so emphatic in character, suggested to his mind neither friend nor foe. he laid down his pen, listened and waited. in a minute or two his servant entered the room.
"if you please, sir, a lady to see mr. alwyn. shall i show her up?"
villiers rose slowly out of his chair, and stood eyeing his man in blank bewilderment.
"a lady! ... to see mr. alwyn!"--he repeated, his thoughts instantly reverting to his friend's vaguely hinted love-affair,--"what name?"
"she gives no name, sir. she says it isn't needed,--mr. alwyn will know who she is."
"mr. alwyn will know who she is, will he?" murmured villiers dubiously.--"what is she like? young and pretty?"
over the man-servant's staid countenance came the glimmer of a demure, respectful smile.
"oh no, sir,--not young, sir! a person about fifty, i should say."
this was mystifying. a person about fifty! who could she be? villiers hastily considered,--there must be some mistake, he thought,--at any rate, he would see the unknown intruder himself first, and find out what her business was, before breaking in upon alwyn's peaceful studies upstairs.
"show the lady in here"--he said--"i can't disturb mr. alwyn just now."
the servant retired, and soon re-appeared, ushering in a tall, gaunt, black-robed female, who walked with the stride of a dragoon and the demeanor of a police-inspector, and who, merely nodding briskly in response to villiers's amazed bow, selected with one comprehensive glance the most comfortable chair in the room, and seated herself at ease therein. she then put up her veil, displaying a long, narrow face, cold, pale, arrogant eyes, a nose inclined to redness at the tip, and a thin, close-set mouth lined with little sarcastic wrinkles, which came into prominent and unbecoming play as soon as she began to speak, which she did almost immediately.
"i suppose i had better introduce myself to you, mr. alwyn"--she said with a condescending and confident air--"though really we know each other so well by reputation that there seems scarcely any necessity for it! of course you have heard of 'tiger-lily!'"
villiers gazed at her helplessly,--he had never felt so uncomfortable in all his life. here was a strange woman, who had actually taken bodily possession of his apartment as though it were her own,--who had settled herself down in his particular pet louis quatorze chair,--who stared at him with the scrutinizing complacency of a professional physiognomist,--and who seemed to think no explanation of her extraordinary conduct was necessary, inasmuch as "of course" he, villiers, had heard of "tiger-lily!" it was very singular! ... almost like madness! ... perhaps she was mad! how could he tell? she had a remarkably high, knobby brow,--a brow with an unpleasantly bald appearance, owing to the uncompromising way in which her hair was brushed well off it--he had seen such brows before in certain "spiritualists" who believed, or pretended to believe, in the suddenly willed dematerialization of matter, and they were mad, he knew, or else very foolishly feigning madness!
endeavoring to compose his bewildered mind, he fixed glass in eye, and regarded her through it with an inquiring solemnity,--he would have spoken, but before he could utter a word, she went on rapidly:
"you are not in the least like the person i imagined you to be! ... however, that doesn't matter. literary celebrities are always so different to what we expect!"
"pardon me, madam,"--began villiers politely.. "you are making a slight error,--my servant probably did not explain. i am not mr. alwyn, . . my name is villiers. mr. alwyn is my guest,--but he is at present very much occupied,--and unless your business is extremely urgent..."
"certainly it is urgent"--said the lady decisively.. "otherwise i should not have come. and so you are not mr. alwyn! well, i thought you couldn't be! now then, will you have the kindness to tell mr. alwyn i am here?"
by this time villiers had recovered his customary self-possession, and he met her commanding glance with a somewhat defiant coolness.
"i am not aware to whom i have the honor of speaking," he said frigidly. "perhaps you will oblige me with your name?"
"my name doesn't in the least matter," she replied calmly--"though i will tell you afterward if you wish. but you don't seem to understand i...i am 'tiger-lily'!"
the situation was becoming ludicrous. villiers felt strongly disposed to laugh.
"i'm afraid i am very ignorant!"--he said, with a humorous sparkle in his blue eyes,--"but really i am quite in the dark as to your meaning. will you explain?"
the lady's nose grew deeper of tint, and the look she shot at him had quite a killing vindictiveness. with evident difficulty she forced a smile.
"oh, you must have heard of me!"--she declared, with a ponderous attempt at playfulness--"you read the papers, don't you?"
"some of them," returned villiers cautiously--"not all. not the sunday ones, for instance."
"still, you can't possibly have helped seeing my descriptions of famous people 'at home,' you know! i write for ever so many journals. i think"--and she became complacently reflective--"i think i may say with perfect truth that i have interviewed everybody who has ever done anything worth noting, from our biggest provision dealer to our latest sensational novelist! and all my articles are signed 'tiger-lily.' now do you remember? oh, you must remember? ... i am so very well known!"
there was a touch of genuine anxiety in her voice that was almost pathetic, but villiers made no attempt to soothe her wounded vanity.
"i have no recollection whatever of the name," he said bluntly--"but that is easily accounted for, as i never read newspaper descriptions of celebrities. so you are an 'interviewer' for the press?"
"exactly!" and the lady leaned back more comfortably in the louis quatorze fauteuil--"and of course i want to interview mr. alwyn. i want..." here drawing out a business looking note-book from her pocket she opened it and glanced at the different headings therein enumerated,--"i want to describe his personal appearance,--to know when he was born, and where he was educated,--whether his father or mother had literary tastes,--whether he had, or has, brothers or sisters, or both,--whether he is married, or likely to be, and how much money he has made by his book." she paused and gave an upward glance at villiers, who returned it with a blank and stony stare.
"then,"--she resumed energetically--"i wish to know what are his methods of work;--where he gets his ideas and how he elaborates them,--how many hours he writes at a time, and whether he is an early riser,--also what he usually takes for dinner,--whether he drinks wine or is a total abstainer, and at what hour he retires to rest. all this is so intensely interesting to the public! perhaps he might be inclined to give me a few notes of his recent tour in the east, and of course i should be very glad if he will state his opinions on the climate, customs, and governments of the countries through which he has passed. it's a great pity this is not his own house,--it is a pretty place and a description of it would read well. let me see!"--and she meditated,--" i think i could manage to insert a few lines about this apartment, . . it would be easy to say 'the picturesque library in the house of the honble. francis villiers, where mr. alwyn received me,' etc.,--yes! that would do very well!--very well indeed! i should like to know whether he has a residence of his own anywhere, and if not, whether he intends to take one in london, because in the latter case it would be as well to ascertain by whom he intends to have it furnished. a little discussion on upholstery is so specially fascinating to my readers! then, naturally, i am desirous to learn how the erroneous rumor of his death was first started, . . whether in the course of his travels he met with some serious accident, or illness, which gave rise to the report. now,"--and she shut her note-book and folded her hands,--"i don't mind waiting an hour or more if necessary,--but i am sure if you will tell mr. alwyn who i am, and what i have come for, he will be only too delighted to see me with as little delay as possible."
she ceased. villiers drew a long breath,--his compressed lips parted in a slightly sarcastic smile. squaring his shoulders with that peculiar pugnacious gesture of his which always indicated to those who knew him well that his mind was made up, and that nothing would induce him to alter it, he said in a tone of stiff civility:
"i am sorry, madam, . . very sorry! ... but i am compelled to inform you that your visit here is entirely useless! were i to tell my friend of the purpose you have in view concerning him, he would not feel so much flattered as you seem to imagine, but rather insulted! excuse my frankness,--you have spoken plainly,--i must speak plainly too. provision dealers and sensational story writers may find that it serves their purpose to be interviewed, if only as a means of gaining extra advertisement, but a truly great and conscientious author like theos alwyn is quite above all that sort of thing."
the lady raised her pale eyebrows with an expression of interrogative scorn.
"above all that sort of thing!" she echoed incredulously--"dear me! how very extraordinary! i have always found all our celebrities so exceedingly pleased to be given a little additional notoriety! ... and i should have thought a poet," this with much depreciative emphasis--"would have been particularly glad of the chance! because, of course you know that unless a very astonishing success is made, as in the case of mr. alwyn's 'nourhalma,' people really take such slight interest in writers of verse, that it is hardly ever worth while interviewing them!"
"precisely!" agreed villiers ironically,--"the private history of a prize-fighter would naturally be much more thrilling!" he paused,--his temper was fast rising, but, quickly reflecting that, after all, the indignation he felt was not so much against his visitor as against the system she represented, he resumed quietly, "may i ask you, madam, whether you have ever 'interviewed' her majesty the queen?"
her glance swept slightingly over him.
"certainly not! such a thing would be impossible!"
"then you have never thought," went on villiers, with a thrill of earnestness in his manly, vibrating voice--"that it might be quite as impossible to 'interview' a great poet?--who, if great indeed, is in every way as royal as any sovereign that ever adorned a throne! i do not speak of petty verse-writers,--i say a great poet, by which term i imply a great creative genius who is honestly faithful to his high vocation. such an one could no more tell you his methods of work than a rainbow could prattle about the way it shines,--and as for his personal history, i should like to know by what right society is entitled to pry into the sacred matters of a man's private life, simply because he happens to be famous? i consider the modern love of prying and probing into other people's affairs a most degrading and abominable sign of the times,--it is morbid, unwholesome, and utterly contemptible. moreover, i think that writers who consent to be 'interviewed' condemn themselves as literary charlatans, unworthy of the profession they have wrongfully adopted. you see i have the courage of my opinions on this matter,--in fact, i believe, if every one were to speak their honest mind openly, a better state of things might be the result, and 'interviewing' would gradually come to be considered in its true light, namely, as a vulgar and illegitimate method of advertisement. i mean no disrespect to you, madam,"--this, as the lady suddenly put down her veil, thrust her note-book in her pocket, and rose somewhat bouncingly from her chair--"i am only sorry you should find such an occupation as that of the 'interviewer' open to you. i can scarcely imagine such work to be congenial to a lady's feelings, as, in the case of really distinguished personages, she must assuredly meet with many a rebuff! i hope i have not offended you by my bluntness, ... "--here he trailed off into inaudible polite murmurs, while the "tiger-lily" marched steadily toward the door.
"oh dear, no, i am not in the least offended!" she retorted contemptuously,--"on the contrary, this has been a most amusing experience!--most amusing, i assure you! and quite unique! why--" and suddenly stopping short, she turned smartly round and gesticulated with one hand ... "i have interviewed all the favorite actors and actresses in london! the biggest brewers in great britain have received me at their country mansions, and have given me all the particulars of their lives from earliest childhood! the author of 'hugger mugger's curse' took the greatest pains to explain to me how he first collected the materials for his design. the author of that most popular story, 'darling's twins,' gave me a description of all the houses he has ever lived in,--he even told me where he purchased his writing-paper, pens, and ink! and to think that a poet should be too grand to be interrogated! oh, the idea is really very funny! ... quite too funny for anything! "she gave a short laugh,--then relapsing into severity, she added ... "you will, i hope, tell mr. alwyn i called?"
villiers bowed. "assuredly!"
"thank you! because it is possible he may have different opinions to yours,--in that case, if he writes me a line, fixing an appointment, i shall be very pleased to call again. i will leave my card,--and if mr. alwyn is a sensible man, he will certainly hold broader ideas on the subject of 'interviewing' than you appear to entertain. you are quite sure i cannot see him?"
"quite!"--there was no mistake about the firm emphasis of this reply.
"oh, very well!"--here she opened the door, rattling the handle with rather an unnecessary violence,--"i'm sorry to have taken up any of your time, mr. villiers. good-morning!"
"good-morning!" ... returned villiers calmly, touching the bell that his servant might be in readiness to show her out. but the baffled "tiger-lily" was not altogether gone. she looked back, her face wrinkling into one of those strangely unbecoming expressions of grim playfulness.
"i've half a mind to make an 'at home' out of you!" she said, nodding at him energetically. "only you're not important enough!"
villiers burst out laughing. he was not proof against this touch of humor, and on a sudden good-natured impulse, sprang to the door and shook hands with her.
"no, indeed, i am not!" he said, with a charming smile--"think of it!--i haven't even invented a new biscuit! come, let me see you into the hall,--i'm really sorry if i've spoken roughly, but i assure you alwyn's not at all the sort of man you want for interviewing,--he's far too modest and noble-hearted. believe me!--i'm not romancing a bit--i'm in earnest. there are some few fine, manly, gifted fellows left in the world, who do their work for the love of the work alone, and not for the sake of notoriety, and he is one of them. now i'm not certain, if you were quite candid with me, you'd admit that you yourself don't think much of the people who actually like to be interviewed?"
his amiable glance, his kindly manner, took the gaunt female by surprise, and threw her quite off her guard. she laughed,--a natural, unforced laugh in which there was not a trace of bitterness. he was really a delightful young man, she thought, in spite of his old-fashioned, out-of-the-way notions!
"well, perhaps i don't!" she replied frankly--"but you see it is not my business to think about them at all. i simply 'interview' them,--and i generally find they are very willing, and often eager, to tell me all about themselves, even to quite trifling and unnecessary details. and, of course, each one thinks himself or herself the only or the chief 'celebrity' in london, or, for that matter, in the world. i have always to tone down the egotistical part of it a little, especially with authors, for if i were to write out exactly what they separately say of their contemporaries, it would be simply frightful! they would be all at daggers drawn in no time! i assure you 'interviewing' is often a most delicate and difficult business!"
"would it were altogether impossible!" said villiers heartily--"but as long as there is a plethora of little authors, and a scarcity of great ones, so long, i suppose, must it continue--for little men love notoriety, and great ones shrink from it, just in the same way that good women like flattery, while bad ones court it. i hope you don't bear me any grudge because i consider my friend alwyn both good and great, and resent the idea of his being placed, no matter with what excellent intention soever, on the level of the small and mean?"
the lady surveyed him with a twinkle of latent approval in her pale-colored eyes.
"not in the least!" she replied in a tone of perfect good-humor. "on the contrary, i rather admire your frankness! still, i think, that as matters stand nowadays, you are very odd,--and i suppose your friend is odd too,--but, of course, there must be exceptions to every rule. at the same time, you should recollect that, in many people's opinion, to be 'interviewed' is one of the chiefest rewards of fame!--" villiers shrugged his shoulders expressively. "oh, yes, it seems a poor reward to you, no doubt,"--she continued smilingly,--"but there are no end of authors who would do anything to secure the notoriety of it! now, suppose that, after all, mr. alwyn does care to submit to the operation, you will let me know, won't you?"
"certainly i will!"--and villiers, accepting her card, on which was inscribed her own private name and address, shook hands once more, and bowed her courteously out. no sooner had the door closed upon her than he sprang upstairs, three steps at a time, and broke impetuously in upon alwyn, who, seated at a table covered with papers, looked up with a surprised smile at the abrupt fashion of his entrance. in a few minutes he had disburdened himself of the whole story of the "tiger-lily's" visit, telling it in a whimsical way of his own, much to the amusement of his friend, who listened, pen in hand, with a half-laughing, half-perplexed light in his fine, poetic eyes.
"now did i express the proper opinion?" he demanded in conclusion. "was i not right in thinking you would never consent to be interviewed?"
"right? why of course you were!"--responded alwyn quickly. "can you imagine me calmly stating the details of my personal life and history to a strange woman, and allowing her to turn it into a half-guinea article for some society journal! but, villiers, what an extraordinary state of things we are coming to, if the press can actually condescend to employ a sort of spy, or literary detective, to inquire into the private experience of each man or woman who comes honorably to the front!"
"honorably or dishonorably,--it doesn't matter which,"--said villiers, "that is just the worst of it. one day it is an author who is 'interviewed,' the next it is a murderer,--now a statesman,--then a ballet dancer,--the same honor is paid to all who have won any distinct notoriety. and what is so absurd is, that the reading million don't seem able to distinguish between 'notoriety' and 'fame.' the two things are so widely, utterly apart! byron's reputation, for instance, was much more notoriety during his life than fame--while keats had actually laid hold on fame while as yet deeming himself unfamous. it's curious, but true, nevertheless, that very often the writers who thought least of themselves during their lifetime have become the most universally renowned after their deaths. shakespeare, i dare say, had no very exaggerated idea of the beauty of his own plays,--he seems to have written just the best that was in him, without caring what anybody thought of it. and i believe that is the only way to succeed in the end."
"in the end!" repeated alwyn dreamily--"in the end, no worldly success is worth attaining,--a few thousand years and the greatest are forgotten!"
"not the greatest,"--said villiers warmly--"the greatest must always be remembered."
"no, my friend!--not even the greatest! do you not think there must have been great and wise and gifted men in tyre, in sidon, in carthage, in babylon?--there are five men mentioned in scripture, as being 'ready to write swiftly'--sarea, dabria, selemia, ecanus, and ariel--where is the no doubt admirable work done by these? perhaps ... who knows? ... one of them was as great as homer in genius,--we cannot tell!"
"true,--we cannot tell!" responded villiers meditatively--"but, alwyn, if you persist in viewing things through such tremendous vistas of time, and in measuring the future by the past, then one may ask what is the use of anything?"
"there is no use in anything, except in the making of a strong, persistent, steady effort after good," said alwyn earnestly ... "we men are cast, as it were, between two swift currents, wrong and right,--self and god,--and it seems more easy to shut our eyes and drift into self and wrong, than to strike out brave arms, and swim, despite all difficulty, toward god and right, yet if we once take the latter course, we shall find it the most natural and the least fatiguing. and with every separate stroke of high endeavor we carry others with us,--we raise our race,--we bear it onward,--upward! and the true reward, or best result of fame, is, that having succeeded in winning brief attention from the multitude, a man may be able to pronounce one of god's lightning messages of inspired truth plainly to them, while they are yet willing to stand and listen. this momentary hearing from the people is, as i take it, the sole reward any writer can dare to hope for,--and when he obtains it, he should remember that his audience remains with him but a very short while,--so that it is his duty to see that he employ his chance well, not to win applause for himself, but to cheer and lift others to noble thought, and still more noble fulfilment."
villiers regarded him wistfully.
"alwyn, my dear fellow, do you want to be the sisyphus of this era?--you will find the stone of evil heavy to roll upward,--moreover, it will exhibit the usually painful tendency to slip back and crush you!"
"how can it crush me?" asked his friend with a serene smile. "my heart cannot be broken, or my spirit dismayed, and as for my body, it can but die,--and death comes to every man! i would rather try to roll up the stone, however fruitless the task, than sit idly looking at it, and doing nothing!"
"your heart cannot be broken? ah! how do you know" ... and villiers shook his head dubiously--"what man can be certain of his own destiny?"
"everyman can will his own destiny,"--returned alwyn firmly. "that is just it. but here we are getting into a serious discussion, and i had determined to talk no more on such subjects till to-night."
"and to-night we are to go in for them thoroughly, i suppose?"--inquired villiers with a quick look. "to-night, my dear boy, you will have to decide whether you consider me mad or sane," said alwyn cheerfully--"i shall tell you truths that seem like romances--and facts that sound like fables,--moreover, i shall have to assure you that miracles do happen whenever god chooses, in spite of all human denial of their possibility. do you remember whately's clever skit--'historical doubts of napoleon i'?--showing how easy it was to logically prove that napoleon never existed?--that ought to enlighten people as to the very precise and convincing manner in which we can, if we choose, argue away what is nevertheless an incontestible fact. thus do skeptics deny miracles--yet we live surrounded by miracles! ... do you think me crazed for saying so?"
villiers laughed. "crazed! no, indeed!--i wish every man in london were as sane and sound as you are!"
"ah, but wait till to-night!" and alwyn's eyes sparkled mirthfully--"perhaps you will alter your opinion then!"--here, collecting his scattered manuscripts, he put them by--"i've done work for the present,"--he said--"shall we go for a walk somewhere?"
villiers assented, and they left the room together.
one against many.
the beautiful and socially popular duchess de la santoisie sat her at brilliantly appointed dinner-table, and flashed her bright eyes comprehensively round the board,--her party was complete. she had secured twenty of the best-known men and women of letters in all london, and yet she was not quite satisfied with the result attained. one dark, splendid face on her right hand had taken the lustre out of all the rest,--one quiet, courteous smile on a mouth haughty, yet sweet, had somehow or other made the entertainment of little worth in her own estimation. she was very fair to look upon, very witty, very worldly-wise,--but for once her beauty seemed to herself defective and powerless to charm, while the graceful cloak of social hypocrisy she was always accustomed to wear would not adapt itself to her manner tonight so well as usual. the author of "nourhalma" the successful poet whose acquaintance she had very eagerly sought to make, was not at all the kind of man she had expected,--and now, when he was beside her as her guest, she did not quite know what to do with him.
she had met plenty of poets, so called, before,--and had, for the most part, found them insignificant looking men with an enormous opinion of themselves, and a suave, condescending contempt for all others of their craft; but this being,--this stately, kingly creature with the noble head, and far-gazing, luminous eyes,--this man, whose every gesture was graceful, whose demeanor was more royal than that of many a crowned monarch,--whose voice had such a singular soft thrill of music in its tone,--he was a personage for whom she had not been prepared,--and in whose presence she felt curiously embarrassed and almost ill at ease. and she was not the only one present who experienced these odd sensations. alwyn's appearance, when, with his friend villiers, he had first entered the duchess's drawing-room that evening, and had there been introduced to his hostess, had been a sort of revelation to the languid, fashionable guests assembled; sudden quick whispers were exchanged--surprised glances,--how unlike he was to the general type of the nervous, fagged, dyspeptic "literary" man!
and now that every one was seated at dinner, the same impression remained on all,--an impression that was to some disagreeable and humiliating, and that yet could not be got over,--namely, that this "poet," whom, in a way, the duchess and her friends had intended to patronize, was distinctly superior to them all. nature, as though proud of her handiwork, proclaimed him as such,--while he, quite unconscious of the effect he produced, wondered why this bevy of human beings, most of whom were more or less distinguished in the world of art and literature, had so little to say for themselves. their conversation was banal,--tame,--ordinary; they might have been well-behaved, elegantly dressed peasants for aught they said of wise, cheerful, or witty. the weather,--the parks,--the theatres,--the newest actress, and the newest remedies for indigestion,--these sort of subjects were bandied about from one to the other with a vaguely tame persistence that was really irritating,--the question of remedies for indigestion seemed to hold ground longest, owing to the variety of opinions expressed thereon.
the duchess grew more and more inwardly vexed, and her little foot beat an impatient tattoo under the table, as she replied with careless brevity to a few of the commonplace observations addressed to her, and cast an occasional annoyed glance at her lord, m le duc, a thin, military-looking individual, with a well waxed and pointed mustache, whose countenance suggested an admirably executed mask. it was a face that said absolutely nothing,--yet beneath its cold impassiveness linked the satyr-like, complex, half civilized, half brutish mind of the born and bred parisian,--the goblin-creature with whom pure virtues, whether in man or woman, are no more sacred than nuts to a monkey. the suave charm of a polished civility sat on m le due's smooth brow, and beamed in his urbane smile,--his manners were exquisite, his courtesy irreproachable, his whole demeanor that of a very precise and elegant master of deportment. yet, notwithstanding his calm and perfectly self-possessed exterior, he was, oddly enough, the frequent prey of certain extraordinary and ungovernable passions; there were times when he became impossible to himself,--and when, to escape from his own horrible thoughts, he would plunge headlong into an orgie of wild riot and debauchery, such as might have made the hair of his respectable english acquaintances stand on end, had they known to what an extent he carried his excesses. but at these seasons of moral attack, he "went abroad for his health," as he said, delicately touching his chest in order to suggest some interesting latent weakness there, and in these migratory excursions his wife never accompanied him, nor did she complain of his absence. when he returned, after two or three months, he looked more the "chevalier sans peur et sans reproche" than ever; and neither he, nor the fair partner of his joys and sorrows, even committed such a breach of politeness as to inquire into each other's doings during the time of their separation. so they jogged on together, presenting the most delightful outward show of wedded harmony to the world,--and only a few were found to hazard the remark, that the "racy" novels madame la duchesse wrote to wile away her duller hours were singularly "bitter" in tone, for a woman whose lot in life was so extremely enviable!
on this particular evening, the duke affected to be utterly unconscious of the meaning looks his beautiful spouse shot at him every now and then,--looks which plainly said--"why don't you start some interesting subject of conversation, and stop these people from talking such every-day twaddle?" he was a clever man in his way, and his present mood was malign and mischievous; therefore he went on eating daintily, and discussing mild platitudes in the most languidly amiable manner imaginable, enjoying to the full the mental confusion and discomfort of his guests,--confusion and discomfort which, as he very well knew, was the psychological result of their having one in their midst whose life and character were totally opposite to, and distinctly separate from, their own. as emerson truly says, "let the world beware when a thinker comes into it!".. and here was this thinker,--this type of the godlike in man,--this uncomfortably sincere personage, whose eyes were clear of falsehood, whose genius was incontestable, whose fame had taken society by assault, and who, therefore, was entitled to receive every attention and consideration.
everybody had desired to see him, and here he was,--the great man, the new "celebrity"--and now that he was actually present, no one knew what to say to him; moreover, there was a very general tendency in the company to avoid his direct gaze. people fidgeted on their chairs and looked aside or downward, whenever his glance accidentally fell on them,--and to the analytical voltairean mind of m. le duc there was something grimly humorous in the whole situation. he was a great admirer of physical strength and beauty, and alwyn's noble face and fine figure had won his respect, though of the genius of the poet he knew nothing, and cared less. it was enough for all the purposes of social usage that the author of "nourhalma" was considered illustrious,--no matter whether he deserved the appellation or not. and so the duke, satirically amused at the obvious embarrassment of the other "notabilities" assembled, did nothing whatsoever to relieve or to lighten the conversation, which remained so utterly dull and inane that alwyn, who had been compelled, for politeness' sake, to appear interested in the account of a bicycle race detailed to him by a very masculine looking lady-doctor whose seat at table was next his own, began to feel a little weary, and to wonder dismally how long this "feast of reason and flow of soul" was going to last.
villiers, too, whose easy, good-natured, and clever talk generally gave some sparkle and animation to the dreariest social gathering, was to-night unusually taciturn:--he was bored by his partner, a middle-aged woman with a mania for philology, and, moreover, his thoughts, like those of most of the persons present, were centered on alwyn, whom every now and then he regarded with a certain wistful wonder and reverence. he had heard the whole story of the field of ardath; and he knew not how much to accept of it as true, or how much to set down to his friend's ardent imagination. he had come to a fairly logical explanation of the whole matter,--namely, that as the city of al-kyris had been proved a dream, so surely the visit of the angel-maiden edris must have been a dream likewise,--that the trance at the monastery of dariel, followed by the constant reading of the passages from esdras, and the treatise of algazzali, had produced a vivid impression on alwyn's susceptible brain, which had resolved itself into the visionary result narrated.
he found in this the most practical and probable view of what must otherwise be deemed by mortal minds incredible; and, being a frank and honest fellow, he had not scrupled to openly tell his friend what he thought. alwyn had received his remarks with the most perfect sweetness and equanimity,--but, all the same, had remained unchanged in his opinion as to the reality of his betrothal to his angel-love in heaven. and one or two points had certainly baffled villiers, and perplexed him in his would-be precise analysis of the circumstances: first, there was the remarkable change in alwyn's own nature. from an embittered, sarcastic, disappointed, violently ambitious man, he had become softened, gracious, kindly,--showing the greatest tenderness and forethought for others, even in small, every-day trifles; while for himself he took no care. he wore his fame as lightly as a child might wear a flower, just plucked and soon to fade,--his intelligence seemed to expand itself into a broad, loving, sympathetic comprehension of the wants and afflictions of human-kind; and he was writing a new poem, of which villiers had seen some lines that had fairly amazed him by their grandeur of conception and clear passion of utterance. thus it was evident there was no morbidness in him,--no obscurity,--nothing eccentric,--nothing that removed him in any way from his fellows, except that royal personality of his,--that strong, beautiful, well-balanced spirit in him, which exercised such a bewildering spell on all who came within its influence, he believed himself loved by an angel! well,--if there were angels, why not? villiers argued the proposition thus:
"whether we are christians, jews, buddhists, or mahometans, we are supposed to accept angels as forming part of the system of our faith. if we are nothing,--then, of course, we believe in nothing. but granted we are something, then we are bound in honor, if consistent, to acknowledge that angels help to guide our destinies. and if, as we are assured by holy writ, such loftier beings do exist, why should they not communicate with, and even love, human creatures, provided those human creatures are worthy of their tenderness? certainly, viewed by all the chief religions of the world, there is nothing new or outrageous in the idea of an angel descending to the help of man."
such thoughts as these were in his mind now, as he ever and anon glanced across the glittering table, with its profusion of lights and flowers, to where his poet-friend sat, slightly leaning back in his chair, with a certain half-perplexed, half-disappointed expression on his handsome features, though his eyes brightened into a smile as he caught villiers's look, and he gave the smallest, scarcely perceptible shrug, as who should say, "is this your brilliant duchess?--your witty and cultured society?"
villiers flashed back an amused, responsive glance, and then conscientiously strove to pay more attention to the irrepressible feminine philologist beside him, determining to take her, as he said to himself, by way of penance for his unremembered sins. after a while there came one of those extraordinary, sudden rushes of gabble that often occur at even the stiffest dinner-party,--a galloping race of tongues, in which nothing really distinct is heard, but in which each talks to the other as though moved by an impulse of sheer desperation. this burst of noise was a relief after the strained murmurs of trite commonplaces that had hitherto been the order of the hour, and the fair duchess, somewhat easier in her mind, turned anew to alwyn, with greater grace and gentleness of manner than she had yet shown.
"i am afraid," she said smilingly, "you must find us all very stupid after your travels abroad? in england we are dull,--our tristesse cannot be denied. but, really, the climate is responsible,--we want more sunshine. i suppose in the east, where the sun is so warm and bright, the people are always cheerful?"
"on the contrary, i have found them rather serious and contemplative than otherwise," returned alwyn,--"yet their gravity is certainly of a pleasant, and not of a forbidding type. i don't myself think the sun has much to do with the disposition of man, after all,--i fancy his temperament is chiefly moulded by the life he leads. in the east, for instance, men accept their existence as a sort of divine command, which they obey cheerfully, yet with a consciousness of high responsibility:--on the continent they take it as a bagatelle, lightly won, lightly lost, hence their indifferent, almost childish, gayety;--but in great britain"--and he smiled,--"it looks nowadays as if it were viewed very generally as a personal injury and bore,--a kind of title bestowed without the necessary money to keep it up! and this money people set themselves steadily to obtain, with many a weary grunt and groan, while they are, for the most part, forgetful of anything else life may have to offer."
"but what is life without plenty of money?" inquired the duchess carelessly--"surely, not worth the trouble of living!"
alwyn looked at her steadily, and a swift flush colored her smooth cheek. she toyed with the magnificent diamond spray at her breast, and wondered what strange spell was in this man's brilliant gray-black eyes!--did he guess that she--even she--had sold herself to the duc de la santoisie for the sake of his money and title as easily and unresistingly as though she were a mere purchasable animal?
"that is an argument i would rather not enter into," he said gently--"it would lead us too far. but i am convinced, that whether dire poverty or great riches be our portion, life, considered apart from its worldly appendages, is always worth living, if lived well."
"pray, how can you separate life from its worldly appendages?"--inquired a satirical-looking gentleman opposite--"life is the world, and the things of the world; when we lose sight of the world, we lose ourselves,--in short, we die,--and the world is at an end, and we with it. that's plain practical philosophy."
"possibly it may be called philosophy"--returned alwyn--"it is not christianity."
"oh, christianity!"--and the gentleman gave a portentous sniff of contempt--"that is a system of faith that is rapidly dying out; fast falling into contempt!--in fact, with the scientific and cultured classes, it is already an exploded doctrine."
"indeed!"--alwyn's glance swept over him with a faint, cold scorn --"and what religion do the scientific and cultured classes propose to invent as a substitute?"
"nay, i think we must worship something!" retorted alwyn, a fine satire in his rich voice, "if it be only self!--self is an excellent deity!--accommodating, and always ready to excuse sin,--why should we not build temples, raise altars, and institute services to the glory and honor of self?--perhaps the time is ripe for a public proclamation of this creed?--it will be easily propagated, for the beginnings of it are in the heart of every man, and need very little fostering!"
his thrilling tone, together with the calm, half-ironical persuasiveness of his manner, sent a sudden hush down the table. every one turned eagerly toward him,--some amused, some wondering, some admiring, while villiers felt his heart beating with uncomfortable quickness,--he hated religious discussions, and always avoided them, and now here was alwyn beginning one, and he the centre of a company of persons who were for the most part avowed agnostics, to whose opinions his must necessarily be in direct and absolute opposition! at the same time, he remembered that those who were sure of their faith never lost their temper about it,--and as he glanced at his friend's perfectly serene and coldly smiling countenance, he saw there was no danger of his letting slip, even for a moment, his admirable power of self-command. the duc de la santoisie, meanwhile, settling his mustache, and gracefully waving one hand, on which sparkled a large diamond ring, bent forward a little with a courteous, deprecatory gesture.
"i think"--he said, in soft, purring accents,--"that my friend, dr. mudley"--here he bowed toward the saturnine looking individual who had entered into conversation with alwyn--"takes a very proper, and indeed a very lofty, view of the whole question. the moral sense"--and he laid a severely weighty emphasis on these words,--"the moral sense of each man, if properly trained, is quite sufficient to guide him through existence, without any such weakness as reliance on a merely supposititious deity."
the duke's french way of speaking english was charming; he gave an expressive roll to his r's, especially when he said "the moral sense," that of itself almost carried conviction. his wife smiled as she heard him, and her smile was not altogether pleasant. perhaps she wondered by what criterion of excellence he measured his own "moral sense," or whether, despite his education and culture, he had any "moral sense" at all, higher than that of the pig, who eats to be eaten! but alwyn spoke, and she listened intently, finding a singular fascination in the soft and quiet modulation of his voice, which gave a vaguely delicious suggestion of music underlying speech.
"to guide people by their moral sense alone"--he said--"you must first prove plainly to them that the moral sense exists, together with moral responsibility. you will find this difficult,--as the virtue implied is intangible, unseeable;--one cannot say of it, lo here!--or lo there!--it is as complicated and subtle as any other of the manifestations of pure spirit. then you must decide on one universal standard, or reasonable conception of what 'morality' is. again, you are met by a crowd of perplexities,--as every nation, and every tribe, has a totally different idea of the same thing. in some countries it is 'moral' to have many wives; in others, to drown female children; in others, to solemnly roast one's grandparents for dinner! supposing, however, that you succeed, with the aid of all the philosophers, teachers, and scientists, in drawing up a practical code of morality--do you not think an enormous majority will be found to ask you by whose authority you set forth this code?--and by what right you deem it necessary to enforce it? you may say, 'by the authority of knowledge and by the right of morality'--but since you admit to there being no spiritual or divine inspiration for your law, you will be confronted by a legion of opponents who will assure you, and probably with perfect justice, that their idea of morality is as good as yours, and their knowledge as excellent,--that your code appears to them faulty in many respects, and that, therefore, they purpose making another one, more suited to their liking. thus, out of your one famous moral system would spring thousands of others, formed to gratify the various tastes of different individuals, precisely in the same manner as sects have sprung out of the wholly unnecessary and foolish human arguments on christianity;--only that there would lack the one indestructible, pure selfless example that even the most quarrelsome bigot must inwardly respect,--namely, christ himself. and 'morality' would remain exactly where it is:--neither better nor worse for all the trouble taken concerning it. it needs something more than the 'moral' sense to rightly ennoble man,--it needs the spiritual sense;--the fostering of the instinctive immortal aspiration of the creature, to make him comprehend the responsibility of his present life, as a preparation for his higher and better destiny. the cultured, the scholarly, the ultra-refined, may live well and uprightly by their 'moral sense,'--if they so choose, provided they have some great ideal to measure themselves by,--but even these, without faith in god, may sometimes slip, and fall into deeper depths of ruin than they dreamed of, when self-centred on those heights of virtue where they fancied themselves exempt from danger."
he paused,--there was a curious stillness in the room,--many eyes were lowered, and m. le duc's composure was evidently not quite so absolute as usual.
"taken at its best"--he continued--"the world alone is certainly not worth fighting for;--we see the fact exemplified every day in the cases of those who, surrounded by all that a fair fortune can bestow upon them, deliberately hurl themselves out of existence by their own free will and act,--indeed, suicide is a very general accompaniment of agnosticism. and self-slaughter, though it may be called madness, is far more often the result of intellectual misery."
"of course, too much learning breeds brain disease"--remarked dr. mudley sententiously--"but only in weak subjects,--and in my opinion the weak are better out of the world. we've no room for them nowadays."
"his skyward notes have drenched the summer with the dews of song! ..."
this last line being certainly one of the most suggestive and beautiful in all poetical literature. such expressions have the intrinsic quality of completeness,--once said, we feel that they can never be said again;--they belong to the centuries, rather than the seasons, and any imitation of them we immediately and instinctively resent as an outrage.
and theos alwyn was essentially, and above all things, faithful to the lofty purpose of his calling,--he dealt with his art reverently, and not in rough haste and scrambling carelessness,--if he worked out any idea in rhyme, the idea was distinct and the rhyme was perfect,--he was not content, like browning, to jumble together such hideous and ludicrous combinations as "high;--humph!" and "triumph,"--moreover, he knew that what he had to tell his public must be told comprehensively, yet grandly, with all the authority and persuasiveness of incisive rhetoric, yet also with all the sweetness and fascination of a passioned love-song. occupied with such work as this, london, with its myriad mad noises and vulgar distractions, became impossible to him,--and villiers, his fidus achates, who had read portions of his great poem and was impatient to see it finished, knowing, as he did, what an enormous sensation it would create when published, warmly seconded his own desire to gain a couple of months complete seclusion and tranquillity.
he left town, therefore, about the middle of may and started across the channel, resolving to make for switzerland by the leisurely and delightful way of the rhine, in order to visit bonn, the scene of his old student days. what days they had been!--days of dreaming, more than action, for he had always regarded learning as a pastime rather than a drudgery, and so had easily distanced his comrades in the race for knowledge. while they were flirting with the lischen or gretchen of the hour, he had willingly absorbed himself in study--thus he had attained the head of his classes with scarce an effort, and, in fact, had often found time hanging heavily on his hands for want of something more to do. he had astonished the university professors--but he had not astonished himself, inasmuch as no special branch of learning presented any difficulties to him, and the more he mastered the more dissatisfied he became. it had seemed such a little thing to win the honors of scholarship! for at that time his ambition was always climbing up the apparently inaccessible heights of fame,--fame, that he then imagined was the greatest glory any human being could aspire to. he smiled as he recollected this, and thought how changed he was since then! what a difference between the former discontented mutability of his nature, and the deep, unswerving calm of patience that characterized it now! learning and scholarship? these were the mere child's alphabet of things,--and fame was a passing breath that ruffled for one brief moment the on-rushing flood of time--a bubble blown in the air to break into nothingness. thus much wisdom he had acquired,--and what more? a great deal more! he had won the difficult comprehension of himself; he had grasped the priceless knowledge that man has no enemy save that which is within him, and that the pride of a rebellious will is the parent sin from which all others are generated. the old scriptural saying is true for all time, that through pride the angels fell; and it is only through humility that they will ever rise again. pride! the proud will that is left free by divine law, to work for itself and answer for itself, and wreak upon its own head the punishment of its own errors,--the will that once voluntarily crushed down, in the dust at the cross of christ, with these words truly drawn from the depths of penitence, "lord, not as i will, but as thou wilt!" is straightway lifted up from its humiliation, a supreme, stately force, resistless, miraculous, world-commanding;--smoothing the way for all greatness and all goodness, and guiding the happy soul from joy to joy, from glory to glory, till heaven itself is reached and the perfection of all love and life begins. for true humility is not slavish, as some people imagine, but rather royal, since, while acknowledging the supremacy of god, it claims close kindred with him, and is at once invested with all the diviner virtues. fame and wealth, the two perishable prizes for which men struggle with one another in ceaseless and cruel combat, bring no absolute satisfaction in the end--they are toys that please for a time and then grow wearisome. but the conquering of self is a battle in which each fresh victory bestows a deeper content, a larger happiness, a more perfect peace,--and neither poverty, sickness, nor misfortune can quench the courage, or abate the ardor, of the warrior who is absorbed in a crusade against his own worser passions. egotism is the vice of this age,--the maxim of modern society is "each man for himself, and no one for his neighbor"--and in such a state of things, when personal interest or advantage is the chief boon desired, we cannot look for honesty in either religion, politics, or commerce. nor can we expect any grand work to be done in art or literature. when pictures are painted and books are written for money only,--when laborers take no pleasure in labor save for the wage it brings,--when no real enthusiasm is shown in anything except the accumulation of wealth,--and when all the finer sentiments and nobler instincts of men are made subject to mammon worship, is any one so mad and blind as to think that good can come of it? nothing but evil upon evil can accrue from such a system,--and those who have prophetic eyes to see through the veil of events can perceive, even now, the not far distant end--namely, the ruin of the country that has permitted itself to degenerate into a mere nation of shopkeepers,--and something worse than ruin,--degradation!
it was past eight in the evening when alwyn, after having spent a couple of days in bright little brussels, arrived at cologne. most travelers know to their cost how noisy, narrow, and unattractive are the streets of this ancient colonia agrippina of the romans,--how persistent and wearying is the rattle of the vehicles over the rough, cobbly stones--how irritating to the nerves is the incessant shrieking whistle and clank of the rhine steamboats as they glide in, or glide out, from the cheerless and dirty pier. but at night, when these unpleasant sounds have partially subsided, and the lights twinkle in the shop-windows, and the majestic mass of the cathedral casts its broad shadow on the moonlit dom-platz, and a few soldiers, with clanking swords and glittering spurs, come marching out from some dark stone archway, and the green gleam of the river sparkles along in luminous ripples,--then it is that a something weird and mystical creeps over the town, and the glamour of ancient historical memories begins to cling about its irregular buildings,--one thinks of the legendary three kings, and believes in them, too,--of st. ursula and her company of virgins; of marie de medicis dying alone in that tumbled-down house in the stern-gasse,--of rubens, who, it is said, here first saw the light of this world,--of an angry satan flinging his teufelstein from the seven mountains in an impotent attempt to destroy the dom; and gradually, the indestructible romantic spell of the rhine steals into the spirit of common things that were unlovely by day, and makes the old city beautiful under the sacred glory of the stars.
alwyn dined at his hotel, and then, finding it still too early to retire to rest, strolled slowly across the platz, looking up at the sublime god's temple above him, the stately cathedral, with its wondrously delicate carvings and flying buttresses, on which the moonlight glittered like little points of pale flame. he knew it of old; many and many a time had he taken train from bonn, for the sole pleasure of spending an hour in gazing on that splendid "sermon in stone,"--one of the grandest testimonies in the world of man's instinctive desire to acknowledge and honor, by his noblest design and work, the unseen but felt majesty of the creator. he had a great longing to enter it now, and ascended the steps with that intention; but, much to his vexation, the doors were shut. he walked from the side to the principal entrance; that superb western frontage which is so cruelly blocked in by a dwarfish street of the commonest shops and meanest houses,--and found that also closed against him. disappointed and sorry, he went back again to the side of the colossal structure, and stood on the top of the steps, close to the central barred doors, studying the sculptured saints in the niches, and feeling a sudden, singular impression of extreme loneliness,--a sense of being shut out, as it were, from some high festival in which he would gladly have taken part.
not a cloud was in the sky, ... the evening was one of the most absolute calm, and a delicious warmth pervaded the air,--the warmth of a fully declared and balmy spring. the platz was almost deserted,--only a few persons crossed it now and then, like flitting shadows,--and somewhere down in one of the opposite streets a long way off, there was a sound of men's voices singing a part-song. presently, however, this distant music ceased, and a deep silence followed. alwyn still remained in the sombre shade of the cathedral archway, arguing with himself against the foolish and unaccountable depression that had seized him, and watching the brilliant may moon soar up higher and higher in the heavens; when,--all at once, the throbbing murmur of the great organ inside the dom startled him from pensive dreaminess into swift attention. he listened,--the rich, round notes thundered through the stillness with forceful and majestic harmony; anon, wierd tones, like the passionate lament of sarasate's "zigeunerweisen" floated around and above him: then, a silvery chorus of young voices broke forth in solemn unison:
"kyrie eleison! christe eleison! kyrie eleison!"
a faint cold tremor crept through his veins,--his heart beat violently,--again he vainly strove to open the great door. was there a choir practising inside at this hour of the night? surely not! then,--from whence had this music its origin? stooping, he bent his ear to the crevice of the closed portal,--but, as suddenly as they had begun, the harmonies ceased; and all was once more profoundly still.
drawing a long, deep breath, he stood for a moment amazed and lost in thought--these sounds, he felt sure, were not of earth but of heaven! they had the same ringing sweetness as those he had heard on the field of ardath! what might they mean to him, here and now? quick as a flash the answer came--death! god had taken pity upon his solitary earth wanderings,--and the prayers of edris had shortened his world-exile and probation! he was to die! and that solemn singing was the warning,--or the promise,--of his approaching end!
yes! it must be so, he decided, as, with a strange, half-sad peace at his heart, he quietly descended the steps of the dom,-he would perhaps be permitted to finish the work he was at present doing,--and then,--then, the poet-pen would be laid aside forever, chains would be undone, and he would be set at liberty! such was his fixed idea. was he glad of the prospect, he asked himself? yes, and no! for himself he was glad; but in these latter days he had come to understand the thousand wordless wants and aspirations of mankind,--wants and aspirations to which only the poet can give fitting speech; he had begun to see how much can be done to cheer and raise and ennoble the world by even one true, brave, earnest, and unselfish worker,--and he had attained to such a height in sympathetic comprehension of the difficulties and drawbacks of others, that he had ceased to consider himself at all in the question, either with regard to the present or the immortal future,--he was, without knowing it, in the simple, unconsciously perfect attitude of a soul that is absolutely at one with god, and that thus, in involuntary god-likeness, is only happy in the engendering of happiness. he believed that, with the divine help, he could do a lasting good for his fellow-men,--and to this cause he was willing to sacrifice everything that pertained to his own mere personal advantage. but now,--now,--or so he imagined,--he was not to be allowed to pursue his labors of love,--his trial was to end suddenly,--and he, so long banished from his higher heritage, was to be restored to it without delay,--restored and drawn back to the land of perfect loveliness where edris, his angel, waited for him, his saint, his queen, his bride!
a thrill of ecstatic joy rushed through him,--joy intermingled with an almost supernal pain. for he had not as yet said enough to the world,--the world of many afflictions,--the little sorrowful star covered with toiling, anxious, deluded god-forgetting millions, in every unit of which was a spark of heavenly flame, a germ of the spiritual essence that makes the angel, if only fostered aright.
lost in a deep reverie, his footsteps had led him unconsciously to the rhine bridge,--paying the customary fee, he walked about half-way across it, and stood for a while listening to the incessant swift rush of the river beneath him. lights twinkled from the boats moored on either side,--the moon poured down a wide shower of white beams on the rapid flood,--the city, dusky and dream-like, crowned with the majestic towers of the dom, looked picturesquely calm and grand--it was a night of perfect beauty and wondrous peace. and he was to die!--to die and leave all this, the present fairness of the world,--he was to depart, with, as he felt, his message half unspoken,--he was to be made eternally happy, while many of the thousands he left behind were, through ignorance, wilfully electing to be eternally miserable! a great, almost divine longing to save one,--only one downward drifting soul, possessed him,--and the comprehension of christ's sacrifice was no longer a mystery! yet he was so certain that death, sudden and speedy closely, awaited him that he seemed to feel it in the very air,--not like a coming chill of dread, but like the soft approach of some holy seraph bringing benediction. it mattered little to him that he was actually in the very plenitude of health and strength,--that perhaps in all his life he had never felt such a keen delight in the physical perfection of his manhood as now,--death, without warning and at a touch, could smite down the most vigorous, and to be so smitten, he believed, was his imminent destiny. and while he lingered on the bridge, fancy-perplexed between grief and joy, a small window opened in a quaint house that bent its bulging gables crookedly over the gleaming water, and a girl, holding a small lamp, looked out for a moment. her face, fresh and smiling, was fair to see against the background of dense shadow,--the light she carried flashed like a star,--and leaning down from the lattice she sang half-timidly, half mischievously, the first two or three bars of the old song.. "du, du, liegst in mein herzen ... !" "ah! gute nacht, liebchen!" said a man's voice below.
"gute nacht! schlafen sie wohl!"
a light laugh, and the window closed, "good-night! sleep well!" love's best wish!--and for some sad souls life's last hope,--a "good-night and sleep well!" poor tired world, for whose weary inhabitants oftentimes the greatest blessing is sleep! good-night! sleep well! but the sleep implies waking.--waking to a morning of pleasure or sorrow,--or labor that is only lightened by,--love! love!--love divine,--love human,--and, sweetest love of all for us, as christ has taught when both divine and human are mingled in one!
alwyn, glancing up at the clustering stars, hanging like pendent fire-jewels above him, thought of this marvel-glory of love,--this celestial visitant who, on noiseless pinions, comes flying divinely into the poorest homes, transfiguring common life with ethereal radiance, making toil easy, giving beauty to the plainest faces and poetry to the dullest brains. love! its tremulous hand-clasp,--its rapturous kiss,--the speechless eloquence it gives to gentle eyes!--the grace it bestows on even the smallest gift from lover to beloved, were such gift but a handful of meadow blossoms tied with some silken threads of hair!
not for the poet creator of "nourhulma" such love any more,--had he not drained the cup of passion to the dregs in the far past, and tasted its mixed sweetness and bitterness to no purpose save self-indulgence? all that was over;--and yet, as he walked away from the bridge, back to his hotel in the quiet moonlight, he thought what a transcendent thing love might be, even on earth, between two whose spirits were spiritually akin,--whose lives were like two notes played in tuneful concord,--whose hearts beat echoing faith and tenderness to one another,--and who held their love as a sacred bond of union--a gift from god, not to be despoiled by that rough familiarity which surely brings contempt. and then before his fancy appeared to float the radiant visage of edris, half-child, half-angel,--he seemed to see her beautiful eyes, so pure, so clear, so unshadowed by any knowledge of sin,--and the exquisite lines of a poet-contemporary, whose work he specially admired, occurred to him with singular suggestiveness:
"oh, thou'lt confess that love from man to maid is more than kingdoms,--more than light and shade in sky-built gardens where the minstrels dwell, and more than ransom from the bonds of hell. thou wilt, i say, admit the truth of this, and half relent that, shrinking from a kiss, thou didst consign me to mine own disdain, athwart the raptures of a vision'd bliss.
"i'll seek no joy that is not linked with thine, no touch of hope, no taste of holy wine, and after death, no home in any star, that is not shared by thee, supreme, afar
as here thou'rt first and foremost of all things! glory is thine, and gladness, and the wings that wait on thought, when, in thy spirit-sway, thou dost invest a realm unknown to kings!"
had not she, edris, consigned him to his "own disdain, athwart the raptures of a visioned bliss?" ay! truly and deservedly!--and this disdain of himself had now reached its culminating point,--namely, that he did not consider himself worthy of her love,--or worthy to do aught than sink again into far spaces of darkness and perpetually retrospective memory, there to explore the uttermost depths of anguish, and count up his errors one by one from the very beginning of life, in every separate phase he had passed through, till he had penitently striven his best to atone for them all! christ had atoned! yes,--but was it not almost base on his part to shield himself with that divine light and do nothing further? he could not yet thoroughly grasp the amazing truth that one absolutely pure act of faith in christ, blots out past sin forever,--it seemed too marvellous and great a boon!
when he retired to rest that night he was fully and firmly prepared to die. with this expectation upon him he was nevertheless happy and tranquil. the line--"glory is thine, and gladness, and the wings" haunted him, and he repeated it over and over again without knowing why. wings! the brilliant shafts of radiance that part angels from mortals,--wings, that, after all, are not really wings, but lambent rays of living lightning, of which neither painter nor poet has any true conception, . . long, dazzling rays such as encircled god's maiden, edris, with an arch of roseate effulgence, so that the very air was sunset-colored in the splendor of her presence! how if she were a wingless angel,--made woman?
"glory is thine, and gladness, and the wings!" and with the name of his angel-love upon his lips he closed his eyes and sank into a deep and dreamless slumber.
in the cathedral.
a booming, thunderous, yet mellow sound! a grand, solemn, sonorous swing of full and weighty rhythm, striking the air with deep, slowly measured resonance like the rolling of close cannon! awake, all ye people!--awake to prayer and praise! for the night is past and sweet morning reddens in the east, ... another day is born,--a day in which to win god's grace and pardon,--another wonder of light, movement, creation, beauty, love! awake, awake! be glad and grateful for the present joy of life,--this life, dear harbinger of life to come! open your eyes, ye drowsy mortals, to the divine blue of the beneficent sky, the golden beams of the sun, the color of flowers, the foliage of trees, the flash of sparkling waters!--open your ears to the singing of birds, the whispering of winds, the gay ripple of children's laughter, the soft murmurs of home affection,--for all these things are freely bestowed upon you with each breaking dawn, and will you offer unto god no thanksgiving?--awake! awake! the voice you have yourselves set in your high cathedral towers reproaches your lack of love with its iron tongue, and summons you all to worship him the ever-glorious, through whose mercy alone you live!
to and fro,--to and fro,--gravely persistent, sublimely eloquent, the huge, sustained, and heavy monotone went thudding through the stillness,--till, startled from his profound sleep by such loud, lofty, and incessant clangor, alwyn turned on his pillow and listened, half-aroused, half-bewildered,--then, remembering where he was, he understood; it was the great bell of the dom pealing forth its first summons to the earliest mass. he lay quiet for a little while, dreamily counting the number of reverberations each separate stroke sent quivering on the air,--but presently, finding it impossible to sleep again, he got up, and drawing aside the curtain looked out of the window of his room, which fronted on the platz. though it was not yet six o'clock, the city was all astir,--the rhinelanders are an early working people, and to see the sun rise is not with them a mere fiction of poesy, but a daily fact. it was one of the loveliest of lovely spring mornings--the sky was clear as a pale, polished sapphire, and every little bib of delicate carving and sculpture on the dom stood out from its groundwork with microscopically beautiful distinctness. and as his gaze rested on the perfect fairness of the day, a strange and sudden sense of rapturous anticipation possessed his mind,--he felt as one prepared for some high and exquisite happiness,--some great and wondrous celebration or feast of joy! the thoughts of death, on which he had brooded so persistently during the past yester-eve, had fled, leaving no trace behind,--only a keen and vigorous delight in life absorbed him now. it was good to be alive, even on this present earth! it was good to see, to feel, to know! and there was much to be thankful for in the mere capability of easy and healthful breathing!
full of a singular light-heartedness, he hummed a soft tune to himself as he moved about his room,--his desire to view the interior of the cathedral had not abated with sleep, but had rather augmented,--and he resolved to visit it now, while he had the chance of beholding it in all the impressive splendor of uncrowded tranquillity. for he knew that by the time he was dressed, the first mass would be over,--the priests and people would be gone,--and he would be alone to enjoy the magnificence of the place in full poet-luxury,--the luxury of silence and solitude. he attired himself quickly, and with a vaguely nervous eagerness,--he was in almost as great a hurry to enter the dom as he had been to arrive at the field of ardath! the same feverish impatience was upon him--impatience that he was conscious of, yet could not account for,--his fancy busied itself with a whole host of memories, and fragments of half-forgotten love-songs he had written in his youth, came back to him without his wish or will,--songs that he instinctively felt belonged to his past, when as "sah-luma" he had won golden opinions in al-kyris. and though they were but echoes, they seemed this morning to touch him with half-pleasing, half-tender suggestiveness,--two lines especially from the idyl of roses he had penned so long,--ah! so very long ago,--came floating through his brain like a message sent from some other world,--
"by the pureness of love shall our glory in loving increase, and the roses of passion for us are the lilies of peace."
the "lilies of peace" and the flowers of ardath,--the "roses of passion" and the love of edris, these were all mingled almost unconsciously in his thoughts, as with an inexplicable, happy sense of tremulous expectation,--expectation of he knew not what-he went, walking as one in haste, across the broad platz and ascended the steps of the cathedral. but the side-entrance was fast shut, as on the previous night,--he therefore made his rapid way round to the great western door. that stood open,--the bell had long ago ceased,--mass was over,--and all was profoundly still.
out of the warm sunlit air he stepped into the vast, cool, clear-obscure, white glory of the stately shrine,--with bared head and noiseless, reverent feet, he advanced a little way up the nave, and then stood motionless, every artistic perception in him satisfied, soothed, and entranced anew, as in his student-days, by the tranquil grandeur of the scene. what majestic silence! what hallowed peace! how jewel-like the radiance of the sun pouring through the rich stained glass on those superb carved pillars, that, like petrified stems of forest-trees, bear lightly up the lofty, vaulted roof to that vast height suggestive of a white sky rather than stone!
moving on slowly further toward the altar, he was suddenly seized by an overpowering impression,--a memory that rushed upon him with a sort of shock, albeit it was only the memory of a tune!--a wild melody, haunting and passionate, rang in his eras,--the melody that sarasate, the orpheus of spain, had evoked from the heart of his speaking violin,--the sobbing love-lament of the "zigeunerweisen"--the weird minor-music that had so forcibly suggested--what? this very place!--these snowy columns,--this sculptured sanctity--this flashing light of rose and blue and amber,--this wondrous hush of consecrated calm! what next? dear god! sweet christ! what next? the face of edris?--would that heavenly countenance shine suddenly though those rainbow-colored beams that struck slantwise down toward him?--and should he presently hear her dulcet voice charming the silence into deeper ecstasy?
overcome by a sensation that was something like fear, he stopped abruptly, and leaning against one of the quaint old oaken benches, strove to control the quick, excited throbbing of his heart,--then gradually, very gradually he become conscious that he was not alone,--another besides himself was in the church,--another, whom it was necessary for him to see!
he could not tell how he first grew to be certain of this,--but he was soon so completely possessed by the idea, that for a moment he dared not raise his eyes, or move! some invincible force held him there spell-bound, yet trembling in every limb,--and while he thus waited hesitatingly, the great organ woke up in a glory of tuneful utterance,--wave after wave of richest harmony rolled through the stately aisles and ... "kyrie eleison! kyrie eleison!" rang forth in loud, full, and golden-toned chorus!
lifting his head, he stared wonderingly around him; not a living creature was visible in all the spacious width and length of the cathedral! his lips parted,--he felt as though he could scarcely breathe,--strong shudders ran through him, and he was penetrated by a pleasing terror that was almost a physical pang,--an agonized entrancement, like death or the desire of love! presently, mastering himself by a determined effort, he advanced steadily with the absorbed air of one who is drawn along by magnetic power ... steadily and slowly up the nave, ... and as he went, the music surged more tumultuously among the vaulted arches,--there was a faint echo afar off, as of tinkling crystal bells; and at each onward step he gained a new access of courage, strength, firmness, and untrammelled ease, till every timorous doubt and fear had fled away, and he stood directly in front of the altar railing, gazing at the enshrined cross, and seeing for the moment nothing save that divine symbol alone. and still the organ played, and still the voices sang,--he knew these sounds were not of earth, and he also knew that they were intended to convey a meaning to him,--but what meaning?
all at once, moved by a sudden impulse, he turned toward the right hand side of the altar, where the great statue of st. christopher stands, and where one of the loveliest windows in the world gleams like a great carven gem aloft, filtering the light through a myriad marvellous shades of color, and there he beheld, kneeling on the stone pavement, one solitary worshipper,--a girl. her hands were clasped, and her face was bent upon them so that her features were not visible,--but the radiance from the window fell on her uncovered golden hair, encircling it with the glistening splendor of a heavenly nimbus,--and round her slight, devotional figure, rays of azure and rose jasper and emerald, flickered in wide and lustrous patterns, like the glow of the setting sun on a translucent sea. how very still she was! ... how fervently absorbed in prayer!
vaguely startled, and thrilled by an electric, indefinable instinct, alwyn went toward her with hushed and reverential tread, his eyes dwelling upon the drooping, delicate outline of her form with fascinated and eager attention. she was clad in gray,--a soft, silken, dove-like gray, that clung about her in picturesque, daintily draped folds,--he approached her still more nearly, and then could scarcely refrain from a loud cry of amazement! what flowers were those she wore at her breast!--so white, so star-like, so suggestive of paradise lilies new-gathered? were they not the flowers of ardath? dizzy with the sudden tumult of his own emotions, he dropped on his knees beside her,--she did not stir! was she real?--or a phantom? trembling violently, he touched her garment--it was of tangible, smooth texture, actual enough, if the sense of touch could be relied upon. in an agony of excitement and suspense he lost all remembrance of time, place, or custom,--her bewildering presence must be explained,--he must know who she was,--he must speak to her,--speak, if he died for it!
"pardon me!" he whispered faintly, scarcely conscious of his own words; "i fancy,--i think,--we have met,--before! may i, . . dare i, . . ask your name?"
slowly she unclasped her gently folded hands; slowly, very slowly, she lifted her bent head, and smiled at him! oh, the lovely light upon her face! oh, the angel glory of those strange, sweet eyes!
"my name is edris!"--she said, and as the pure bell-like tone of her voice smote the air with its silvery sound, the mysterious music of the organ and the invisible singers throbbed away,--away,--away,--into softer and softer echoes, that died at last tremulously and with a sigh, as of farewell, into the deepest silence.
"edris!"--in a trance of passionate awe and rapture he caught her hand,--the warm, delicate hand that yielded to his strong clasp in submissive tenderness,--pulsations of terror, pain, and wild joy, all commingled, rushed through him,--with adoring, wistful gaze he scanned every feature of that love-smiling countenance,--a countenance no longer lustrous with heaven's blinding glory, but only most maiden-like and innocently fair,--dazzled, perplexed, and half afraid, he could not at once grasp the true comprehension of his ineffable delight! he had no doubt of her identity--he knew her well! she was his own heartworshipped angel,--but on what errand had she wandered out of paradise? had she come once more, as on the field of ardath, to comfort him for a brief space with the beauty of her visible existence, or did she bring from heaven the warrant for his death?
"edris!" he said, as softly as one may murmur a prayer, "edris, my life, my love! speak to me again! make me sure that i am not dreaming! tell me where i have failed in my sworn faith since we parted; teach me how i must still further atone! is this the hour appointed for my spirit's ransom?--has this dear and sacred hand i hold, brought me my quittance of earth?--and have i so soon won the privilege to die?"
as he spoke, she rose and stood erect, with all the glistening light of the stained window falling royally about her,--and he obeying her mute gesture, rose also and faced her in wondering ecstasy, half expecting to see her vanish suddenly in the sun-rays that poured through the cathedral, even as she had vanished before like a white cloud absorbed in clear space. but no! she remained quiet as a tame bird,--her eyes met his with beautiful trust and tenderness,--and when she answered him, her low, sweet accents thrilled to his heart with a pathetic note of human affection, as well as of angelic sympathy!
"theos, my beloved, i am all thine!" she said, a holy rapture vibrating through her exquisite voice.--"thine now, in mortal life as in immortal!--one with thee in nature and condition,--pent up in perishable clay, even as thou art,--subject to sorrow, and pain, and weariness,--willing to share with thee thine earthly lot,--ready to take my part in thy grief or joy! by mine own choice have i come hither,--sinless, yet not exempt from sin, but safe in christ! every time thou hast renounced the desire of thine own happiness, so much the nearer hast thou drawn me to thee; every time thou hast prayed god for my peace, rather than thine own, so much the closer has my existence been linked with thine! and now, o my poet, my lord, my king!--we are together forever more,--together in the brief present, as in the eternal future!--the solitary heaven-days of edris are past, and her mission is not death, but love!"
oh, the transcendent beauty of that warm flush upon her face!--the splendid hope, faith, and triumph of her attitude! what strange miracle was here accomplished!--an angel had become human for the sake of love, even as light substantiates itself in the colors of flowers!--the eden lily had consented to be gathered,--the paradise dove had fluttered down to earth! breathless, bewildered, lifted to a height of transport beyond all words, alwyn gazed upon her in entranced, devout silence,--the vast cathedral seemed to swing round and round in great glittering circles, and nothing was real, nothing steadfast, but that slight, sweet maiden in her soft gray robes, with the ardath-blossoms gleaming white against her breast! angel she was,--angel she ever would be,--and yet--what did she seem? naught but:
"a child-like woman, wise and very fair, crowned with the garland of her golden hair!"
this, and no more,--and yet in this was all earth and all heaven comprised!--he gazed and gazed, overwhelmed by the amazement of his own bliss,--he could have gazed upon her so in speechless ravishment for hours, when, with a gesture of infinite grace and appeal, she stretched out her hands toward him:
"speak to me, dearest one!" she murmured wistfully--"tell me,--am i welcome?"
"o exquisite humility!--o beautiful maiden-timid hesitation! was she,--even she, god's angel, so far removed from pride, as to be uncertain of her lover's reception of such a gift of love? roused from his half-swooning sense of wonder, he caught those gentle hands, and laid them tenderly against his breast,--tremblingly, and all devoutly, he drew the lovely, yielding form into his arms, close to his heart,--with dazzled sight he gazed down into that pure, perfect face, those clear and holy eyes shining like new-created stars beneath the soft cloud of clustering fair hair!
"welcome!" he echoed, in a tone that thrilled with passionate awe and ecstasy;--"my edris! my saint! my queen! welcome, more welcome than the first flowers seen after winter snows!--welcome, more welcome than swift rescue to one in dire peril!--welcome, my angel, into the darkness of mortal things, which haply so sweet a presence shall make bright! o sacred innocence that i am not worthy to shield! ... o sinless beauty that i am all unfitted to claim or possess! welcome to my life, my heart, my soul! welcome, sweet trust, sweet hope, sweet love, that as christ lives, i will never wrong, betray, or resign again through all the glory spaces of far eternity!"
as he spoke, his arms closed more surely about her,--his lips met hers,--and in the mingled human and divine rapture of that moment, there came a rushing noise, as of thousands of wings beating the air, followed by a mighty wave of music that rolled approachingly and then departingly through and through the cathedral arches--and a voice, clear and resonant as a silver clarion, proclaimed aloud:
"those whom god hath joined together, let no man put asunder!"
then, with a surging, jubilant sound, like the sea in a storm, the music seemed to tread past in a measured march of stately harmony,--and presently there was silence once more,--the silence and sunshine of the morning pouring through the rose windows of the church and sparkling on the cross above the altar,--the silence of a love made perfect,--of twin souls made one!
and then edris drew herself gently from her lover's embrace and raised her head,--putting her hand confidingly in his, a lovely smile played on her sweetly parted lips:
"take me, theos," she said softly, "lead me,--into the world!"
slowly the great side-doors of the cathedral swung back on their hinges,--and out on the steps in a glorious blaze of sunlight came poet and angel together. the one, a man in the full prime of splendid and vigorous manhood,--the other, a maiden, timid and sweet, robed in gray attire with a posy of white flowers at her throat. a simple girl, and most distinctly human,--the fresh, pure color reddened in her cheeks,--the soft springtide wind fanned her gold hair, and the sunbeams seemed to dance about her in a bright revel of amaze and curiosity. her lustrous eyes dwelt on the busy platz below with a vaguely compassionate wonder--a look that suggested some far foreknowledge of things, that at the same time were strangely unfamiliar. hand in hand with her companion she stood,--while he, holding her fast, drunk in the pureness of her beauty, the love-light of her glance, the holy radiance of her smile, till every sense in him was spiritualized anew by the passionate faith and reverence in his heart, the marvellous glory that had fallen upon his life, the nameless rapture that possessed his soul!--to have knelt at her feet, and bowed his head before her in worshipping silence, would have been to follow the strongest impulse in him,--but she had given him a higher duty than this. he was to "lead her,"--lead her "into the world!"--the dreary, dark world, so unfitted to receive such brightness,--she had come to him clad in all the sacred weakness of womanhood; and it was his proud privilege to guard and shelter her from evil,--from the evil in others, but chiefly from the evil in himself. no taint must touch that spotless life with which god had entrusted him!--sorrow might come--nay, must come, since, so long as humanity errs, so long must angels grieve,--sorrow, but not sin! a grand, awed sense of responsibility filled him,--a responsibility that he accepted with passionate gratitude and joy ... he had attained a vaster dignity than any king on any throne, ... and all the visible universe was transfigured into a golden pageant of loveliness and light, fairer than the fabled valley of avilion!
yet still he kept her close beside him on the steps of the mighty dom, half-longing, half-hesitating to take her further, and ever and anon assailed by a dreamy doubt as to whether she might not even now pass away from him suddenly and swiftly, as a mist fading into heaven,--when all at once the sound of beating drums and martial trumpets struck loudly on the quiet morning air. a brilliant regiment of mounted uhlans emerged from an opposite street, and cantered sharply across the platz and over the rhine-bridge, with streaming pennons, burnished helmets and accoutrements glistening in a long compact line of silvery white, that vanished as speedily as it had appeared, like a winding flash of meteor flame. alwyn drew a deep, quick breath; the sight of those armed soldiers roused him to the fact that he was actually in the turmoil of present daily events,--that his supernal happiness was no vision, but reality,--that edris, his spirit-love, was with him in tangible human guise of flesh and blood,--though how such a mysterious marvel had been accomplished, he knew no more than scientists know how the lovely life of green leaf and perfect flower can still be existent in seeds that have lain dormant and dry in old tombs for thousands of years! and as he looked at her proudly,--adoringly,--she raised her beautiful, innocent, questioning eyes to his.
"this is a city?" she asked--"a city of men who labor for good, and serve each other?"
"alas, not so, my sweet!" he answered, his voice trembling with its own infinite tenderness; "there is no city on the sad earth where men do not labor for mere vanity's sake, and oppose each other!"
her inquiring gaze softened into a celestial compassion.
"come,--let us go!" she said gently. "we twain, made one in love and faith, must hasten to begin our work!--darkness gathers and deepens over the sorrowful star,--but we, perchance, with christ's most holy blessing, may help to lift the shadows into light!"
away in a sheltered mountainous retreat, apart from the louder clamor of the world, the poet and his heavenly companion dwell in peace together. their love, their wondrous happiness, no mortal language can define,--for spiritual love perfected as far exceeds material passion as the steadfast glory of the sun outshines the nickering of an earthly taper. few, very few, there are who recognize, or who attain, such joy,--for men chiefly occupy themselves with the semblances of things, and therefore fail to grasp all high realities. perishable beauty,--perishable fame,--these are mere appearances; imperishable worth is the only positive and lasting good, and in the search for imperishable worth alone, the seeker must needs encounter angels unawares!
but for those whose pleasure it is to doubt and deny all spiritual life and being, the history of theos alwyn can be disposed of with much languid ease and cold logic, as a foolish chimera scarce worth narrating. practically viewed, there is nothing wonderful in it, since it can all be traced to a powerful exertion of magnetic skill. tranced into a dream bewilderment by the arts of the mystic chaldean, heliobas,--tricked into visiting the field of ardath, what more likely than that a real earth-born maiden, trained to her part, should have met the dreamer there, and, with the secret aid of the hermit elezar, continued his strange delusion? what more fitting as a sequel to the whole, than that the same maiden should have been sent to him again in the great rhine cathedral, to complete the deception and satisfy his imagination by linking her life finally with his?--it is a perfectly simple explanation of what some credulous souls might be inclined to consider a mystery,--and let the dear, wise, oracular people who cannot admit any mystery in anything, and who love to trace all seeming miracles to clever imposture, accept this elucidation by all means,--they will be able to fit every incident of the story into such an hypothesis, with most admirable and consecutive neatness! al-kyris was truly a vision,--the rest was,--what? merely the working of a poetic imagination under mesmeric influence!
so be it! the poet knows the truth,--but what are poets? only the prophets and seers! only the eyes of time, which clearly behold heaven's fact beyond this world's fable. let them sing if they choose, and we will hear them in our idle hours,--we will give them a little of our gold,--a little of our grudging praise, together with much of our private practical contempt and misprisal! so say the unthinking and foolish--so will they ever say,--and hence it is, that though the fame of theos alwyn widens year by year, and his sweet clarion harp of song rings loud warning, promise, hope, and consolation above the noisy tumult of the whirling age, people listen to him merely in vague wonderment and awe, doubting his prophet utterance, and loth to put away their sin. but he, never weary in well-doing, works on, ... ever regardless of self, caring nothing for fame, but giving all the riches of his thought for love. clear, grand, pure, and musical, his writings fill the time with hope and passionate faith and courage,--his inspiration fails not, and can never fail, since edris is his fount of ecstasy,--his name, made glorious by god's blessing, shall never, as in his perished past, be again forgotten!
and what of edris? what of the "flower-crowned wonder" of the field of ardath, strayed for a while out of her native heaven? does the world know her marvellous origin? perhaps the mystic heliobas knows,--perhaps even good frank villiers has hazarded a reverent guess at his friend's great secret--but to the uninstructed, what does she seem?
nothing but a woman, most pure womanly; a woman whose influence on all is strangely sweet and lasting,--whose spirit overflows with tenderest sympathy for the many wants and sorrows of mankind,--whose voice charms away care,--whose smile engenders peace,--whose eyes, lustrous and thoughtful, are unclouded by any shadow of sin,--and on whose serene beauty the passing of years leaves no visible trace. that she is fair and wise, joyous, radiant, and holy is apparent to all,--but only the poet, her lover and lord, her subject and servant, can tell how truly his edris is not so much sweet woman as most perfect angel! a dream of heaven made human! ... let some of us hesitate ere we doubt the miracle; for we are sleepers and dreamers all,--and the hour is close at hand when--we shall wake.
venus is a man's world
by william tenn
illustrated by gene fawcette
actually, there wouldn't be too much difference if women took over the earth altogether. but not for some men and most boys!
i've always said that even if sis is seven years older than me--and a girl besides--she don't always know what's best. put me on a spaceship jam-packed with three hundred females just aching to get themselves husbands in the one place they're still to be had--the planet venus--and you know i'll be in trouble.
bad trouble. with the law, which is the worst a boy can get into.
twenty minutes after we lifted from the sahara spaceport, i wriggled out of my acceleration hammock and started for the door of our cabin.
"now you be careful, ferdinand," sis called after me as she opened a book called family problems of the frontier woman. "remember you're a nice boy. don't make me ashamed of you."
i tore down the corridor. most of the cabins had purple lights on in front of the doors, showing that the girls were still inside their hammocks. that meant only the ship's crew was up and about. ship's crews are men; women are too busy with important things like government to run ships. i felt free all over--and happy. now was my chance to really see the eleanor roosevelt!
it was hard to believe i was traveling in space at last. ahead and behind me, all the way up to where the companionway curved in out of sight, there was nothing but smooth black wall and smooth white doors--on and on and on. gee, i thought excitedly, this is one big ship!
of course, every once in a while i would run across a big scene of stars in the void set in the wall; but they were only pictures. nothing that gave the feel of great empty space like i'd read about in the boy rocketeers, no portholes, no visiplates, nothing.
so when i came to the crossway, i stopped for a second, then turned left. to the right, see, there was deck four, then deck three, leading inward past the engine fo'c'sle to the main jets and the grav helix going purr-purr-purrty-purr in the comforting way big machinery has when it's happy and oiled. but to the left, the crossway led all the way to the outside level which ran just under the hull. there were portholes on the hull.
i'd studied all that out in our cabin, long before we'd lifted, on the transparent model of the ship hanging like a big cigar from the ceiling. sis had studied it too, but she was looking for places like the dining salon and the library and lifeboat 68 where we should go in case of emergency. i looked for the important things.
as i trotted along the crossway, i sort of wished that sis hadn't decided to go after a husband on a luxury liner. on a cargo ship, now, i'd be climbing from deck to deck on a ladder instead of having gravity underfoot all the time just like i was home on the bottom of the gulf of mexico. but women always know what's right, and a boy can only make faces and do what they say, same as the men have to do.
"in the event of disaster affecting the oxygen content of companionway," they had the words etched into the glass, "break glass with hammer upon wall, remove spacesuit and proceed to don it in the following fashion."
i read the "following fashion" until i knew it by heart. boy, i said to myself, i hope we have that kind of disaster. i'd sure like to get into one of those! bet it would be more fun than those diving suits back in undersea!
and all the time i was alone. that was the best part.
then i passed deck twelve and there was a big sign. "notice! passengers not permitted past this point!" a big sign in red.
i peeked around the corner. i knew it--the next deck was the hull. i could see the portholes. every twelve feet, they were, filled with the velvet of space and the dancing of more stars than i'd ever dreamed existed in the universe.
there wasn't anyone on the deck, as far as i could see. and this distance from the grav helix, the ship seemed mighty quiet and lonely. if i just took one quick look....
but i thought of what sis would say and i turned around obediently. then i saw the big red sign again. "passengers not permitted--"
well! didn't i know from my civics class that only women could be earth citizens these days? sure, ever since the male desuffrage act. and didn't i know that you had to be a citizen of a planet in order to get an interplanetary passport? sis had explained it all to me in the careful, patient way she always talks politics and things like that to men.
"technically, ferdinand, i'm the only passenger in our family. you can't be one, because, not being a citizen, you can't acquire an earth passport. however, you'll be going to venus on the strength of this clause--'miss evelyn sparling and all dependent male members of family, this number not to exceed the registered quota of sub-regulations pertaining'--and so on. i want you to understand these matters, so that you will grow into a man who takes an active interest in world affairs. no matter what you hear, women really like and appreciate such men."
of course, i never pay much attention to sis when she says such dumb things. i'm old enough, i guess, to know that it isn't what women like and appreciate that counts when it comes to people getting married. if it were, sis and three hundred other pretty girls like her wouldn't be on their way to venus to hook husbands.
i was glad i did. the stars were exciting enough, but away off to the left, about five times as big as i'd ever seen it, except in the movies, was the moon, a great blob of gray and white pockmarks holding off the black of space. i was hoping to see the earth, but i figured it must be on the other side of the ship or behind us. i pressed my nose against the port and saw the tiny flicker of a spaceliner taking off, marsbound. i wished i was on that one!
then i noticed, a little farther down the companionway, a stretch of blank wall where there should have been portholes. high up on the wall in glowing red letters were the words, "lifeboat 47. passengers: thirty-two. crew: eleven. unauthorized personnel keep away!"
another one of those signs.
i crept up to the porthole nearest it and could just barely make out the stern jets where it was plastered against the hull. then i walked under the sign and tried to figure the way you were supposed to get into it. there was a very thin line going around in a big circle that i knew must be the door. but i couldn't see any knobs or switches to open it with. not even a button you could press.
that meant it was a sonic lock like the kind we had on the outer keeps back home in undersea. but knock or voice? i tried the two knock combinations i knew, and nothing happened. i only remembered one voice key--might as well see if that's it, i figured.
"twenty, twenty-three. open sesame."
for a second, i thought i'd hit it just right out of all the million possible combinations--the door clicked inward toward a black hole, and a hairy hand as broad as my shoulders shot out of the hole. it closed around my throat and plucked me inside as if i'd been a baby sardine.
i bounced once on the hard lifeboat floor. before i got my breath and sat up, the door had been shut again. when the light came on, i found myself staring up the muzzle of a highly polished blaster and into the cold blue eyes of the biggest man i'd ever seen.
he was wearing a one-piece suit made of some scaly green stuff that looked hard and soft at the same time.
his boots were made of it too, and so was the hood hanging down his back.
and his face was brown. not just ordinary tan, you understand, but the deep, dark, burned-all-the-way-in brown i'd seen on the lifeguards in new orleans whenever we took a surface vacation--the kind of tan that comes from day after broiling day under a really hot sun. his hair looked as if it had once been blond, but now there were just long combed-out waves with a yellowish tinge that boiled all the way down to his shoulders.
i hadn't seen hair like that on a man except maybe in history books; every man i'd ever known had his hair cropped in the fashionable soup-bowl style. i was staring at his hair, almost forgetting about the blaster which i knew it was against the law for him to have at all, when i suddenly got scared right through.
they didn't blink and there seemed to be no expression around them. just coldness. maybe it was the kind of clothes he was wearing that did it, but all of a sudden i was reminded of a crocodile i'd seen in a surface zoo that had stared quietly at me for twenty minutes until it opened two long tooth-studded jaws.
"green shatas!" he said suddenly. "only a tadpole. i must be getting jumpy enough to splash."
then he shoved the blaster away in a holster made of the same scaly leather, crossed his arms on his chest and began to study me. i grunted to my feet, feeling a lot better. the coldness had gone out of his eyes.
i held out my hand the way sis had taught me. "my name is ferdinand sparling. i'm very pleased to meet you, mr.--mr.--"
"hope for your sake," he said to me, "that you aren't what you seem--tadpole brother to one of them husbandless anura."
"a 'nuran is a female looking to nest. anura is a herd of same. come from flatfolk ways."
"flatfolk are the venusian natives, aren't they? are you a venusian? what part of venus do you come from? why did you say you hope--"
he chuckled and swung me up into one of the bunks that lined the lifeboat. "questions you ask," he said in his soft voice. "venus is a sharp enough place for a dryhorn, let alone a tadpole dryhorn with a boss-minded sister."
"i'm not a dryleg," i told him proudly. "we're from undersea."
"dryhorn, i said, not dryleg. and what's undersea?"
"well, in undersea we called foreigners and newcomers drylegs. just like on venus, i guess, you call them dryhorns." and then i told him how undersea had been built on the bottom of the gulf of mexico, when the mineral resources of the land began to give out and engineers figured that a lot could still be reached from the sea bottoms.
he nodded. he'd heard about the sea-bottom mining cities that were bubbling under protective domes in every one of the earth's oceans just about the same time settlements were springing up on the planets.
he looked impressed when i told him about mom and pop being one of the first couples to get married in undersea. he looked thoughtful when i told him how sis and i had been born there and spent half our childhood listening to the pressure pumps. he raised his eyebrows and looked disgusted when i told how mom, as undersea representative on the world council, had been one of the framers of the male desuffrage act after the third atomic war had resulted in the maternal revolution.
he almost squeezed my arm when i got to the time mom and pop were blown up in a surfacing boat.
"well, after the funeral, there was a little money, so sis decided we might as well use it to migrate. there was no future for her on earth, she figured. you know, the three-out-of-four."
"the three-out-of-four. no more than three women out of every four on earth can expect to find husbands. not enough men to go around. way back in the twentieth century, it began to be felt, sis says, what with the wars and all. then the wars went on and a lot more men began to die or get no good from the radioactivity. then the best men went to the planets, sis says, until by now even if a woman can scrounge a personal husband, he's not much to boast about."
the stranger nodded violently. "not on earth, he isn't. those busybody anura make sure of that. what a place! suffering gridniks, i had a bellyful!"
he told me about it. women were scarce on venus, and he hadn't been able to find any who were willing to come out to his lonely little islands; he had decided to go to earth where there was supposed to be a surplus. naturally, having been born and brought up on a very primitive planet, he didn't know "it's a woman's world," like the older boys in school used to say.
the moment he landed on earth he was in trouble. he didn't know he had to register at a government-operated hotel for transient males; he threw a bartender through a thick plastic window for saying something nasty about the length of his hair; and imagine!--he not only resisted arrest, resulting in three hospitalized policemen, but he sassed the judge in open court!
"told me a man wasn't supposed to say anything except through female attorneys. told her that where i came from, a man spoke his piece when he'd a mind to, and his woman walked by his side."
"what happened?" i asked breathlessly.
"oh, guilty of this and contempt of that. that blown-up brinosaur took my last munit for fines, then explained that she was remitting the rest because i was a foreigner and uneducated." his eyes grew dark for a moment. he chuckled again. "but i wasn't going to serve all those fancy little prison sentences. forcible citizenship indoctrination, they call it? shook the dead-dry dust of the misbegotten, god forsaken mother world from my feet forever. the women on it deserve their men. my pockets were folded from the fines, and the paddlefeet were looking for me so close i didn't dare radio for more munit. so i stowed away."
for a moment, i didn't understand him. when i did, i was almost ill. "y-you mean," i choked, "th-that you're b-breaking the law right now? and i'm with you while you're doing it?"
he leaned over the edge of the bunk and stared at me very seriously. "what breed of tadpole are they turning out these days? besides, what business do you have this close to the hull?"
after a moment of sober reflection, i nodded. "you're right. i've also become a male outside the law. we're in this together."
he guffawed. then he sat up and began cleaning his blaster. i found myself drawn to the bright killer-tube with exactly the fascination sis insists such things have always had for men.
"ferdinand your label? that's not right for a sprouting tadpole. i'll call you ford. my name's butt. butt lee brown."
i liked the sound of ford. "is butt a nickname, too?"
"yeah. short for alberta, but i haven't found a man who can draw a blaster fast enough to call me that. you see, pop came over in the eighties--the big wave of immigrants when they evacuated ontario. named all us boys after canadian provinces. i was the youngest, so i got the name they were saving for a girl."
"you had a lot of brothers, mr. butt?"
i walked up close to where i could see the tiny bright copper coils of the blaster above the firing button. "have you killed a lot of men with that, mr. butt?"
"butt. just plain butt to you, ford." he frowned and sighted at the light globe. "no more'n twelve--not counting five government paddlefeet, of course. i'm a peaceable planter. way i figure it, violence never accomplishes much that's important. my brother sas, now--"
he had just begun to work into a wonderful anecdote about his brother when the dinner gong rang. butt told me to scat. he said i was a growing tadpole and needed my vitamins. and he mentioned, very off-hand, that he wouldn't at all object if i brought him some fresh fruit. it seemed there was nothing but processed foods in the lifeboat and butt was used to a farmer's diet.
trouble was, he was a special kind of farmer. ordinary fruit would have been pretty easy to sneak into my pockets at meals. i even found a way to handle the kelp and giant watercress mr. brown liked, but things like seaweed salt and venusian mud-grapes just had too strong a smell. twice, the mechanical hamper refused to accept my jacket for laundering and i had to wash it myself. but i learned so many wonderful things about venus every time i visited that stowaway....
i learned three wild-wave songs of the flatfolk and what it is that the native venusians hate so much; i learned how you tell the difference between a lousy government paddlefoot from new kalamazoo and the slaptoe slinker who is the planter's friend. after a lot of begging, butt lee brown explained the workings of his blaster, explained it so carefully that i could name every part and tell what it did from the tiny round electrodes to the long spirals of transformer. but no matter what, he would never let me hold it.
"sorry, ford, old tad," he would drawl, spinning around and around in the control swivel-chair at the nose of the lifeboat. "but way i look at it, a man who lets somebody else handle his blaster is like the giant whose heart was in an egg that an enemy found. when you've grown enough so's your pop feels you ought to have a weapon, why, then's the time to learn it and you might's well learn fast. before then, you're plain too young to be even near it."
"i don't have a father to give me one when i come of age. i don't even have an older brother as head of my family like your brother labrador. all i have is sis. and she--"
"she'll marry some fancy dryhorn who's never been farther south than the polar coast. and she'll stay head of the family, if i know her breed of green shata. bossy, opinionated. by the way, fordie," he said, rising and stretching so the fish-leather bounced and rippled off his biceps, "that sister. she ever...."
and he'd be off again, cross-examining me about evelyn. i sat in the swivel chair he'd vacated and tried to answer his questions. but there was a lot of stuff i didn't know. evelyn was a healthy girl, for instance; how healthy, exactly, i had no way of finding out. yes, i'd tell him, my aunts on both sides of my family each had had more than the average number of children. no, we'd never done any farming to speak of, back in undersea, but--yes, i'd guess evelyn knew about as much as any girl there when it came to diving equipment and pressure pump regulation.
how would i know that stuff would lead to trouble for me?
sis had insisted i come along to the geography lecture. most of the other girls who were going to venus for husbands talked to each other during the lecture, but not my sister! she hung on every word, took notes even, and asked enough questions to make the perspiring purser really work in those orientation periods.
"i am very sorry, miss sparling," he said with pretty heavy sarcasm, "but i cannot remember any of the agricultural products of the macro continent. since the human population is well below one per thousand square miles, it can readily be understood that the quantity of tilled soil, land or sub-surface, is so small that--wait, i remember something. the macro continent exports a fruit though not exactly an edible one. the wild dunging drug is harvested there by criminal speculators. contrary to belief on earth, the traffic has been growing in recent years. in fact--"
"pardon me, sir," i broke in, "but doesn't dunging come only from leif erickson island off the moscow peninsula of the macro continent? you remember, purser--wang li's third exploration, where he proved the island and the peninsula didn't meet for most of the year?"
the purser nodded slowly. "i forgot," he admitted. "sorry, ladies, but the boy's right. please make the correction in your notes."
but sis was the only one who took notes, and she didn't take that one. she stared at me for a moment, biting her lower lip thoughtfully, while i got sicker and sicker. then she shut her pad with the final gesture of the right hand that mom used to use just before challenging the opposition to come right down on the council floor and debate it out with her.
"ferdinand," sis said, "let's go back to our cabin."
the moment she sat me down and walked slowly around me, i knew i was in for it. "i've been reading up on venusian geography in the ship's library," i told her in a hurry.
"no doubt," she said drily. she shook her night-black hair out. "but you aren't going to tell me that you read about dunging in the ship's library. the books there have been censored by a government agent of earth against the possibility that they might be read by susceptible young male minds like yours. she would not have allowed--this terran agent--"
"paddlefoot," i sneered.
sis sat down hard in our zoom-air chair. "now that's a term," she said carefully, "that is used only by venusian riffraff."
"riffraff," i had to answer, knowing i was getting in deeper all the time and not being able to help it. i mustn't give mr. brown away! "they're trappers and farmers, pioneers and explorers, who're building venus. and it takes a real man to build on a hot, hungry hell like venus."
"does it, now?" she said, looking at me as if i were beginning to grow a second pair of ears. "tell me more."
"you can't have meek, law-abiding, women-ruled men when you start civilization on a new planet. you've got to have men who aren't afraid to make their own law if necessary--with their own guns. that's where law begins; the books get written up later."
"you're going to tell, ferdinand, what evil, criminal male is speaking through your mouth!"
"nobody!" i insisted. "they're my own ideas!"
"they are remarkably well-organized for a young boy's ideas. a boy who, i might add, has previously shown a ridiculous but nonetheless entirely masculine boredom with political philosophy. i plan to have a government career on that new planet you talk about, ferdinand--after i have found a good, steady husband, of course--and i don't look forward to a masculinist radical in the family. now, who has been filling your head with all this nonsense?"
i was sweating. sis has that deadly bulldog approach when she feels someone is lying. i pulled my pulpast handkerchief from my pocket to wipe my face. something rattled to the floor.
"what is this picture of me doing in your pocket, ferdinand?"
a trap seemed to be hinging noisily into place. "one of the passengers wanted to see how you looked in a bathing suit."
"the passengers on this ship are all female. i can't imagine any of them that curious about my appearance. ferdinand, it's a man who has been giving you these anti-social ideas, isn't it? a war-mongering masculinist like all the frustrated men who want to engage in government and don't have the vaguest idea how to. except, of course, in their ancient, bloody ways. ferdinand, who has been perverting that sunny and carefree soul of yours?"
"ferdinand, there's no point in lying! i demand--"
"i told you, sis. i told you! and don't call me ferdinand. call me ford."
"ford? ford? now, you listen to me, ferdinand...."
after that it was all over but the confession. that came in a few moments. i couldn't fool sis. she just knew me too well, i decided miserably. besides, she was a girl.
all the same, i wouldn't get mr. butt lee brown into trouble if i could help it. i made sis promise she wouldn't turn him in if i took her to him. and the quick, nodding way she said she would made me feel just a little better.
the door opened on the signal, "sesame." when butt saw somebody was with me, he jumped and the ten-inch blaster barrel grew out of his fingers. then he recognized sis from the pictures.
he stepped to one side and, with the same sweeping gesture, holstered his blaster and pushed his green hood off. it was sis's turn to jump when she saw the wild mass of hair rolling down his back.
"an honor, miss sparling," he said in that rumbly voice. "please come right in. there's a hurry-up draft."
so sis went in and i followed right after her. mr. brown closed the door. i tried to catch his eye so i could give him some kind of hint or explanation, but he had taken a couple of his big strides and was in the control section with sis. she didn't give ground, though; i'll say that for her. she only came to his chest, but she had her arms crossed sternly.
"first, mr. brown," she began, like talking to a cluck of a kid in class, "you realize that you are not only committing the political crime of traveling without a visa, and the criminal one of stowing away without paying your fare, but the moral delinquency of consuming stores intended for the personnel of this ship solely in emergency?"
he opened his mouth to its maximum width and raised an enormous hand. then he let the air out and dropped his arm.
"i take it you either have no defense or care to make none," sis added caustically.
butt laughed slowly and carefully as if he were going over each word. "wonder if all the anura talk like that. and you want to foul up venus."
"we haven't done so badly on earth, after the mess you men made of politics. it needed a revolution of the mothers before--"
"needed nothing. everyone wanted peace. earth is a weary old world."
"it's a world of strong moral fiber compared to yours, mr. alberta lee brown." hearing his rightful name made him move suddenly and tower over her. sis said with a certain amount of hurry and change of tone, "what do you have to say about stowing away and using up lifeboat stores?"
"yes," she said bitterly. "you had this boy steal fresh fruit for you. i suppose you didn't know that under space regulations that makes him equally guilty?"
"no, sis, he didn't," i was beginning to argue. "all he wanted--"
"sure i knew. also know that if i'm picked up as a stowaway, i'll be sent back to earth to serve out those fancy little sentences."
"well, you're guilty of them, aren't you?"
he waved his hands at her impatiently. "i'm not talking law, female; i'm talking sense. listen! i'm in trouble because i went to earth to look for a wife. you're standing here right now because you're on your way to venus for a husband. so let's."
sis actually staggered back. "let's? let's what? are--are you daring to suggest that--that--"
"now, miss sparling, no hoopla. i'm saying let's get married, and you know it. you figured out from what the boy told you that i was chewing on you for a wife. you're healthy and strong, got good heredity, you know how to operate sub-surface machinery, you've lived underwater, and your disposition's no worse than most of the anura i've seen. prolific stock, too."
i was so excited i just had to yell: "gee, sis, say yes!"
my sister's voice was steaming with scorn. "and what makes you think that i'd consider you a desirable husband?"
he spread his hands genially. "figure if you wanted a poodle, you're pretty enough to pick one up on earth. figure if you charge off to venus, you don't want a poodle, you want a man. i'm one. i own three islands in the galertan archipelago that'll be good oozing mudgrape land when they're cleared. not to mention the rich berzeliot beds offshore. i got no bad habits outside of having my own way. i'm also passable good-looking for a slaptoe planter. besides, if you marry me you'll be the first mated on this ship--and that's a splash most nesting females like to make."
there was a longish stretch of quiet. sis stepped back and measured him slowly with her eyes; there was a lot to look at. he waited patiently while she covered the distance from his peculiar green boots to that head of hair. i was so excited i was gulping instead of breathing. imagine having butt for a brother-in-law and living on a wet-plantation in flatfolk country!
but then i remembered sis's level head and i didn't have much hope any more.
"you know," she began, "there's more to marriage than just--"
"so there is," he cut in. "well, we can try each other for taste." and he pulled her in, both of his great hands practically covering her slim, straight back.
neither of them said anything for a bit after he let go. butt spoke up first.
"now, me," he said, "i'd vote yes."
sis ran the tip of her tongue kind of delicately from side to side of her mouth. then she stepped back slowly and looked at him as if she were figuring out how many feet high he was. she kept on moving backward, tapping her chin, while butt and i got more and more impatient. when she touched the lifeboat door, she pushed it open and jumped out.
butt ran over and looked down the crossway. after a while, he shut the door and came back beside me. "well," he said, swinging to a bunk, "that's sort of it."
"you're better off, butt," i burst out. "you shouldn't have a woman like sis for a wife. she looks small and helpless, but don't forget she was trained to run an underwater city!"
"wasn't worrying about that," he grinned. "i grew up in the fifteen long years of the blue chicago rising. nope." he turned over on his back and clicked his teeth at the ceiling. "think we'd have nested out nicely."
i hitched myself up to him and we sat on the bunk, glooming away at each other. then we heard the tramp of feet in the crossway.
butt swung down and headed for the control compartment in the nose of the lifeboat. he had his blaster out and was cursing very interestingly. i started after him, but he picked me up by the seat of my jumper and tossed me toward the door. the captain came in and tripped over me.
i got all tangled up in his gold braid and million-mile space buttons. when we finally got to our feet and sorted out right, he was breathing very hard. the captain was a round little man with a plump, golden face and a very scared look on it. he humphed at me, just the way sis does, and lifted me by the scruff of my neck. the chief mate picked me up and passed me to the second assistant engineer.
sis was there, being held by the purser on one side and the chief computer's mate on the other. behind them, i could see a flock of wide-eyed female passengers.
"you cowards!" sis was raging. "letting your captain face a dangerous outlaw all by himself!"
"i dunno, miss sparling," the computer's mate said, scratching the miniature slide-rule insignia on his visor with his free hand. "the old man would've been willing to let it go with a log entry, figuring the spaceport paddlefeet could pry out the stowaway when we landed. but you had to quote the mother anita law at him, and he's in there doing his duty. he figures the rest of us are family men, too, and there's no sense making orphans."
"you promised, sis," i told her through my teeth. "you promised you wouldn't get butt into trouble!"
"shush, ferdinand, this is serious!"
it was. i heard the captain say, "i'm not carrying a weapon, brown."
"then get one," butt's low, lazy voice floated out.
"no, thanks. you're as handy with that thing as i am with a rocketboard." the captain's words got a little fainter as he walked forward. butt growled like a gusher about to blow.
"i'm counting on your being a good guy, brown." the captain's voice quavered just a bit. "i'm banking on what i heard about the blast-happy browns every time i lifted gravs in new kalamazoo; they have a code, they don't burn unarmed men."
"what's happening?" sis gritted, straining toward the lock.
"butt's trying to decide whether he wants him fried or scrambled," the computer's mate said, pulling her back. "hey, purse, remember when the whole family with their pop at the head went into heatwave to argue with colonel leclerc?"
"eleven dead, sixty-four injured," the purser answered mechanically. "and no more army stationed south of icebox." his right ear twitched irritably. "but what're they saying?"
suddenly we heard. "by authority vested in me under the pomona college treaty," the captain was saying very loudly, "i arrest you for violation of articles sixteen to twenty-one inclusive of the space transport code, and order your person and belongings impounded for the duration of this voyage as set forth in sections forty-one and forty-five--"
"forty-three and forty-five," sis groaned. "sections forty-three and forty-five, i told him. i even made him repeat it after me!"
"--of the mother anita law, sc 2136, emergency interplanetary directives."
we all waited breathlessly for butt's reply. the seconds ambled on and there was no clatter of electrostatic discharge, no smell of burning flesh.
then we heard some feet walking. a big man in a green suit swung out into the crossway. that was butt. behind him came the captain, holding the blaster gingerly with both hands. butt had a funny, thoughtful look on his face.
the girls surged forward when they saw him, scattering the crew to one side. they were like a school of sharks that had just caught sight of a dying whale.
"m-m-m-m! are all venusians built like that?"
"men like that are worth the mileage!"
"i want him!" "i want him!" "i want him!"
sis had been let go. she grabbed my free hand and pulled me away. she was trying to look only annoyed, but her eyes had bright little bubbles of fury popping in them.
"the cheap extroverts! and they call themselves responsible women!"
i was angry, too. and i let her know, once we were in our cabin. "what about that promise, sis? you said you wouldn't turn him in. you promised!"
she stopped walking around the room as if she had been expecting to get to venus on foot. "i know i did, ferdinand, but he forced me."
"my name is ford and i don't understand."
she pressed her fingernails into her palms and let out a long, glaring sigh at the door. "then he kissed me! oh, it was a good enough kiss--mr. brown has evidently had a varied and colorful background--but the galling idiocy of the man, trying that! i was just getting over the colossal impudence involved in his proposing marriage--as if he had to bear the children!--and was considering the offer seriously, on its merits, as one should consider all suggestions, when he deliberately dropped the pretense of reason. he appealed to me as most of the savage ancients appealed to their women, as an emotional machine. throw the correct sexual switches, says this theory, and the female surrenders herself ecstatically to the doubtful and bloody murk of masculine plans."
there was a double knock on the door and the captain walked in without waiting for an invitation. he was still holding butt's blaster. he pointed it at me. "get your hands up, ferdinand sparling," he said.
"i hereby order your detention for the duration of this voyage, for aiding and abetting a stowaway, as set forth in sections forty-one and forty-five--"
"forty-three and forty-five," sis interrupted him, her eyes getting larger and rounder. "but you gave me your word of honor that no charges would be lodged against the boy!"
"but i used all of our money to buy passage," sis wailed.
"and now you'll have to return with the boy. i'm sorry, miss sparling. but as you explained to me, a man who has been honored with an important official position should stay close to the letter of the law for the sake of other men who are trying to break down terrestrial anti-male prejudice. of course, there's a way out."
"there is? tell me, please!"
"can i lower my hands a minute?" i asked.
"--are married to an uncombed desperado who doesn't know enough to sit back and let a woman run things. oh, you should be ashamed!"
the captain shrugged and spread his arms wide.
"perhaps i should be, but that's what comes of putting men into responsible positions, as you would say. see here, miss sparling, i didn't want to arrest brown, and, if it's at all possible, i'd still prefer not to. the crew, officers and men, all go along with me. we may be legal residents of earth, but our work requires us to be on venus several times a year. we don't want to be disliked by any members of the highly irritable brown clan or its collateral branches. butt lee brown himself, for all of his savage appearance in your civilized eyes, is a man of much influence on the polar continent. in his own bailiwick, the galertan archipelago, he makes, breaks and occasionally readjusts officials. then there's his brother saskatchewan who considers butt a helpless, put-upon youngster--"
"much influence, you say? mr. brown has?" sis was suddenly thoughtful.
"power, actually. the kind a strong man usually wields in a newly settled community. besides, miss sparling, you're going to venus for a husband because the male-female ratio on earth is reversed. well, not only is butt lee brown a first class catch, but you can't afford to be too particular in any case. while you're fairly pretty, you won't bring any wealth into a marriage and your high degree of opinionation is not likely to be well-received on a backward, masculinist world. then, too, the woman-hunger is not so great any more, what with the marie curie and the fatima having already deposited their cargoes, the mme. sun yat sen due to arrive next month...."
sis nodded to herself, waved the door open, and walked out.
"let's hope," the captain said. "like any father used to say, a man who knows how to handle women, how to get around them without their knowing it, doesn't need to know anything else in this life. i'm plain wasted in space. you can lower your hands now, son."
we sat down and i explained the blaster to him. he was very interested. he said all butt had told him--in the lifeboat when they decided to use my arrest as a club over sis--was to keep the safety catch all the way up against his thumb. i could see he really had been excited about carrying a lethal weapon around. he told me that back in the old days, captains--sea captains, that is--actually had the right to keep guns in their cabins all the time to put down mutinies and other things our ancestors did.
the telewall flickered, and we turned it on. sis smiled down. "everything's all right, captain. come up and marry us, please."
"what did you stick him for?" he asked. "what was the price?"
sis's full lips went thin and hard, the way mom's used to. then she thought better of it and laughed. "mr. brown is going to see that i'm elected sheriff of the galertan archipelago."
"and i thought she'd settle for a county clerkship!" the captain muttered as we spun up to the brig.
the doors were open and girls were chattering in every corner. sis came up to the captain to discuss arrangements. i slipped away and found butt sitting with folded arms in a corner of the brig. he grinned at me. "hi, tadpole. like the splash?"
i shook my head unhappily. "butt, why did you do it? i'd sure love to be your brother-in-law, but, gosh, you didn't have to marry sis." i pointed at some of the bustling females. sis was going to have three hundred bridesmaids. "any one of them would have jumped at the chance to be your wife. and once on any woman's passport, you'd be free. why sis?"
"that's what the captain said in the lifeboat. told him same thing i'm telling you. i'm stubborn. what i like at first, i keep on liking. what i want at first, i keep on wanting until i get."
"yes, but making sis sheriff! and you'll have to back her up with your blaster. what'll happen to that man's world?"
"wait'll after we nest and go out to my islands." he produced a hard-lipped, smug grin, sighting it at sis's slender back. "she'll find herself sheriff over a bunch of natives and exactly two earth males--you and me. i got a hunch that'll keep her pretty busy, though."
appointment in tomorrow
by fritz leiber
illustrated by ed alexander
is it possible to have a world without moral values? or does lack of morality become a moral value, also?
the first angry rays of the sun--which, startlingly enough, still rose in the east at 24 hour intervals--pierced the lacy tops of atlantic combers and touched thousands of sleeping americans with unconscious fear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from world war iii's atomic bombs.
they turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons around inferno in manhattan. without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger at the tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the three physicists after the dropping of the hell bomb. they tenderly touched the rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of a girl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor of a nearby roof garden. they struck green magic from the glassy blot that was old washington. twelve hours before, they had revealed things as eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in asia and russia. they pinked the white walls of the colonial dwelling of morton opperly near the institute for advanced studies; upstairs they slanted impartially across the pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist and the ugly, sleep-surly one of young willard farquar in the next room. and in nearby new washington they made of the spire of the thinkers' foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone white house, jr.
it was america approaching the end of the twentieth century. america of juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. america of the mask-fad for women and mystic christianity. america of the off-the-bosom dress and the new blue laws. america of the endless war and the loyalty detector. america of marvelous maizie and the monthly rocket to mars. america of the thinkers and (a few remembered) the institute. "knock on titanium," "whadya do for black-outs," "please, lover, don't think when i'm around," america, as combat-shocked and crippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet.
not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned, polarizing windows of jorj helmuth's bedroom in the thinker's foundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute, or almost. switching off the educational sandman in the midst of the phrase, "... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus," he took a deep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world and his knowledge. it was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted with impartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning.
remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which he instantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionate level from which he could look down on the girl and even himself as quaint, clumsy animals. still, he grumbled silently, caddy might have had enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. he wondered if he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooth their relationship last night, and for a moment the word that would send her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. but no, that special power of his over her was reserved for far more important purposes.
pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidence into his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old thinker rose from bed. no covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made them unnecessary. he stepped into his clothing--the severe tunic, tights and sockassins of the modern business man. next he glanced at the message tape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzyme tablet, and walked to the window. there, gazing along the rows of newly planted mutant oaks lining decontamination avenue, his smooth face broke into a smile.
it had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game making up his life--and mankind's. come to him during sleep, as so many of his best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-saving technique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time as somno-learning.
he set his who?-where? robot for "rocket physicist" and "genius class." while it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following brief message:
dear fellow scientist:
a project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man's future in deep space. ample non-military government funds are available. there was a time when professional men scoffed at the thinkers. then there was a time when the thinkers perforce neglected the professional men. now both times are past. may they never return! i would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp, thinkers' foundation i.
meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. he glanced through them, hesitated at the name "willard farquar," looked at the sleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot and plugged in the steno-robot.
the buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio.
"the president is waiting to see maizie, sir," a clear feminine voice announced. "he has the general staff with him."
"martian peace to him," jorj helmuth said. "tell him i'll be down in a few minutes."
huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomed above the knot of hush-voiced men. it almost filled a two-story room in the thinkers' foundation. its front was an orderly expanse of controls, indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chair on a boom.
although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the information and questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could not resist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the great cryptic cube. after all, it had lately taken to moving some of its own controls--the permissible ones--and could doubtless improvise a hearing apparatus if it wanted to.
for this was the thinking machine beside which the marks and eniacs and maniacs and maddidas and minervas and mimirs were less than morons. this was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the human brain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in the rims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the coney island shimmying of columns of mercury). this was the machine that had given instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. this was the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biased human judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved.
this was the machine that really thought--a million-plus!
this was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffy professional scientists had said could not be built. yet this was the machine that the thinkers, with characteristic yankee push, had built. and nicknamed, with characteristic yankee irreverence and girl-fondness, "maizie."
gazing up at it, the president of the united states felt a chord plucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark and shivery organ chord of his baptist childhood. here, in a strange sense, although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face with the living god: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yet infinitely just. no tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escape the scrutiny of this vast mentality. he shivered.
the grizzled general--there was also one who was gray--was thinking that this was a very odd link in the chain of command. some shadowy and usually well-controlled memories from world war ii faintly stirred his ire. here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligent than himself. and always orders of the "tell me how to kill that man" rather than the "kill that man" sort. the distinction bothered him obscurely. it relieved him to know that maizie had built-in controls which made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity's right-minded leaders--even the thinkers weren't certain which.
the gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the president, at a more turbid level, of the resemblance between papal infallibility and the dictates of the machine. suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble. he asked himself: was this the second coming? mightn't an incarnation be in metal rather than flesh?
the austere secretary of state was remembering what he'd taken such pains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at lake success with buddhism. sitting before his guru, his teacher, feeling the occidental's awe at the wisdom of the east, or its pretense, he had felt a little like this.
the burly secretary of space, who had come up through united rockets, was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientists weren't responsible for this job. like the grizzled general, he'd always felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things, rather than doing them themselves. in world war iii he'd had his fill of the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a misty sort of radicalism and free-thinking. the thinkers were better--more disciplined, more human. they'd called their brain-machine maizie, which helped take the curse off her. somewhat.
the president's secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, was also glad that it was the thinkers who had created the machine, though he trembled at the power that it gave them over the administration. still, you could do business with the thinkers. and nobody (not even the thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with maizie!
before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metal features, only jorj helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on the tape the complex questions of the day that the high officials had handed him: logistics for the endless war in pakistan, optimum size for next year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average soviet minds--profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprising simplicity. for figures, technical jargon, and layman's language were alike to maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematical shorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines.
the click of the taper went on until the secretary of state had twice nervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quickly put it away. no one spoke.
jorj looked up at the secretary of space. "section five, question four--whom would that come from?"
jorj did not answer. a bit later he quit taping and began to adjust controls, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. eventually he came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting.
from the great cube came a profound, steady purring. involuntarily the six officials backed off a bit. somehow it was impossible for a man to get used to the sound of maizie starting to think.
jorj turned, smiling. "and now, gentlemen, while we wait for maizie in the preparation of copy, consistency of spelling and punctuation is strongly urged, as it not only simplifies the problem for the printer, but also prevents possible misunderstanding of copy and consequent necessity for resetting.
all paragraphs should be clearly indicated in the copy.
all directions written upon the manuscript, which are not intended as "copy," should be enclosed in a circle.
the author should punctuate each sentence as he writes it, for in this way the marks are indicative of the natural pauses, and better express his meaning.
foot-notes should always be clearly indicated.
unusual words, proper names, and figures should be written out with the greatest care and distinctness by the author.
it is for the common advantage of the author, the publisher, and the printer that the author or the editor read all proofs promptly.
estimating the manuscript
various short-cuts have been suggested for estimating the number of words in a printed page, but the old-fashioned method of counting is the safest. here is a table which is as accurate as any short-cut can be:
words in sq. in.
in cases where the number of lines to the inch of certain sizes of type is desired, the following table may be employed up to 18-point body:
the sample page
for his sample page for the given novel, the printer would select from these standard faces:
type sizes in the present day are determined by the point system, the fundamental unit of which is the point. this is obtained by dividing a length of 13⅘ inches into 996 equal parts, each one being called a point. one point is therefore .0138 of an inch or 72.46 points are equal to 1 inch.
for purposes of convenience, a point is expressed as being 1/72 of an inch. thus 6-point type occupies 6/72 of an inch of space, 12-point 12/72 and so on. this does not mean, however, that the actual printed face occupies six points on the paper, but that it is six points from the base to the top of the body carrying the face.
in other words, one may say that it is 12 points from the bottom of one line of 12-point type to the bottom of the next line of 12-point type, etc.
the pica is the standard of measurement of the old system, and is equal to 12 points of the new system; thus six picas are equal to 1 inch or 72 points. printers still estimate the length and width of a page or a column by the pica; thus a page 4 inches wide is 24 picas.
the "em" is the square of a type body. thus a "12-point em" is 12 points wide and 12 points long, or 1 pica long and 1 pica wide. a "10-point em" is a 10 point square, etc. the em used in measuring newspaper column widths, magazine columns, etc., is known as the em pica, which is 12 points square.
in using larger faces for headings and display, or smaller faces for footnotes or quoted matter, the printer will select from the same family to which the type belongs, or from some family which combines with it harmoniously. old-style faces should not be used with modern faces, but the scotch face, which is a cross between old-style and modern, combines well with either.
as to leading, this volume is leaded with a 1-point lead; between the first and second lines of the preceding paragraph there is no leading (technically, "set solid"); between the second and third, a 2-point lead, and between the third and fourth, a 3-point lead.
in technical volumes and schoolbooks the old style antique type is largely used for subject-headings and side-notes:
competent proofreaders in the best offices frequently call the attention of the author to errors in dates, figures, or proper names, but this should always be regarded by the author as a courtesy rather than as something which the printer is expected to do. the proofreader, on the other hand, is supposed to have corrected every typographical error, and for the author to mark corrections which have been overlooked is a courtesy on the part of the author. the fact that the author or editor has passed over typographical errors in no way relieves the proofreader of his responsibility.
the proofreader is expected to correct any obvious error without hesitation, but to make no other changes. if he thinks a change should be made, it will take the form of a query in the margin to the author. the author should carefully note all such queries, and answer them or strike them out, bearing in mind that if he accepts the query the change necessitated in the type becomes an author's correction, the expense of which falls upon the publisher.
any marks on the proofs for correction should be made distinct by drawing a short line through the letter to be changed, etc., placing in the margin the recognized sign indicating the change, exactly opposite the line in which the change is to be made, and in the order in which the necessary alterations occur. in doing this be sure to write legibly, and do not cover the proof with lines and counter-lines.
the author should familiarize himself with the standard proofreading marks, and employ these in marking all corrections upon the proofs which are sent him. these marks are as follows:
the above marks are the ones most generally used in proofreading. there are many others that are required in different classes of work, but these are in the main self-explanatory. this display of proof marks and their meanings has been prepared for the graphic arts and endorsed by the boston proofreaders association.
cover design and illustrations
while the printer has been engaged in putting the manuscript into type, the publisher has had a designer at work upon a cover sketch, and an artist upon such illustrations as the book requires. all this has to fall in with the publisher's general scheme for the book as a whole. the designer must know what limits are placed upon him as to the number of inks or foils, or the amount of gold-leaf which he may employ. the artist must know whether his pictures are to be drawn for full color, two-color or one-color plates. in deciding these questions, the publisher is influenced by what he believes the book to require in its appeal to the public, and how great an expense is warranted by the probability of its success.
the illustrations in all except the most pretentious volumes are either halftone or lineplate photo-engravings. in making a halftone plate, the picture or object to be reproduced is photographed through a screen consisting of a glass plate, diagonally ruled at right angles in two directions with lines numbering from fifty to four hundred to the inch. this screen is placed inside of the camera and in front of, and very near, the chemically sensitized plate. the light reflected from the object to be photographed, varying in intensity according to the lights and shadows of the object, is focused on the sensitized plate through the intervening line screen, and affects the sensitized film more or less according to its intensity. this causes a chemical change of such nature that the next following operations, the development and the intensification of the picture, result in producing it in the form of dots and stipples varying in size, and consequently in the respective light and shade effects, according to the varying lights and shadows of the original. inasmuch as the lights show dark and the darks light, the picture on the glass makes a negative of the subject. this negative is placed in a printing frame, in close contact with a polished copper plate prepared with a film sensitive to the light. a few minutes' exposure to the light renders insoluble in water those parts of the film which the light has reached through the negative, and when the other parts of the film, which remain soluble in water, are washed away, the picture appears clear on the surface of the plate. the dots and the stipples forming the picture are then further treated to enable them to resist the action of the solution of iron perchloride to which the plate is next subjected, which etches out the spaces between the dots, and leaves the latter in relief. as the etching on the copper must be in reverse as regards right and left, in order that it may appear in proper relation when printed on the paper, the negative must be produced through a reflecting prism, or the finished negative, properly toughened, must be stripped from the glass on which it has been produced, and turned over. in ordinary practice, a number of such turned negatives are placed together on a single large glass, and exposed together on a large copper plate, to be cut apart afterwards and mounted separately. the primary etching is usually supplemented by further processes, such as re-etching, vignetting, hand-tooling and routing. the finished plate is finally mounted on a wooden block to the height of type.
it is of particular importance that the engraver who is to make the halftone plates should be informed as to the kind of paper they are to be printed on. a 50-line halftone plate will print on almost anything, but is too coarse to render the details of the picture, and is usually applied only for newspaper use. it would be entirely too coarse for the purpose of book illustration. on the other hand, a halftone plate made through a screen of 400 lines to the inch can be printed satisfactorily only upon paper of the highest surface, and with correspondingly careful presswork. for super-calendered or english-finish paper, plates made through a 133-line screen are most advisable, while the average coated or enameled paper will take 150-line halftones to best advantage.
lineplates are etchings in relief on plates of zinc or copper, reproduced from pen-and-ink-drawings, or diagrams, by photo-mechanical process. the method in general is the same as that for halftone work, but without the intervention of the screen. in lineplates, the light and shade effects are produced by gradations of thick and thin lines, in distinction from the effects of wash-drawings and photographs, which are produced by gradations of tone. the latter require the intervention of the screen to convert the full tone gradations into the halftone of the dots and stipples, while the former may, as already noted, be reproduced directly.
the arrangement of the book
the proper layout for an ordinary volume, arranged in accord with the best usage, is as follows:
bastard-title (right hand). blank page or advertising card (left hand). title-page (right hand). copyright page and the printer's imprint (left hand). dedication (right hand). blank page (left hand). preface (begins on right hand). table of contents (begins on right hand). list of illustrations (begins on right hand). introduction (begins on right hand). half-title (right hand). blank page (left hand). first page of text (begins on right hand).
in limited editions, the limit notice is placed upon the reverse of the bastard-title, or on a left-hand page facing the bastard-title.
following the text may be:
appendix (begins on right hand). glossary (begins on right hand). bibliography (begins on right hand). index (begins on right hand).
considering these various divisions more at length:
the bastard-title, which is often wrongly called the half-title, is a modern evolution in its present application. originally, this single-line title was the only title which existed, but as time went on the demand of the public, on the one hand, for a decorated page at the beginning of the book, together with the printer's desire, on the other hand, to advertise himself, developed the bastard-title into the dimensions of the title-page which we now know, containing the name of the book, the name of the author, the publisher's device, and the publisher's name and address. at the present time the bastard-title is used more to add elegance to the appearance of the volume than for any practical purpose, it being pleasanter for the eye to rest first upon this page rather than at once upon the title-page, which extends over the full dimensions of the type area.
if an advertising card or limit notice is required, this page of display should be set up with careful consideration of the page it is to face, and of the typography of the book of which it is to be a part. too frequently advertising cards are looked upon as separate jobs, and are set in types which do not harmonize with the typography of the rest of the book.
the title-page offers the printer and the publisher a tempting opportunity for display and for artistic typography, and too few realize the value of restraint. cobden-sanderson once remarked, as explaining the high prices which he secures for his work, that he always charges more for what he leaves out than for what he puts in.
the first definite step in the direction of the title-page is marked by bibliographers in a little volume printed by arnold ther hoernen, of cologne, in 1470. it consisted of an introduction at the head of a page, the major part of which was left blank. whether the printer forgot to place the usual introduction at the head of the first page, and took this way to remedy his error, is not known.
in general, different faces of type should never be combined upon the title-page, the variations being secured by using smaller sizes of the same face, or harmonizing fonts. capitals and lower-case letters can be successfully combined on the title-page only as a result of care and thought, the best title-pages usually being all in lower-case or all in caps and small caps. a two-color title-page is rarely a success unless it was originally composed with two colors in mind, instead of being set up in black and arbitrarily split up for colors.
the decoration should never overbalance the type, and this applies as well to the question of borders on decorated books. no matter how beautiful, if the decoration overbalances the type, the volume or the title-page ceases to be an example of typography and becomes something answerable only to itself.
the dedication is a page set in the monumental style, generally in small capitals. this must always be a right-hand page, and the reverse must always be blank.
ordinarily the preface is set in the same size of type as the body. if it is written by some one other than the author, it is frequently set in italic to mark the distinction. this is particularly true in case the book contains an introduction as well. if the preface is of unusual importance, it is sometimes customary to have it set in type one size larger than the body, or double-leaded.
table of contents
after the preface and before the list of illustrations comes the contents, occupying whatever number of pages may be necessary. the style of its composition is dependent entirely upon the subject-matter and the typographical arrangement of the volume.
list of illustrations
this follows the contents, and is always set in a style conforming to the contents page or pages.
see remarks under "preface."
the half-title ordinarily consists of a single line, standing by itself on the first page of the leaf immediately preceding the first page of the text, and carries the title of the book as at the top of the first page of text. it is frequently confused with the bastard or false-title, which always precedes the title-page. half-titles may also run through the book before various divisions, but the bastard-title never moves from its one position at the beginning of the volume.
if an edition be limited in number, the notice of such limit should be placed either on the page facing the bastard-title or on the reverse of the bastard-title.
the front matter is often put into type after the composition of the body has been completed, so that the number of pages is rarely definitely determined at the beginning of the work. for this reason, publishers have favored the expedient of numbering the preliminary pages with roman folios, using the arabic folios for the text itself. the front matter and the chapter pages running through the book offer opportunities for embellishment and distinctive typographical treatment, and therefore should be kept in exact accord, whether elaborate decorations are used or the severest form of typographical simplicity.
basic sizes of books
the following list gives the size of leaf to which the various standard names and proportions naturally fold:
english paper sizes
a feature not to be overlooked in the appearance of a well-printed book is that of the margins. the perfect type-page is supposed to be proportioned in such a way that its diagonal is twice its width. with this page as a basis, the location of the type upon the paper leaf is to be studied carefully. in general, the two pages, right and left, should be considered as a unit, and the top margin and the inside margin of each page should be approximately the same. doing this, the total blank between the two pages is supposed approximately to equal the outside and the bottom margins.
the proportion of margin is, to a certain extent, dependent upon the size of the book, the margins becoming greater as the volume increases from the thirty-two mo size up to the folio. a student of typography has ingeniously estimated that, taking the height of the paper leaf as 100 units, the height of the type page of the ordinary trade book should be from 72% to 75%; that of a library edition, from 66% to 71%; that of a de luxe volume, from 60% to 65%.
making the index
every book of a permanent nature, or intended as a work of reference, requires an index. the length of the index, or its minuteness, depends upon the nature of the subject treated, and the importance of making it easily available to the reader. the index belongs to the same family as the table of contents, and the topical analyses often placed at the beginning of each chapter: the contents gives a general idea of the divisions into which the author has separated his subject; the topical analyses still further divide each chapter; and the index is ordinarily still more minute, with the further advantage of having its references arranged in alphabetical order.
the proper person to make an index is, first of all, the author of the book, provided that he possesses the natural characteristics. it does not at all naturally follow, however, that all authors are competent to do this, for the art of indexing is not as simple as many superficially suppose. the author should be the one best fitted, because he knows better than any reader the exact meaning each of his sentences is intended to convey,--and this meaning should be expressed in the index. the ideal index is that which gives every topic, thought, or reference contained in the book itself, without a single superfluous word, and with no description or comment.
to make an index requires a quick grasp of the idea contained in each sentence or paragraph, an immediate discernment of the main thought, an instinctive classification, absolute accuracy in translating this thought into its briefest expression, ability to condense, and a sensing of the reader's needs in adequate cross-references. all this demands a mind more logical and more sensitive to codified detail than is possessed by many able writers. under these circumstances, it is desirable to place the making of the index in the hands of one possessing these qualifications, either instinctively or as a result of experience.
every publishing-house and most printing establishments of any consequence are in a position to have indexes prepared when required, but the danger is always present that the indexer, approaching his subject from the outside, will fail to place himself sufficiently in the author's attitude, and thus lessen the value of his work. it is most desirable, in order to prevent this, that the author carefully inspect the index while in manuscript. he can thus detect possible departures in the indexer's condensed expression of his own thought.
the following rules and suggestions are given with a twofold object in mind: first, to prevent those authors who possess the necessary qualifications from avoiding the preparation of their own indexes because of unfamiliarity with the technical details; second, to enable authors intelligently to criticize the form as well as the matter of those indexes which are prepared for their volumes by other hands.
what to index
the closeness with which a book is to be indexed depends partly upon the nature of its contents and partly upon the ideas of the author or publisher. some indexes contain only the page references; some are so analytical that a reader can gain an excellent idea of the subject-matter itself. these, however, represent the two extremes. the ordinary index aims to give every reference necessary to enable the reader to locate easily the subject-matter for which he searches, but not a synopsis of that subject-matter. the entries should cover, then, with more or less minuteness, as desired, the following:
the indexer should decide definitely in his mind just what his procedure is to be before actually beginning work. at first, it is well to make the index too full rather than the reverse, as it is easier to cut out than to fill in. most important of all, he must be sure that the matter to be indexed is clearly understood before he attempts to transcribe the idea. the character of the book to be indexed must be carefully considered, taking into account the class of people who will probably consult it, and the lines on which they will probably seek information.
judgment is required in deciding whether it is wise to choose the exact words of the author or to condense the idea into other words. in technical books, the exact wording is sometimes essential, but otherwise it is more important to express the idea than the exact terms in which it is expressed.
always prefer simple words and expressions to those which are unusual and cumbersome.
omit every unessential word.
when the book being indexed is one written upon a specific subject, this main subject should not be indexed unless necessary to indicate some reference for which a searcher would look. ordinarily, the contents covers this point rather than the index.
bear in mind particularly the two extremes: the importance of including every reference necessary to enable the searcher to find what he wishes without delay or confusion, the mistake of overloading the index with useless entries.
use ink, as pencil entries often become illegible.
write plainly, and do not try to economize space in preparing the copy.
definition of terms
here are sample slips, showing a heading which requires full entries and one to which the text contains fewer references. the first shows a slip on which the various entries have been combined:
this slip shows the method of indexing a work in more than one volume:
when, under a single entry, there are both subject-references and references by folios only, place the folio-references together at the end of the entry, following the subject-references.
arrange entries according to the english alphabet, whatever the order of the alphabet in which a foreign name might have been entered in its original language.
arrange german names spelled with the vowels ä, ö, ü as if spelled ae, oe, ue, but retain the form employed by the author.
when the same word serves for several kinds of entries, the order should be as follows: person, place, subject, title: e.g., (1) brown, g. f. (person). (2) brown village (place). (3) brown-tail moth (subject). (4) brown family, the (title).
forenames precede surnames: e.g., francis i precedes francis, charles.
in general, a noun or a substantive phrase should be selected for the heading, but when an adjective forms part of a name or well-known term, the entry should include it: e.g., alimentary canal, hereditary genius, perpetual motion, etc.
it is not possible to formulate rules for indexing subject-matter as definitely as has already been done with names, places, etc. the judgment of the indexer and his analytical skill will be called fully into play. the effort should be to express in the index, in the clearest yet briefest form, the idea which the author has amplified in his text. as an aid to the nature and form of the entries, a page of text is shown on the opposite page, and the entries which would appear in the index from this page, are given below. this is what would be considered as a medium full index:
bressani, joseph, tortured by iroquois, 73; life spared by iroquois, 73; sent to fort orange, 73; ransomed by dutch, 73; sent to rochelle, 73.
dutch, the, ransom bressani, 73.
indian torture, see torture, indian.
iroquois indians, the, torture bressani, 73; spare bressani's life, 73.
jogues, isaac, referred to, 73.
orange, fort, bressani sent to, 73.
rochelle, bressani sent to, 73.
torture, indian, bressani by the iroquois, 73.
march of several days,--during which bressani, in wading a rocky stream, fell from exhaustion and was nearly drowned,--they reached an iroquois town. it is needless to follow the revolting details of the new torments that succeeded. they hung him by the feet with chains; placed food for their dogs on his naked body, that they might lacerate him as they ate; and at last had reduced his emaciated frame to such a condition that even they themselves stood in horror of him. "i could not have believed," he writes to his superior, "that a man was so hard to kill." he found among them those who, from compassion or from a refinement of cruelty, fed him, for he could not feed himself. they told him jestingly that they wished to fatten him before putting him to death.
the council that was to decide his fate met on the nineteenth of june, when to the prisoner's amazement, and, as it seemed, to their own surprise, they resolved to spare his life. he was given, with due ceremony, to an old woman, to take the place of a deceased relative; but since he was as repulsive, in his mangled condition as, by the indian standard, he was useless, she sent her son with him to fort orange, to sell him to the dutch. with the same humanity which they had shown in the case of jogues, they gave a generous ransom for him, supplied him with clothing, kept him until his strength was in some degree recruited, and then placed him on board a vessel bound for rochelle. here he
page from parkman's works. by permission little, brown, & co.
rules and examples
index under the christian name or forename:
also make cross-reference: e.g., becket, thomas a. see thomas a becket.
cross-reference under family name is optional, dependent upon closeness of indexing.
this rule has many exceptions. some oriental writers are known and should be entered under other parts of their name than the first, as "abu-l-kasim, khalaf ibn abbas," firdusi, abul kasim, etc., known as, or under some appellation as "al-masudi," "at-tabari."
in arabic names, the words of relationship abu (father), umm (mother), ibn, bin (son), ahu (brother), though not to be treated as names by themselves, are yet not to be disregarded. they form a name in conjunction with the word following (e.g., abu bakr), and determine the alphabetical place of the entry. but the article al (changed by assonance to ad-, ar-, as-, at-, az-, according to the letter it precedes) is neglected (al- masudi).
in all oriental names, the indexer must be careful not to take titles, as emir, bey, pasha, sri, babu, pundit, for names.
in regard to east indian names, dr. feigl gives the rule: if there are two names, enter under the first, which is the individual name, with a cross-reference from the second; if there are three or more, enter under the third, which is the family name, with a cross-reference under the first or individual name; the second may be neglected.
index under the surname:
bishops usually omit their family name, canons their forename: e.g., canon liddon, bishop of ripon, henry edward, archbishop of westminster, i.e., h. e. manning. care must be taken not to treat canon as a forename or edward as a family name.
wives often continue writing, and are known in literature only under their maiden names (as miss freer or fanny lewald), or after a second marriage retain for literary purposes the first husband's name. enclose the maiden name in parenthesis: e.g., ward, mrs. elizabeth (phelps). use the form white, mrs. julia charlotte, wife of j. c., when the husband's name is used: e.g., hopkins, mrs sarah (drake) garretson. stowe, mrs. emily howard (jennings). soyaux, frau frieda (schanz). gasparin, valérie (boissier) comtesse de.
women known under their husbands' names are to be entered as follows: hinkson, mrs. katherine (tynan), mrs. h. a. hinkson. cross-reference to be made from the latter form.
index under the highest title:
british and foreign noblemen, with cross-reference from earlier titles by which they have been known, and, in the case of british noblemen, from the family name: e.g., chesterfield, 4th earl of (philip dormer stanhope). chesterfield, 5th earl of (philip stanhope). cross-reference from stanhope. saint-simon, louis de rouvroi, duc de.
authors should be put under their names. the definition of a name is "that by which a person or thing is known." noblemen are known by their titles, not by their family names.
englishwomen's titles-of-honor are to be treated by the following rules. in the matter of titles an englishwoman in marrying has everything to gain and nothing to lose. if she marries above her own rank she takes her husband's title in exchange for her own, if below her own rank she keeps her own title.
that is, she is baroness, viscountess, marchioness, etc. in indexing, say brassey, annie (allnutt), baroness; not brassey, annie (allnutt), lady.
that is, if lady mary smith marries sir john brown (either knight or baronet), she is lady mary brown, also if hon. mary smith marries sir john brown (knight or baronet) she is lady mary brown; but if miss mary smith marries sir john brown (knight or baronet), she becomes mary, lady brown.
thus, if she marries a baronet she is the honᵇˡᵉ lady brown; if a peer, the lady so and so. in either case as though she had been a peer's daughter.
none of these courtesy titles is inherited by the children of those who bear them, the third generation of even the highest peer being simply commoners unless raised in rank by marriage or merit.
index compound names according to the usage of the author's fatherland, though if it is known that his practice differs from this usage, his preference should be followed. compound names then go:
both such compound names as gentil-bernard and such as gentil de chavagnac. there are various exceptions, when a name has been more known under the last part, as fénelon, not salignac de lamothe fénelon; voltaire, not arouet de voltaire; sternberg, not ungern-sternberg. moreover, it is not always easy to determine what is a compound surname in french. cross-references are necessary whichever way one decides each case, especially when the second part of a foreign compound name has been used alone, as merle d'aubigné (index under merle with a cross-reference from aubigné).
in french, a forename is sometimes joined to a surname by a hyphen. in such cases make the entry under the family name, with a cross-reference from the forename: e.g., entry, rochette, désiré raoul; cross-reference, raoul-rochette, désiré. see rochette.
index surnames preceded by prefixes:
la and le are often, des is usually, and les is almost without exception printed as one word with the name following, as lafontaine, lesage, lesdiguières; de and d' are sometimes so printed; when they are, enter under the d: e.g., debucourt, decamps, delisle; but bucourt, a. de, camps, c. de, lisle, j. de.
but when the name is printed as one word, entry is made under the prefix, as vanderhaeghen.
thus german names preceded by von, when belonging to russians, are to be entered under von, as this is the russian custom. so when dutch names compounded with van are adopted into french or english (as van laun) the van is treated as part of the family name.
prefixes are d', de, de la (the name goes under la not de), des, du, l', la, le, les, st, ste (to be arranged as if written saint, sainte), da, dal, dalla, dalle, dai, dagli, del, della, delle, dei (dé or de), degli, da, dos, das, ten, ter, thor, van, vander, van't, ver, am, auf, auf'm, aus, aus'm, in, im, von, vom, zu, zum, zur, a', ap, o', fitz, mac (which is to be printed as it is in the title, whether m', or mc, or mac, but to be arranged as if written mac).
index names of capes, lakes, mountains, rivers, forts, etc., beginning with cape, lake, mt., etc., under the word following the prefix, but when the name is itself used as a prefix, do not transpose cape, etc., nor in such names as isle of the woods, isles of shoals; but there is more reason for writing france, isle de; man, isle of; wight, isle of: e.g., cod, cape; george, lake; washington, mt.; moultrie, fort; but cape breton island. when the name of a fort becomes the name of a city, of course the inversion must be abandoned, as fort wayne.
forenames are to be used in the form employed by their owners, however unusual, as will carleton, sally (pratt) mclean, hans droysen, fritz reuter.
give names of places in the english form. (cross-reference from the vernacular, if necessary): e.g., munich not muenchen or münchen, vienna not wien, austria not oesterreich.
but if both the english and the foreign forms are used by english writers, prefer the foreign form: e.g., dauphiné rather than dauphiny.
use the modern name of a city and cross-reference to it from the ancient, provided its existence has been continuous and there is no doubt as to the identity.
distinctive epithets are to be in the same language as the name: e.g.,
kniaz, fürst von, freiherr zu, duc de magenta, bishop of lincoln, évêque de meaux; but emperor of germany, king of france, not kaiser and roi, when names of sovereign princes are given in english. treat in the same way patronymics habitually joined with a person's name; as, clemens alexandrinus.
hereditary titles generally follow the christian name, as derby, thomas stanley, 1st earl of; but british courtesy titles (i.e., those given to the younger sons of dukes and marquesses) precede, as wellesley, lord charles (2d son of the duke of wellington). in other languages than english, french, and german the title usually precedes the forename; as, alfieri, conte vittorio. occasionally a french nobleman uniformly places his title before his forenames; as, gasparin, comte agénor de.
lord should be replaced by the exact title in the names of english noblemen: e.g., lord macaulay should be entered as macaulay, 1st baron. lord in the title of scotch judges follows the family name; as, kames, h. home, afterwards lord.
the title baronet is given in the form scott, sir walter, bart.
patronymic phrases, as of dedham, follow all the names; but they must immediately follow the family name when they are always used in close connection with it, as girault de st. farjeau, eusèbe; similarly aîné, fils, jeune, as dumas fils, alexandre; didot fils, ambroise. latin appellatives should not in general be separated from their nouns by a comma; as, caesar heisterbacensis.
the name of a king's wife should be written thus: charlotte, queen, consort of george iii of england. anne boleyn queen, 2d consort of henry viii of england.
index under countries or places important events relating to them: e.g., montreal, cartier's description of houses at. also make reference under name: e.g., cartier, description of houses at montreal.
enter congresses of several nations under the name of the place of meeting (as that usually gives them their name), with cross-references from the nations taking part in them, and from any name by which they are popularly known: e.g., the congress of london, of paris, of verona, international peace congress at the hague.
enter treaties under the name of each of the contracting parties, with a cross-reference from the name of the place of negotiation, when the treaty is commonly called by that name, and from any other usual appellation: e.g., treaty of versailles, barrier treaty, jay's treaty.
enter the official publications of any political party or religious denomination or order, under the name of the party, or denomination, or order: e.g.,
platforms, manifestoes, addresses, etc., go under democratic party, republican party, etc.
confessions of faith, creeds, catechisms, liturgies, breviaries, missals, hours, offices, prayer books, etc., go under baptists, benedictines, catholic church, church of england, friends, etc.
that part of a body which belongs to any place should be entered under the name of the body, not the place: e.g., congregationalists in new england, congregationalists in massachusetts, not new england congregationalists, massachusetts congregationalists. but cross-references must be made from the place (indeed in cases like massachusetts convention, essex conference, it may be doubted whether those well-known names should not be the headings).
enter corporations and quasi corporations, both english and foreign, under their names as they read, neglecting an initial article or serial number when there is one.
enter orders of knighthood, both those of medieval times and their honorary modern equivalents, under the significant word of the english title: e.g., garter, order of the; malta, knights of; templars, knights; teutonic order; freemasons. but the american knights templars, being merely a division of the freemasons, belong under freemasons; so of other regular masonic bodies.
the colleges of an english university and the unnamed professional schools of an american university go under the university's name. such professional schools, if they have a distinctive name, particularly if at a distance from the university, or for any other reason less closely connected with it, go under their own name: e.g., oxford university, magdalen college; harvard university, veterinary school; but barnard college, columbia university; radcliffe college, harvard university; sheffield scientific school of yale university.
college libraries go under the name of the college: e.g., harvard college, university library. but the bodleian library may be put under bodleian.
local college societies go under the name of the college; intercollegiate societies and greek letter fraternities under their own names: e.g., φ b k a, of harvard.
alumni and alumnæ associations go under the name of the school or college: e.g., harvard alumni association of new york.
schools supported by public taxation go under the name of the city or town maintaining them, whether they have an individual name or not.
when a corporation is much less known by the first words of its name than by a later part, enter under the later part: e.g., christian endeavor, young people's society of.
enter guilds under the name of the trade: e.g., stationers company, not master and keepers or wardens and commonality of the mystery and art of stationers of the city of london, which is the corporate title.
enter bodies whose legal name begins with such words as board, corporation, trustees under that part of the name by which they are usually known: e.g., trustees of the eastern dispensary; president and fellows of harvard college; proprietors of the boston athenæum; contributors to the asylum for the relief of persons deprived of their reason. cross-reference from the first word of the legal name.
enter the name of a firm under the family name rather than the forename, and do not fill out the forenames: e.g., friedlander und sohn, raphael, not under raphael; stokes, f. a. co., not stokes, frederick a. co.
the consulter is much more likely to remember the family than the christian name. whether the christian name is written at the end or thus, town (john) and bowers (henry), all firms should be arranged after all the other entries of the first family name, i.e., friedlander und sohn after all the friedlanders.
this rule might be extended to include corporations, colleges, libraries, etc., whose legal names include forenames. entry under a forename, as silas bronson library, and especially under initials, as t. b. scott public library, is awkward. but the public habit is not yet sufficiently settled to justify an exception.
enter the universities of the european continent and of central and south america under the name of the place; all other societies under königliche, herzogliche, etc.
cross-reference from the first word in the university names and from the place of societies.
a few learned academies, commonly called by the names of the cities where they are established, may be entered under the place with a cross-reference from the name. these are berlin, göttingen, leipzig, lisbon, madrid, munich, st. petersburg, vienna.
enter national libraries, museums, and galleries, as well as libraries, museums, and galleries instituted or supported by a city, under the place, provided they have not a distinctive name.
example of place: paris bibliothèque nationale. boston public library.
example of name: berkshire athenæum; boston athenæum; british museum; forbes library; marucceliana, biblioteca; reuben hoar public library.
enter observatories under the name of the place: e.g., greenwich, observatory. pulkowa, sternwarte; except that:
enter expositions under the place where they were held: e.g.,
buffalo, pan-american exposition, 1901; chicago, world's columbian exposition, 1893; new orleans, world's industrial and cotton centennial exhibition, 1884-85; philadelphia, centennial exhibition, 1876.
cross-reference from an individual name.
enter american state universities and state historical, agricultural and medical societies, whether supported by the state or not, under the name of the state, unless they are better known by a distinctive name. the state's name usually enters into the name of these societies and they are known outside of the state by its name. cross-reference when necessary.
enter churches under the name of the place.
single churches have usually been entered under the place, a practice which arose in american indexes from our way of naming churches "the first church in----," "the second church of----," etc., and applies very well to a majority of english churches, whose name generally includes the name of the parish. it is more in accordance with indexing principles to limit the local entry of churches to first church, etc., and those which have only the name of the town or parish, and to put all others (as st. sepulchre's, st. mary aldermansbury) under their names, as they read, and to treat convents and monasteries in the same way; but the convenience of having a single definite rule has been held to outweigh in this case the claims of consistency.
the parishes of london (as kensington, marylebone, southwark), like the parts of boston (dorchester, roxbury, etc.), or of any other composite city, would be put under their own names, not under the name of the city.
a few cathedrals generally known by some other name may be entered under it: e.g., st. paul's, london; notre dame, paris; st. peter's, rome; st. sophia, constantinople.
put monasteries and convents, like churches, under the place, unless better known by the name.
national banks designated merely by number (as first national bank of boston) go under the name of the place.
young men's christian associations, mercantile library associations, and the like, should have local entry.
private schools having no distinctive name go under the name of the proprietor.
private libraries, galleries and museums go under the name of the proprietor.
buildings are for the most part provided for in the above rules, as museums, galleries, libraries, churches, etc. any others should be entered under their names, with a cross-reference from the city.
peter, saint. peter, pope. peter, the great, emperor of russia. peter ii, of aragon. peter iii, of aragon. peter i, of portugal. peter, duke of newcastle. peter, of groningen, enthusiast. see pieter. peter, john henry. peter, lake. peter, mt. peter-hansen, erik. peter lewis, a true tale.
when there are two appellatives coming in different parts of the alphabet, cross-reference from the rejected one, as thomas cantuariensis. see thomas becket.
arrange in two alphabets names that differ slightly in spelling and come close together in the alphabet: e.g.,
brown and browne, and the french names beginning with saint and sainte. as readers may not always know the spelling of the author's name, cross-references should be made: e.g., brown. see also browne.
arrange by the forename headings in which the family name is the same.
when the forenames are the same, arrange chronologically.
no attention is to be paid to the titles sir, etc.: e.g., bart, t. l., comes before bart, thomas, for the same reason that bart comes before barta.
forenames not generally used should be neglected in the arrangement.
when an author is generally known by one of several forenames he will be looked for by that alone, and that alone should determine the arrangement. the form should be harte, bret (in full francis bret), or harte, bret (i.e., francis bret).
make cross-references whenever the omission of a name will change the alphabetical arrangement, as from müller, f. max, to müller, max.
when there are two names exactly the same, add dates if available: e.g., franklin, john (d. 1759); franklin, john (d. 1863).
if an author uses both the shorter and the longer forms in different works, and yet is decidedly better known by the shorter, arrange by that.
arrange a nobleman's title, under which entry is made, and the name of a bishop's see, from which reference is made to the family name, among the personal names, not with the places: e.g.,
danby, john. danby, thomas osborne, earl of. danby, wm. danby, eng. holland, c. holland, 3d baron (h: r. vassal fox). holland, 4th baron (h: e. vassal fox). holland (the country).
the possessive case singular should be arranged with the plural: e.g.,
bride of lammermoor. brides and bridals. bride's choice. boys' and girls' book. boy's king arthur. boys of '76.
arrange greek and latin personal names by their patronymics or other appellatives: e.g.,
dionysius. dionysius areopagita. dionysius chalcidensis. dionysius genuensis.
arrange english personal and place names compounded with prefixes as single words; also those foreign names in which the prefix is not transposed: e.g.,
demonstration. de montfort. demophilus. de morgan. demosthenes.
other such names are ap thomas, des barres, du chaillu, fitz allen, la motte fouqué, le sage, mac fingal, o'neal, saint-réal, sainte-beuve, van buren.
this is the universal custom, founded on the fact that the prefixes are often not separated in printing from the following part of the name. it would, of course, be wrong to have demorgan in one place and de morgan in another.
arrange proper names beginning with m', mc, st., ste. as if spelled mac, saint, sainte.
because they are so pronounced. but l' is not arranged as la or le, nor o' as if it stood for of, because they are not so pronounced.
arrange compound names of places as separate words, except those beginning with prefixes: e.g.,
new, john. new hampshire. new legion of satan. new sydenham society. new york. newark. newfoundland. newspapers. not new, john. new legion of satan. newark. newfoundland. new hampshire. newspapers. new sydenham society. new york.
arrange personal names compounded of two names with or without a hyphen after the first name, but before the next longer word: e.g.,
fonte, bart. de. fonte resbecq, auguste. fontenay, louis. fontenay mareuil, françois.
arrange names of societies as separate words.
see new sydenham society in the list above.
arrange hyphened words as if separate: e.g.,
happy home. happy-thought hall. happy thoughts. home and hearth. home rule. homely traits. homer. sing, pseud. sing, james. sing, james, pseud. sing-sing prison. singapore. singing. grave and reverend club. grave county. grave creek. grave-digger. grave-mounds. grave objections. grave de mézeray, antoine. gravel. gravestone. graveyard. out and about. out in the cold, a song. out-of-door parliament. outer darkness, the.
arrange pseudonyms after the corresponding real name: e.g.,
andrew, pseud. andrew, st. andrew, st., pseud. andrew, john. andrew, john, pseud. andrew, john albion.
arrange incomplete names by the letters. when the same letters are followed by different signs, if there are no forenames, arrange in the order of the complexity of signs; but if there are forenames, arrange by them: i.e., put a dot before a line, a line before a star (three lines crossing), etc.: e.g.,
the arrangement of title-entries is first by the heading words; if they are the same, then by the next word; if that is the same, by the next; and so on. every word, articles and prepositions included, is to be regarded, but not a transposed article: e.g.,
it makes no difference whether the words are connected with one another in sense or not; the searcher should not be compelled to think of that. let the arrangement be by words as ordinarily printed. thus home rule is one idea but it is two words, and its place must be determined primarily by its first word home, which brings it before homeless. if it were printed homerule it would come after homeless. similarly art amateur is one phrase, but as the first word art is followed by a word beginning with am, it must come before art and artists, although its parts are more closely connected than the parts of the latter phrase.
the french d' and l' are not to be treated as part of the following word: e.g.,
art d'économiser. art d'être grandpère. art d'instruire. art de faire. art de l'instruction. art de linguistique. art des mines. art digne. not art de faire. art de linguistique. art de l'instruction. art d'économiser. art des mines. art d'être grandpère. art digne. art d'instruire.
arrange titles beginning with numeral figures as if the figures were written out in the language of the rest of the title: e.g.,
100 deutscher männer--ein hundert deutsche männer; 1812--mil huit cent douze.
arrange abbreviations as if spelled in full, but elisions as they are printed: e.g.,
dr., m., mlle., mme., mr., mrs., st., as doctor, monsieur, mademoiselle, madame, mister, mistress, saint.
but who'd be a king? who killed cock robin? who's to blame?
care must be taken not to mix two subjects together because their names are spelled in the same way.
thus grace before meals, grace of body, grace the musical term, and grace the theological term, must be four distinct headings.
glossary of terms
note.--(b) signifies terms used in connection with binding only. (c) terms usually employed in connection with the composing-room. (e) terms used in engraving. (el) terms used in electrotyping. (g) terms used with general significance. (p) terms used in connection with presswork.
“we go down to southcliff together.”
risca drew a deep breath.
“let us go this evening,” said he.
a few hours afterward when the open cab taking them from the station to the channel house came by the sharp turn of the road abruptly to the foot of the cliff, and the gusty southwest wind brought the haunting smell of the seaweed into his nostrils, and he saw the beacon-light in the high west window shining like a star, a gossamer feather from the wings of peace fell upon the man's tortured soul.
it will be remembered that stellamaris was a young person of bountiful fortune. she had stocks and shares and mortgages and landed property faithfully administered under a deed of trust. the channel house and all that therein was, except sir oliver and lady blount's grievances, belonged to her. she knew it; she had known it almost since infancy. the sense of ownership in which she had grown up had its effect on her character, giving her the equipoise of a young reigning princess, calm and serene in her undisputed position. in her childish days her material kingdom was limited to the walls of her sea-chamber but as the child expanded into the young girl, so expanded her conception of the limits of her kingdom. and with this widening view came gradually and curiously the consciousness that though her uncle and aunt were exquisitely honoured and beloved agents who looked to the welfare of her realm, yet they could not relieve her of certain gracious responsibilities. instinctively, and with imperceptible gradations, she began to make her influence felt in the house itself. but it was an influence in the spiritual and not material sense of the word; the hovering presence and not the controlling hand.
when, shortly after the arrival of the two men, walter herold went up to his room, he found a great vase of daffodils on his dressing-table and a pencilled note from stella in her unformed handwriting, for one cannot learn to write copper-plate when one lies forever on the flat of one's back.
great high favourite: here are some daffodils, because they laugh and dance like you. stellamaris.
and on his dressing-table john risca found a mass of snowdrops and a note:
great high belovedest: a beautiful white silver cloud came to my window to-day, and i wished i could tear it in half and save you a bit for the palace. but snowdrops are the nearest things i could think of instead. your telegram was a joy. love. s.
beside the bowl of flowers was another note:
risca looked round the dainty room, his whenever he chose to occupy it, and knew how much, especially of late, it held of stellamaris. it had been redecorated a short while before, and the colours and the patterns and all had been her choice and specification.
the castle architect, a young and fervent soul called wratislaw, a member of the art workers' guild, and a friend of herold's, who had settled in southcliff-on-sea, and was building, for the sake of a precarious livelihood, hideous bungalows which made his own heart sick, but his clients' hearts rejoice, had been called in to advise. with stellamaris, sovereign lady of the house, aged fifteen, he had spent hours of stupefied and aesthetic delight. he had brought her armfuls of designs, cartloads of illustrated books; and the result of it all was that, with certain other redecorations in the house with which for the moment we have no concern, risca's room was transformed from late-victorian solidity into early-georgian elegance. the adam brothers reigned in ceiling and cornice, and the authentic spirit of sheraton, thanks to the infatuated enterprise of wratislaw, pervaded the furniture. yet, despite wratislaw, although through him she had spoken, the presence of stellamaris pervaded the room. on the writing-table lay a leather-covered blotter, with his initials, j. r., stamped in gold. in desperate answer to a childish question long ago, he had described the bedspread on his parian marble bed in the palace as a thing of rosebuds and crinkly ribbons tied up in true-lovers' knots. on his bed in stella's house lay a spread exquisitely louis xv in design.
risca looked about the room. yes, everything was stella. and behold there was one new thing, essentially stella, which he had not noticed before. surely it had been put there since his last visit.
in her own bedroom had hung since her imprisonment a fine reproduction of watt's “hope,” and, child though she was, she had divined, in a child's unformulative way, the simple yet poignant symbolism of the blindfold figure seated on this orb of land and sea, with meek head bowed over a broken lyre, and with ear strained to the vibration of the one remaining string. she loved the picture, and with unconscious intuition and without consultation with wratislaw, who would have been horrified at its domination of his adam room, had ordained that a similar copy should be hung on the wall facing the pillow of her great high belovedest's bed.
the application of the allegory to his present state of being was startlingly obvious. risca knitted a puzzled brow. the new thing was essentially stella, yet why had she caused it to be put in his room this day of all disastrous days? was it not rather his cousin julia's doing? but such delicate conveyance of sympathy was scarcely julia's way. a sudden dread stabbed him. had stella herself heard rumours of the tragedy? he summoned herold, who had a prescriptive right to the adjoining room.
“if any senseless fools have told her, i 'll murder them,” he cried.
“the creatures of the sunset told her--at least as much as it was good for her to know,” said herold.
“do you mean that she did it in pure ignorance?”
“in the vulgar acceptance of the word, yes,” smiled herold. “do you think that the human brain is always aware of the working of the divine spirit?”
“if it's as you say, it's uncanny,” said risca, unconvinced.
yet when sir oliver and julia both assured him that stella never doubted his luxurious happiness, and that the ordering of the picture was due to no subtle suggestion, he had to believe them.
“you always make the mistake, john, of thinking stellamaris mortal,” said herold, at the supper-table, for, on receipt of the young men's telegram, the blounts had deferred their dinner to the later hour of supper. “you are utterly wrong,” said he. “how can she be mortal when she talks all day to winds and clouds and the sea-children in their cups of foam? she's as elemental as ariel. when she sleeps, she's really away on a sea-gull's back to the isles of magic. that's why she laughs at the dull, clumsy old world from which she is cut off in her mortal guise. what are railway-trains and omnibuses to her? what would they be to you, john, if you could have a sea-gull's back whenever you wanted to go anywhere? and she goes to places worth going to, by george! what could she want with charing cross or the boulevard des italians? fancy the nymph syrinx at a woman writers' dinner!”
“i don't know what you 're talking about, walter,” said lady blount, whose mind was practical.
“syrinx,” said sir oliver, oracularly (he was a little, shrivelled man, to whose weak face a white moustache and an imperial gave a false air of distinction)--“syrinx,” said he, “was a nymph beloved of pan,--it's a common legend in greek mythology,--and pan turned her into a reed.”
“and then cut the reed up into pan-pipes,” cried herold, eagerly, “and made immortal music out of them--just as he makes immortal music out of stellamaris. you see, john, it all comes to the same thing. whether you call her ariel, or syrinx, or a sprite of the sea, or a wunderkind whose original trail of glory-cloud has not faded into the light of common day, she belongs to the other people. you must believe in the other people, julia; you can't help it.”
lady blount turned to him severely. despite her affection for him, she more than suspected him of a pagan pantheism, which she termed atheistical. his talk about belief in spirits and hobgoblins irritated her. she kept a limited intelligence together by means of formulas, as she kept her scanty reddish-gray hair together by means of a rigid false front.
“i believe in god the father, god the son, and god the holy ghost,” she said, with an air of cutting reproof.
sir oliver pushed his plate from him, but not the fraction of a millimetre beyond that caused by the impatient push sanctioned by good manners.
“don't be a fool, julia!”
“there are times and seasons for everything,” said sir oliver. “if you were having a political argument, and any one asked you whether you believed in tariff reform, and you glared at him and said, i believe in pontius pilate,' you'd be professing christianity, but showing yourself an idiot.”
“but i don't believe in pontius pilate,” retorted lady blount.
“oh, don't you?” cried sir oliver, in sinister exultation. “then your whole historical fabric of the crucifixion must fall to the ground.”
“i don't see why you need be irreverent and blasphemous,” said lady blount.
herold laid his hand on lady blount's and looked at her, with his head on one side.
“but do you believe in stellamaris, julia.”
his smile was so winning, with its touch of mockery, that she grew mollified.
“i believe she has bewitched all of us,” she said.
which shows how any woman may be made to eat her words just by a little kindness.
so the talk went back to stella and her ways and her oddities, and the question of faith in pontius pilate being necessary for salvation was forgotten. a maid, stella's own maid, came in with a message. miss stella's compliments, and were mr. risca and mr. herold having a good supper? she herself was about to drink her egg beaten up in sherry, and would be glad if the gentlemen would take a glass of wine with her. the young men, accordingly, raised their glasses toward the ceiling and drank to stella, in the presence of the maid, and gave her appropriate messages to take back to her mistress.
he broke the news later, in the drawing-room, abruptly and apropos of nothing, as was his manner, firing his bombshell with the defiant air of one who says, “there, what do you think of it?”
“i'm going to australia next week, never to come back again,” said he.
there was a discussion. sir oliver commended him. the great dependencies of the empire were the finest field in the world for a young man, provided he kept himself outside the radius of the venomous blight of the colonial office. to that atrophied branch of the imperial service the white administrator was merely a pigeon-holed automaton; the native, black or bronze or yellow, a lion-hearted human creature. all the murder, riot, rapine, arson, and other heterogeneous devilry that the latter cared to indulge in proceeded naturally from the noble indignation of his generous nature. if the sensible man who was appointed by the government to rule over this scum of the planet called out the military and wiped out a few dozen of them for the greater glory and safety of the empire, the pusillanimous ineptitudes in second-rate purple and cheap linen of the colonial office, for the sake of currying favour with labour members and socialists and radicals and methodists and anti-vivisectionists and vegetarians and other miserable little-englanders, denounced him as a turk, an assassin, a seventeenth-century spanish conquistador of the bloodiest type, and held him up to popular execration, and recalled him, and put him on a beggarly pension years before he had reached his age limit. he could tell them stories which seemed (and in truth deserved to be) incredible.
“john,” said lady blount, “has heard all this a thousand times,”--as indeed he had,--“and must be sick to death of it. he is not going out to australia as governor-general.”
“who said he was, my dear?” said sir oliver.
“if you did n't imply it, you were talking nonsense, oliver,” lady blount retorted.
“anyhow, oliver, do you think john is taking a wise step?” herold hastily interposed.
“i don't agree with you at all,” said lady blount, with a snap of finality.
“your remark, my dear,” replied sir oliver, “does not impress me in the least. when did you ever agree with me?”
“never, my dear oliver,” said lady blount, with the facial smile of the secretly hostile fencer. “and i thank heaven for it. i may not be a brilliant woman, but i am endowed with common sense.”
sir oliver looked at her for a moment, with lips parted, as if to speak; but finding nothing epigrammatic enough to say--and an epigram alone would have saved the situation--he planted a carefully cut cigar between the parted lips aforesaid, and deliberately struck a match.
“your idea, john,” said lady blount, aware of victory, “is preposterous. what would stella do without you?”
“yes,” said sir oliver, after lighting his cigar; “stella has to be considered before everything.”
risca frowned on the unblushing turncoat. stella! stella! everything was stella. here were three ordinary, sane, grown-up people seriously putting forward the proposition that he had no right to go and mend his own broken life in his own fashion because he happened to be the favored playmate of a little invalid girl!
on the one side was the driving force of furies of a myriad hell-power, and on the other the disappointment of stella blount. it was ludicrous. even walter herold, who had a sense of humour, did not see the grotesque incongruity. risca frowned upon each in turn--upon three serene faces smilingly aware of the absurd. was it worth while trying to convince them?
“our dear friends are quite right, john,” said herold. “what would become of stella if you went away?”
“none of you seems to consider what would happen to me if i stayed,” said john, in the quiet tone of a man who is talking to charming but unreasonable children. “it will go to my heart to leave stella, more than any of you can realize; but to australia i go, and there's an end of it.”
lady blount sighed. what with imperial governments that wrecked the career of men for shooting a few murderous and fire-raising blacks, and with lowborn vixens of women who ruined men's careers in other ways, life was a desperate puzzle. she was fond of her cousin john risca. she, too, before she married sir oliver, had borne the name, and the disgrace that had fallen upon it affected her deeply. it was horrible to think of john's wife, locked up that night in the stone cell of a gaol. she leaned back in her chair in silence while the men talked--sir oliver, by way of giving risca hints on the conduct of life in melbourne, was narrating his experiences of forty years ago in the west indies--and stared into the fire. her face, beneath the front of red hair that accused so pitifully the reddish gray that was her own, looked very old and faded. what was a prison like? she shuddered. as governor's wife, she had once or twice had occasion to visit a colonial prison. but the captives were black, and they grinned cheerily; their raiment, save for the unæsthetic decoration of the black arrow, was not so very different from that which they wore in a state of freedom; neither were food, bedding, and surroundings so very different; and the place was flooded with air and blazing sunshine. she could never realize that it was a real prison. it might have been a prison of musical comedy. but an english prison was the real, unimaginable abode of grim, gray horror. she had heard of the prison taint. she conceived it as a smell--that of mingled quicklime and the corruption it was to destroy--which lingered physically forever after about the persons of those who had been confined within prison-walls. a gaol was a place of eternal twilight, eternal chill, eternal degradation for the white man or woman; and a white woman, the wife of one of her own race, was there. it was almost as if the taint hung about her own lavender-scented self. she shivered, and drew her chair a few inches nearer the fire.
“julia, what was the name of the chap we met in st. kitts who had been sheep-farming in queensland?”
they had sailed away from st. kitts in 1878. lady blount reminded him tartly of the fact while professing her oblivion of the man from queensland. they sparred for a few moments. then she rose wearily and said she was going to bed. sir oliver looked at his watch.
“nearly twelve. time for us all to go.”
“as soon as i' ve written my morning letter to stellamaris,” said herold.
“i must write, too,” said risca.
for it was a rule of the house that every visitor should write stellamaris a note overnight, to be delivered into her hands the first thing in the morning. the origin of the rule was wrapped in the mists of history.
so john risca sat down at sir oliver's study-table in order to indite his letter to stellamaris. but for a long time he stared at the white paper. he, the practised journalist, who could dash off his thousand words on any subject as fast as pen could travel, no matter what torture burned his brain, could not find a foolish message for a sick child. at last he wrote like a school-boy:
darling: the flowers were beautiful, and so is the new picture, and i want to see you early in the morning. i hope you are well. john risca.
and he had to tear the letter out of its envelope and put it into a fresh one because he had omitted to add the magic initials “g. h. b.” to his name. compared with his usual imaginative feats of correspondence, this was a poverty-stricken epistle. she would wonder at the change. perhaps his demand for an immediate interview would startle her, and shocks were dangerous. he tore up the letter and envelope, and went to his own room. it was past two o'clock when he crept downstairs again to lay his letter on the hall table.
at the sight of him the next morning the color deepened in the delicate cheeks of stellamaris, and her dark eyes grew bright. she held out a welcoming hand.
“ah, belovedest, i 've been longing to see you ever since dawn. i woke up then and could n't go to sleep again because i was so excited.”
he took the chair by her bedside, and her fingers tapped affectionately on the back of the great hand that lay on the coverlid.
“i suppose i was excited, too,” said he, “for i was awake at dawn.”
“did you look out of window?”
“yes,” said john.
“then we both saw the light creeping over the sea like a monstrous ghost. and it all lay so pallid and still,--did n't it?--as if it were a sea in a land of death. and then a cheeky little thrush began to twitter.”
“i heard the thrush,” replied john. “he said, 'any old thing! any old thing!' ”
he mimicked the bird's note. stella laughed. “that's just what he said--as though a sea in a land of death or the english channel was all the same to him. i suppose it was.”
“it must be good to be a thrush,” said risca. “there 's a je m'en fich'isme about his philosophy which must be very consoling.”
“i know what that is in english,” cried stellamaris. “it is 'don't-care-a-damativeness.' “ her lips rounded roguishly over the naughty syllable.
“where did you learn that?”
“walter told me.”
“walter must be clapped into irons, and fed on bread and water, and seriously spoken to.”
unconsciously he had drifted into his usual manner of speech with her. she laughed with a child's easy gaiety.
“it's delightful to be wicked, is n't it?”
“why?” he asked.
“it must be such an adventure. it must make you hold your breath and your heart beat.”
john wondered grimly whether a certain doer of wickedness had felt this ecstatic rapture. she, too, must have seen the gray dawn, but creeping through prison-bars into her cell. god of inscrutability! was it possible that these two co-watchers of the dawn, both so dominant in his life, were of the same race of beings? if the one was a woman born of woman, what in the name of mystery was stellamaris?
“don't look so grave, great high belovedest,” she said, squeezing a finger. “i only spoke in fun. it must really be horrid to be wicked. when i was little i had a book about cruel frederick--i think it belonged to grandmama. it had awful pictures, and there were rhymes--
he tore the wings off little flies,
and then poked out their little eyes.
and there was a picture of his doing so. i used to think him a detestable boy. it made me unhappy and kept me awake when i was quite small, but now i know it's all nonsense. people don't do such things, do they?”
risca twisted his glum face into a smile, remembering the unwritten law. “of course not, stellamaris,” said he. “cruel frederick is just as much of a mythical personage as the giant fee-fo-fum, who said:
i smell the blood of an englishman,
and be he alive or be he dead,
i 'll grind his bones to make my bread.”
“why do people frighten children with stories of ogres and wicked fairies and all the rest of it, when the real world they live in is so beautiful?”
“pure cussedness,” answered john, unable otherwise to give a satisfactory explanation.
“cussedness is silly,” said stellamaris.
there was a little pause. then she put both her hands on his and pressed it.
“oh, it's lovely to have you here again, great high belovedest; and i have n't thanked you for your letter. it's the most heavenly one you've ever written to me.”
it might well have been. he had taken two hours to write it.
the most heavenly of all letters,” stellamaris repeated, as risca made no reply. “i loved it because it showed me you were very happy.”
“have you ever doubted it?” he asked.
the great dane, the lord high constable, who was stretched out on his side, with relaxed, enormous limbs, on the hearth-rug, lifted his massive head for a second and glanced at john. then with a half-grunt, half-sigh, he dropped his head, and twitched his limbs and went to sleep again.
“now and then when you 're not looking at me,” said stellamaris, “there is a strange look in your eyes: it is when you 're not speaking and you stare out of window without seeming to see anything.”
for a moment risca was assailed by a temptation to break the unwritten law and tell her something of his misery. she, with her superfine intelligence, would understand, and her sympathy would be sweet. but he put the temptation roughly from him.
“i am the happiest fellow in the world, stellamaris,” said he.
“it would be difficult not to be happy in such a world.”
she pointed out to sea. the blustering wind of the day before had fallen, and a light breeze shook the tips of the waves to the morning sunshine, which turned them into diamonds. the sails of the fishing-fleet of the tiny port flashed merrily against the kindly blue. on the horizon a great steamer was visible steaming up channel. the salt air came in through the open windows. the laughter of fishermen's children rose faintly from the beach far below.
“and there's spring, too, dancing over everything,” she said. “don't you feel it?”
he acknowledged the vernal influence, and, careful lest his eyes should betray him, talked of the many things she loved. he had not seen her for a fortnight, so there were the apocryphal doings of lilias and niphetos to record,--cleopatras of cats, whom age could not wither, and whose infinite variety custom could not stale,--and there was the approaching marriage of arachne with a duke to report. and he told her of his gay, bright life in london and of the beautiful belinda molyneux, an imaginary egeria, who sometimes lunched with the queen. the effort of artistic creation absorbed him, as it always had done, under the spell of stellamaris's shining eyes. the foolish world of his imagination became real, and for the moment hung like a veil before his actual world of tragedy. it was in the nature of a shock to him when stella's maid entered and asked him if he could speak to mr. herold outside the door..
“tell him to come in,” said stellamaris.
“he says he will, miss, after he has seen mr. risca.”
risca found herold on the landing.
“well?” said john.
“what has happened? how did she take it?”
john looked away, and thrust his hands into his pockets.
“i 've not told her yet.”
walter drew a breath. “but you 're going to?”
“of course,” said john. “do you think it 's so damned easy?”
“you had better be quick, if you 're coming back to town with me. i'm due at rehearsal at twelve.”
“i'll go and tell her now,” said john.
“let me just say how d' ye do to her first. i won't stay a minute.”
the two men entered the sea-chamber together. stella welcomed her great high favourite and chatted gaily for a while. then she commanded him to sit down.
“i 'm afraid i can't stay, stellamaris. i have to go back to london.”
stella glanced at the clock. “your train does n't go for an hour.” she was jealously learned in trains.
“i think john wants to talk to you.”
“he has been talking to me quite beautifully for a long time,” said stella, “and i want to talk to you.”
“he has something very particular to say, stellamaris.”
“what is it, belovedest?” her eyes sparkled, and she clasped her hands over her childish bosom. “you are not going to marry belinda molyneux?”
“no, dear,” said john; “i'm not going to marry anybody.”
“i'm so glad.” she turned to herold. “are you going to get married?”
“no,” smiled herold.
stella laughed. “what a relief! people do get married, you know, and i suppose both of you will have to one of these days, when you get older; but i don't like to think of it.”
“i don't believe i shall ever marry, stellamaris,” said herold.
herold looked out to sea for a wistful instant. “because one can't marry a dream, my dear.”
“i've married hundreds,” said stella, softly.
if they had been alone together, they would have talked dreams and visions and starshine and moonshine, and their conversation would have been about as sensible and as satisfactory to each other and as intelligible to a third party as that of a couple of elves sitting on adjacent toadstools; but elves don't talk in the presence of a third party, even though he be john risca and great high belovedest. and stellamaris, recognizing this instinctively, turned her eyes quickly to risca.
“and you, dear--will you ever marry?”
“never, by heaven!” cried john, with startling fervency.
stella reached out both her hands to the two men who incorporated the all in all of her little life, and each man took a hand and kissed it.
“i don't want to be horrid and selfish,” she said; “but if i lost either of you, i think it would break my heart.”
the men exchanged glances. john repeated his query: “do you think it's so damned easy?”
“tell us why you say that, stellamaris,” said herold.
john rose suddenly and stood by the west window, which was closed. stella's high bed had been drawn next to the window open to the south. the room was warm, for a great fire blazed in the tall chimneypiece. he rose to hide his eyes from stella, confounding herold for a marplot. was this the way to make his task easier? he heard stella say in her sweet contralto:
“do you imagine it 's just for silly foolishness i call you great high belovedest and great high favourite? you see, walter dear, i gave john his title before i knew you, so i had to make some difference in yours. but they mean everything to me. i live in the sky such a lot, and it's a beautiful life; but i know there 's another life in the great world--a beautiful life, too.” she wrinkled her forehead. “oh, it 's so difficult to explain! it's so hard to talk about feelings, because the moment you begin to talk about them, the feelings become so vague. it's like trying to tell any one the shape of a sunset.” she paused for a moment or two; herold smiled at her and nodded encouragingly. presently she went on: “i 'll try to put it this way. often a gull, you see, comes hovering outside here and looks in at me, oh, for a long time, with his round, yellow eyes; and my heart beats, and i love him, for he tells me all about the sea and sky and clouds, where i'll never go,--not really,--and i live the sky life through him, and more than ever since you sent me that poem--i know it by heart--about the sea-gull. who wrote it?”
“swinburne,” said herold.
“did he write anything else?”
“one or two other little things,” replied herold, judiciously. “i 'll copy them out and bring them to you. but go on.”
“well,” she said, “yesterday afternoon a little bird--i don't know what kind of bird it was--came and sat on the window-sill, and turned his head this way and looked at me, and turned his head that way and looked at me, and i did n't move hand or foot, and i said, 'cheep, cheep!' and he hopped on the bed and stayed there such a long time. and i talked to him, and he hopped about and looked at me and seemed to tell me all sorts of wonderful things. but he did n't somehow, although he came from the sky, and was a perfect dear. he must have known all about it, but he did n't know how to tell me. now, you and john come from the beautiful world and tell me wonderful things about it; and i shall never go there really, but i can live in it through you.”
constable, the great dane, known by this abbreviated title in familiar life, rose, stretched himself, and went and snuggled his head beneath john's arm. john turned, his arm round the hound's neck.
“but you can live in it through anybody, dear,” said he--“your uncle oliver, your aunt julia, or anybody who comes to see you.”
stellamaris looked at herold for a characteristically sympathetic moment, and then at john. she sighed.
“i told you it was hard to explain. but don't you see, belovedest? you and walter are like my gull. everybody else is like the little bird. you know how to tell me and make me live. the others are darlings, but they don't seem to know how to do it.”
john scratched his head.
“i see what you mean,” said he.
“i should hope so,” said herold.
he looked at his watch and jumped to his feet. “star of the sea,” said he, “to talk with you is the most fascinating occupation on earth; but managers are desperate fellows, and i 'll get into boiling water if i miss my rehearsal.” he turned to john. “i don't see how you are going to catch this train.”
“neither do i,” said john. “i shall go by the one after.”
herold took his leave, promising to run down for the week-end. constable accompanied him to the door in a dignified way, and this ceremony of politeness accomplished, stalked back to the hearth-rug, where he threw himself down, his head on his paws, and his faithful eyes fixed on his mistress. john sat down again by the bedside. there was a short silence during which stellamaris smiled at him and he smiled at stellamaris.
“does n't the great high belovedest want to smoke?”
“badly,” said john.
she held out her hand for the pipe and tobacco-pouch. he gave them to her, and she filled the pipe. for a while he smoked peacefully. from where he sat all he could see of the outside world was the waste of sun-kissed waters stretching away and melting into a band of pearly cloud on the horizon. he might have been out at sea. possibly this time next week he would be, and the salt air would be playing, as now, about his head. but on board that ship would be no spacious sea-chamber like this, so gracious in its appointments--its old oak and silver, its bright chintzes, its quiet old engravings, its dainty dressing-table covered with fairy-like toilet-articles, its blue delft bowls full of flowers, its atmosphere so dearly english, yet english of the days when sir bedivere threw excalibur into the mere. in no other spot on the globe could be found such a sea-chamber, with its high bed, on which lay the sweet, elfin face, half child's, half woman's, framed in the soft, brown hair.
risca smoked on, and stellamaris, seeing him disinclined to talk, gazed happily out to her beloved channel, and dreamed her dreams. they had often sat like this for an hour together, both feeling that they were talking to each other all the time; and often stella would break the silence by telling him to listen. at such times, so people said, an angel was passing. and he would listen, but could not hear. he remembered walter herold once agreeing with her, and saying:
“there's a special little angel told off to come here every day and beat his wings about the room so as to clear the air of all troubling things.”
in no other spot on the globe could be found such a sea-chamber, wing-swept, spirit-haunted, where pain ceased magically and the burden of intolerable suffering grew light. no other haven along all the coasts of the earth was a haven of rest such as this.
and the furies were driving him from it! but here the furies ceased from driving. here he had delicious ease. here a pair of ridiculously frail hands held him a lotus-fed prisoner. he smoked on. at last he resisted the spell. the whole thing was nonsensical. his pipe, only lightly packed by the frail hands, went out. he stuffed it in his pocket, and cleared his throat. he would say then and there what he had come to say.
stellamaris turned her head and laughed; and when stellamaris laughed, the sea outside and the flowers in the delft bowl laughed, too.
“the angel has been having a good time.”
john cleared his throat again.
“my dear,” said he, and then he stopped short. all the carefully prepared exordiums went out of his head. how now to break the news to her he did not know.
“are you very tired?” she asked.
“not a bit,” said john.
“then be a dear, and read me something. read me 'elaine.' ”
the elevated and sophisticated and very highly educated may learn with surprise that “the idylls of the king” still appeal to ingenuous fifteen. thank god there are yet remaining also some sentimentalists of fifty who can read them with pleasure and profit!
“but that is so sad, stellamaris,” said john. “you don't want to be sad this beautiful spring morning.”
which was a very inconsistent remark to make, seeing that he was about to dash the young sun from her sky altogether.
“i like being sad sometimes, especially when the world is bright. and lancelot was such a dear,”--here spoke ingenuous fifteen,--“and elaine--oh, do read it!”
so john, secretly glad of a respite, drew from the bookcase which held her scrupulously selected and daintily bound library the volume of tennyson and read aloud the idyll of lancelot and elaine. and the sea-wind blew about his head and fluttered the brown hair on the pillow, and the log-fire blazed in the chimney, and the great dog slept, and a noontide hush was over all things. and risca read the simple poem with the heart of the girl of fifteen, and forgot everything else in the world.
when he had finished, the foolish eyes of both were moist. “the dead oar'd by the dumb,” with the lily in her hand,--dead for the love of lancelot,--affected them both profoundly.
“i think i should die, too, like that, great high; belovedest,” said stellamaris, “if any one i loved left me.”
“but what lancelot is going to leave you, dear?” said john.
she shook the thistledown of sadness from her brow and laughed.
“you and walter are the only lancelots i've got.”
“the devil 's in the child to-day,” said risca to himself.
there was a short pause. then stella said:
“belovedest dear, what was the particular thing that walter said you had to tell me?”
“it 's of no consequence,” said john. “it will do to-morrow or the day after.”
stella started joyously,--as much as the rigid discipline of years would allow her,--and great gladness lit her face.
“darling! are you going to stay here to-day and to-morrow and the next day?”
“my dear,” said john, “i've got to get up to town this morning.”
“you won't do that,” said stella. “look at the clock.”
it was a quarter to one. he had spent the whole morning with her, and the hours had flown by like minutes.
“why did n't you tell me that i ought to be catching my train?”
she regarded him in demure mischief.
“i had no object in making you catch your train.”
and then her serene high-and-mightiness, the nurse (who had been called in for stella when first she was put to bed in the sea-chamber, and, falling under her spell, had stayed on until she had grown as much involved in the web of her life as sir oliver and lady julia and constable and herold and risca), came into the room and decreed the end of the morning interview.
risca went down-stairs, his purpose unaccomplished. he walked about the garden and argued with himself. now, when a man argues with himself, he, being only the extraneous eidolon of himself, invariably gets the worst of the argument, and this makes him angry. john was angry; to such a point that, coming across sir oliver, who had just returned from an inexplicably disastrous game of golf and began to pour a story of bunkered gloom into his ear, he gnashed his teeth and tore his hair and told sir oliver to go to the devil with his lugubrious and rotten game, and dashed away to the solitude of the beach until the luncheon-bell summoned him back.
“i'm going by the 3:50,” said he at the luncheon-table.
at three o'clock stella was free to see him again. he went up to her room distinctly determined to shut his heart against folly. the sun had crept round toward the west and flooded the head and shoulders of stellamaris and the dainty bedspread with pale gold, just as it flooded the now still and smiling sea. again paralysis fell upon john. the words he was to speak were to him, as well as to her, the words of doom, and he could not utter them. they talked of vain, childish things. then stellamaris's clock chimed the three-quarters. there are some chimes that are brutal, others ironic; but stellamaris's chimes (the clock was a gift from john himself) were soft, and pealed a soothing mystery, like a bell swung in a deep sea-cave.
it was a quarter to four, and he had missed his train once more. well, the train could go to--to london, as good a synonym for tophet as any other. so he stayed, recklessly surrendering himself to the pale, sunlit peace of the sea-chamber, till he was dislodged by lady blount.
an attempt to catch a six o'clock train was equally unsuccessful. he did not return to town that night. why should a sorely bruised man reject the balm that healed? to-morrow he would be stronger and more serene, abler to control the driving force of the furies, and therefore fitted to announce in gentler wise the decrees of destiny. so risca went to bed and slept easier, and the room which stellamaris had made for him became the enchanted bower of a fair lady of all mercy.
in their simple human way sir oliver and lady blount besought him to stay for his health's sake in the fresh sea-air; and when he yielded, they prided themselves, after the manner of humans, on their own powers of persuasion. one morning sir oliver asked him point-blank:
“when are you going to australia?”
“i don't know,” said john. “there 's no immediate hurry.”
“i hope, dear,” said julia, “you 'll give up the idea altogether.”
“have n't i told you that i've made up my mind?” said john, in his gruff tone of finality.
“when are you going to break the news to stella?” asked sir oliver.
“now,” said john, who had begun to loathe the mention of the doomful subject; and he stalked away--the three were strolling in the garden after breakfast--and went to stella's room, and of course made no mention of it whatsoever.
then herold came down for the week-end, and when he heard of risca's pusillanimity he threw back his head and laughed for joy; for he knew that john would never go to australia without telling stellamaris, and also that if he could not tell stellamaris in the first madness of his agony, he would never be able to tell her at all.
and so, in fact, the fantastically absurd prevailed. before the unwritten law, mainly promulgated and enforced by risca himself, which guarded the sea-chamber against pain and sorrow, the driving furies slunk with limp wing and nerveless claw. and one day risca was surprised at finding himself undriven. indeed, he was somewhat disconcerted. he fell into a bad temper. the furies are highly aristocratic divinities who don't worry about tom, dick, or harry, but choose an orestes at least for their tormenting; so that, when they give up their pursuit of a risca, he may excusably regard it as a personal slight. it was the morose and gloomy nature of the man.
“i know i 'm a fool,” he said to herold, when every one had gone to bed, “but i can't help it. any normal person would regard me as insane if i told him i was stopped from saving the wreck of my career by consideration for the temporary comfort of a bedridden chit of a girl half my age, who is absolutely nothing to me in the world (her uncle married my first cousin. if that is anything of a family tie, i'm weak on family feeling); but that's god's truth. i'm tied by her to this accursed country. she just holds me down in the hell of london, and i can't wriggle away. it's senseless, i know it is. sometimes when i 'm away from her, walking on the beach, i feel i 'd like to throw the whole of this confounded house into the sea; and then i look up and see the light in her room, and--i--i just begin to wonder whether she 's asleep and what she's dreaming of. there 's some infernal witchcraft about the child.”
“there is,” said herold.
“rot!” said risca, his pugnacious instincts awakened by the check on his dithyrambics. “the whole truth of the matter is that i'm simply a sentimental fool.”
“all honour to you, john,” said herold.
“if you talk like that, i 'll wring your neck,” said risca, pausing for à second in his walk up and down sir oliver's library, and glaring down at his friend, who reclined on the sofa and regarded him with a smile exasperatingly wise. “you know i'm a fool, and why can't you say it? a man at my time of life! do you realize that i am twice her age?”
and he went on, inveighing now against the pitifully human conventions that restrained him from hurting the chit of a child, and now against the sorcery with which she contrived to invest the chamber wherein she dwelt.
“and at my age, too, when i 've run the whole gamut of human misery, the whole discordant thing--toute la lyre--when i've finished with the blighting illusion that men call life; when, confound it! i 'm thirty.”
sir oliver, unable to sleep, came into the room in dressing-gown and slippers. he looked very fragile and broken.
“here 's john,” laughed herold, “saying that he 's thirty, and an old, withered man, and he 's not thirty. he 's nine-and-twenty.”
sir oliver looked at john, as only age, with awful wistfulness, can look at youth, and came and laid his hand upon the young man's broad shoulders.
“my lad,” said he, “you've had a bad time; but you 're young. you've the whole of your life before you. time, my dear boy, is a marvellous solvent of human perplexity. once in a new world, once in that astonishing continent of australia--”
john threw a half-finished cigar angrily into the fire.
“i'm not going to the damned continent,” said he.
thus it came to pass that, for the sake of stellamaris, risca remained in london and fought with beasts in fenton square. sometimes he got the better of the beasts, and sometimes the beasts got the better of him. on the former occasions he celebrated the victory by doing an extra turn of work; on the latter he sat idly growling at defeat.
at this period of his career he was assistant-editor of a weekly review, in charge of the book-column of an evening newspaper, the contributor of a signed weekly article on general subjects to the “daily herald,” and of a weekly london letter to an american syndicate. from this it will be seen that for a man not yet thirty he had achieved a position in journalism envied by many who had grown gray-headed in the game. but as risca had written three or four novels which had all been rejected by all the publishers in london, he chose to regard himself as a man foiled in his ambitions. he saw himself doomed to failure. for him was the eternal toil of ploughing the sand; the garden of delight cultivated by the happy blest--such as fawcus of the club, who boasted of making over a thousand pounds for every novel he wrote, and of being able to take as much holiday as he chose--had its gilded gates closed against him forever. that the man of nine-and-twenty should grow embittered because he was not accepted by the world as a brilliant novelist is a matter for the derision of the middle-aged and for the pitying smile of the hoary; but it is a matter of woeful concern to twenty-nine, especially if twenty-nine be a young man of a saturnine temperament whom fate has driven to take himself seriously. in risca's life there were misfortunes the reality of the pain of which was independent of age; others which were relative, as inseparable from youth as the tears for a bumped head are inseparable from childhood. yet to the man they were all equally absolute. it is only in after-years, when one looks back down the vista, that one can differentiate.
for all that he ought to have given himself another decade before crying himself a failure, yet a brilliant young journalist who has not found a publisher for one of four novels has reasonable excuse for serious cogitation. there are scores of brilliant young journalists who have published masterpieces of fiction before they are thirty, and at forty have gone on their knees and thanked kind, gentle time for his effacing fingers; yet the novels have had some quality of the novel warranting their publication. at any rate, the brilliant young journalists have believed in them. they have looked upon their creation and found that it was good. but risca, looking on his creation, found that it was wood. his people were as wooden as mr. and mrs. ham in a noah's ark; his scenery was as wooden as the trees and mountain in a toy swiss village; his dialogue as wooden as the conversation-blocks used by the philosophers of laputa. he had said, in an outburst of wrathful resentment, that he found his one artistic outlet in aiding to create stella's land of illusion; and he was right. he was despairingly aware of the lack of the quick fancy; the power of visualization; the sublimated faculty of the child's make-believe, creating out of trumpery bits and pieces a glowing world of romance; the keen, instinctive knowledge of the general motives of human action; the uncanny insight into the hearts and feelings of beings of a sex, class, or type different from his own; the gift of evolving from a tiny broken bone of fact a perfect creature indisputably real, colouring it with the hues of actuality and breathing into it the breath of life--the lack, indeed, of all the essential qualities, artistic and therefore usually instinctive, that go to the making of a novelist. yet risca was doggedly determined to be a novelist and a poet. it was pathetic. how can a man who cannot distinguish between “god save the king” and “yankee doodle” hope to write a world-shaking sonata? risca knew that he was crying for the moon, and it is only because he cried so hard for it that he deserved any serious commiseration.
when he did come to death-grapple with the absolute, the beasts above mentioned, he stood out a tragic young figure, fiercely alone in the arena, save for herold.
his name, uncommon and arresting, had one connotation in london--the case, the appalling and abominable case. even ferguson of the “daily herald,” who had evinced such sympathy for him at first, shrank from the name at the head of the weekly column and suggested the temporary use of a pseudonym. had it not been for herold's intervention, risca would have told ferguson to go to the devil and would have refused to work for his philistine paper. he swallowed the insult, which did him no good. he refused to carry the accursed name into the haunts of men.
“come to the club, at any rate,” herold urged. “every man there is loyal to you.”
“and every man as he looks at me will have on his retina not a picture of me, but a picture of what went on in that house in smith street.”
“oh, go and buy a serviceable epidermis,” cried herold. argument was useless.
so risca worked like a mole at anonymous journalism in his shabby lodgings where lilias and niphetos were suggested only by a mangy tabby who occasionally prowled into his sitting-room, and arachne presided, indeed, but in the cobwebs about the ceiling in the guise which she had been compelled to take by the angry god when the world was young. only when his attendance at the office of the weekly review was necessary, such as on the day when it went to press, did he mingle with the busy world.
“if you go on in this way,” said herold, “you 'll soon have as much idea of what's going on in london as a lonely dog tied up in a kennel.”
“what does it matter,” growled john, “to any of the besotted fools who read newspapers, provided i bark loud enough?”
there was one thing going on in london, however, in which he took a grim interest, and that was the convalescence of the little maid-of-all-work who had been taken back, a maimed lamb, to the cheerless fold where she had been reared. thither he went to make inquiries as soon as he returned from southcliff-on-sea. he found the orphanage of st. martha at willesden, a poverty-stricken building, a hopeless parallelogram of dingy, yellow brick, standing within a walled inclosure. there were no trees or flowers, for the yard was paved. his ring at the front door was answered by an orphan in a light print dress, her meagre hair clutched up tight in a knob at the back. he asked for the superintendent and handed his card. the orphan conducted him to a depressing parlour, and vanished. presently appeared a thin, weary woman, dressed in the black robes of a sister of mercy, who, holding the card tight in nervous fingers, regarded him with an air of mingled fright and defiance.
“your business?” she asked.
despite the torture of it all, john could not help smiling. if he had been armed with a knout, his reception could not have been more hostile.
“i must beg of you to believe,” said he, “that i come as a friend and not as an enemy.”
she pointed to a straight-backed chair.
“will you be seated?”
“it is only human,” said he, “to call and see you, and ask after that unhappy child.”
“she is getting on,” said the sister superintendent, frostily, “as well as can be expected.”
“which means? please tell me. i am here to know.”
“she will take some time to recover from her injuries, and of course her nerve is broken.”
“i'm afraid,” said john, “your institution can't afford many invalid's luxuries.”
“none at all,” replied the weary-faced woman. “she gets proper care and attention, however.”
john drew out a five-pound note. “can you buy her any little things with this? when you have spent it, if you will tell me, i 'll send you another.”
“it's against our rules,” said the sister, eying the money. “if you like to give it as a subscription to the general funds, i will accept it.”
“are you badly off?” asked john.
“we are very slenderly endowed.”
john pushed the note across the small table near which they were sitting.
“in return,” said he, “i hope you will allow me to send in some jellies and fruits, or appliances, or whatever may be of pleasure or comfort to the child.”
“whatever you send her that is practical shall be applied to her use,” said the sister superintendent.
she was cold, unemotional; no smile, no ghost even of departed smiles, seemed ever to visit the tired, gray eyes or the corners of the rigid mouth; coif and face and thin hands were spotless. she did not even thank him for his forced gift to the orphanage.
“i should like to know,” said john, regarding her beneath frowning brows, “whether any one here loves the unhappy little wretch.”
“these children,” replied the sister superintendent, “have naturally a hard battle to fight when they go from here into the world. they come mostly from vicious classes. their training is uniformly kind, but it has to be austere.”
john rose. “i will bring what things i can think of to-morrow.”
the sister superintendent rose, too, and bowed icily. “you are at liberty to do so, mr. risca; but i assure you there is no reason for your putting yourself to the trouble. in the circumstances i can readily understand your solicitude; but again i say you have no cause for it.”
“madam,” said he, “i see that i have more cause than ever.”
the next day he drove to the orphanage in a cab, with a hamper of delicacies and a down pillow. the latter the sister superintendent rejected. generally, it was against the regulations and, particularly, it was injudicious. down pillows would not be a factor in unity blake's after-life.
“besides,” she remarked, “she is not the only orphan in the infirmary.”
“why not call it a sick-room or sick-ward instead of that prison term?” asked john.
“it's the name given to it by the governing body,” she replied.
after this john became a regular visitor. every time he kicked his heels for ten minutes in the shabby and depressing parlour and every time he was received with glacial politeness by the sister superintendent. by blunt questioning he learned the history of the institution. the sisterhood of saint martha was an angelican body with headquarters in kent, which existed for meditation and not for philanthropic purposes. the creation and conduct of the orphanage had been thrust upon the sisterhood by the will of a member long since deceased. it was unpopular with the sisterhood, who resented it as an excrescence, but bore it as an affliction decreed by divine providence. among the cloistered inmates of the kentish manor-house there was no fanatical impulse towards willesden.
they were good, religious women; but they craved retirement, and not action, for the satisfying of their spiritual needs. otherwise they would have joined some other sisterhood in which noble lives are spent in deeds of charity and love. but there are angels of wrath, angels of mercy, and mere angels. these were mere angels. the possibility of being chosen by the mother superior to go out into the world again and take charge of the education, health, and morals of twenty sturdy and squalid little female orphans lived an abiding terror in their gentle breasts. a shipwrecked crew casting lots for the next occupant of the kettle could suffer no greater pangs of apprehension than did the sisters of saint martha on the imminence of an appointment to the orphanage. they had taken vows of obedience. the mother superior's selection was final. the unfortunate nominee had to pack up her slender belongings and go to willesden. being a faulty human being (and none but a faulty, unpractical, unsympathetic human being can want, in these days of enlightenment, to shut herself up in a nunnery for the rest of her life, with the avowed intention of never doing a hand's turn for any one of god's creatures until the day of her death), she invariably regarded herself as a holy martyr and ruled the poor little devils of orphans for the greater glory of god (magnified entirely, be it understood, by her own martyrdom) than for the greater happiness of the poor little devils.
sister theophila--in entering into religion the protestant sisters changed the names by which they were known in the world, according to the time-honoured tradition of an alien church--sister theophila, with the temperament of the recluse, had been thrust into this position of responsibility against her will. she performed her duties with scrupulous exactitude and pious resignation. her ideal of life was the ascetic, and to this ideal the twenty orphans had to conform. she did not love the orphans.
her staff consisted of one matron, a married woman of a much humbler class than her own. possibly she might have loved the orphans had she not seen such a succession of them, and her own work been less harassing. twenty female london orphans from disreputable homes are a tough handful. when you insist on their conformity with the ascetic ideal, they become tougher. they will not allow themselves to be loved.
“and ungrateful!” exclaimed the matron, one day when she was taking risca round the institution. he had expressed to sister theophila his desire to visit it, and she, finding him entirely unsympathetic, had handed him over to her subordinate. “none of them know what gratitude is. as soon as they get out of here, they forget everything that has been done for them; and as for coming back to pay their respects, or writing a letter even, they never think of it.”
kitchen, utensils, floors, walls, dormitory, orphans--all were spotlessly clean, the orphans sluiced and scrubbed from morning to night; but of things that might give a little hint of the joy of life there was no sign.
“this is the infirmary,” said the matron, with her hand on the door-knob.
“i should like to see it,” said john.
they entered. an almost full-grown orphan, doing duty as nurse, rose from her task of plain sewing and bobbed a curtsy. the room was clean, comfortless, dark, and cold. two pictures, prints of the crucifixion and the martyrdom of st. stephen, hung on the walls. there were three narrow, hard beds, two of which were occupied. some grapes on a chair beside one of them marked the patient in whom he was interested. john noticed angrily that some flowers which he had sent the day before had been confiscated.
“this is the gentleman who has been so kind to you,” said the matron.
unity blake looked wonderingly into the dark, rugged face of the man who stood over her and regarded her with mingled pain and pity. they had not told her his name. this, then, was the unknown benefactor whose image, like that of some elusive apollo, giver of things beautiful, had haunted her poor dreams.
“can't you say, 'thank you?' “ said the matron.
“thank you, sir,” said unity blake.
even in those three words her accent was unmistakably cockney--as unmistakably cockney as the coarse-featured, snub-nosed, common little face. in happier, freer conditions she would have done her skimpy hair up in patent curlers and worn a hat with a purple feather, and joined heartily in the raucous merriment of her comrades at the pickle-factory. here, however, she was lying, poor little devil, thought risca, warped from childhood by the ascetic ideal, and wrecked body and spirit by unutterable cruelty. in her eyes flickered the patient apprehension of the ill-treated dog.
“i hope you will soon get better,” he said, with sickening knowledge of that which lay hidden beneath the rough bedclothes.
“yes, sir,” said unity.
“it 's chiefly her nerves now,” said the matron. “she hollers out of nights, so she can't be put into the dormitory.”
“do you like the things i send you?” asked john.
“is there anything special you'd like to have?”
but he caught a certain wistfulness in her glance.
“she does n't want anything at all,” said the matron, and the girl's eyelids fluttered. “she's being spoiled too much as it is already.”
john bent his heavy brows on the woman. she spoke not shrewishly, not unkindly, merely with lack of love and understanding. he repressed the bitter retort that rose to his lips. but at the same time a picture rose before him of another sick-room, a dainty sea-chamber open to sun and sky, where pillows of down were not forbidden, where flowers and exquisite colours and shapes gladdened the eye, where love, great and warm and fulfilling, hovered over the bed. no gulls with round, yellow eyes came to the windows of this whitewashed prison with messages from the world of air and sea; no exquisite auntship, no great high favourite, no lord high constable, executed their high appointed functions; no clock with chimes like a bell swung in a sea-cave told the hours to this orphan child of misery. he realized in an odd way that stellamaris, too, was an orphan. and he remembered, from the awful evidence, that this child was just over fifteen--stella's age. again rose the picture of the cherished one in her daintily ribboned dressing-jacket, as filmy and unsubstantial as if made of sea-foam, with her pure, happy face, her mysterious, brown pools of eyes, her hair lovingly brushed to caressing softness; and he looked down on unity blake. man though he was, the bit of clean sail-cloth that did duty as a nightgown moved his compassion.
he did his best to talk with her awhile; but it was a one-sided conversation, as the child could reply only in monosyllables. the matron fidgeted impatiently, and he said good-bye. her wistful glance followed him to the door. outside he turned.
“there is just one thing i want to say to her.”
he left the matron and darted back into the room.
“i'm sure there must be something you would like me to bring you,” he whispered. “don't be afraid. any mortal thing.”
the child's lips twitched and she looked nervously from side to side.
“what is it? tell me.”
“oh, sir,” she pleaded breathlessly, “might i have some peppermint bull's-eyes.”
when herold returned to his dressing-room after the first act,--the piece for which he had been rehearsing had started a successful career,--he found risca sitting in a straight-backed chair and smoking a pipe.
“hallo, john! i did n't know you were in front. why did n't you tell me? it's going splendidly, is n't it?”
he glowed with the actor's excited delight in an audience's enthusiastic reception of a new play. his glow sat rather oddly upon him, for he was made up as a decrepit old man, with bald wig, and heavy, blue patches beneath his eyes.
“no, i'm not in front,” said john.
“i see now,” smiled herold, glancing at his friend's loose tweed suit. no clothes morning or evening ever fitted risca. herold called him “the tailors' terror.”
“i want to talk to you, wallie,” said he.
“have a drink? no? i sha' n't want anything, perkins,” said he to the waiting dresser. “call me when i 'm on in the second act. i don't change,” he explained.
“i know,” said john. “that 's why i 've come now.”
“what's the matter?” herold asked, sitting in the chair before the dressing-table, bright with mirrors and electric lights and sticks of grease paint and silver-topped pots and other paraphernalia.
“nothing particular. only hell, just as usual. i saw that child to-day.”
herold lit a cigarette.
“have you ever speculated on what becomes of the victims in cases of this kind?” asked john.
“not particularly,” said herold, seeing that john wanted to talk.
“what do you think can become of a human creature in the circumstances of this poor little wretch? her childhood is one vista of bleak ugliness. never a toy, never a kiss, not even the freedom of the gutter. unless you 've been there, you can't conceive the soul-crushing despair of that infernal orphanage. she leaves it and goes into the world. she goes out of a kind of dreary greek hades into a christian hell. it lasted for months. she was too ignorant and spiritless to complain, and to whom was she to complain? now she's sent back again, just like a sick animal, to hades. fancy, they would n't let her have a few flowers in' the room! it makes me mad to think of it. and when she gets well again, she 'll have to earn her living as a little slave in some squalid household. but what's going to become of that human creature morally and spiritually? that's what i want to know.”
“it's an interesting problem,” said herold. “she may be either a benumbed half-idiot or a vicious, vindictive she-brute.”
“just so,” said john. “that is, if she goes to slave in some squalid household. but suppose she were transferred to different surroundings altogether? suppose she had ease of life, loving care, and all the rest of it?”
the senile travesty of herold laughed.
“you want me to say that she may develop into some sort of flower of womanhood.”
“do you think she might?” john asked seriously. “my dear fellow,” said herold, “there are heaven knows how many hundred million human beings on the face of the earth, and every one of them is different from the others. how can one tell what any particular young woman whom one does n't know might or might not do in given circumstances? but if you want me to say whether i think it right for you to step in and look after the poor little devil's future, then i do say it's right. it 's stunning of you. it's the very best thing you can do. it will give the poor little wretch a chance, at any rate, and will give you something outside yourself to think of.”
“i was going to do it whether you thought it right or not,” said risca.
herold laughed again. “for a great, hulking bull of a man you 're sometimes very feminine, john.”
“i wanted to tell you about it, that 's all,” said risca. “i made up my mind this afternoon. the only thing is what the deuce am i to do with a child of fifteen in fenton square?”
“is she pretty?”
“lord, no. coarse, undersized little cockney, ugly as sin.”
“anyhow,” said herold, extinguishing his cigarette in the ash-tray, “it's out of the question.” he rose from his chair. “look here,” he cried with an air of inspiration, “why not send her down to the channel house?”
“i'm not going to shift responsibilities on to other people's shoulders,” john growled in his obstinate way. “this child 's my responsibility. i 'm going to see her through somehow. as to southcliff, you must be crazy to suggest it. what's to prevent her, one fine day, from getting into stella's room and talking? my god! it would be appalling!”
herold agreed. he had spoken thoughtlessly.
“i should just think so,” said risca. “the idea of such a tale of horror being told in that room--”
the dresser entered. “miss mercier has just gone on, sir.”
“well, just think out something else till i come back,” said herold. “at any rate, fenton square won't do.”
he left john to smoke and meditate among the clothes hanging up on pegs and the framed photographs on the walls and the array of grease paints on the dressing-table. john walked up and down the narrow space in great perplexity of mind. herold was right. he could not introduce unity blake into lodgings, saying that he had adopted her. landladies would not stand it. even if they would, what in the world could he do with her? could he move into a house or a flat and persuade a registry-office to provide him with a paragon of a housekeeper? that would be more practicable. but, even then, what did he know of the training, moral and spiritual, necessary for a girl of fifteen? he was not going to employ her as a servant. on that he was decided. what sort of a position she should have he did not know; but her floor-scrubbing, dish-scraping days were over. she should have ease of life and loving care--his own phrase stuck in his head--especially loving care; and he was the only person in the world who could see that she got it. she must live under his roof. that was indisputable. but how? in lodgings or a flat? he went angrily round and round the vicious circle.
“and you have n't a single suggestion to make?” he asked.
“i have one,” said herold, fastening his shirt-studs while perkins was buttoning his boots. “but it's so commonplace and unromantic that you 'd wreck the dressing-room if i made it.”
“well, what is it?” he stood, his hand on the door-knob.
“you 've got a maiden aunt somewhere, have n't you?”
“oh, don't talk rot!” said john. “i'm dead serious.”
and he went out and banged the door behind him. he walked the streets furiously angry with herold. he had gone to consult him on a baffling problem. herold had suggested a maiden aunt as a solution. he had but one, his mother's sister. her name was gladys. what was a woman of over fifty doing with such an idiot name? his aunt gladys lived at croydon and spent her time solving puzzles and following the newspaper accounts of the doings of the royal family. she knew nothing. he remembered when he was a boy at school coming home for the holidays cock-a-whoop at having won the high jump in the school athletics sports. his aunt gladys, while professing great interest, had said, “but what i don't understand, dear, is--what do you get on to jump down from?” he had smiled and explained, but he had felt cold in the pit of his stomach. a futile lady. his opinion of her had not changed. in these days john was rather an intolerant fellow.
chance willed it, however, that when he reached fenton square he found a letter which began “my dearest john” and ended “your loving aunt gladys.” and it was the letter of a very sweet-natured gentlewoman.
john sat down at his desk to work, but ideas would not come. at last he lit his pipe, threw himself into a chair in front of the fire, and smoked till past midnight, with his heavy brows knitted in a tremendous frown.
the same frown darkened risca's brow the next day as he waited for admittance at his aunt gladys's door. it was such a futile little door to such a futile little house; he could have smashed in the former with a blow of his fist, and he could have jumped into the latter through the first-floor windows. with his great bulk he felt himself absurdly out of scale. the tragedy looming huge in his mind was also absurdly out of scale with his errand. the house was one of a row of twenty perky, gabled, two-storied little villas, each coyly shrinking to the farthermost limit of its tiny front garden, and each guarding the privacy of its interior by means of muslin curtains at the windows, tied back by ribbons, the resultant triangle of transparency being obscured by a fat-leafed plant. the terrace bore the name of “tregarthion villas,” and the one inhabited by miss lindon was called “the oaks.” it was a sham little terrace full of sham little gentilities. john hated it. what could have induced his mother's sister to inhabit such a sphere of flimsiness?
flimsiness, also, met him inside, when he was shown through a bamboo-furnished passage into a gimcrack little drawing-room. he tried several chairs dubiously with his hand, shook his head, and seated himself on a couch. everything in the room seemed flimsy and futile. he had the impression that everything save a sham spinning-wheel and a half-solved jig-saw puzzle on the little table was draped in muslin and tied up with pink ribbons. a decrepit black-and-tan terrier, disturbed in his slumbers in front of the fire, barked violently. a canary in a cage by the window sang in discordant emulation. john poised his hat and stick on the curved and slippery satin-covered couch, and they fell with a clatter to the floor. the frown deepened on his brow. why had he come to this distracting abode of mindlessness? he wished he had brought herold gyved and manacled. what with the dog and the canary and the doll's-house furniture, the sensitive and fastidious one would have gone mad. he would have gloated over his ravings. it would have served him right.
the door opened suddenly, the draught blowing down a fan and a photograph-frame, and miss lindon entered.
“my dear john, how good of you to come and see me!”
she was a fat, dumpy woman of fifty, lymphatic and, at first sight, characterless. she lacked colour. her eyes were light, but neither blue nor green nor hazel; her straight hair was of the nondescript hue of light-brown hair turning gray. her face was fleshy and sallow, marked by singularly few lines. she had lived a contented life, unscarred by care and unruffled by desire. her dreams of the possibilities of existence did not pierce beyond the gimcrackeries of tregarthion villas. as for the doings of the great world,--wars, politics, art, social upheavals,--she bestowed on them, when they were obtruded on her notice, the same polite and unintelligent interest as she had bestowed on her nephew's athletic feats in the days gone by.
however, she smiled very amiably at john, and reached up to kiss him on both cheeks, her flabby, white hands lightly resting on each coat-sleeve. having done this, she caught up the barking dog, who continued to growl from the soft shelter of arm and bosom with the vindictiveness of pampered old age.
“naughty dandy! i hope you were n't frightened at him, john. he never really does bite.”
“what does he do then? sting?” john asked with gruff sarcasm.
“oh, no,” said miss lindon, round-eyed; “he 's quite harmless, i assure you. don't you remember dandy? but it's a long time since you 've been to see me, john. it must be three or four years. what have you been doing all this time?”
her complacency irritated him. the canary never ceased his ear-splitting noise. the canary is a beautiful, gentle bird--stuffed; alive, he is pestilence made vocal. risca lost his temper.
“surely you must know, aunt gladys. i 've been wandering through hell with a pack of little devils at my heels.”
startled, she lifted up her arms and dropped dandy, who slithered down her dress and sought a morose shelter under the table.
“my dear john!” she exclaimed.
“i'm very sorry; i did n't mean to use strong language,” said he, putting his hands to his ears. “it's all that infernal canary.”
john resumed his seat on the slippery couch, and miss lindon, having snatched dandy from his lair, sat by his side, depositing the dog between them.
“you asked me what i had been doing for the last few years,” said he.
“ah, yes. that 's why i wrote to you yesterday, dear.”
she had written to him, in fact, every month for many years, long, foolish letters in which everything was futile save the genuine affection underlying them, and more often than not john had taken them as read and pitched them into the waste-paper basket. his few perfunctory replies, however, had been treasured and neatly docketed and pigeon-holed in the bureau in her bedroom, together with the rest of her family archives and other precious documents. among them was a famous recipe for taking mulberry stains out of satin. that she prized inordinately.
“i should n't like to drift apart from dear ellen's boy,” she said with a smile.
“and i should n't like to lose touch with you, my dear aunt,” said john, with more graciousness. “and that is why i've come to see you to-day. i've had rather a bad time lately.”
“i know--that awful case in the papers.” she shivered. “don't let us talk of it. you must try to forget it. i wrote to you how shocked i was. i asked you to come and stay with me, and said i would do what i could to comfort you. i believe in the ties of kinship, my dear, and i did n't like to think of you bearing your trouble alone.”
“that was very kind indeed of you,” said john, who had missed the invitation hidden away in the wilderness of the hastily scanned sixteen-page letter. he flushed beneath his dark skin, aware of rudeness. after all, when a lady invites you to her house, it is boorish to ignore the offered hospitality. it is a slight for which one can scarcely apologize. but she evidently bore him no malice.
“it was only natural on my part,” she said amiably. “i shall never forget when poor flossie died. you remember flossie, don't you? she used to look so pretty, with her blue bow in her hair, and no one will ever persuade me that she was n't poisoned by the people next door; they were dreadful people. i wish i could remember their name; it was something like blunks. anyhow, i was inconsolable, and mrs. tawley asked me to stay with her to get over it. i shall never forget how grateful i was. i'm sure you 're looking quite poorly, john,” she added in her inconsequent way. “let me get you a cup of tea. it will do you good.”
“did you ever hear of a child called unity blake?”
“was that the girl--”
“what an outlandish name! i often wonder how people come to give such names to children.”
“never mind her name, my dear aunt,” said john, gruffly. “i want to tell you about her.”
he told her--he told her all he knew. she listened, horror-stricken, regarding him with open mouth and streaming eyes.
“and what do you think is my duty?” asked john, abruptly.
miss lindon shook her head. “i 'm sure i don't know what to advise you, dear. i 'll try to find out some kind christian people who want a servant.”
“i don't want any kind christian people at all,” said john. “i'm going to make up in ease and happiness for all the wrongs that humanity has inflicted on her. i am going to adopt her, educate her, fill her up with the good things of life.”
“that's very fine of you, john,” said miss lindon. “some people are as fond of their adopted children as of their own. i remember miss engleshaw adopted a little child. she was four, if i remember right, and she used to dress her so prettily. i used to go and help her choose frocks. really they were quite expensive. now i come to think of it, john, i could help you that way with little unity. i don't think gentlemen have much experience in choosing little girls' frocks. how old is she?”
“nearly sixteen,” said john.
“that's rather old,” said miss lindon, from whose mind this new interest seemed to have driven the tragic side of the question. “it's a pity you could n't have begun when she was four.”
“it is,” said john.
“only if you had begun with her at four, you would n't be wanting to adopt her now,” said miss lindon, with an illuminating flash of logic.
“quite so,” replied john.
there was a span of silence. john mechanically drew his pipe from his pocket, eyed it with longing, and replaced it. miss lindon took the aged black-and-tan terrier in her arms and whispered to it in baby language. she was a million leagues from divining the object of her nephew's visit. john looked at her despairingly. had she not a single grain of common sense? at last he strode across the room, a gulliver in a new lilliput, and sat down again by her side.
“look here, 'aunt gladys,” he said desperately, “if i adopt a young woman of sixteen, i must have another woman in the house--a lady, one of my own family. i could n't have people saying horrid things about her and me.”
miss lindon assented to the proposition. john was far too young and good-looking (“oh, lord!” cried john)--yes, he was--to pose as the father of a pretty, grown-up young woman.
“the poor child is n't pretty,” said he.
“it does n't matter,” replied miss lindon. “beauty is only skin deep, and i 've known plain people who are quite fascinating. there was captain brownlow's wife--do you remember the brownlows? your poor mother was so fond of them--”
“yes, yes,” said john, impatiently. “he had wet hands, and used to mess my face about when i was a kid. i hated it. the question is, however, whom am i going to get to help me with unity blake?”
“ah, yes, to be sure. poor little unity! you must bring her to see me sometimes. give me notice, and i 'll make her some of my cream-puffs. children are always so fond of them. you ought to remember my cream-puffs.”
“good heavens!” he cried, with a gesture that set the dog barking. “there 's no question of cream-puffs. can't you see what i'm driving at? i want you to come and keep house for me and help me to look after the child.”
he rose, and his great form towered so threateningly over her that dandy barked at him with a toy terrier's furious and impotent rage.
“i come and live with you?” gasped miss lindon.
“yes,” said john, turning away and lumbering back to the fireplace. the dog, perceiving that he had struck terror into the heart of his enemy, dismissed him with a scornful snarl, and curled himself up by the side of his stupefied mistress.
it was done; the proposal had been made, according to the demands of his pig-headedness. now that he had made it, he realized its insanity. he contrasted this home of flim-flammeries and its lap-dogs and canaries and old-maidish futilities with his own tobacco-saturated and paper-littered den; this life of trivialities with his own fighting career; this incapacity to grasp essentials with his own realization of the conflict of world-forces. the ludicrous incongruity of a partnership between the two of them in so fateful a business as the healing of a human soul appealed to his somewhat dull sense of humour. the whole idea was preposterous. in his saturnine way he laughed.
“it's rather a mad notion, is n't it?”
“i don't think so at all,” replied miss lindon in a most disconcertingly matter-of-fact tone. “the only thing is that since poor papa died i've had so little to do with gentlemen, and have forgotten their ways. you see, dear, you have put me quite in a flutter. how do i know, for instance, what you would like to have for breakfast? your dear grandpapa used to have only one egg boiled for two minutes--he was most particular--and a piece of dry toast; whereas i well remember mrs. brownlow telling me that her husband used to eat a hearty meal of porridge and eggs and bacon, with an underdone beefsteak to follow. so you see, dear, i have no rule which i could follow; you would have to tell me.”
“that's quite a detail,” said john, rather touched by her unselfish, if tangential, dealing with the proposal. “the main point is,” said he, moving a step or two forward, “would you care to come and play propriety for me and this daughter of misery?”
“do you really want me to?”
“naturally, since i 've asked you.”
she rose and came up to him. “my dear boy,” she said with wet eyes, “i know i'm not a clever woman, and often when clever people like you talk, i don't in the least understand what they 're talking about; but i did love your dear mother with all my heart, and i would do anything in the wide world for her son.”
john took her hand and looked down into her foolish, kind face, which wore for the moment the dignity of love. “i'm afraid it will mean an uprooting of all your habits,” said he, in a softened voice.
she smiled. “i can bring them with me,” she said cheerfully. “you won't mind dandy, will you? he'll soon get used to you. and as for dickie,” she added, with a touch of wistfulness, “i 'm sure i can find a nice home for him.”
john put his arm round her shoulder and gave her the kiss of a shy bear.
“my good soul,” he cried, “bring fifty million dickies if you like.” he laughed. “there's nothing like the song of birds for the humanizing of the cockney child.”
he looked around and beheld the little, gimcrack room with a new vision. after all, it was as much an expression of her individuality, and as genuine in the eyes of the high gods, as herold's exquisitely furnished abode was of herold's, or the untidy jumble of the room in fenton square was of his own. and all she had to live upon was a hundred and fifty pounds a year, and no artistic instincts or antecedents whatsoever.
“i feel a brute in asking you to give up this little place now that you've made it so pretty,” he said.
her face brightened at the praise. “it is pretty, is n't it?” then she sighed as her eyes rested fondly on her possessions. “i suppose it would be too tiny for us all to live here.”
“i'm afraid it would,” said john. “besides, we must live in london, on account of my work.”
but though her face pictured her dismay, she was too generous to translate it into words. john never guessed her sacrifice.
“we 'll go somewhere quiet,” said he, after a while.
“we 'll go wherever you like, dear,” replied miss lindon, meekly, and she rang the bell for tea.
the main point decided, they proceeded to discuss the details of the scheme, the minds of each suffused in a misty wonder. if john had told the simple lady that she could serve him by taking command of a cavalry regiment, she would have agreed in her unselfish fashion, but she would have been not a whit more perplexed at the prospect. as for john he had the sensation of living in a fantastic dream. a child of six would have been a more practical ally. in the course of befogged conversation, however, it was arranged that miss lindon should transfer to the new house her worldly belongings, of which she was to give him an inventory, including dandy and dickie and her maid phoebe, a most respectable girl of baptist upbringing, who had been cruelly jilted by a prosperous undertaker in the neighborhood, whom, if you had seen him conducting a funeral, you would have thought as serious and god-fearing a man as the clergyman himself; which showed how hypocritical men could be, and how you ought never to trust to appearances. it was also settled that, as soon as unity could be rescued from the guardianship of the orphanage authorities and comfortably installed in a convalescent home by the seaside, miss lindon would journey thither in order to make her ward's acquaintance. in the meanwhile john would go house-hunting.
“walter herold will help me,” said john.
“that's your friend who acts, is n't it?” said miss lindon. “i have n't any objection to theatres myself. in fact, i often used to go to see irving when i was young. you meet quite a nice class of people in the dress-circle. but i don't think ladies ought to go on the stage. i hope mr. herold won't put such an idea into unity's head.”
“i don't think he will,” said john.
“young girls are sometimes so flighty. my old friend mrs. willcox had a daughter who went on the stage, and she married an actor, and now has twelve children, and lives in cheshire. i was hearing about her only the other day. i suppose unity will have to be taught music and drawing and french like any other young lady.”
“we might begin,” replied john, “with more elementary accomplishments.”
“i'm afraid, my dear,” said john, “you 'll first have to teach her to eat and drink like a christian, and blow her nose, and keep her face clean.”
“ah, that reminds me. my head's in a maze, and i can't think of everything at once, like some clever people. what kind of soap do gentlemen use? i 'll have to know, so as to supply you with what you like.”
“any old stuff that will make a lather,” said john, rising.
“but some soaps are so bad for the skin,” she objected anxiously.
“vitriol would n't hurt my rhinoceros hide.”
he laughed, and held out his hand. further discussion was useless.
miss lindon accompanied him to the front gate and watched him stride down the perky terrace until he disappeared round the corner. then she went slowly into the house and uncovered the canary, who blinked at her in oblique sullenness, and did not respond to her friendly “cheep” and the scratching of her finger against the rails of his cage. she turned to dandy, who, snoring loud, was equally unresponsive. feeling lonely and upset, she rang the bell.
“phoebe,” she said, when the angular and jilted maid appeared, “we are going to keep house for my nephew, mr. risca, and a young lady whom he has adopted. will you tell me one thing? is the lady of the house supposed to clean the gentlemen's pipes?”
“my father is a non-smoker, as well as a teetotaler, miss,” replied phoebe.
“dear me!” murmured miss lindon. “it's going to be a great puzzle.”
it was a puzzle to john as much as to the palpitating lady, and in the maze of his puzzledom the gleam of humour that visited him during their interview lost its way. walter herold's eyes, however, twinkled maliciously when he heard john's account at once rueful and pig-headed. then he grew serious.
“it will be comic opera all the time. it can't be done.”
“it 's going to be done,” said john, obstinately. “there's nothing else to do. if i were a rich man, i could work wonders with a scratch in my cheque-book. i could hire an unexceptionable colonel's or clergyman's widow to do the business. but i'm not. how i'm going to get the house together, as it is, i don't know. besides,” he added, turning with some savageness on his friend, “if you think it a comic-opera idea, kindly remember it was you who started it.”
though herold was silenced for the moment, to the back of his mind still clung the first suggestion he had made. it was the common-sense idea that, given a knowledge of john's relations with the southcliff household, would have occurred to anybody. john had it in his power to befriend the unhappy child without trying the rash experiment of raising her social status. wherein lay the advantage of bringing her up as a lady? a pampered maid in a luxurious home does not drag out the existence of a downtrodden slave. such have been known to smile and sing, even to bless their stars, and finally to marry a prince in grocer's disguise, and to live happy ever afterwards. with john's description of the girl's dog-like eyes in his memory, herold pictured her as a devoted handmaiden to stellamaris, a romantic, mediaeval appanage of the sea-chamber. what more amazingly exquisite destiny could await not only one bred in the gutter, but any damsel far more highly born? her silence as to the past could be insured under ghastly penalties which would have no need of imagination for their appeal. that of course would be an ultimate measure. he felt certain that a couple presented in their relations as completing the cycle of living reality, in contrast with that reality which the mind postulates outside its living self, and which the system reduces to a complex practical product of the mind, a collection of material helps subservient to the essential forms of its activity. knowledge and action, reciprocally implicated, are the substance of reality; and both knowledge and action, rising, the first, from the intuition to the concept, the second, from the economic to the ethical will, attain the universal, all-including values which we express by the words beautiful, true, useful and good, but only and in so far as they realize themselves in the concrete and individual. a universal more universal than that which is present in the individual act is inexistent, or exists only as an impotent abstraction renouncing the concreteness and reality of the individual, and therefore also that true universality which has no being outside this action, this thought, this life. the soul of the system, slowly extricating itself from the traces of naturalism or intellectualism, which are still visible in the estetica, is the logic of the pure concept, which resolves in the concrete universal the dualisms of nature and spirit, of fact and value, of life and thought, and, finally, of history and philosophy. but while this logic can be seen at work in all the parts of the system, and is, in fact, the form towards which all croce's thoughts seem to have constantly tended from the time of his earliest philosophical essays, yet, to an attentive eye, it is possible to discover the successive stages by which it actually incorporated itself in the system. in particular, we have been able to point to the effects of the later meditations on the philosophy of will, on one side, on a more intimate understanding of the pure intuition as the lyrical intuition, on the other, on the identification of the definition with the individual judgment, and thereby on the relations between history and philosophy. on the whole it can be said that two apparently contrasting directions were at work within the system itself: one reflecting croce's mental need for clear and fine distinctions, the other, that deep consciousness of the unity of the real, without which all distinctions tend to solidify themselves into dead abstractions.
if we imagine two students of croce's philosophy, endowed with antagonistic philosophical temperaments, the one a dialectician, the other a mystic, we can easily conceive them as the founders of two diametrically opposed schools of thought. the first would have emphasized the rigorous distinctions, the formal character, the intellectual precision of the system; he might have retained the identification of philosophy and history, but to him these words would have stood only for the names of two formal disciplines, and not for the concrete life of the human spirit which is present in them. the second would have passed lightly over the distinctions, and probably considered them as partaking of the same unreality which belongs to scientific or legal abstractions; and by obliterating the logical processes without which the mind of man is unable to grasp and to express itself, he would have taken refuge in an ineffable, though not necessarily silent, contemplation of the underlying unity. this hypothesis is not a criticism of croce's philosophy; it is merely the indication of the fact that, when the system appeared as completed, new problems, and therefore new errors or new truths, were bound to grow out of the elements of the system itself. and nobody was more conscious of this fact than croce himself, who concluded his volume on the filosofia della pratica by expressly warning his readers of the inexhaustibility of thought, which is one with the infinity of reality and of life. no philosophical system is final, because life itself has no end. every system of philosophy, being conditioned by life, can do no more than solve a group of problems historically given, and prepare the conditions for new problems and new systems. of his own work in relation to his readers, he conceived as of nothing more than an instrument of work.
as during the preceding eight years, the critica continues to this day to be the main organ of croce's work and influence, and in the critica the greatest part of his writings are still published for the first time. the general features of the critica have remained practically unchanged, except that his series of essays on the italian literature of the last fifty years (which he collected in 1914-15 in the four volumes of la letteratura della nuova italia) has been followed by studies on italian historiography from the beginning of the nineteenth century to our day (since 1914), by essays on some of the greatest european poets (since 1917), by notes on modern italian and foreign literature (since 1917), and by the frammenti di etica (since 1913), containing discussions of particular problems of contemporary morality. but practically all the reviews and essays published in the critica and elsewhere are now being collected in the edition of his complete works, of which a full list will be found at the end of this volume. in 1912, for the inauguration of the rice institute in houston, texas, he wrote his breviario di estetica, which we have partly utilized in our exposition of his ã¦sthetic doctrine, and which he reprinted in 1920 in his nuovi saggi di estetica, which also contains his most significant philosophical essays of the last four or five years. his contributo alla critica di me stesso ("contribution to the criticism of myself") was written in april, 1915, on the eve of italy's entrance into the war, and is the best essay in existence on the development of his thought.
of croce's attitude during the war we shall say but a few words. he was one of the very few european philosophers or scholars who did not transform themselves into improvised statesmen, or into passionate defenders of national prejudices and proclaimers of national hatreds. differing from the germanized philologist, who was the type prevailing in most universities before the war, in that he had not waited for the war to become aware of the many weaknesses and imperfections of modern german culture, while on the other hand he had lived for years in true and intimate contact with the great spirits of german romanticism, he resisted with all his power the universal tendency of the time to make of the contingent issues of the war a criterion of intellectual truth and of scientific conduct. at the same time, his temper and education reacted violently against the false ideologies of the war, the superstructure of verbal ideals with which on all sides cunning statesmen and naã¯ve philosophers attempted to veil the true nature of the conflict. against these, he reasserted his conception of the political life and struggles of states as manifestations of the economic, amoral or pre-moral, activity, and of life itself as a perpetual struggle, finding its reason and its rest in the struggle itself. the theory of the state as justice appeared to him merely as a theoretical error, the fortune of which lay in the opportunity it afforded to give a convenient mask of morality to particular interests, either of individuals or of states. the intrinsic morality of the war he conceived as resting on its tragic reality, as reflected in a severely historical thought, to which it appears as a moment of that historical fate which crushes and destroys states as well as individuals, to create from their ruins always new forms of life.
it is needless to say that for a time at least croce shared with bertrand russell and with romain rolland, two thinkers in many respects very distant from him, and yet as impervious as he was to the rhetoric of the war, the privilege of a vast unpopularity. looking back now on his writings which were later collected in the volume pagine sulla guerra, it is possible to discover among them many attitudes which were justified and useful only as a reaction against the current fallacies of the time; and also to realize that the man who speaks to us through them is not always and only a pure philosopher, but a man with a given complex of moral and political tastes and passions. but this is, in a way, as it should be; in the same way, between croce the philosopher of ã¦sthetics and croce the critic of poetry, there is a difference which is inherent in the nature of the two different forms of intellectual activity; the philosopher is a man of understanding, the critic a man of tastes and passions. in both cases, his ideal has always been to make the critic or the moralist worthy of the philosopher, his particular comprehension of history adequate to his concept of the universal. to say that the equation is never perfect, is only another way of saying that every particular historical problem continually raises new problems of thought, and that croce's thought finds therefore in itself the motives of its own development, the springs of its own life. where passion and reason ultimately coincide, the roots of the development are taken away, and death takes the place of life.
yet, notwithstanding these limitations, i know of no man whose thought on the war is on the whole more acceptable to those among us who lived through the war not as spectators, looking on it as on a vast moral abstraction, but as humble actors, in the midst of its human reality. a sense of collaboration between one side and the other, of being, here as there, employed in a common task, whose meaning was much deeper than any that had been offered to us by the national rhetoricians,--a collaboration which happened to take the aspect of a struggle, and imposed duties antagonistic, but of the same nature--was probably the most usual frame of mind among the soldiers who could think; and it existed, subconsciously, even among the unthinking ones, provided that their duties were of a definite, concrete kind, touched them in the deepest chords of their beings, involved the fundamental issues of life and death. to the man who consciously faces death, there is no comfort in wilful error; only this realization of an end that transcends all particular ideals, because it is the end of life itself, can be worthy of that price. you cannot willingly die for fourteen points any more than for one point, but death which is loathsome in the drama of mere circumstance, however adorned with brilliant rhetoric, is no longer death but an act of life in the tragedy in which the hero is conscious of his fate. there was no war, probably, that was ever more full than the last one of what might be called the material of tragedy; but what have the official celebrators done with it, they who have not feared to desecrate, in all our countries, one at least of the concrete, individual tragedies, in order to make of it an empty symbol, to transform an unknown hero into abstract heroism? in some of croce's pages, there is a more concrete realization of the ideal tragedy of the war than in any poem or oration that i have seen to this day.
the last years of the war found croce at work on some of the greatest poetical spirits of modern europe, ariosto, goethe, corneille, shakespeare, bringing to the understanding of their work, to this task of concrete history, the deep consciousness of the nature of poetry, and of the relations of poetry with life, acquired in twenty years of philosophical meditations. even his functions as minister of public education during the last two years did not distract him entirely from his studies, and this year of the sixth centenary of dante's death was celebrated by him with the publication of la poesia di dante, which will certainly remain as the most lasting monument raised to the memory of the poet on this occasion. this troubled peace cannot make him deviate from the path of his appointed labour any more than the war could; in peace as in war, his duty is his daily task, here and to-day, and his confidence in the morality and usefulness of that work which is his work is as little shaken by the prophets of despair in peace, as it was by the messiahs of the promised land who were so loud above the turmoil of war. he is probably now noting with a smile that the same men who talked of the war to end all wars, are now very busy preventing our civilization from dying away; that is, building a peace in the abstract, with programs and words, as they fought a war which was not the war, but a phantasm of their imagination.
ii. the theory of history
two meanings of the word history--history as contemporary history-- history and chronicle--the spirit as history--philology, and philological history--poetical and rhetorical history--universal history--the universality of history: history and philosophy--the unity of thought--philosophy as methodology--the positivity of history--the humanity of history--distinctions and divisions--the history of nature.
there are two meanings to the word history, in english as well as in other european languages; on one hand it denotes the actual doing, the immediacy of life, on the other, the thinking that seems to follow the doing, the consciousness of life. in a rough, approximate way, we speak of men who make history, and of other men who think or write history--though we are all perfectly aware of the fact that we cannot make history without first thinking history, that the action, in other words, follows a judgment of the situation, which is an elementary form of historical thought, and is accompanied by its own consciousness, which is its immediate history. in this sense, the action cannot be materially severed from its history: the distinction between the two is a purely formal and ideal one. and again, the thinking of history, in the second meaning of the word, consists in making present to our spirit, in re-living, an action or group of actions, which thus become as actual an experience as any practical doing, a fragment of our own life, and, ultimately, the consciousness of our own individual experience. thus the two meanings which stand out as sharply contrasting when we objectify and solidify them, as an external, chronological series of happenings, and as a formal discipline attempting to give, in innumerable books, a description and as it were a verbal duplicate of that series, once we examine them in the light of our consciousness, reveal themselves merely as different aspects or moments of the same spiritual process.
croce's latest writings on history may be puzzling to the average reader because this ambiguity cannot be overcome by him unless he is willing to penetrate to the heart of croce's doctrine, in which the word history acquires a more pregnant and fundamental meaning. in many of us there is a tendency to balk at any attempt at filling old words with deeper and more precise connotations; but philosophy is not a matter of words. a new thought will in any case alter the whole physiognomy of our vocabulary, and to stand up for the old meanings is as much as to refuse to think, or rather, to refuse to live. for history as a formal discipline, for the actual writing of history, croce uses the word historiography; but in his teoria e storia della storiografia (theory and history of the writing of history), history still means both the doing and the thinking, life and the consciousness of life, though not in the abstract distinction in which these meanings are generally apprehended. in croce the distinction is also unity, and there is no doing which is not also a thinking, no life which is not also the consciousness of life, no consciousness which is not also the consciousness of itself. the ambiguity, some traces of which could still be seen in the logica, entirely disappears in this fourth volume of the system, at least for the reader who has followed the whole development of croce's thought.
if history is thus regarded not as an object but as an activity, not as the irrevocable past but as the living present, the difference between history and chronicle, which is one of the puzzles of historical thought, becomes an important and significant distinction. we are used to think that the original form of historical writing is the chronicle, and history a later and maturer development. now if history is the consciousness of a present, it follows that history is contemporary with the event; that, therefore, the most meagre chronicle, in the mind of its writer, moved by the actuality of the facts which he records, is already a history in the full sense of the word. and the records of the past, whether appearing to us, from a literary point of view, as mere chronicles or as true histories, become history again whenever they are apprehended by a new mind as an answer to a present problem, partaking of the activity of the mind that thinks them anew. the same records, on the other hand, are a mere chronicle, an empty narrative, a truly irrevocable past, whenever they are not re-lived by a living mind, either because they do not correspond to any interest of present life, or because the essential conditions for the recreation of that past, the documents which enable us to revive within ourselves the original experience, are irrevocably lost. the true distinction between history and chronicle is not, therefore, a literary or material one, but a distinction between forms of spiritual activity: history is the living consciousness, and, therefore, an act of thought or knowledge; chronicle is the dead record, which we preserve by a mere act of will, because we know that some day the dead record itself may come back to life, transform itself again, under an impulse rooted not in the past but in the present, into a living thought.
this practical function of the preservation of the dead documents and records is the work of the pure scholar, of the erudite, the archivist, the archã¦ologist, or what might be termed philology in the strict sense of the word. and it is a legitimate and useful function, provided that it does not pretend to be other than it actually is, and to substitute itself for the true process of history, by attempting to make history with the external objects that have been confided to its care. philological histories are never anything but mere compilations, learned chronicles, useful repertories; and as such, blameless; but as histories they lack the living spirit, the creative impulse, which alone can transform the document into history. we have only to turn our attention to the greatest part of our modern histories of literature, whether written by a single philologist or by a learned society, to realize that that which is philology in them is not history, but repertory; and the rest, which is history, is not philology, but a vivid reaction, an act of present life, by which some at least of the documents of the past (since some philologists are men) have suddenly become part of the actual experience of the writer, answered his spiritual need, stirred that which is still human in his soul. and if a further confirmation of the philological error is needed, and of the further errors in which it involves the philological historian, it is sufficient to open those same literary histories at the pages in which they attempt to explain the origins of the renaissance. because as those writers make history from the sources, so they imagine that life itself springs from material sources; and the renaissance finds its causes in the discovery of monuments and documents of the classical world, in the lives and travels of humanists, in the munificence of popes and princes. it does not seem to occur to them that monuments and manuscripts, which materially had existed in europe during all the so-called dark and middle ages, could not have been discovered unless, at a certain moment in the development of european civilization, the spirit of the western nations had not craved those particular helps to its own life, because of motives and impulses generated by its own actual experience; and that the mediã¦val clericus was not less of a traveller than the humanist, and that the economic aspect of life can never be intelligibly conceived as a cause of that life of which it is but a moment. for the philological historian, the renaissance begins between the end of the fourteenth and the beginning of the fifteenth century; but the historian tout court knows that the fundamental impulses and motives by which we empirically ally characterize that period in the history of the human spirit were already present in the italy of the thirteenth century, and slowly maturing in the other european countries long before any of the italian humanists had come to them as the apostles of a new creed.
this final affirmation of the unity of human thought, this qualification of all thought as at the same time historical and philosophical, is the last answer given by croce to the problem which had occupied him for the last twenty years, ever since his first speculations on history as art. from the consideration of the individual moment which is essential to history, he had slowly raised himself to the contemplation of the pure universal, only to return finally to the individual moment in which only the universal realizes itself. and while this answer can be regarded, on the whole, as the natural conclusion of the idealistic movement in philosophy, yet it differs from kant in its ultimate repudiation of the noumenon, from hegel, in that it makes it impossible to build, side by side with a dynamic logic, a mythology of the idea, a philosophy of history and of nature, in which the transcendental element, eliminated already from the logic, should find its ultimate refuge. it is to be hoped that croce's critics will not level against him those same criticisms that are generally employed against kant or hegel, because they would be for the most part ineffectual against a kantian and hegelian philosopher who has discarded the whole of kantian and hegelian metaphysics. from this standpoint, croce is not only the heir of the idealistic, but also of the positivistic or realistic tradition, which he has constantly opposed, not because of its anti-metaphysical character, but because in the external reality of the realist, in the natural or historical philosophy of the positivist, he is unable to see anything but naturalistic disguises of the old metaphysical entities. a realist who should not in principle refuse to become acquainted with croce's thought, but honestly attempt to understand it, would probably find his own realism purified and made more truly realistic by the experience.
we shall not follow our author in all his developments of the theory of history. it suffices to say that these developments are obviously but new presentations, made here and there more precise and more coherent, of the various problems already discussed in the preceding volumes of the filosofia dello spirito. we shall thus recognise in croce's criticism of the philosophy of history as a special discipline, distinct both from history as such and from a so-called general philosophy, his polemic against transcendence, either metaphysical or naturalistic; and in his claim for the positivity of history, his theory of value, by which the only real values are the positive ones, coinciding with the fact, while negative values are but expressions of feelings and desires. in the light of this theory, since history is obviously concerned with that which is, and not with that which is not, the limits of historical judgment are clearly established, in the way in which we saw them established for literary criticism. as the literary critic is never concerned with anything but with expression, or art, or beauty, non-expression, non-art, non-beauty being as such inexistent, and truly existent only as manifestations of the logical or practical activity of man; so the historian at large will never meet negative values, but positive facts only, which assume the aspect of ugliness, or error, or immorality, only in the dialectic process of reality, in the creation of a higher form of life. his affirmation of the positive fact is sufficient judgment, and it becomes an implicit moral judgment whenever the consciousness of the historian is a moral consciousness, without any need for him to usurp the function of the moralist or of the judge in apportioning praise or blame on the objects of his history.
against the humanistic or pragmatic conception of history, which finds the reasons and motives of history in the abstract individual, as against the opposite view, for which the true history is only that of the collectivity, of the institutions, of the human values, croce reasserts his concept of the actuality of the spirit, in regard to which the individual is as much of an abstraction as the society or the value which does not entirely realize itself in the fact. the object of history is neither pericles nor politics, neither sophocles nor tragedy, neither plato nor philosophy; but the universal in the individual, that is, politics, tragedy, philosophy, as pericles, sophocles, and plato, or pericles, sophocles, and plato as particular moments of politics, of tragedy, and of philosophy.
as there are no special philosophical sciences, and then a general philosophy, which should be outside or above them, but whenever we think of reality under one of its aspects or distinctions, we think of the whole of reality in one of its determinations, so there are no special histories, the limits of which can be definitely stated, and above them a general history, which would in a new form revive the myth of universal history. we have seen how literary history, for instance, tends inevitably to become the whole spiritual history of a nation; and the same applies to all special histories, whether political or moral, or philosophical. there are divisions of history, according to the quality of the objects, to time and space, but such divisions are mere empirical classifications, practical instruments or literary expedients; and we can use as the foundation of such divisions even the ideal distinctions of the fundamental forms of spiritual activity. but when these distinctions are understood as actual distinctions of the aspects of the spiritual life, of which we make history, then all the other aspects will inevitably be present in the particular distinction, once we truly apprehend it in the fulness of its relations. in this sense, history is always special or particular, because it is only in the special and particular that we can grasp the effectual and concrete universality, the effectual and concrete unity.
finally, the difference between the history of man and the history of nature is not a difference in the object but in the method of history. the whole of reality is spiritual reality, and nature apprehended in its concreteness and actuality, if we are able to recreate it within ourselves, becomes actual, concrete, contemporary history as much as any part of human history. on the other hand, the application of empirical and abstract concepts, the practical manipulation of the data of human history, transforms the history of man into mere natural history. this difference in method we have already analyzed in studying croce's logic, and we shall only add here that the reader of croce may often be tempted to regard croce's conception of reality as limited to the human spirit only, and therefore to give a metaphysical interpretation to his exclusion of "nature." the correct interpretation is a purely epistemological one, and again and again croce insists that in the whole of reality, which is development or life, man and nature are but empirical and abstract distinctions. on the other hand, croce's interests are certainly more human than natural, and not only in the sense in which this is true of every man; in the more precise sense also that the effort to recreate within himself the consciousness of a blade of grass, which he advises the historian of nature to perform, clearly appeals to him so little, that he may even seem doubtful of its success. the accent is continually laid, in croce's thought, on the history of man, and on the thought of man; to many of us, our dealings with nature (not the dead nature of linnã¦us, but the living nature of virgil and shelley) would probably suggest a shifting of the accent by which the spirituality of nature, the continuity of the dynamic process from nature to man would become more emphatically affirmed than it is in any of croce's writings. we are probably touching here on one of the possible, and probable, lines of development of croce's philosophy; which, however, will not become actual until the historical problems of the living nature shall not urge croce himself, or one of his successors, as powerfully as the problems of human history have moved him. at present, with very rare exceptions, the students of the history of nature are occupied in transforming their historical experience into classes and types and laws; but a time may come when from the naturalistic constructions we shall be able more frequently to recreate the life of which these are but the dead spoils, the accumulated vestiges, by the same process by which history re-kindles the old chronicles into new, contemporary life. that such a development is implied in croce's own theory of history can hardly be questioned, though, when realized, it will undoubtedly react on more than one point of croce's logic.
iii. criticism and history
beyond the system--the universality of art--the discipline of art--poetry, prose and oratory--classicism and impressionism-- practical personality and poetical personality--the monographic method in criticism--the reform of ã¦sthetic history--criticism as philosophy--sensibility and intelligence.
this last phase of croce's thought offers greater difficulties to the expositor than the preceding ones, partly because it is still in the making, and therefore lacks the necessary perspective, and partly because it is embodied not only in purely philosophical essays, but in every page of croce's historical and critical writings; so that very often it would be impossible to give a clear account of it without ample and minute reference to the underlying historical material. the whole of croce's thought could indeed be restated through an exposition of croce's historical views, and it would be an alluring task to extract from his writings a kind of outline of the history of mankind, considered especially in its ã¦sthetic and philosophical cal manifestations, and indirectly also in its moral and economic activities; but it would take us much beyond the limits which we have set to our labour. we shall therefore confine ourselves to examining, in this chapter, the latest developments of croce's ã¦sthetics, especially in relation with the history of art and poetry; and, in the following and concluding one, to considering his theory of truth or of the function of thought, in relation to other types of contemporary thought.
this recognition of the implicit universality of the ã¦sthetic expression does not abolish, as it might seem to a superficial observer, the distinction between ã¦sthetic and logical knowledge; it rather makes it clearer and truer. an imperfect recognition may lead to an intellectualistic or mystic theory of art; and intellectualism and mysticism in ã¦sthetics remain for croce as typical forms of error, whether they are directed towards a confusion between intuition and judgment, or towards a symbolical or allegorical interpretation of art, or towards a semi-religious theory of art as the revelation of the deus absconditus. but the truth that those errors tried to express in their imperfect formulas, is finally understood by him to be that character of universality which belongs to every aspect and to every fragment of the living reality. feeling itself, or a state of mind, partakes in its actuality of that universal character, but when expressed in art, it retains its universality only by losing its practical nature, and subjecting itself entirely to the form which expresses it. thus the ã¦sthetic activity, because bent on realizing its own universality, which is the perfection of its form, imposes on the artist a morality and a discipline which cannot be identified with practical morality, with the discipline of life. the sincerity of the' artist is of another order than that of the practical man, though (we can never repeat it too often) ã¦sthetic virtues being incommensurable with moral values, his work as an artist does not exempt him from his duties as a man.
similarly, in the history of poetry or of art, the consideration of the logical and practical moments in the expression will help to define and isolate that which is purely ã¦sthetic expression, that is, poetry and art. croce's expressionistic theory, when thus understood, differs both from other expressionistic theories and from the narrow interpretations of croce's own theory that have been given by some of his followers and by all his adversaries. it does not, in fact, attempt to give an ã¦sthetic justification of art as the mere passive reception of the transient mood; it has no sympathy for that impressionism which transforms the artist into a reed shaken by all winds of circumstance, legitimizing every intrusion of the practical personality in the ã¦sthetic production. it reduces this modern ã¦sthetics of the immediate feeling to an expression, not of the true spirit of what art and poetry is being produced to-day, but of that disease, or passivity, of the times, the first solemn document of which can be traced in rousseau's confessions. against it, croce appeals to the example and the word of a goethe or a leopardi, who diagnosed the disease in its inception, and contrasted the classical naturalness and simplicity of the ancients with the affectation and tumidity of the moderns. but the classicism which croce invokes is not a formal and literal ideal, limited to certain models or standards: it is that complete idealization, which the immediate practical data, in all times and climates, will undergo at the hands of the true poet and artist, whether he calls himself a romanticist or a classicist, an idealist or a realist.
this is the purport of the essay on la riforma della storia artistica e letteraria (1917), and this is the method deliberately followed by croce in his recent essays on ariosto, goethe, shakespeare, corneille and dante, which ought to be studied not only as characterizations of the various poets, of the feeling or tonality which is peculiar to each of them and constitutes their ã¦sthetic personality, but also as sources for the methodology of literary criticism. to his theory croce brings a two-fold corroboration, first, from the observation of the fact that it coincides with a more and more widespread tendency in both literary and artistic history towards the monographic form, the individual essay, as the most effectual type of criticism; and second, from the analogy with other forms of history. all history, and not ã¦sthetic history only, is essentially monographic; all history is the history of a given event or of a given custom or of a given doctrine, and all history reaches the universal only in and through the individual. the only obstacles to a general acceptation of this view are, on one side, a persistent inability to distinguish art from the practical and moral life and from philosophy, and on the other, a lack of scientific sense, through which science is regarded not as critical research, but as a material gathering of facts. prospectuses, handbooks, dictionaries and encyclopedias are not the ideal of history: they are instruments of which we shall always make use as practical helps for the critical research; but what is living and real thought in them is but an echo of the actual thinking of individual problems.
quid est veritas?--platonism, or transcendental idealism--naturalism, or transcendental realism--the idea of progress--progress and truth: evolutionism--pragmatism--croce's new pragmatism--the immanence of value--the actuality of truth--truth as history: the function of error and of evil--the foundations of croce's thought.
there is one problem in the history of human thought, which, however conscious we might be of the multiplicity and historical contingency of philosophical problems, yet can appear to us as the ultimate or central one, if only because it is an abstract interrogation describing the attitude of the philosopher, and to which every concrete logical research, every act of thought, can be reduced. it is pilate's question: quid est veritas? what is truth?
the question itself has no definite meaning, until it receives from the individual thinker a definite content, which is history or experience, and the infinite variety of the answers it has received is due to the infinite variability of that content. but at all times man has been urged by a passionate desire to lift his own individual answer from the flux of life, to put it as it were over and against that experience from which it had emerged, not as the truth of his particular problem, but as an abstractly universal truth. it is by violently breaking the process of thought, and hypostatizing in essence the subject of his thought, abstracted from its object, or the object from its subject, and both from the creative activity which produces truth, that man has created, both in philosophy proper and in the minds of the multitude, a double transcendence, of pure ideas, on one side, of brute matter on the other, from which the two most common meanings of the word truth are derived.
the platonic idealist, for whom the actual processes of life and thought are but shadows and remembrances of the eternal ideas in the hyper-uranian space, can be assumed here as the symbol of the transcendental idealist, for whom truth is adequation to an ideal model existing outside the mind. the most disparate types of philosophers belong to this herd, and among them many that commonly go under the name of realists, since the idealist who has fixed and objectified his ideas cannot help considering them as real essences, and dealing with them accordingly. the aristotelian realist, the theologian, hegel himself when postulating an original logos, of which spirit and nature are the temporal explication, all can be gathered together in the goodly company of platonists; and platonists are to-day both the literal followers of german idealism, and the less barbarous among contemporary realists, who are in the habit of attributing an independent, absolute existence to logical or mathematical abstractions. but neither the ones nor the others seem to be in very close contact with the spirit of the age: what they mean by truth is not what is generally meant by truth to-day, except among those who still cling to the myths in which that form of transcendence expressed itself in past ages. the sturdiest, though hardly recognizable, survivals of platonism are relics of formalistic logic, still very frequent in contemporary culture, and a belief in what might be called average truth, mechanically extracted from an external and material consensus of opinions. but with this conception of truth, we touch the border line between idealistic and naturalistic transcendentalism.
the most common attitude of contemporary thought (and the one that is therefore usually designated as common sense, and as such opposed to philosophy) is a naively naturalistic one. but it would be a mistake to regard it as a simple and spontaneous attitude, and to identify it, for instance, with the naã¯ve intuition of the artist, with a first grade of knowledge as yet untroubled by logical problems. the artist's vision is more distant from naturalism than the philosopher's concept, since common sense, however unreflected and illogical, is in itself a philosophy, and, though it may sound paradoxical, a transcendental one. the artist constantly identifies himself with his object; in his consciousness, the distinction between subject and object has not yet arisen. but the naã¯ve naturalism of which we are now speaking is posterior to the logical judgment, in which that distinction first appears; and is obtained by keeping separate the two terms of the judgment, each of which exists only in relation to the other, and by transforming that relation into a quality of the object. the unity thus disrupted is artificially reconstituted by abolishing the subject, that is, by treating the subject itself as merely an object among many objects, or as a mere abstract intersection of objects. it is with this form of naturalism that realism generally coincides, and its abstracting process is the one that has been recently systematized by the new realists. the justification of the naturalistic conception of truth, as truth of description, and the motive of its present popularity, is that it rests on a method of knowledge which is indispensable to the natural and mathematical sciences, and that the sciences have come to usurp, in modern times, for reasons which are obvious to every one, the place of science. it is not the less true, however, that wherever that method is applied, it reduces the living reality of life and thought to a heap of dead, immovable abstractions. there is no real danger in this as long as the abstractions are taken for what they are, and used as instruments for the purposes of our doing and understanding; but when they are considered as a complete equivalent of the living reality, then we become their prisoners, and are shut out by them from all possibility of true understanding. it is especially from the misuses of this method in the historical and moral sciences, from the degenerations of sociology, psychology, and philology, that we must be constantly on guard; lest in the very sciences of the human spirit we should miss that which is their true object, the human activity which creates the world of history and the values of life.
modern thought, at the end of the renaissance, begins with an attempt at eliminating that static conception of truth, in which both platonism and naturalism find the roots of their transcendence. this is the origin of the idea of progress, first established by bruno, by bacon, by pascal, by vico, in the form of a correlation between truth and time. mediã¦val thought had been shackled for centuries by the authority of the ancients; the new thinkers invoked the authority of antiquity, of old age, and, therefore, of wisdom, not for the distant ages, in which the world could be said to be still young and inexperienced, but for their own times, in which it was possible to add a perpetually new experience and thought to that which had been bequeathed by the thinkers of greece and rome. the consequence of this attitude was the discovery of the immanence of truth in life, the liberation from the principle of authority (which had been the characteristic mediã¦val form of transcendence), and a vigorous impulse towards the recognition of the dynamic nature of reality, of what an american philosopher called the continuity of the ideal with the real. the thought that was contained in germ in those early polemics, vaguely and mythically in bruno, and much more consciously in vico, is substantially that of croce's identification of philosophy with history.
we do not expect of a new philosophy that it should suddenly, as a revelation or illumination, give us a key to all the problems of reality, and resolve, once and forever, the so-called mystery of the universe. if such a thing should ever happen, it would mean the end of life, which cannot be conceived, in its ultimate essence, otherwise than as a perpetual positing and solution of problems. it must not be forgotten that a philosophy is the work of one man, and, therefore, contains only the answers to the problems that are real to him. but if we stop to consider the whole course of thought in the last two centuries, we shall realize that the idea of progress, in many different and even in contrasting forms, is the one around which all our life, theoretical and practical, has centred in modern times. and of that idea, croce's philosophy is the most powerful and coherent expression that has ever appeared. it is only by considering the whole of reality as activity, and the values of reality as coinciding with the forms of that activity, that progress acquires a definite meaning: a progress which should be a constant approximation towards a preã«xistent ideal, or a material process external to ourselves, would be a purely illusory one. in one case, our whole life would tend towards making a duplicate of that which already is--a work, therefore, without intrinsic worth, and without a real end; in the other, there would be no work at all, no activity, no life.
but nothing seems more difficult to our mind than to keep together the two ideas of progress and of truth. the natural sciences have made a gallant attempt at assimilating the idea of progress, and at transforming themselves, ultimately, into history. but the static concepts of naturalism resist that assimilation, and scientific evolutionism offers but the mechanical outline, the external processes of progress, the evolved and not the evolving reality; that is, it keeps its truth at the expense of its progress. this same evolutionism, when applied to the human sciences, is obviously unable to grasp the actuality of spiritual growth and life, and it only reproduces, in aggravated form, the evils inherent in all naturalistic interpretations of the spirit. bergson's philosophy is a new evolutionism, which succeeds much better than the old one in retaining the idea of progress, and is, therefore, a further step towards the transformation of science into history; but what it gains in this respect, it loses in relation to its principle of truth, which is mythically represented as the lowest form of consciousness, or rather as that which is below consciousness itself.
what is vital in bergson is his criticism of the scientific, or naturalistic, intellect; but the intellect of man has other functions besides those of dissecting and classifying. from a similar beginning, that is, from the economic theory of science, derives another attempt at conciliating progress and truth, pragmatism. in pragmatism also, the critical element is more or less sound, but the constructive one is weak and arbitrary. pragmatism does not reject the truth of science, because of its practical character; on the contrary, having recognized that the foundation of scientific truth is economic, it proceeds to deduce all truth from the will, and to verify it in action. the result of this deduction is a closer connection between truth and life than has been ever reached by any system of philosophy; but a merely apparent one, since truth itself is thus submerged and annulled in the immediacy of practical and passional life. the solution of the problem of truth is obtained only by putting truth out of the question at the beginning of the inquiry; as it is dear that for a rigid pragmatist, there is but one truth left, and that is the truth of his theory, which, however, cannot be verified by the theory itself, since its usefulness is, to say the least, very doubtful.
truth is the value of the logical activity, and therefore it coincides with the positive history of human thought. its actuality is an infinite progress or development, but not in the sense that the value itself may be subject to increase or change from century to century. at no particular point in that history is it possible to point to a conversion from error to truth, to a total illumination or revelation. every single affirmation of truth, from the simplest and humblest to the most elaborate and complex, takes possession of the whole of reality, in the fulness of its relations; since it is manifestly impossible to affirm the truth of one individual subject, without implicitly determining its position in the universe. truth, as all other values, has no extension; it is incommensurable either with space or with time, it is not augmented by accumulation. degrees in truth, and a more and a less, are inconceivable; but each act that affirms it contains its whole, since truth itself does not live except in the spirit that perpetually creates and recreates it. truth belongs to the thinking mind, that is, to reality as a logical consciousness, as life belongs to the living body. it belongs to us, individually, in relation to that universal consciousness, in the mode and measure of our partaking of it: which means that however much of it we may conquer, however constant, laborious, honest, intense our efforts towards truth may be, yet our duty towards it will always remain infinite, inexhaustible. the conquered truth is dead in the mind that rests in it, that ceases its effort, as life gives place to death in the body that no longer functions.
in a wider sense, truth belongs to every form of spiritual activity. beauty, utility, goodness are the truths of the artistic, the practical, the moral mind. and in the actual life of the spirit, each of these values represents all the others in the particular act in which it realizes itself. this is what croce means by his circular conception of the spirit. and this is why what is said of one value seems to apply without any change to the others; why, as we said elsewhere, all universals are but one universal. whether we call this one progress or development, spirit or reality, mind or nature, we know that our thought is grasping life itself, not in its abstract identity, but in its infinite actuality, that is, each time, this life, this beauty, this action, this truth. what we aim at is not an ecstatic absorption into the undifferentiated unity, but the finding within ourselves of a centre of consciousness, capable of introducing order and reason into the variegated spectacle of the natural and human world, not from outside and from above, but from its very heart. the truth that we seek is therefore never external to ourselves, but our own activity, our own life, our own history.
this concept of truth as activity and as history, this activistic and energetic philosophy, truly positive in that the course of history appears to it as a succession of only positive acts and positive values, is not however a blind and fatuous optimism. if it is true that nowhere positive error or positive evil can interrupt the process of life, that death itself does not end but fulfil it, yet from the relations and implications of the various forms of activity arises a real dialectic of good and evil, of truth and error, which is the spring and motive of life. what to the purely utilitarian conscience is the good of now and of to-day, the same conscience, awakened to a greater light, repudiates as evil. the imaginative vision of the poet, in which truth expresses itself, sensuous and finite, and yet pregnant of its infinity, dissolves like mist in the sun in the clearness of the logical concept, and is then restored in its right by the historical and critical consciousness to which that truth is poetry. the myths and superstitions of the old religions, dead in the letter, are revived in the thought itself that seems to destroy them. history is but this perpetual cycle of death and resurrection, in which what is concrete distinction in the act transforms itself into opposition in the process, producing the terms of a new problem and becoming the source of the new creation. thus the whole method of croce's philosophy reveals itself as directed towards a realistic conception of life, and the distinctions within the concept are not abstract forms, but the very structure of reality.
the professional philosopher moves always and only in the rarefied atmosphere of the pure concept. croce came to philosophy from art and from economics, and he never lost contact with the elementary forms of knowledge and of action. what might be termed as his fundamental discoveries are his definitions of the ã¦sthetic and of the economic principle. on this basis the whole of his thought rests. without a conception of a truth which is sufficient unto itself, and yet is not logical truth, and of a good which has its own justification, and yet is not moral good, he would have been compelled to maintain by the side of the concepts of truth and of goodness, error and evil as positive realities, or to include the whole of reality within what would have been truth and goodness in a purely verbal sense. in both cases, he would have been unable to make his philosophy immediately adherent to all grades of active consciousness, from the lowest to the highest, and thereby to history. of these discoveries the one that until now has attracted the greatest attention is that of the pure intuition, and of art and language as expression. but the establishment of the economic principle, that is of the world of nature, of feeling, of passion, as a positive grade of the spiritual process, will probably be counted as croce's greatest achievement, by those who shall be able to look back on his work with an ampler perspective. it is through it that his philosophy of the spirit, and in this philosophy, the consciousness of our day, has taken possession of that other world, of that persistent transcendance, which we call nature. in this direction lies, undoubtedly, the future course of the thought of an age, to which, in this afterglow of a great conflagration, all problems seem to gather into the one of the subjection to its better and higher self, the utilization for its purer purposes, of its own cumbersome economic body, of its nature and of its passions.
croce's complete works form a collection of twenty-eight volumes, in four distinct series, published by laterza e figli, of bari, who are also the publishers of la critica, and of the following collections initiated or directed by croce: scrittori d'italia, scrittori stranieri, classici della filosofia moderna.
we give here a full list of the opere di benedetto croce, adding to the title of each volume the year of the last available edition, the years of their composition having already been indicated in the text:
filosofia dello spirito ("philosophy of the spirit"):
vol. i, estetica, 1912. (translated under the tide of "ã†sthetic.")
vol. ii, logica, 1917. (translated under the tide of "logic.")
vol. iii, filosofia della pratica, 1915. (translated under the tide of "the philosophy of the practical: economics and ethics.")
vol. iv, teoria e storia della storiografia, 1920. (translated under the tide of "theory and history of historiography" in england, and under the ride of "history: its theory and practice" in the united states.)
saggi filosofici ("philosophical essays"):
vol. i, problemi di estetica, 1910 ("problems of ã†sthetics.")
vol. ii, la filosofia di giambattista fico, 1911. (translated under the title of "the philosophy of vico.")
vol. iii, saggio sullo hegel, 1913. ("essay on hegel," followed by essays on the history of philosophy; the essay on hegel translated under the tide of "what is living and what is dead in the philosophy of hegel.")
vol. iv, materialismo storico ed economia marxistica, 1918. (translated under the title of "historical materialism and marxian economics.")
vol. v, nuovi saggi di estetica, 1920. ("new essays on ã†sthetics"; contains the breviario di estetica, translated under the title of "the essence of ã†sthetics.")
vol. vi, frammenti di etica, 1922. ("fragments of ethics.")
scritti di storia letteraria e politica. ("writings on literary and political history"):
vol. i, saggi sulla letteratura italiana del seicento, 1911. ("essays on italian literature in the seventeenth century.")
vol. ii, la rivoluzione napoletana del 1799, 1912. ("the neapolitan revolution of 1799.")
vols. iii-vi, la letteratura della nuova italia, 1914-15. "(the literature of the new italy.")
vol. vii, i teatri di napoli, 1916. ("the theatres of naples.")
vol. viii, la spagna nella vita italiana durante la rinascenza, 1917. ("spain in italian life during the renaissance.")
vols. ix-x, conversazioni critiche, 1918. ("critical conversations.")
vol. xi, storie e leggende napoletane, 1919. ("historical tales and legends of naples.")
vol. xii, goethe, 1919.
vol. xiii, una famiglia di patrioti, 1919. ("a family of patriots"; includes essays on francesco de sanctis.)
vol. xiv, ariosto, shakespeare e corneille, 1920. (translated under the title of "ariosto, shakespeare, and corneille.")
vols. xv-xvi, storia della storiografia italiana, 1920. ("the history of italian historiography.")
vol. xvii, la poesia di dante, 1921. ("the poetry of dante.")
scritti varii. ("miscellaneous writings"):
vol. i, primi saggi, 1919. ("early essays.")
the following volumes are not included in the laterza edition of croce's works:
cultura e vita morale, bari, 1914. ("culture and moral life.") aneddoti e profili settecenteschi, palermo, 1914. ("anecdotes and profiles of the eighteenth century.")
contributo alla critica di me stesso, naples, 1918. ("contribution to a criticism of myself"; one hundred copies printed for private distribution.)
curiositã  storiche, naples, 1920. ("historical curiosities.")
pagine sparse, edited by g. castellano, naples, 1919-1920. ("scattered pages," consisting of pagine di letteratura e di cultura, 2 vols.; pagine sulla guerra; and memorie, scritti biografici e appunti storici.)
a complete bibliography, cataloguing the whole of croce's multifarious activity, is outside the scope of this note. the nearest approach to it can be found in g. castellano's introduzione alle opere di b. croce, bari, 1920, which contains, besides, a full list of translations in eight languages, a bibliography of the italian and foreign critical literature on croce, and a very useful series of abstracts of discussions and judgments on croce's work.
besides articles and essays in american and english magazines and reviews, the following works of croce have been translated into english: the four volumes of the filosofia dello spirito, the essay on hegel, the essence of ã†sthetics, and the essays on ariosto, shakespeare, and corneille, by douglas ainslie; the essay on vico, by r. g. collingwood, and the essays on historical materialism, by c. m. meredith. but the english or american student of croce ought to rely as little as possible on translations; the reading of the italian text will be found comparatively easy, on the basis of a good acquaintance with latin or with french. the labour entailed by the surmounting of the first difficulties will be largely repaid by the advantages gained in coming into direct contact with croce's thought, and by the acquisition of at least a reading knowledge of italian.
madame gilbert's cannibal
by bennet copplestone
the lost naval papers the last of the grenvilles jitny and the boys the silent watchers
madame gilbert's cannibal
author of "the lost naval papers," etc.
all rights reserved
printed in the united states of america
madame gilbert's cannibal
madame gilbert's war service ended when austria fell out. she had been in italy busied with those obscure intrigues for the confounding of an enemy which are excused, and dignified, as patriotic propaganda. she is satisfied that on the italian front she, and those who worked with her, really won the war.
the war satisfactorily won, madame gilbert sped home to revel in the first holiday which she had known since august, 1914. she always seems to travel with fewer restrictions and at greater speed than any except prime ministers and commanding generals. in italy she is an italian and in france a frenchwoman--a dazzling italian and a very winning frenchwoman. the police of both countries make smooth her path with their humble bodies upon which madame is graciously pleased to trample. "i never trouble much about passports or credentials," says she, "though i carry them just as i do my .25 automatic pistol; in practice i find that i need draw my papers as rarely as i draw my gun. most of the police and officials who have seen me once know me when i come again, and rush to my assistance." she is never grateful for service. i do not believe she knows the sentiment of gratitude. a poor man renders her aid in defiance of regulations, and maybe at the risk of his neck; she smiles upon him, and the debt is instantly discharged. he is dismissed until perchance madame may again have occasion for his devotion. then she reveals the royal accomplishment of never forgetting a face. imagine a harassed, weary chef du train, before whose official unseeing eyes travellers flit like figures on a cinema screen, imagine such a one addressed by name and rank by the most beautiful and gracious of mortal women, by a woman who remembers all those little family confidences which he had poured into her sympathetic ears some twelve months before, by a woman who enquires sweetly after his good wife--using her pet name--laments that the brave son--also accurately named--is still missing beyond those impenetrable boche lines. will not the chef du train, cooed over thus and softly patted as one pats butter, break every french rule the most iron-bound to speed madame upon her way? of course he will. in war time, as in peace time, that is the royal manner of madame gilbert. she does not travel; she makes a progress.
madame came home after the armistice with austria, and, being discharged of liability to the propagandist headquarters, found herself a free and idle woman. the first time for more than four years.
she had a little money from her late husband (the real one), and had been lavishly paid for her services during the war. war prices in london seemed quite moderate to her after the extortions of france and italy. she re-occupied her old rooms near shaftesbury avenue--and incidentally made homeless a pair of exiled belgians--and fed after the fashion that she loved in the restaurants of soho. madame enjoyed her food. she always scoffed at beauty specialists. "look at me," she would say. "look closely at my skin, at my hair, at my teeth if you like. what you see is god's gift improved by exact care for my health. i do physical exercises for twenty minutes every night and morning. i plunge all over into cold water whenever i can get together enough to cover me, and i eat and drink whatever i like. i shall go on living for just as long as i am beautiful and healthy. when i have to think of my digestion or of the colour of my skin, i shall say good-bye and go west in a dream of morphia." superficially, madame is a roman catholic; at heart she is a greek pagan.
it was at la grande patisserie belge that madame stumbled across the lawyer who was fated to introduce her to the cannibal of whom she told me in whitehall.
it was a melancholy afternoon in january, peace had not brought plenty--especially of coal--and madame was fortifying herself against the damp chills of london by long draughts of the hottest coffee and the sweetest and stickiest confectionery which even she could relish. about six feet distant, on what one may describe as her port quarter, sat a middle-aged englishman whose bagging clothes showed that war rations had dealt sorely with his once ample person. madame, who without turning her head examined him in critical detail, judged that his loss in weight was three stone. he had the clean, shaven face and alert aspect of a lawyer or doctor. in fancied security a little to the left and rear of madame gilbert the stranger stared openly at her cheek and ear and the coils of bright copper hair. madame knew that he was watching her, and rather liked the scrutiny. she had recognized him at once, and would have been slightly humiliated if he had failed to be interested in her. it is true that she had met him but once before in her life, and that some four years since, but as madame had condescended to recollect him--i have said that her memory for faces was royal--a failure on his part to remember her would have been an offence unpardonable.
madame continued to munch sweet stuff, and the man, his tea completed, rose, paid his bill, and then passed slowly in front of her. he needed encouragement before he would speak. so madame gave it, a quick look and a smile of invitation. he bowed.
"have i not the honour to meet again the signora guilberti?" said he.
"the signora guilberti," assented madame, "or madame guilbert, or madame gilbert, as rendered by the rough english tongue. i have stooped to anglicise my name," she went on, "though i hate the clipped english version." she indicated a chair, and the lawyer--he was a lawyer--sat down.
"is it possible that madame honours me with remembrance?"
"let me place you," said she, happy in the display of her accomplishments, "and don't seek to guide my memory. it was in the spring of 1915, at a reception in the garden of devonshire house. you were in attendance upon her majesty the queen-mother of portugal. there were present representatives of the italian red cross, for italy, the land of my late husband, had ranged herself with the allies. you are a lawyer of the haute noblesse. your clients are peers and princes, of old princes in exile and of new peers in possession. i recall you most distinctly, though at that time, my poor friend, you were not a little portly, and now you are a man shrunken."
"and my name?" he asked, flattered that a beautiful woman should recall him so distinctly.
"it is a strange name--gatepath. an old english name redolent of the soil. roger gatepath. your firm bears no prefix of initials and no suffix of company. you call yourselves gatepaths. just gatepaths, as though your status were territorial."
he crowed with pleasure. by an exercise in memory, madame gilbert had tied him to her chariot wheels.
"right!" cried he. "right in every particular. you are the most wonderful of women. for two minutes i spoke with you, and that was nearly four years ago. i was one of a large party, an insignificant lawyer lost in a dazzling company of titles. yet you have remembered."
madame left the sense of flattery to soak in. she did not spoil the impression that she had made by explaining that she would have remembered a lackey with just the same accuracy.
"and you, madame?" he asked. "have you been all these years doing war work with the italian red cross? the years have passed and left no mark upon your face and figure. i, who comfortably filled out my clothes, am shrunken, yet time and sorrow have spared you."
"nevertheless, i have been pretty hard at work," said madame briskly. "i was present at that party ostensibly as an official of the italian red cross. in fact i was there to see that no harm befell the royal personages who were in my charge. while we moved about those pleasant grounds, chatting and sipping tea, i was watching, watching. and my hand was never far from the butt of the webley automatic which, slung from my waist, was hidden in a bag of silk."
"heavens!" he cried out. "you are...."
"hush," interposed madame. "a lawyer and a gatepath should be more discreet. the war is over, and i can tell you now that i fought every minute of it in the secret service, the civil branch. i was the head woman, the bright particular star, in dawson's secret corps."
"is it discreet to tell me this?" he asked, countering her reproof of a moment earlier.
she smiled rather wickedly. "are you not a lawyer and a gatepath? and can one not tell anything to a lawyer and a gatepath? besides, i have sent in my resignation, and am now a free woman. it has been a good time, a very good time. i have fought devils and mastered devils in england and france and italy for four long years, and now i would rest. you say that time and sorrow have spared me. yet i have known both time and sorrow. have i not lost...."
he broke into a babble of apologies. "i did not know.... i did not realise...."
she waved a hand, and he fell silent. "i do not wear the trappings of woe, for though i am eternally widowed, i glory in my loss. it was in the rearguard at caporetto, when all less gallant souls had fled, that my guilberti fell."
of course from that moment gatepath was her slave. she had flattered him and humbugged him as she flattered and humbugged all of us. madame had no designs against gatepath, yet she could not forbear to triumph over him. "one never knows," she said, "when one may need a devoted friend, and need him badly. i always look forward."
two or three weeks later madame found a letter at her club signed "gatepaths." it was the club in dover street with those steep steps down which the members tumble helplessly in frosty weather. madame calls it "the club of falling women."
it appears that gatepath, hunting for an adviser of ripe wisdom, had sought out the chief of dawson and lately of madame, and laid bare his pressing troubles. the chief is one of those rare men to whom all his friends, and they are as the stars in number, go seeking counsel in their crimes and follies. nothing shocks him, nothing surprises him. and from the depths of his wise, humorous, sympathetic mind, he will almost always draw waters of comfort. suppose, for example, one had slain a man and urgently sought to dispose of the corpse--a not uncommon problem in crowded cities--to whom could one more profitably turn than to the chief of his majesty's detective service? or if, in a passing fit of absence of mind, one had wedded three wives, and the junior in rank began to suspect the existence of one or more seniors; do we not all suffer from lapses of memory? one does not put these problems before the chief as one's own--there is a decent convention in these matters--but, of course, he knows. to know all is to pardon all, and there is very little that the chief does not know about you or me.
the family solicitor of peers and princes poured into the chief's ear the fantastic cause of his present distresses. he delivered himself of the story in all seriousness, for it was dreadfully serious to him. never in all his experience, and in that of his century-old firm, had anything so dreadfully serious occurred. the chief controlled himself until the end was reached, and then exploded in a yell of laughter.
"it is nothing to laugh at," grumbled gatepath.
"not for you, perhaps. but to my mind the situation is gorgeous. has this man the legal right of succession?"
"beyond a doubt," groaned gatepath. "his father saw to that."
"then why not leave matters to take their legal course?" asked the chief, still laughing. "the house of lords will be the better for a shock. they are a dull lot. and your lively friend will administer the shock all right."
roger gatepath spread out his hands in agony. "but it is one of the oldest peerages in the country, as old almost as the barony of arundel. can't you see how frightful it will be for the family if this--this person--is allowed to succeed?"
"there is no question of allowing him. if he is the legal heir he must succeed. the family must just put him in their pipe and smoke him. what else can they do?"
"i thought that you, with all your experience of the south, might suggest something. would it not be possible to buy the man off--or might he not----"
"how can you buy him off when he is the heir? you people are nothing but trustees, who must account to him for every penny. if he claims the peerage and estates, you must accept him. you admit that legally he is the heir. i can see what is in your mind, but it won't do, gatepath, it won't do. if you try any hanky-panky, that pretty neck of yours will find itself in a hempen collar. now if it was only a case for judicious kidnapping----"
gatepath looked around anxiously. the men were alone in a recess of the club smoking-room. "yes," he whispered eagerly. "yes, go on."
"i shall not do anything of the sort. you are a nice sort of family solicitor, gatepath. apart from the personal danger of playing tricks, can't you see that your interest lies with the bouncing heir, not with the snuffy old family? don't be an ass. bring him home, give the house of lords the sensation of their placid lives, and let the good old british public enjoy a week of laughter. how they will bellow with joy. and the newspapers! i can see, gatepath, that your agreeable young heir is going to be the success of the season."
"you are not very helpful," groaned gatepath. "there must be a solution; there must be some way of shielding the family from this frightful humiliation."
the interview with the chief was a complete failure, and gatepath parted from his old friend both hurt and angry. he had not expected ribald laughter in so grave a social crisis. the chief must be a radical, a socialist, even a bolshevik, one empty of all decent political principles.
it was on his way home that gatepath bethought him of madame gilbert. she, that beautiful, loyal-hearted woman, would not laugh. he remembered the glitter of unshed tears in the violet eyes when she had bade him farewell. it was his tactless hand upon the open wound of caporetto which had aroused those tears. he remembered also that madame was free, and that she had been trained to do the ruthless, unscrupulous work of the secret service. she did not look either ruthless or unscrupulous, and it was in a strictly professional sense that gatepath connected her will trade them with the sinaketans. thus the hosts from the kula community act as intermediaries in any trading relations between the sinaketans and the inhabitants of more remote districts.
to sum up the sociology of these transactions, we may say that the visitor enters into a threefold relation with the dobuan natives. first, there is his partner, with whom he exchanges general gifts on the basis of free give and take, a type of transaction, running side by side with the kula proper. then there is the local resident, not his personal kula partner, with whom he carries on gimwali. finally there is the stranger with whom an indirect exchange is carried on through the intermediation of the local men. with all this, it must not be imagined that the commercial aspect of the gathering is at all conspicuous. the concourse of the natives is great, mainly owing to their curiosity, to see the ceremonial reception of the uvalaku party. but if i say that every visitor from boyowa, brings and carries away about half-a-dozen articles, i do not under-state the case. some of these articles the sinaketan has acquired in the industrial districts of boyowa during his preliminary trading expedition (see chapter vi, division iii). on these he scores a definite gain. a few samples of the prices paid in boyowa and those received in dobu will indicate the amount of this gain.
this table shows in its second column the prices paid by the sinaketans to the industrial villages of kuboma, a district in the northern trobriands. in the third column what they receive in dobu is recorded. the table has been obtained from a sinaketan informant, and it probably is far from accurate, and the transactions are sure to vary greatly in the gain which they afford. there is no doubt, however, that for each article, the sinaketan would ask the price which he paid for them as well as some extra article.
thus we see that there is in this transaction a definite gain obtained by the middlemen. the natives of sinaketa act as intermediaries between the industrial centres of the trobriands and dobu, whereas their hosts play the same rôle between the sinaketans and the men from the outlying districts.
besides trading and obtaining of kula valuables, the natives of sinaketa visit their friends and their distant relatives, who, as we saw before, are to be found in this district owing to migrations. the visitors walk across the flat, fertile plain from one hamlet to the other, enjoying some of the marvellous and unknown sights of this district. they are shown the hot springs of numanuma and of deyde'i, which are in constant eruption. every few minutes, the water boils up in one spring after another of each group, throwing up jets of spray a few metres high. the plain around these springs is barren, with nothing but here and there a stunted kind of eucalyptus tree. this is the only place in the whole of eastern new guinea where as far as i know, eucalyptus trees are to be found. this was at least the information of some intelligent natives, in whose company i visited the springs, and who had travelled all over the eastern islands and the east end of the mainland.
the land-locked bays and lagoons, the northern end of dawson strait, enclosed like a lake by mountains and volcanic cones, all this must also appear strange and beautiful to the trobrianders. in the villages, they are entertained by their male friends, the language spoken by both parties being that of dobu, which differs completely from kiriwinian, but which the sinaketans learn in early youth. it is remarkable that no one in dobu speaks kiriwinian.
as said above, no sexual relations of any description take place between the visitors and the women of dobu. as one of the informants told me:
"we do not sleep with women of dobu, for dobu is the final mountain (koyaviguna dobu); it is a taboo of the mwasila magic."
but when i enquired, whether the results of breaking this taboo would be baneful to their success in kula only, the reply was that they were afraid of breaking it, and that it was ordained of old (tokunabogwo ayguri) that no man should interfere with the women of dobu. as a matter of fact, the sinaketans are altogether afraid of the dobuans, and they would take good care not to offend them in any way.
after some three or four days' sojourn in dobu, the sinaketan fleet starts on its return journey. there is no special ceremony of farewell. in the early morning, they receive their talo'i (farewell gifts) of food, betel-nut, objects of use and sometimes also a kula valuable is enclosed amongst the the talo'i. heavily laden as they are, they lighten their canoes by means of a magic called kaylupa, and sail away northwards once more.
the journey home--the fishing and working of the kaloma shell
the return journey of the sinaketan fleet is made by following exactly the same route as the one by which they came to dobu. in each inhabited island, in every village, where a halt had previously been made, they stop again, for a day or a few hours. in the hamlets of sanaroa, in tewara and in the amphletts, the partners are revisited. some kula valuables are received on the way back, and all the talo'i gifts from those intermediate partners are also collected on the return journey. in each of these villages people are eager to hear about the reception which the uvalaku party have received in dobu; the yield in valuables is discussed, and comparisons are drawn between the present occasion and previous records.
no magic is performed now, no ceremonial takes place, and there would be very little indeed to say about the return journey but for two important incidents; the fishing for spondylus shell (kaloma) in sanaroa lagoon, and the display and comparison of the yield of kula valuables on muwa beach.
the natives of sinaketa, as we have seen in the last chapter, acquire a certain amount of the koya produce by means of trade. there are, however, certain articles, useful yet unobtainable in the trobriands, and freely accessible in the koya, and to these the trobrianders help themselves. the glassy forms of lava, known as obsidian, can be found in great quantities over the slopes of the hills in sanaroa and dobu. this article, in olden days, served the trobrianders as material for razors, scrapers, and sharp, delicate, cutting instruments. pumice-stone abounding in this district is collected and carried to the trobriands, where it is used for polishing. red ochre is also procured there by the visitors, and so are the hard, basaltic stones (binabina) used for hammering and pounding and for magical purposes. finally, very fine silica sand, called maya, is collected on some of the beaches, and imported into the trobriands, where it is used for polishing stone blades, of the kind which serve as tokens of value and which are manufactured up to the present day.
but by far the most important of the articles which the trobrianders collect for themselves are the spondylus shells. these are freely, though by no means easily, accessible in the coral outcrops of sanaroa lagoon. it is from this shell that the small circular perforated discs (kaloma) are made, out of which the necklaces of the kula are composed, and which also serve for ornamenting almost all the articles of value or of artistic finish which are used within the kula district. but, only in two localities within the district are these discs manufactured, in sinaketa and in vakuta, both villages in southern boyowa. the shell can be found also in the trobriand lagoon, facing these two villages. but the specimens found in sanaroa are much better in colour, and i think more easily procured. the fishing in this latter locality, however, is done by the sinaketans only.
whether the fishing is done in their own lagoon, near an uninhabited island called nanoula, or in sanaroa, it is always a big, ceremonial affair, in which the whole community takes part in a body. the magic, or at least part of it, is done for the whole community by the magician of the kaloma (towosina kaloma), who also fixes the dates, and conducts the ceremonial part of the proceedings. as the spondylus shell furnishes one of the essential episodes of a kula expedition, a detailed account both of fishing and of manufacturing must be here given. the native name, kaloma (in the southern massim districts the word sapi-sapi is used) describes both the shell and the manufactured discs. the shell is the large spondylus shell, containing a crystalline layer of a red colour, varying from dirty brick-red to a soft, raspberry pink, the latter being by far the most prized. it lives in the cavities of coral outcrop, scattered among shallow mud-bottomed lagoons.
this myth presents certain remarkable characteristics. i shall not enter into its sociology, though it differs in that respect from the kiriwinian myths, in which the equality of the sinaketan and the gumilababan chiefs with those of omarakana is not acknowledged. it is characteristic that the malasi woman in this myth shows an aversion to the dog, the totem animal of the lukuba clan, a clan which according to mythical and historical data had to recede before and yield its priority to the malasi (compare chapter xii, division iv). another detail of interest is that she brings the kaloma on their sticks, as they appear in the final stage of manufacturing. in this form, also, she tries to plant them on the reef. the finished kaloma, however, to use the words of one of my informants, "looked at her, the water swinging it to and fro; flashing its red eyes." and the woman, seeing it, pulls out the too accessible and too inviting kaloma and scatters them over the deep sea. thus she makes them inaccessible to the uninitiated inland villagers, and monopolises them for sinaketa. there can be no doubt that the villages of vakuta have learnt this industry from the sinaketans. the myth is hardly known in vakuta, only a few are experts in diving and manufacturing; there is a tradition about a late transference of this industry there; finally the vakutans have never fished for kaloma in the sanaroa lagoon.
now let us describe the technicalities and the ceremonial connected with the fishing for kaloma. it will be better to give an account of how this is done in the lagoon of sinaketa, round the sandbank of nanoula, as this is the normal and typical form of kaloma fishing. moreover, when the sinaketans do it in sanaroa, the proceedings are very much the same, with just one or two phases missed out.
the office of magician of the kaloma (towosina kaloma) is hereditary in two sub-clans, belonging to the malasi clan, and one of them is that of the main chief of kasi'etana. after the monsoon season is over, that is, some time in march or april, ogibukuvi (i.e., in the season of the new yams) the magician gives the order for preparations. the community give him a gift called sousula, one or two bringing a vaygu'a, the rest supplying gugu'a (ordinary chattels), and some food. then they prepare the canoes, and get ready the binabina stones, with which the spondylus shell will be knocked off the reef.
next day, in the morning, the magician performs a rite called 'kaykwa'una la'i,' 'the attracting of the reef,' for, as in the case of several other marine beings, the main seat of the kaloma is far away. its dwelling place is the reef ketabu, somewhere between sanaroa and dobu. in order to make it move and come towards nanoula, it is necessary to recite the above-named spell. this is done by the magician as he walks up and down on the sinaketa beach and casts his words into the open, over the sea, towards the distant seat of the kaloma. the kaloma then 'stand up' (itolise) that is start from their original coral outcrop (vatu) and come into the lagoon of sinaketa. this spell, i obtained from to'udavada, the present chief of kasi'etana, and descendant of the original giver of this shell, the woman of the myth. it begins with a long list of ancestral names; then follows a boastful picture of how the whole fleet admires the magical success of the magician's spell. the key-word in the main part is the word 'itolo': 'it stands up,' i.e., 'it starts,' and with this, there are enumerated all the various classes of the kaloma shell, differentiated according to size, colour and quality. it ends up with another boast; "my canoe is overloaded with shell so that it sinks," which is repeated with varying phraseology.
this spell the magician may utter once only, or he may repeat it several times on successive days. he fixes then the final date for the fishing expedition. on the evening before that date, the men perform some private magic, every one in his own house. the hammering stone, the gabila, which is always a binabina (it is a stone imported from the koya), is charmed over. as a rule it is put on a piece of dried banana leaf with some red hibiscus blossoms and leaves or flowers of red colour. a formula is uttered over it, and the whole is then wrapped up in the banana leaf and kept there until it is used. this will make the stone a lucky one in hitting off many shells, and it will make the shells very red.
another rite of private magic consists in charming a large mussel shell, with which, on the next morning, the body of the canoe will be scraped. this makes the sea clear, so that the diver may easily see and frequently find his spondylus shells.
next morning the whole fleet starts on the expedition. some food has been taken into the canoes, as the fishing usually lasts for a few days, the nights being spent on the beach of nanoula. when the canoes arrive at a certain point, about half-way between sinaketa and nanoula, they all range themselves in a row. the canoe of the magician is at the right flank, and he medicates a bunch of red hibiscus flowers, some red croton leaves, and the leaves of the red-blossomed mangrove--red coloured substances being used to make the shell red, magically. then, passing in front of all the other canoes, he rubs their prows with the bundle of leaves. after that, the canoes at both ends of the row begin to punt along, the row evolving into a circle, through which presently the canoe of the magician passes, punting along its diameter. at this place in the lagoon, there is a small vatu (coral outcrop) called vitukwayla'i. this is called the vatu of the baloma (spirits). at this vatu the magician's canoe stops, and he orders some of its crew to dive down and here to begin the gathering of shells.
some more private magic is performed later on by each canoe on its own account. the anchor stone is charmed with some red hibiscus flowers, in order to make the spondylus shell red. there is another private magic called 'sweeping of the sea,' which, like the magic of the mussel shell, mentioned above, makes the sea clear and transparent. finally, there is an evil magic called 'besprinkling with salt water.' if a man does it over the others, he will annul the effects of their magic, and frustrate their efforts, while he himself would arouse astonishment and suspicion by the amount of shell collected. such a man would dive down into the water, take some brine into his mouth, and emerging, spray it towards the other canoes, while he utters the evil charm.
so much for the magic and the ceremonial associated with the spondylus fishing in the trobriand lagoon. in sanaroa, exactly the same proceedings take place, except that there is no attracting of the reef, probably because they are already at the original seat of the kaloma. again i was told that some of the private magic would be performed in sinaketa before the fleet sailed on the kula expedition. the objects medicated would be then kept, well wrapped in dried leaves.
it may be added that neither in the one lagoon nor in the other are there any private, proprietary rights to coral outcrops. the whole community of sinaketa have their fishing grounds in the lagoon, within which every man may hunt for his spondylus shell, and catch his fish at times. if the other spondylus fishing community, the vakutans, encroached upon their grounds, there would be trouble, and in olden days, fighting. private ownership in coral outcrops exists in the northern villages of the lagoon, that is in kavataria, and the villages on the island of kayleula.
account of the kaloma making
this narrative, like many pieces of native information, needs certain corrections of perspective. in the first place, events here succeed one another with a rapidity quite foreign to the extremely leisurely way in which natives usually accomplish such a lengthy process as the making of a katudababile. the amount of food which, in the usual manner, is enumerated over and over again in this narrative would probably not be exaggerated, for--such is native economy--a man who makes a necklace to order would get about twice as much or even more for it than it would fetch in any other transaction. on the other hand, it must be remembered that what is represented here as the final payment, the karibudaboda, is nothing else but the normal filling up of the yam house, always done by a man's relations-in-law. none the less, in a year in which a katudababile would be made, the ordinary yearly harvest gift would be styled the 'karibudaboda payment for the necklace.' the giving of the necklace to the wife, who afterwards carries it to her brother or kinsman, is also characteristic of the relation between relatives-in-law.
in sinaketa and vakuta only the necklaces made of bigger shell and tapering towards the end are made. the real kula article, in which the discs are much thinner, smaller in diameter and even in size from one end of the necklace to the other, these were introduced into the kula at other points, and i shall speak about this subject in one of the following chapters (chapter xxi), where the other branches of the kula are described.
after this is over, they return to the village. each canoe blows its conch shell, a blast for each valuable that it contains. when a canoe has obtained no vaygu'a at all, this means great shame and distress for its members, and especially for the toliwaga. such a canoe is said to bisikureya, which means literally 'to keep a fast.'
on the beach all the villagers are astir. the women, who have put on their new grass petticoats (sevata'i) specially made for this occasion, enter the water and approach the canoes to unload them. no special greetings pass between them and their husbands. they are interested in the food brought from dobu, more especially in the sago.
people from other villages assemble also in great numbers to greet the incoming party. those who have supplied their friends or relatives with provisions for their journey, receive now sago, betel-nuts and coco-nuts in repayment. some of the welcoming crowd have come in order to make kula. even from the distant districts of luba and kiriwina natives will travel to sinaketa, having a fair idea of the date of the arrival of the kula party from dobu. the expedition will be talked over, the yield counted, the recent history of the important valuables described. but this stage leads us already into the subject of inland kula, which will form the subject of one of the following chapters.
the return visit of the dobuans to sinaketa
in the twelve preceding chapters, we have followed an expedition from sinaketa to dobu. but branching off at almost every step from its straight track, we studied the various associated institutions and underlying beliefs; we quoted magical formulæ, and told mythical stories, and thus we broke up the continuous thread of the narrative. in this chapter, as we are already acquainted with the customs, beliefs and institutions implied in the kula, we are ready to follow a straight and consecutive tale of an expedition in the inverse direction, from dobu to sinaketa.
as i have seen, indeed followed, a big uvalaku expedition from the south to the trobriands, i shall be able to give some of the scenes from direct impression, and not from reconstruction. such a reconstruction for one who has seen much of the natives' tribal life and has a good grip over intelligent informants is neither very difficult nor need it be fanciful at all. indeed, towards the end of my second visit, i had several times opportunities to check such a reconstruction by witnessing the actual occurrence, for after my first year's stay in the trobriands i had written out already some of my material. as a rule, even in minute details, my reconstructions hardly differed from reality, as the tests have shown. none the less, it is possible for an ethnographer to enter into concrete details with more conviction when he describes things actually seen.
in september, 1917, an uvalaku expedition was led by kouta'uya from sinaketa to dobu. the vakutans joining them on the way, and the canoes of the amphletts following them also, some forty canoes finally arrived at the western shore of dawson straits. it was arranged then and there that a return expedition from that district should visit sinaketa in about six months' time. kauyaporu, the esa'esa (headman) of kesora'i hamlet in the village of bwayowa, had a pig with circular tusks. he decided therefore to arrange an uvalaku expedition, at the beginning of which the pig was to be killed and feasted upon and its tusks turned into ornaments.
when, in november, 1917, i passed through the district, the preparing of the canoes was already afoot. all of those, which still could be repaired, had been taken to pieces and were being relashed, recaulked and repainted. in some hamlets, new dug-outs were being scooped. after a few months stay in the trobriands, i went south again in march, 1918, intending to spend some time in the amphletts. landing there is always difficult, as there are no anchorages near the shore, and it is quite impossible to disembark in rough weather at night. i arrived late in a small cutter, and had to cruise between gumasila and domdom, intending to wait till daybreak and then effect a landing. in the middle of the night, however, a violent north-westerly squall came down, and making a split in the main-sail, forced us to run before the wind, southwards towards dobu. it was on this night that the native boys employed in the boat, saw the mulukwausi flaming up at the head of the mast. the wind dropped before daybreak, and we entered the lagoon of sanaroa, in order to repair the sail. during the three days we stopped there, i roamed over the country, climbing its volcanic cones, paddling up the creeks and visiting the villages scattered on the coral plain. everywhere i saw signs of the approaching departure for boyowa; the natives preparing their canoes on the beach to be loaded, collecting food in the gardens and making sago in the jungle. at the head of one of the creeks, in the midst of a sago swamp, there was a long, low shelter which serves as a dwelling to dobuan natives from the main island when they come to gather sago. this swamp was said to be reserved to a certain community of tu'utauna.
the pulp was then carried in baskets to a neighbouring stream. at this spot there was a natural trough, one of the big, convex scales, which form the basis of the sago leaf. in the middle of it, a sieve was made of a piece of coco-nut spathing, a fibre which covers the root of a coco-nut leaf, and looks at first sight exactly like a piece of roughly woven material. water was directed so that it flowed into the trough at its broad end, coming out at the narrow one. the sago pulp was put at the top, the water carried away with it the powdered sago starch, while the wooden, husky fibres were retained by the sieve. the starch was then carried with the water into a big wooden canoe-shaped trough; there the heavier starch settled down, while the water welled over the brim. when there is plenty of starch, the water is drained off carefully and the starch is placed into another of the trough-shaped, sago leaf bases, where it is allowed to dry. in such receptacles it is then carried on a trading expedition, and is thus counted as one unit of sago.
i watched the proceedings for a long time with great interest. there is something fascinating about the big, antideluvian-looking sago palm, so malignant and unapproachable in its unhealthy, prickly swamp, being turned by man into food by such simple and direct methods. the sago produced and eaten by the natives is a tough, starchy stuff, of dirty white colour, very unpalatable. it has the consistency of rubber, and the taste of very poor, unleavened bread. it is not clear, like the article which is sold under the name of sago in our groceries, but is mealy, tough, and almost elastic. the natives consider it a great delicacy, and bake it into little cakes, or boil it into dumplings.
the main fleet of the dobuans started some time in the second half of march from their villages, and went first to the beach of sarubwoyna, where they held a ceremonial distribution of food, eguya'i, as it is called in dobu. then, offering the pokala to aturamo'a and atu'a'ine, they sailed by way of sanaroa and tewara, passing the tabooed rock of gurewaya to the amphletts. the wind was light and changeable, weak s.w. breezes prevailing. the progress of this stage of the journey must have been very slow. the natives must have spent a few nights on the intermediate islands and sandbanks, a few canoes' crews camping at one spot.
at that time i had already succeeded in reaching the amphletts, and had been busy for two or three weeks doing ethnographic work, though not very successfully; for, as i have already once or twice remarked, the natives here are very bad informants. i knew of course that the dobuan fleet was soon to come, but as my experience had taught me to mistrust native time-tables and fixtures of date, i did not expect them to be punctual. in this, however, i was mistaken. on a kula expedition, when the dates are once fixed, the natives make real and strenuous efforts to keep to them. in the amphletts the people were busy preparing for the expedition, because they had the intention of joining the dobuans and proceeding with them to the trobriands. a few canoes went to the mainland to fetch sago, pots were being mustered and made ready for stowing away, canoes were overhauled. when the small expedition returned from the mainland with sago, after a week or so, a sagali (in amphlettan: madare), that is, a ceremonial distribution of food was held on the neighbouring island, nabwageta.
my arrival was a very untoward event to the natives, and complicated matters, causing great annoyance to tovasana, the main headman. i had landed in his own little village, nu'agasi, on the island of gumasila, for it was impossible to anchor near the big village, nor would there have been room for pitching a tent. now, in the amphletts, a white man is an exceedingly rare occurrence, and to my knowledge, only once before, a white trader remained there for a few weeks. to leave me alone with the women and one or two old men was impossible, according to their ideas and fears, and none of the younger men wanted to forgo the privilege and pleasure of taking part in the expedition. at last, i promised them to move to the neighbouring island of nabwageta, as soon as the men were gone, and with this they were satisfied.
as the date fixed for the arrival of the dobuans approached, the excitement grew. little by little the news arrived, and was eagerly received and conveyed to me: "some sixty canoes of the dobuans are coming," "the fleet is anchored off tewara," "each canoe is heavily laden with food and gifts," "kauyaporu sails in his canoe, he is toli'uvalaku, and has a big pandanus streamer attached to the prow." a string of other names followed which had very little meaning for me, since i was not acquainted with the dobuan natives. from another part of the world, from the trobriands, the goal of the whole expedition, news reached us again: "to'uluwa, the chief of kiriwina has gone to kitava--he will soon come back, bringing plenty of mwali." "the sinaketans are going there to fetch some of the mwali." "the vakutans have been in kitava and brought back great numbers of mwali." it was astonishing to hear all this news, arriving at a small island, apparently completely isolated with its tiny population, within these savage and little navigated seas; news only a few days old, yet reporting events which had occurred at a travelling distance of some hundred miles.
it was interesting to follow up the way it had come. the earlier news about the dobuans had been brought by the canoes, which had fetched the sago to gumasila from the main island. a few days later, a canoe from one of the main island villages had arrived here, and on its way had passed the dobuans in tewara. the news from the trobriands in the north had been brought by the kuyawa canoe which had arrived a couple of days before in nabwageta (and whose visit to nu'agasi i have described in chapter xi). all these movements were not accidental, but connected with the uvalaku expedition. to show the complexity, as well as the precise timing of the various movements and events, so perfectly synchronised over a vast area, in connection with the uvalaku, i have tabulated them in the chart, facing this page, in which almost all the dates are quite exact, being based on my own observations. this chart also gives a clear, synoptic picture of an uvalaku, and it will be useful to refer to it, in reading this chapter.
in olden days, not less than now, there must have been an ebullition in the inter-tribal relations, and a great stirring from one place to another, whenever an uvalaku kula was afoot. thus, news would be carried rapidly over great distances, the movements of the vast numbers of natives would be co-ordinated, and dates fixed. as has been said already, a culminating event of an expedition, in this case the arrival of the dobuan fleet in sinaketa, would be always so timed as to happen on, or just before, a full moon, and this would serve as a general orientation for the preliminary movements, such as in this case, the visits of the single canoes.
the previous uvalaku
the arrival of the dobuans in boyowa
indeed, from that moment, the events on and about the amphlett islands moved rapidly. the day after the visit from the kuyawan canoes, the canoes of the main village of gumasila sailed off to the trobriands, starting therefore a few days ahead of the dobuan uvalaku fleet. i rowed over in a dinghy to the big village, and watched the loading and departing of the canoes. there was a bustle in the village, and even a few old women could be seen helping the men in their tasks. the large canoes were being pushed into the water from their supports, on which they were beached. they had been already prepared for the journey there, their platforms covered with plaited palm leaves, frames put in their bottoms to support the cargo, boards placed crossways within the canoe to serve as seats for the crew, the mast, rigging and sail laid handy. the loading, however, begins only after the canoe is in water. the large, trough-shaped chunks of sago were put at the bottom, while men and women carefully brought out the big clay pots, stowing them away with many precautions in special places in the middle (see plate xlvii). then, one after the other, the canoes went off, paddling round the southern end of the island towards the west. at about ten o'clock in the morning, the last canoe disappeared round the promontory, and the village remained practically empty. there was no saying of farewells, not a trace of any emotion on the part of those leaving or those remaining. but it must be remembered that, owing to my presence, no women except one or two old hags, were visible on the shore. all my best informants gone, i intended to move to nabwageta next morning. at sunset, i made a long excursion in my dinghy round the western shores of gumasila, and it was on that occasion that i discovered all those who had left that morning on the kula sitting on giyasila beach, in accordance with the kula custom of a preliminary halt, such as the one on muwa described in chapter vii.
next morning, i left for the neighbouring island and village of nabwageta, and only after he saw me safely off, tovasana and his party left in his canoe, following the others to vakuta. in nabwageta, the whole community were in the midst of their final preparations for departure, for they intended to wait for the dobuans and sail with them to kiriwina. all their canoes were being painted and renovated, a sail was being repaired on the beach (see plate liii). there were some minor distributions of food taking place in the village, the stuff being over and over again allotted and re-allotted, smaller pieces carved out of the big chunks and put into special wrappings. this constant handling of food is one of the most prominent features of tribal life in that part of the world. as i arrived, a sail for one of the canoes was just being finished by a group of men. in another canoe, i saw them mending the outrigger by attaching the small log of light, dry wood to make the old, waterlogged float more buoyant. i could also watch in detail the final trimming of the canoes, the putting up of the additional frames, of the coco-nut mats, the making of the little cage in the central part for the pots and for the lilava (the sacred bundle), i was, nevertheless, not on sufficiently intimate terms with these nabwageta natives to be allowed to witness any of the magic. their system of mwasila is identical with that of boyowa, in fact, it is borrowed from there.
next day--in this village again i had difficulty in finding any good informants, a difficulty increased by the feverish occupation of all the men--i went for a long row in the afternoon with my two 'boys,' hoping to reach the island of domdom. a strong current, which in this part is at places so pronounced that it breaks out into steep, tidal waves, made it impossible to reach our goal. returning in the dark, my boys suddenly grew alert and excited, like hounds picking up a scent. i could perceive nothing in the dark, but they had discerned two canoes moving westwards. within about half-an-hour, a fire became visible, twinkling on the beach of a small, deserted island south of domdom; evidently some dobuans were camping there. the excitement and intense interest shown by my boys, one a dobuan, the other from sariba (southern massim), gave me an inkling of the magnitude of this event--the vanguard of a big kula fleet slowly creeping up towards one of its intermediate halting places. it also brought home to me vividly the inter-tribal character of this institution, which unites in one common and strongly emotional interest so many scattered communities. that night, as we learnt afterwards, a good number of canoes had anchored on the outlying deserted islands of the amphletts, waiting for the rest of the fleet to arrive. when we came that evening to nabwageta, the news had already been received of the important event, and the whole village was astir.
next day, the weather was particularly fine and clear, with the distant mountains wreathed only in light cumuli, their alluring outlines designed in transparent blue. early in the afternoon, with a blast of conch shell, a dobuan waga, in full paint and decoration, and with the rich pandanus mat of the sail glowing like gold against the blue sea, came sailing round the promontory. one after the other, at intervals of a few minutes each, other canoes came along, all sailing up to some hundred yards from the beach, and then, after furling the sail, paddling towards the shore (see plate xl). this was not a ceremonial approach, as the aim of the expedition this time did not embrace the amphletts, but was directed towards the trobriands only, vakuta, and sinaketa; these canoes had put in only for an intermediate halt. nevertheless, it was a great event, especially as the canoes of nabwageta were going to join with the fleet later on. out of the sixty or so dobuan canoes, only about twenty-five with some 250 men in them had come to nabwageta, the others having gone to the big village of gumasila. in any case, there were about five times as many men gathered in the village as one usually sees. there was no kula done at all, no conch-shells were blown on the shore, nor do i think were any presents given or received by either party. the men sat in groups round their friends' houses, the most distinguished visitors collected about the dwelling of tobwa'ina, the main headman of nabwageta.
many canoes were anchored along the coast beyond the village beach, some tucked away into small coves, others moored in sheltered shallows. the men sat on the shore round fires, preparing their food, which they took out of the provisions carried on the canoes. only the water did they obtain from the island, filling their coco-nut-made water vessels from the springs. about a dozen canoes were actually moored at the village beach. late at night, i walked along the shore to observe their sleeping arrangements. in the clear, moonlit night, the small fires burnt with a red, subdued glow; there was always one of them between each two sleepers, consisting of three burning sticks, gradually pushed in as they were consumed. the men slept with the big, stiff pandanus mats over them; each mat is folded in the middle, and when put on the ground, forms a kind of miniature prismatic tent. all along the beach, it was almost a continuous row of man alternating with fire, the dun-coloured mats being nearly invisible against the sand in the full moonlight. it must have been a very light sleep for every now and then, a man stirred, peeping up from under his shell, re-adjusting the fire, and casting a searching glance over the surroundings. it would be difficult to say whether mosquitoes or cold wind or fear of sorcery disturbed their sleep most, but i should say the last.
the next morning, early, and without any warning, the whole fleet sailed away. at about 8 o'clock the last canoe punted towards the offing, where they stepped their mast and hoisted their sail. there were no farewell gifts, no conch shell blowing, and the dobuans this time left their resting place as they had come, without ceremony or display. the morning after, the nabwagetans followed them. i was left in the village with a few cripples, the women and one or two men who had remained perhaps to look after the village, perhaps specially to keep watch over me and see that i did no mischief. not one of them was a good informant. through a mistake of mine, i had missed the cutter which had come two days before to the island of gumasila and left without me. with bad luck and bad weather, i might have had to wait a few weeks, if not months in nabwageta. i could perhaps have sailed in a native canoe, but this could only be done without bedding, tent, or even writing outfit and photographic apparatus, and so my travelling would have been quite useless. it was a piece of great good luck that a day or two afterwards, a motor launch, whose owner had heard about my staying in the amphletts, anchored in front of nabwageta village, and within an hour i was speeding towards the trobriands again, following the tracks of the kula fleet.
on the next morning, as we slowly made our way along the channels in the opalescent, green lagoon, and as i watched a fleet of small, local canoes fishing in their muddy waters, and could recognise on the surrounding flat shores a dozen well-known villages, my spirits rose, and i felt well pleased to have left the picturesque, but ethnographically barren amphletts for the trobriands, with their scores of excellent informants.
moreover, the amphletts, in the persons of their male inhabitants were soon to join me here. i went ashore in sinaketa, where everybody was full of the great moment which was soon to arrive. for the dobuan fleet was known to be coming, though on that morning, so far, no news had reached them of its whereabouts. as a matter of fact, the dobuans, who had left nabwageta forty-eight hours ahead of me, had made a slow journey with light winds, and sailing a course to the east of mine, had arrived that morning only in vakuta.
all the rumours which had been reported to me in the amphletts about the previous movements of the trobriand natives had been correct. thus the natives of vakuta had really been to the east, to kitava, and had brought with them a big haul of armshells. to'uluwa, the chief of kiriwina, had visited kitava later, and about five or six days before had returned from there, bringing with him 213 pairs of armshells. the sinaketans then had gone to kiriwina, and out of the 213 pairs had succeeded in securing 154. as there had been previously 150 pairs in sinaketa, a total of 304 was awaiting the dobuans. on the morning of my arrival, the sinaketan party had just returned from kiriwina, hurrying home so as to have everything ready for the reception of the dobuans. of these, we got the news that very afternoon--news which travelled overland from one village to another, and reached us from vakuta with great rapidity. we were also told that the uvalaku fleet would be at sinaketa within two or three days.
this period i utilised in refurbishing my information about that phase of the kula, which i was going to witness, and trying to get a clear outline of every detail of all that was going soon to happen. it is extremely important in sociological work to know well beforehand the underlying rules and the fundamental ideas of an occurrence, especially if big masses of natives are concerned in it. otherwise, the really important events may be obliterated by quite irrelevant and accidental movements of the crowd, and thus the significance of what he sees may be lost to the observer. no doubt if one could repeat one's observations on the same phenomenon over and over again, the essential and relevant features would stand out by their regularity and permanence. if, however, as it often happens in ethnographic field-work, one gets the opportunity only once of witnessing a public ceremony, it is necessary to have its anatomy well dissected beforehand, and then concentrate upon observing how these outlines are followed up concretely, gauge the tone of the general behaviour, the touches of emotion or passion, many small yet significant details which nothing but actual observation can reveal, and which throw much light upon the real, inner relation of the native to his institution. so i was busy going over my old entries and checking them and putting my material into shape in a detailed and concrete manner.
on the third day, as i was sitting and taking notes in the afternoon, word ran all round the villages that the dobuan canoes had been sighted. and indeed, as i hastened towards the shore, there could be seen, far away, like small petals floating on the horizon, the sails of the advancing fleet. i jumped at once into a canoe, and was punted along towards the promontory of kaykuyawa, about a mile to the south of sinaketa. there, one after the other, the dobuan canoes were arriving, dropping their sails and undoing the mast as they moored, until the whole fleet, numbering now over eighty canoes, were assembled before me (see plate xlviii). from each a few men waded ashore, returning with big bunches of leaves. i saw them wash and smear themselves and perform the successive stages of native, festive adornment (see plate xlix). each article was medicated by some man or another in the canoe before it was used or put on. the most carefully handled articles of ornamentation were the ineffective looking, dried up herbs, taken out of their little receptacles, where they had remained since they had been becharmed in dobu, and now stuck into the armlets. the whole thing went on quickly, almost feverishly, making more the impression of a piece of technical business being expeditiously performed, than of a solemn and elaborate ceremony taking place. but the ceremonial element was soon to show itself.
after the preparations were finished, the whole fleet formed itself into a compact body, not quite regular, but with a certain order, about four or five canoes being in a row, and one row behind the other. in this formation they punted along over the lagoon, too shallow for paddling, towards the beach of sinaketa. when they were within about ten minutes of the shore, all the conch shells began to be sounded, and the murmur of recited magic rose from the canoes. i could not come sufficiently near the canoes, for reason of etiquette, to be able to see the exact arrangement of the reciters, but i was told that it was the same as that observed by the trobrianders on their approach to dobu, described in chapter xiii. the general effect was powerful, when this wonderfully painted and fully decorated fleet was gliding swiftly good citizens, as well as the undesirable class, would either attend the hearings or familiarize themselves with the quarterly reports. thus a general steal would be impossible. a single commissioner cannot make all of his business public, and much that he does never reaches the light of publicity. in fact, i believe that because the commissioner cannot take the public into his confidence, abuses are bound to occur. often it remains for the indian rights association, or other organizations, to appeal to the public and do that which the indian office should establish without outside influence. there would be far less incentive to dishonesty, were covetous white men compelled to deal with a commission instead of an individual. the publication of the board’s hearings and findings would have a deterrent effect on certain men who otherwise appeal to senators or congressmen.
i have often contrasted the work of dr. w. t. grenfell in labrador with that of organizations laboring among our indians. we are not responsible for the condition of the fishermen in labrador, and they are numerically but a fraction as compared with our total indian population. yet dr. grenfell, through his lectures and publications has aroused such an interest in this country that he can collect for his labrador work a sum far greater than that expended in support of six indian missions. people are interested in him and his work because of the appeal he makes. the labrador fishermen suffer no wrongs compared with our indians, and their condition is far better than that of the average aborigine. similar publicity given to indian affairs through the reports and hearings of a national commission, would arouse the american people, and a brighter day for the indian would certainly dawn.
no matter what is said, the commissioner must fight alone and single-handed with the members of congress. his is a great responsibility. both mr. leupp and mr. valentine, in conversations with me, have admitted that the chief difficulty in handling the indian problem is found in the word “politics”. the commissioner is dependent on congress for his appropriations. he may be sustained or opposed by members of congress, and the public will remain in ignorance. he may not appeal save to the secretary of the interior. he must keep in mind the wishes of his political party. he will not admit political pressure when in office, but after leaving the service, he may tell his story of trouble with politicians, as mr. leupp has in his book. mr. valentine could enlighten us further on “the indian office in politics”, did he care to speak. a paid national commission would be dominated by no political party. ten years’ service would enable it to become entirely familiar with the needs of the indians, whereas the average commissioner, serving less than three years, barely becomes acquainted with the problem when he is succeeded by a new appointee.
i recommend to the earnest consideration of the american people the commission idea, as the only means of salvation of the american indian. it will be said by critics that many of the tribes are making satisfactory progress and need no commission; that the present organization of the indian office is sufficient. this is partly true, but a study of the table of statistics, and reference to the testimony submitted in this book, establishes the sad fact, that the majority of the indians must lose unless we make a radical change in our policy. it is useless to blind our eyes to hard facts; and these are that we develop a certain area after painstaking labor, and then through unwise acts (or legislation) we destroy the very tracts we have improved.
the indian must ultimately be merged into the body politic, as has been affirmed. but in bringing about this desideratum, it is not necessary to crush all happiness out of his life. for fifty years the indian has followed a devious and uncertain trail, in the fond hope that he might reach his journey’s end. if men and women, who through unintentional ignorance have given no heed to the welfare of our red americans, will interest their representatives in congress, and also help to crystallize public opinion against further harmful legislation, it is quite possible that the national commission plan may be carried into effect. after many years of study of the subject, i firmly believe that the welfare of the indian depends upon the creation of such a commission as has been indicated—one composed not of those interested in political parties, but on the contrary of competent men who understand indians and their needs, of men who are willing to devote the best years of their lives to transforming the rough, uncertain trail along which the indian has toiled, into a broad highway, upon which the red man may safely travel to his ultimate destination—the civilized community. and having reached the end of his journey, the indian will live henceforth peacefully, and enjoy to the full the blessings of liberty, equality and justice.
abbott, f.h., 13, 242, 247, 248, 291, 359, 384, 424.
affidavits, 71, 74, 75, 77, 81, 82, 83, 84, 90, 91.
agricultural lands cultivated, 24, 27, 29, 66.
ah-bow-we-ge-shig, 93, 94.
alaska indians, 283.
allen, edgar a., 13, 204.
allen, c. w., 174.
allen, j. weston, 13, 74, 95, 149, 157, 247, 249, 251, 252.
allotting, 27, 28, 33, 59, 62, 70, 71, 73, 76, 133, 248, 333, 337, 338, 389.
american horse, 125, 128, 184.
andrus, miss caroline w., 13, 209.
anundensen, mr., 77.
apache, 26, 43, 44, 219, 222, 223, 233, 237, 238, 311, 314, 373, 404, 427.
appropriations, 26, 27, 63, 64, 363.
arapaho, 31, 102, 311, 314, 317.
arizona, 219, 221, 222, 223, 225, 233, 235, 237, 241, 242, 250, 265, 282, 291, 373.
armstrong, gen. c. s., 205.
art and industries, 10, 28, 29, 35, 37, 227, 229, 232, 241, 244, 256, 359–366.
ayer, e. e., 13, 31, 36, 40, 41.
bad river reservation, 41, 42.
bannock indians, 253.
ballinger, secretary, 424.
barbour, hon. geo. w., 329.
barnard, kate, 11, 13, 137, 150, 151, 154, 160, 163, 167, 168, 170, 426, 427.
bartlett, george e., 101, 102, 112, 118, 132.
barrett, s. m., 233, 238.
bassett, jim, 58.
bay-bah-dwun-gay-aush, 66, 81, 95, 399.
beaulieu, clement, 55, 91.
beaulieu, gus, 65, 67, 71, 79, 91, 93, 424.
bear, john t., 418.
beum, lawyer, 80.
bibliography, 14, 98, 171, 172, 217, 277, 340.
big foot, 127, 128.
big head, 152.
blackmore, hon. wm., 179.
blue whirlwind, 127.
board of indian commissioners, 36, 68, 69, 149, 224, 240, 288, 291, 326, 327, 332, 336, 340, 417, 431, 432.
boston indian citizenship committee, 74, 149, 247, 249.
brennan, major john r., 13, 100, 105, 342, 418.
bright eyes (susette laflesche), 402.
bristow (senator), 246.
brooke, major john r., 122, 125.
brown, capt. frederick h., 177.
brown, john b., 133, 379.
browning, d. w., 384.
brulé, 99, 401.
budrow, ephraim, 84.
bull head, 123, 124.
burch, judge marsden c., 57, 59, 66, 68, 90.
bureau of catholic missions, 93, 282.
bureau of ethnology, 15, 20, 100, 184, 229, 271.
bureau of indian affairs, 25, 76, 264, 329.
burke, hon. charles h., 137, 155, 428.
california, 28, 33, 70, 174, 213, 219, 241, 253, 267, 270, 274, 282, 283, 291, 297, 325–340.
california indian association, 282, 327, 335, 336, 337.
california indians, 325–340, 372, 375.
canada, 18, 33, 54, 179, 191, 192, 197, 198, 199, 310, 321, 371, 418.
carl, john, 91.
carlisle indian school, 29, 38, 39, 79, 203, 204, 210, 212, 215, 267, 268, 366, 412, 416.
carter code bill, 285.
carrington, col. h. b., 177, 178, 192.
carrier pigeon (journal), 31.
century of dishonor, 94, 183.
chapin, a. r., 125.
cass lake, 45, 47, 51, 57.
cattle, 24, 29, 44, 237, 271, 359, 361.
cherokees, 33, 133, 135, 140, 143, 153, 159, 274, 372, 431.
cheyenne, 31, 102, 178, 185, 253, 254, 286, 308, 311, 314, 317, 318, 372, 380, 400.
chickasaws, 133, 140, 143, 159, 164.
chief joseph, 253, 402.
chilocco indian school, 37, 204, 208.
chilocco school journal, 29.
chippewa (see ojibwa)
chippewa music, 20, 86.
choctaws, 133, 140, 143, 152, 153, 159, 164, 165, 167, 276.
choctaw investment company, 167.
citizenship, indian, 33.
civil service commission, 359.
clapp amendment, 59, 60, 67.
clapp, senator moses e., 67, 68, 93.
cleveland, president, 133.
cochise, 220, 237.
cody, col. wm. f., 199, 301, 303.
comanches, 43, 44, 235, 236, 291, 304, 311, 314.
commissioner of indian affairs, 25, 26, 28, 29, 31, 41, 50, 68, 93, 96, 136, 183, 260, 265, 337, 341, 367, 384, 428, 431, 433.
commissioner of the five civilized tribes, 11, 28, 139, 157.
communistic life, 399, 400.
congressional committees, 49, 185, 193, 194.
correspondents (data), 213, 214, 216, 260–264, 274–277, 387–397.
court of claims, 286.
crazy horse, 184, 402.
creek council, 143.
creeks, 133, 137, 140, 143, 148, 155, 162, 214, 276, 414.
crops, 24, 29.
crow, 26, 174, 190, 191, 253, 254, 294, 308, 380, 427.
crow dog, 120, 121.
crow foot, 123, 124.
crook, gen. g. h., 222, 223, 238, 239, 308.
curtis, miss nathalie, 15.
cushing, frank hamilton, 229.
custer, general, 103, 184, 185, 190, 303, 308, 316.
dagenett, charles e., 13, 201.
dances, 111, 305, 400, 404, 405.
darr, john, 112.
dartmouth college, 200, 207.
dawes commission, 133, 135.
dennis, c. e., 85.
densmore, miss frances, 20, 66, 86, 280.
denver conference, 285.
department of agriculture, 28, 359.
department of charities and corrections, 137, 150, 170.
department of justice, 12, 57, 60, 70, 90, 95, 96, 139, 394, 413.
department of the interior, 25, 70, 141, 147, 168, 185, 200, 212, 225.
diagram indian service, 32.
dickenson, judge j. t., 166.
dixon, dr. joseph k., 12, 248.
dodge city, kas., 182, 299, 300, 304, 311, 319.
dodge, gen. (col.), 174, 175, 177, 179, 236, 281, 300, 376.
doubleday page co., 12.
drunkenness, 31, 53, 54, 61, 62, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 276, 363, 422.
dull knife, 319.
eastman, dr. charles a., 13, 15, 102, 185, 199, 201, 202, 279, 284, 402, 403.
education, 27, 30, 37, 40, 50, 200–217, 231, 251, 282, 335, 338.
eldridge, mrs. mary l., 250.
ellis, mrs. rose, 78, 407.
espinosa pedro, 236.
fairs, 256, 361, 363.
fairbanks, albert, 55.
fairbanks, ben, 55, 91.
farrell, f. e., 31.
fasler, addie b., 165, 166.
federal government, 331.
fetterman, col. wm. j., 177, 315.
few tails, 129, 130.
fewkes, dr. j. walter, 229.
fisher, secretary w. l., 424.
five civilized tribes, 11, 28, 29, 133–172, 204, 209, 276, 277, 379, 415, 417, 427.
flammand, joe, 80.
flat hip, 185.
fletcher, miss alice c., 307.
florida, 35, 240, 265.
foreman, grant, 13, 137, 139, 160, 168.
forrest, e. r., 13, 231, 246, 259.
forsythe, col., 125.
fort belknap reservation, 34.
fort fetterman, 310.
fort laramie, 177.
fort phil. kearney, 177, 286.
fort robinson, 180.
foster, charles, 103.
fourteen confederated tribes, 257.
four important books, 367–377.
franciscan fathers, 225, 241, 274.
french mission, 36.
friedman, moses, 201.
frost, a. n., 13, 139, 163, 413, 427.
full-blood indians, 57, 68, 71, 74, 75, 77, 79, 80, 84, 140, 161, 168, 271, 274, 277, 352–358, 432.
galagher, h. g., 107, 108.
garfield, james, 143, 254, 424.
george, jr., henry, 419.
geronimo, 198, 220, 221, 233, 234, 235–240, 373.
ghost dance, (see messiah craze).
ghost dance music, 115.
“ghost dance religion”, 100.
graham, hon. james m., 49, 98, 419, 428.
graham investigating committee, 66, 88, 93.
grayson, capt. g. w., 135, 148, 162, 163.
greeley, horace, 300.
grenfell, dr. w. t., 403, 433.
gresham, j. e., 139, 163, 427.
hall, darwin s., 67, 93.
hampton normal and agricultural institute, 205, 209, 211, 212.
handbook of american indians, 15, 45, 173, 190, 217, 219, 233, 245, 291, 307, 325, 401.
harjo fixico, 135.
haskell institute, 13, 29.
hauke, c. f., 25.
hawk man, 124.
health of the indians, 54, 61, 66, 227, 230, 266–277, 345–351.
henderson, d. b., 65.
henry, robert, 71.
hinton, john h., 90.
hodge, dr. f. w., 219, 291.
hole-in-the-day, 54, 55, 56, 63, 407, 408.
holmes, e. g., 77.
homar, father roman, 13, 85.
hospitals, 27, 85, 250, 266, 275, 277.
hornaday, prof. wm. t., 301, 303.
horses, 24, 29, 359.
horse indians, 99, 174, 311.
house committee on indian affairs, 142, 258.
howard, major john r., 13, 47, 70, 95.
hrdlicka, dr. ales, 265, 268, 271.
humphrey, seth k., 13, 224, 367, 368, 372, 373, 376, 421.
hunter, henry (see weasel).
huson, h., 13, 151, 170.
indian domination, 18.
indian industries league, 283.
indian labor, 24, 27, 29, 32, 33, 34, 37, 47, 66, 261.
indian office (see indian service).
indian population, 20, 21, 22, 23, 33, 40, 43, 45, 232.
indian publications, 29, 30, 31, 203.
indian rights association, 12, 68, 240, 241, 254, 282, 291, 385, 433.
indian service, 25, 26, 28, 29, 31, 32, 42, 66, 68, 69, 70, 87, 90, 97, 150, 151, 167, 226, 230, 252, 255, 291, 327, 331, 340, 360, 363, 366, 424, 428, 431, 433, 434.
indian territory, 134, 301, 417.
inspection service, 25, 97.
iroquois, 33, 35.
irrigation, 27, 219, 226, 230, 257, 291–298, 337, 374.
jackson, helen hunt, 94, 183, 224, 237, 326, 334, 367, 372, 373.
james, george wharton, 12, 15, 241, 290.
jesus christ, 102.
johnson, governor john a., 68.
jones bill, 257.
jones, col. w. a., 303.
jones, hon. william, 50, 384.
kelsey, c. e., 13, 282, 327, 336, 337.
kelsey, dana h., 13, 133, 139, 149, 150, 159, 160, 161, 168, 427.
keshena, 36, 37.
kicking bear, 125.
kiowa, 311, 314, 315.
kolb, m. j., 82.
kraft, father, 128.
kroeber, dr. a. l., 325, 329.
lacy, georgia, 81.
lake superior, 18.
lane, franklin k., 13, 163, 424, 429.
leecy, john, 81.
leech lake, 45, 47, 51, 55, 57, 59.
leupp, francis e., 12, 35, 206, 207, 245, 267, 287, 288, 359, 367, 369, 371, 384, 402, 424, 433.
lewis and clark, 402.
lincoln, president, 211.
linnen, e. b., 13, 25, 47, 64, 69, 70, 81, 87, 89, 90, 93, 95, 96, 97, 385.
lipps, oscar h., 13, 201, 209, 241, 243, 379.
little crow, 175, 401.
little horse, 116.
little wound, 113, 125.
livestock, 24, 29, 365.
locke, victor, 428.
logan, gen., 197.
lufkins, william, 80, 83.
lufkins, john, 94, 407.
lusk, charles s., 93.
lummis, chas. f., 14, 210, 267, 327, 336.
mah-een-gonce, 66, 94.
mah-een-gonce’s story, 409.
maine, 31, 32, 33.
malecite indians, 33.
mangus-colorado, 233, 238.
maps, 20, 21, 22, 25, 35.
marriages, indian, 26, 243.
marsh, prof., 176, 180.
mcgillicuddy, dr., 128.
mccumber, senator, 141.
mckee, hon. redick, 329.
mclaughlin, supt. (maj., hon.), j., 102, 121, 122, 123, 191, 279, 367, 368.
mcmurray contracts, 164.
medal of red cloud, 419.
menominee, 35, 36, 40, 41, 43, 268.
mercer, maj. wm. a., 201.
meritt, edgar b., 12, 25, 360, 384, 432.
merriam, c. hart, 327, 328, 332.
messiah craze, 99, 100–107, 121, 185, 199, 283.
mexico, 220, 221, 223, 235, 237, 239, 325, 326, 373.
me-zhuck-ke-ge-shig, 55, 66, 68, 81.
michelet, simon, 59, 64, 68, 70, 71, 97.
miles, gen., 128, 130, 180, 191, 192, 240, 308.
miller, okoskee, 135.
mille lac indians, 63, 65, 93.
mission indians, 297.
missionary denominations, 33, 93, 281, 225.
missionaries, 33, 49, 85.
minnesota, 33, 265, 366.
minnesota historical collections, 175.
mixed-blood indians, 21, 26, 47, 48, 53, 57, 66, 68, 71, 74, 75, 77, 79, 80, 84, 140, 168, 352–358, 432.
modocs, 253, 254.
mohonk conference, 50, 97, 151, 284, 326, 368, 384, 385, 413, 418, 425.
money belonging to indians, 26, 40, 42, 47, 62.
montana, 34, 260, 261, 264.
montezuma, dr. carlos, 203, 403.
monument at wounded knee, 130, 131.
mooney, james, 100, 101, 102, 127, 128, 129, 191.
moorehead, w. k., 64, 81, 83, 87, 90, 96, 149, 428.
morality, 53, 61, 62, 66, 73, 74, 352–358, 380, 381, 404–405.
morgan, t. j., 12, 384.
morrison, robert, 77.
mormons, 243, 261, 417.
moty tiger, chief, 162.
mott, hon. m. l., 11, 13, 137, 140, 141, 143, 150, 155, 160, 162, 167, 170, 414, 427.
murphy, dr. joseph a., 14, 273.
murray, w. n., 428.
national commission (new), 431–434.
national indian association, 250, 281, 327, 335.
navaho, 21, 24, 26, 31, 44, 47, 219, 241–252, 279, 280, 342, 343, 420, 423, 427.
negro, 23, 132, 205, 401.
nelson act, 59, 64.
nelson, senator knute, 68.
new brunswick, 31, 33.
new mexico, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 241, 249, 265, 267, 268, 283, 291.
newton, mrs. elsie e., 97, 216, 379, 404.
new york, 21, 33, 35, 265, 415.
nez perce, 253, 372, 430.
nez perce war, 253.
nichols-chisolm lumber co., 61, 71.
no neck, 120, 121.
north carolina, 33.
no water, 109, 110, 111, 114.
o’brien, e. c., 14, 56, 90.
official views of indian conditions, 378–385.
oglala, 99, 100, 113, 173, 270, 271.
ojibwa, 35, 36, 41, 43, 45–56, 57–65, 66–76, 77–88, 89–98, 99, 204, 308, 342, 361, 373, 399, 427.
ojibwa music, 86.
ojibwa’s story, 407.
oklahoma, 133–172, 205, 214, 265, 273, 277, 281, 283, 284, 318, 342, 413–415, 425, 427, 428, 431.
oklahoma delegation, 145.
one feather, 129, 130.
onondaga reservation, 21.
out west (land of sunshine), 327.
owen, hon. sen. robert l., 203, 413, 414.
papago, 31, 219, 223, 224, 225, 226, 227, 228, 291.
parker, arthur c., 14, 19, 201.
parker, gabe e., 11, 46.
park rapids lumber co., 61.
parquette, peter, 252.
passamaquoddy, 31, 33.
pawnees, 204, 400.
peabody, dr. charles, 14.
peace commissions, 175, 179, 253.
peairs, h. b., 14, 378.
peirce, chas. f., 14, 381.
penobscot, 31, 32, 33.
pepper, dr. george w., 241.
pereault, joe, 89.
philanthropic organizations, 281–289.
phillips academy, andover, 211, 245.
pillagers, 63, 81, 97, 399.
pimas, 219, 222, 223, 224, 291, 374, 382, 383.
pine ridge, 99–109, 111, 117, 122, 125, 128, 132, 174, 270, 309, 418, 420.
plains indians, 99, 174, 177, 187, 304, 308, 309, 311–324.
politicians, 26, 50, 376, 395.
politics and indians, 139, 144, 376.
poncas, 204, 372, 373, 402.
potawatomie, 35, 43.
powell, maj. james, 99, 178, 179.
pratt, capt. r. h., 200, 201.
prominent indian men and women, 201, 203, 401, 402.
property (lands, timber, minerals), 21, 23, 24, 26, 27, 28, 37, 40, 41, 42, 47, 50, 51, 57, 59, 61, 62, 73, 103, 157, 159, 229, 250, 343.
property valuation, 26, 27.
public domain, 31.
public health and marine hospital service, 265.
pueblo, 219, 229, 230–232, 267, 268, 291.
recommendations, 40, 387–397.
red cloud, 99, 121, 173–189, 281, 318, 402.
red cloud, jack, 186, 419.
red lake, 45, 47, 51, 57, 59, 62.
red man, the (journal), 29.
red tomahawk, 123, 124.
report of cases, 155, 156.
riggs missions, 409.
robinson, senator joe, 432.
rock, grace, 77.
rock, mrs. john, 77.
roe cloud, henry, 201, 207, 403.
roosevelt, president, 140, 143, 144, 233.
rosebud, 104, 107.
royer, doctor d. f., 105, 108.
st. luke, john, 71.
san carlos, 222.
santa fe trail, 174.
sauk and fox, 36.
saunders, fred, 77.
schools, 27, 37, 38, 39, 48, 87, 106, 138, 146, 213–217, 227, 266.
scott, duncan c., 418, 419.
secretary of the interior, 54, 55, 91, 96, 136, 143, 149, 162, 163, 258, 433.
seger, john h., 14, 417, 418.
sells, commissioner, 12, 16, 21, 23, 25, 26, 28, 151, 167, 267, 283, 341, 359, 360, 363, 378, 384, 423, 424, 432.
seminoles, 35, 133, 140, 143, 276.
seventh cavalry, 125, 128.
shangraux, louis, 118, 119, 120, 121.
shave head, 123, 124, 125.
shearman, james t., 54, 55, 56.
sherman, jas. s., 429.
sheep, 24, 29, 44, 250, 364, 395.
shelton, maj. w. t., 247, 252, 343.
short bull, 119, 120, 121, 125.
sioux, 26, 47, 63, 99–117, 131, 132, 173, 177, 178, 181, 268, 270, 304, 308, 322, 372, 400, 407.
sioux music, 189.
sitting bull, 99, 102, 121, 122, 123–132, 173, 179, 180, 184, 190–199, 402.
smiley commission. 334.
smiley, hon. albert k., 284, 326.
smiley, hon. daniel, 284.
on another occasion the same dreamer experienced remorse. she imagined she was in a restaurant, and the girl behind the counter pointed to a barrel of beer--a golden barrel, she said, with a magic key--which could only be opened by the owner. the dreamer declared, however, that she could open it, and, producing a key, proceeded to do so, handing round beer to the bystanders. then she realised that she had been stealing, and was full of remorse. she asked a friend if she ought to tell the owner, but the friend replied, 'by no means.' this conclusion of the dream seems to indicate that the moral sense, though present in dreams, is apt to be impaired.
in yet another dream this dreamer exhibited a curious combination of moral sensibility and criminal indifference. she imagined that, while walking with a man, a friend, she revealed to him a secret of a woman friend's. then, realising her betrayal of confidence, she decided that the best thing she could do would be to kill the man. on reflection, however, she thought that it would, after all, be unkind to do so since he was a friend, and so told him that if he ever repeated the secret she would have him torn to pieces. it will be seen that the betrayal of a secret was felt as a far more serious offence than murder. the facility with which, in such dreams as this, the suggestion of murder presents itself, even to dreamers who, when awake, cherish no bloodthirsty or revengeful ideas, is certainly remarkable.
it is often said that in dreams erotic suggestions present themselves with extreme facility, and are eagerly accepted by the dreamer. to some extent there is truth in this statement, but it is by no means always true. this may be illustrated by the following dream, the sources of which could be easily traced; two days before i had seen the gambols of east enders at hampstead heath on a bank holiday, and the day before i had visited a picture gallery, the two sets of impressions becoming ingeniously combined, according to the usual rule of dream confusion. i thought that when walking along a country lane a sudden turn brought me to a broader part of the road covered with grass, into the midst of a crowd of women, large and well-proportioned persons, mostly in a state of complete nudity, and engaged in romping together, more especially in tugs-of-war; some of them were on horseback. my appearance slightly disturbed them, i heard one cry out my name, and to some extent they drew back, and partly desisted from their games, but only to a very slight degree, and with no overpowering embarrassment. i was myself rather embarrassed, and, glancing at them again, turned back. afterwards my walk again brought me in view of them, and it occurred to me that women are somewhat changing their customs, a very wholesome change, it seemed to me. but i remonstrated with one or two of them that they ought to keep in constant movement to avoid catching cold. no erotic suggestions were present, although the dream might be said to lend itself to such suggestions.
the idea of moral retribution and eternal punishment may also be present in dreams. this may be illustrated by the dream of a lady who had an ill and restless girl companion sleeping with her, and was disturbed as well by a yelping and howling terrier outside. she had also lately heard that a friend had brought over a python from africa. 'i dreamed last night i had a basket of cold squirming snakes beside me; they just touched me all over, but did not hurt; i felt mad with loathing and hate of them, and the beasts would not kill me. that, i thought, was my eternal punishment for my sins.' in her waking moments the dreamer was not apprehensive of eternal punishment, and it may be in such a case that, as freud suggests, an unfamiliar moral idea emerges in sleep in much the same way as an unfamiliar or 'forgotten' fact may emerge.
on the whole, it may be said that while the moral attitude of the dreaming state is not usually identical with that of the waking state, there still nearly always is a moral attitude. it could not well be otherwise. our emotional states are intimately bound up with moral relationships; we could not display such highly emotional states as we experience in dreams, with all their tragic accompaniments, in the absence of any sense of morality.
aviation in dreams
dreams of flying and falling--their peculiar vividness--dreams of flying an alleged survival of primeval experiences--best explained as based on respiratory sensations combined with cutaneous anaesthesia--the explanation of dreams of falling--the sensation of levitation sometimes experienced by ecstatic saints--also experienced at the moment of death.
all my life, it seems to me, certainly from an early age, until recently, i have at intervals had dreams in which i imagined myself rhythmically bounding into the air, and supported on the air, remaining there for a perceptible interval; at other times i have felt myself gliding downstairs, but not supported by the stairs. in my case the experience is nearly always agreeable, involving a certain sense of power, and it usually evokes no marked surprise, occurring as a familiar and accustomed pleasure. on awaking i do not usually remember these dreams immediately, which seems to indicate that they are not due to causes specially operative at the end of sleep, or liable to bring sleep to a conclusion. but they leave behind them a vague yet profound sense of belief in their reality and reasonableness.
in a dream belonging to this group, i imagined i was being rhythmically swung up and down in the air by a young woman, my feet never touching the ground; and then that i was swinging her similarly. at one time she seemed to be swinging me in too jerky and hurried a manner, and i explained to her that it must be done in a slower and more regular manner, though i was not conscious of the precise words i used. there had been some dyspepsia on the previous day, and on awaking i felt slight discomfort in the region of the heart. the symbolism into which slightly disturbed respiratory or cardiac action is here transformed seems very clear in this dream, because it shows the actual transition from the subjective sensation to the objective imagery of flying. by means of this symbolic imagery we find sleeping consciousness commanding the hurried heart to beat in a more healthy manner.
in this way it comes about that out of dreams and of dream-like waking states, one of the most permanent of human spiritual conceptions has been evolved. to float, to rise into the air, to fly up to heaven, has always seemed to man to be the final climax of spiritual activity. the angel is the most ethereal creature the human imagination can conceive. browning's cry to his 'lyric love, half angel and half bird,' pathetically crude as poetry, is sound as psychology. the prophets and divine heroes of the race have constantly seemed to their devout followers to disappear at last by floating up into the sky, like elijah, who went up 'by a whirlwind into heaven.' st. peter once thought he saw his master walking on the waves, and the last vision of jesus in the gospels reveals him rising into the air. for it is in the world of dreams that the human soul has its indestructible home, and in the attempt to realise these dreams lies a large part of our business in life.
symbolism in dreams
the dramatisation of subjective feelings based on dissociation--analogies in waking life--the synaesthesias and number-forms--symbolism in language--in music--the organic basis of dream symbolism--the omnipotence of symbolism--oneiromancy--the scientific interpretation of dreams--why symbolism prevails in dreaming--freud's theory of dreaming--dreams as fulfilled wishes--why this theory cannot be applied to all dreaming--the complete form of symbolism in dreams--splitting up of personality--self-objectivation in imaginary personalities--the dramatic element in dreams--hallucinations--multiple personality--insanity--self-objectivation a primitive tendency--its survival in civilisation.
in discussing dreams of flying i have referred to a dream in which a slight disturbance of the heart's action was transformed by sleeping consciousness into the image of an athlete manipulating an elastic ball. this objectivation of what are really the dreamer's subjective sensations, although he is not conscious of them as subjective, is, indeed, a phenomenon which we have encountered many times. it is, however, so important a feature of dream psychology, and probably of such significant weight in its influence on waking life, that it is worth while to deal with it separately.
the dramatisation of subjective elements of the personality, which contributes so largely to render our dreams vivid and interesting, rests on that dissociation, or falling apart of the constituent groups of psychic centres, which is so fundamental a fact of dream life. that is to say, that the usually coherent elements of our mental life are split up, and some of them--often, it is curious to note, precisely those which are at that very moment the most prominent and poignant--are reconstituted into what seems to us an outside and objective world, of which we are the interested or the merely curious spectators, but in neither case realise that we are ourselves the origin of.
an elementary source of this tendency to objectivation is to be found, it may be noted, in the automatic impulse towards symbolism by which all sorts of feelings experienced by the dreamer become transformed into concrete visible images. when objectivation is thus attained, dissociation may be said to be secondary. so far indeed as i am able to dissect the dream-process, the tendency to symbolism seems nearly always to precede the dissociation in consciousness, though it may well be that the dissociation of the mental elements is a necessary subconscious condition for the symbolism.
it will be seen that a synaesthesia--which may involve taste, smell, and other senses besides hearing and sight--causes an impression of one sensory order to be automatically and involuntarily linked on to an impression of another totally different order. in other words, we may say that the one impression becomes the symbol of the other impression, for a symbol--which is literally a throwing together--means that two things of different orders have become so associated that one of them may be regarded as the sign and representative of the other.
not only is there an instinctive and direct association between sounds and motor imagery, but there is an indirect but equally instinctive association between sounds and visual imagery which, though not itself motor, has motor associations. thus bleuler considers it well established that among colour-hearers there is a tendency for photisms that are light in colour (and belonging, we may say, to the 'high' part of the spectrum) to be produced by sounds of high quality, and dark photisms by sounds of low quality; and, in the same way, sharply-defined pains or tactile sensations, as well as pointed forms, produce light photisms. similarly, bright lights and pointed forms produce high photisms, whole low photisms are produced by opposite conditions. urbantschitsch, again, by examining a large number of people who were not colour-hearers, found that a high note of a tuning-fork seems higher when looking at red, yellow, green, or blue, but lower if looking at violet. thus two sensory qualities that are both symbolic of a third quality are symbolic to each other.
oneiromancy, the symbolical interpretation of dreams, more especially as a method of divining the future, is a widespread art in early stages of culture. the discerning of dreams is represented in the old testament as a very serious and anxious matter (as in regard to pharaoh's dream of the fat and lean cattle), and, nearer to our time, the dreams of great heroes, especially charlemagne, are represented as highly important events in the mediæval european epics. little manuals on the interpretation of dreams have always been much valued by the uncultured classes, and among our current popular sayings there are many dicta concerning the significance, or the good or ill luck, of particular kinds of dreams.
the obscuration during sleep of the external sensory channels, with the checks on false conclusions they furnish, is not alone sufficient to explain the symbolism of dreams. the dissociation of thought during sleep, with the diminished attention and apperception involved, is also a factor. the magnification of special isolated sensory impressions in dreaming consciousness is associated with a general bluntness, even an absolute quiescence, of the external sensory mechanism. one part of the organism, and it seems usually a visceral part, is thus apt to magnify its place in consciousness at the expense of the rest. as vaschide and piéron say, during sleep 'the internal sensations develop at the expense of the peripheral sensations.' that indeed seems to be the secret of the immense emotional turmoil of our dreams. yet it is very rare for these internal sensations to reach the sleeping brain as what they are. they become conscious, not as literal messages, but as symbolical transformations. the excited or labouring heart recalls to the brain no memory of itself, but some symbolical image of excitement or labour. there is association, indeed, but it is association not along the matter-of-fact lines of our ordinary waking civilised life, but along much more fundamental and primitive channels, which in waking life we have now abandoned or never knew.
'we only dream of things that are worth while.' that is the point at which many of us are no longer able to follow freud. that dreams of the type studied by freud do actually occur may be accepted; it may even be considered proved. but to assert that all dreams must be made to fit into this one formula is to make far too large a demand. as regards the presentative element in dreams--the element that is based on actual sensory stimulation--it is in most cases unreasonable to invoke freud's formula at all. if, when i am asleep, the actual song of a bird causes me to dream that i am at a concert, that picture may be regarded as a natural symbol of the actual sensation, and it is unreasonable to expect that psycho-analysis could reveal any hidden personal reason why the symbol should take the form of a concert. and, if so, then freud's formula fails to hold good for phenomena which cover one of the two main divisions of dreams, even on a superficial classification, and perhaps enter into all dreams.
similarly, in insanity, liepmann, in his study ueber ideenflucht, has forcibly argued that ordinary logorrhœa--the incontinence of ideas linked together by superficial associations of resemblance or contiguity--is a linking without direction, that is, corresponding to no interest, either practical or theoretical, of the individual. or, as claparède puts it, logorrhœa is a trouble in the reaction of interest in life. it seems most reasonable to believe that in ordinary sleep the flow of imagery follows, for the most part, the same easy course. that course may to waking consciousness often seem peculiar, but to waking consciousness the conditions of dreaming life are peculiar. under these conditions, however, we may well believe that the tendency to movement in the direction of least resistance still prevails. and as attention and will are weakened and loosened during sleep, the tense concentration on personal ends must also be relaxed. we become more disinterested. personal desire tends for the most part rather to fall into the background than to become more prominent. if it were not a period in which desire were ordinarily relaxed, sleep would cease to be a period of rest and recuperation.
the wish-dream of the kind elaborately investigated by freud may be accepted as one type of dreaming, and a very interesting type, but it seems evident that it is only one type. there are even other types which seem closely related to it, and yet are quite distinct. this is, for instance, the case with the contrast-dream. the contrast-dream of näcke's type represents the emergence of characteristics which are distinctly opposed to the dreamer's character and habits. thus, in the course of four consecutive nights, i have dreamed in much detail that (1) i was the mayor of a large northern city about to take the chair at a local meeting of the bible society; (2) that i was a soldier in the heat of battle; and (3) that i was meditating the step of going on the stage as a comedian--the only rôle of the three which seemed to cause me any nervousness or misgiving. in contrast-dreams of this type we are not concerned with the eruption of concealed and repressed wishes. they are merely based on vestigial possibilities, entirely alien to our temperament as it has developed in life, and only a part of our complex personalities in the sense that, as schopenhauer said, whatever path we take in life there are latent germs within us which could only have developed in an exactly opposite path. even the very same dream may be due to quite different causes. to take a very simple dream, for we may best argue on the simplest facts: the dream of eating. we dream of eating when we are hungry, but sometimes we also dream of eating when the stomach is suffering from repletion. the dream is the same, but the psychological mechanism is entirely different, in the one case emotional, in the other intellectual. in the first case the picture of eating is built up in response to an organic visceral craving, and we have an elementary wish-dream of what freud would call infantile type; in the second case the same dream is a theory, embodied in a concrete picture, to account for the existence of the repletion experienced.
if, however, wishes, conscious or unconscious, are often fulfilled in dreams, and if, as we have seen reason to conclude, symbolism is a fundamental tendency of dreaming activity, it is inevitable that wish-dreams should sometimes take on a symbolic form. it is thus, for instance, that i interpret my dream of being in an english cathedral and seeing on the wall a notice to the effect that at evensong on such a day the edifice will not be illuminated, in order to avoid attracting moths; i awake with a slight headache, and the unilluminated cathedral was the symbol of the coolness and absence of glare which one desires when suffering from headache.
the wish-dream of freud's type has presented itself for consideration here, because it is a special and elaborate illustration of symbolism in dreaming. the important place of symbols in dreaming is by no means dependent on the validity of this particular type of dream, and we may now proceed to continue the discussion of the significance of the symbolic tendency during sleep in its most important form.
an interesting and significant group of cases is furnished by those dreams in which--as the result of some compression or effort--the tactile and muscular sensations of our own limbs are split off from sleeping consciousness and built up into an imaginary personality. thus a medical friend, shortly after an attack of influenza, dreamed that in conversation with a lady patient his hand rested on her knee; she requested him to remove it, but his efforts to do so were fruitless, and he awoke in horror from this unprofessional situation to find that his hand was firmly clasped between his own knees. his body had thus been divided in dreaming consciousness between himself and an imaginary other person; the knee had become the other person's, while the hand remained his own, the hand being claimed in preference to the knee no doubt on account of its greater tactile sensibility and more complexly intimate association with the brain. in the hypnagogic (or hypnopompic) state such dream sensations may almost reach the intensity of hallucination. thus, after an indigestible supper, i awake with the vivid feeling that some one is lying on me and attempting to drag off the bedclothes, and i find myself violently attempting, but apparently in vain, to articulate: 'who is there?' in a dream of similar type, which occurred when lying on my back (and possibly with slight indigestion due to an unusually late dinner), i awoke making a kind of inarticulate exclamation which awakened my wife. i had dreamed that i was lying in bed, and that some unseen creature--more supernatural than human, it seemed--was violently dragging the bedclothes off me, while i shouted to it, very distinctly it seemed to me, 'avaunt, avaunt!'
similarly in insanity we have an even more constant and pronounced tendency for the subject to attribute his own sensations to imaginary individuals, and to create personalities out of portions of the real personality. all the illusions, delusions, and hallucinations of the insane are merely the manifold manifestations of this tendency. without it the insanity would not exist. it is not because he is subjected to unusual sensations--visionary, auditory, tactile, olfactory, visceral, etc.--that a man is insane. it is because he creates imaginary personalities to account for these sensations; if his food tastes strange some one has given him poison if he hears a strange voice it is some one communicating with him by telephones or microphones or hypnotism; if he feels a strange internal sensation it is perhaps because he has another person inside him. the case has even been recorded of a man who attributed any feeling he experienced, even the most normal sensations of hunger and thirst, to the people around him. it is exactly the same process as goes on in our dreams. the sane man, the normal waking man, may experience all these strange sensations, but he recognises that they are the spontaneous outcome of his own organisation.
the savage has gone beyond the infant in ability to assimilate the impressions of his own limbs, but on the psychic side he still constantly tends to objectify his own feelings and ideas, re-creating them as external beings. primitive man has done so from the first, and this impulse has struck its roots into all our most fundamental human traditions even as they survive in civilisation to-day. the man of the early world moves, like the dreamer, among a sea of emotions and ideas which he cannot recognise the origin of, and, like the dreamer, he instinctively dramatises them. but, unlike the dreamer, he gives stability to the images he has thus created and in good faith mistaken for independent beings. thus we have the animistic stages of culture, and early man peoples his world with gods and spirits and demons and fairies and ghosts which enter into the traditions of his race, and are more or less accepted even by a later race which no longer creates them for itself.
it is thus impossible to over-estimate the immense importance of the primitive symbolic tendency to objectify the subjective. men have taken out of their own hearts their best feelings and their worst feelings, and have personalised and dramatised them, bowed down to them or stamped on them, unable to hear the voice with which each of their images spoke: 'i am thyself.' our conceptions of religion, of morals, of many of the mightiest phenomena of life, especially the more exceptional phenomena, have grown up under this influence, which still serves to support many movements of to-day by some people imagined to be modern.
dreaming, as we have seen, is not the sole source of such conceptions. but they could scarcely have been found convincing, and possibly could not even have arisen, among races which were wholly devoid of dream experiences. a large part of all progress in psychological knowledge, and, indeed, a large part of civilisation itself, lies in realising that the apparently objective is really subjective, that the angels and demons and geniuses of all sorts that once seemed to be external forces taking possession of feeble and vacant individualities are themselves but modes of action of marvellously rich and varied personalities. in our dreams we are brought back into the magic circle of early culture, and we shrink and shudder in the presence of imaginative phantoms that are built up of our own thoughts and emotions, and are really our own flesh.
"bli'me! it looks like a bloody riot already, doesn't it? four hundred pounds to those dock wallopers! huh! you know if i allowed them to bleed me that way--"
at that instant, from some quarter, a railroad spike whizzed past the captain's head, banging against the boards behind him with such a thump that the dignified englishman ducked quickly amid a shout of derision. he began to curse them roundly in his own particular style.
"you'd better keep under cover, captain," advised emerson. "they don't seem to care for you."
"so it would appear," he agreed. "they're getting nawsty, aren't they? i hope it doesn't lawst."
"well, i hope it does," said george balt. "if they'll only keep at it and beat up some of our boys at quitting-time the whole gang will be here in the morning."
it seemed that his wishes bade fair to be realized, for, as the day wore on, instead of diminishing, the excitement increased. by evening it became so menacing that boyd was forced to send in an urgent demand for a squadron of bluecoats to escort his men to their lodgings, and it was only by the most vigorous efforts that a serious clash was averted. nor was this task the easier since it did not meet with the approval of the fishermen themselves, who keenly resented protection of any sort.
true to george's prediction, the next morning found the non union men out in such force that they were divided into a night and a day crew, half of them being sent back to report later, while among the mountains of freight the work went forward faster than ever. but the night had served to point the anger of the strikers, and the dock owners, becoming alarmed for the safety of their property, joined with emerson in establishing a force of a dozen able-bodied guards, armed with clubs, to assist the police in disputing the shore line with the rioters. the police themselves had proved ineffective, even betraying a half-hearted sympathy with the union men, who were not slow to profit by it. even so, the day passed rather quietly, as did the next. but in time the agitation became so general as to paralyze a wide section of the water-front, and the city awoke to the realization that a serious conflict was in progress. the handful of fishermen, hidden under the roof of the great warehouse, outnumbered twenty to one, and guarded only by a thin line of pickets, became a centre of general interest.
as the violence of the mob, stimulated rather than checked by the indifference of the police, became more openly daring, so likewise did the reprisals of the fishermen, goaded now to a stubborn rage. they would not hear to having their food brought to them, but insisted daily on emerging in a body at noon and spending the hour in combat. not to speak of the physical disabilities they incurred in these affrays, the excitement distracted them and affected their work disastrously, to the great concern of their employer.
it was on the fourth day that boyd espied the man in the gray suit among the strikers and pointed him out to his three companions, clyde and fraser having joined him and george in a spirit of curiosity. clyde was for immediately executing a sally to capture the fellow, explaining that once they had him inside the dock-house they could beat him until he confessed that marsh was behind the strike, but his valor shrank amazingly when fraser maliciously suggested that he himself lead the dash.
"no!" he exclaimed. "i'm not a fighting man, but i'm a good general. you know, napoleon was about my size."
"i never noticed the resemblance," remarked fraser.
"all the same, your idea ain't so bad," said balt. "there's somebody stirring those fellows up, and i think it's that detective. i wouldn't mind getting my hands on him, and if you'll all stick with me i'll go out after him."
"not for mine," hastily declared "fingerless" fraser. "i don't want to fight anybody. i'm here as a spectator."
"you're not afraid?" questioned emerson.
"not exactly afraid, but what's the use of my getting mixed up in this row? it ain't my cannery."
now, while a mob is by nature noisy and threatening, there is little real danger in it until its diffusive violence is directed into one channel by a leader. then, indeed, it becomes a terrible thing, and to the watchers at the dock it became evident, in time, that a guiding influence was at work among their enemies. sure enough, late in the afternoon of the fourth day, without a moment's warning, the strikers rushed in a body, bearing down the guards like reeds. they came so unexpectedly that there was no time to muster reinforcements at the gate; almost before the fishermen could drop their tasks, their enemies were inside the building and pandemonium had broken loose. the structure rocked to the tumult of pounding heels, of yells and imprecations, the lofty roof serving to toss back and magnify the uproar.
emerson and his companions found themselves carried away before the onslaught like chips in the surf, then sucked into a maelstrom where the first duty was self-preservation. behind locked doors and shivering glass a terrified office-clerk, receiver to ear, was calling madly for police headquarters, while in the main building itself the crowd bellowed and roared and the hollow floor reverberated to the thunder of trampling feet and the crash of tumbling freight-piles.
boyd succeeded in keeping his footing and eventually fought his way to a backing of crated machinery, where he stooped and ripped a cleat loose; then, laying about him with this weapon, he cleared a space. it was already difficult to distinguish friend from foe, but he saw alton clyde go down a short distance away and made a rush to rescue him. his pine slat splintered against a head, he dodged a missile, then struck with the fragment in his hand, and, snatching clyde by the arm, dragged him out from under foot. battered and bruised, the two won back to emerson's first position, and watched the tide surge past.
at the first alarm the fishermen had armed themselves with bale-hooks and bludgeons, and for a time worked havoc among their assailants; but as the fight became more general they were forced apart and drawn into the crowd, whereupon the combatants split up into groups, milling about like frightened cattle. men broke out from these struggling clusters to nurse their injuries or beat a retreat, only to be overrun and swallowed up again in a new commotion.
emerson saw the big, barefooted fisherman in the red underclothes, armed with a sledge-hammer, go through the ranks of his enemies like a tornado, only to be struck by some missile hurled from a distance. with a shout of rage the fellow turned and flung his own weapon at his assailant, felling him like an ox, then he in turn was blotted out by a surge of rioters. but there was little time for observation, as the scene was changing with kaleidoscopic rapidity and there was the ever-present necessity of self-protection. seeing clyde's helpless condition, emerson shouted:
his nearest assailant had armed himself with an iron bar and endeavored to guard the first blow with this instrument, but it flew from his grasp, and he sustained the main force of the impact on his forearm. then, though boyd fell back farther, the others rushed in and he found himself hard beset. what happened thereafter neither he nor alton clyde, who was half-dazed to begin with, ever clearly remembered, for in such over-charged instants the mental photograph is wont to be either unusually distinct or else fogged to such a blur that only the high-lights stand out clearly in retrospect.
before he had recognized the personal nature of the assault, emerson found himself engaged in a furious hand-to-hand struggle where a want of room hampered the free use of his cudgel, and he was forced to rely mainly upon his fists. blows were rained upon him from unguarded quarters, he was kicked, battered, and flung about, his blind instinct finally leading him to clinch with whomsoever his hands encountered. then a sudden blackness swallowed him up, after which he found himself upon his knees, his arms loosely encircling a pair of legs, and realized that he had been half-stunned by a blow from behind. the legs he was clutching tried to kick him loose, at which he summoned all his strength, knowing that he must go down no further; but as he struggled upward, something smote him in the side with sickening force, and he went to his knees again.
close beside him he saw the club he had dropped, and endeavored to reach it; but before he could do so, a hand snatched it away and he heard a voice cursing above him. a second time he tried to rise, but his shocked nerves failed to transmit the impulse to his muscles; he could only raise his shoulder and fling an arm weakly above his head in anticipation of the crushing blow he knew was coming. but it did not descend, instead, he heard a gun shot--that sound for which his ears had been strained from the first--and then for an instant he wondered if it had been directed at himself. a weight sank across his calves, the legs he had been holding broke away from his grasp; then, with a final effort, he pulled himself free and staggered to his feet, his head rocking, his knees sagging. he saw a man's figure facing him, and lunged at it, to bring up in the arms of "fingerless" fraser, who cried sharply:
"are you hurt, bo?"
too dazed to answer, he turned and beheld the body of a man stretched face downward on the floor. beyond, the fellow in the gray suit was disappearing into the crowd. even yet boyd did not realize whence the shot had come, although the smell of powder was sharp in his nostrils. then he saw a gleam of blue metal in fraser's hands.
"give me that gun!" he panted, but his deliverer held him off.
"i may need it myself, and i ain't got but the one here! let's get clyde out of this."
stepping over the motionless form at his feet, fraser lifted the young club-man, who was huddled in a formless heap as if he had fallen from a great height, and together the two dragged him toward the bedford castle. as they went aboard, they were nearly run down by a body of reinforcements that captain peasley had finally mustered from between decks. down the gang-plank and over the side they poured, grimy stokers, greasy oilers, and swearing deckhands, equipped with capstan-bars, wrenches, and marlin-spikes. without waiting to observe the effect of these new-comers, boyd and fraser bundled alton into the first cabin at hand, then turned back.
"better stay here and look after him. you're all in, yourself," the adventurer advised. "i'm going to hunt up george."
he was away on the instant, with boyd staggering after him, still weak and shaking, the vague discomfort of running blood at the back of his neck, muttering thickly as he went: "give me your gun, fraser! give me your gun!"
the battle was still raging when the police arrived, after an interminable delay, and it ceased only at the rough play of night-sticks, and after repeated charges of the uniformed men had broken up the ranks of the strikers. the dock was cleared at length, and wagon-loads of bleeding, struggling combatants rolled away to jail, union and non-union men bundled in together. but work was not resumed that day, despite the fact that big george, bruised, ragged, and torn, doubled his force of pickets and took personal charge of them.
that night, under glaring headlines, the evening papers told the story, reporting one fisherman fatally hurt, one striker dead of a gunshot wound, and many others injured.
willis marsh springs a trap
the ensuing days were strenuous ones for the partners, working as they did, with a crippled force and under constant guard. riot was in the air, and violence on every side. by the police, whose apathy disappeared only when an opportunity occurred of arresting the men they were supposed to protect, they were more handicapped than helped. the appearance of a fisherman at any point along the water-front became a sure signal for strife.
day by day the feeling on both sides grew stronger, till the non-union men were cemented together in a spirit of bitterest indignation, which materially lessened their zeal for work. every act of violence intensified their rage. they armed themselves, in defiance of orders, tossed restraint to the winds, and sought the slightest opportunity of wreaking vengeance upon their enemies. nor were the rioters less determined. authority, after all, is but a hollow shell, which, once broken, is quickly disintegrated. fierce engagements took place, populating the hospitals. it became necessary to guard all property in the warehouse districts, and men ceased to venture there alone after dark.
one circumstance caused boyd no little surprise and uneasiness--the fact that no vigorous effort had been made to fix the blame for the striker's death on that riotous afternoon. surely, he reasoned, marsh's detective must have witnessed the killing, and must recognize the ease with which the act could now be saddled upon him. if delay were their object, emerson could not understand why they did not seek to have him arrested. the consequences might well be serious if marsh's money were used; but, as the days slipped past and nothing occurred, he decided that he had been overfearful on this score, or else that the manager of the packers' trust had limits beyond which he would not push his persecution.
a half-mile from captain peasley's ship, the rival company tenders were loading rapidly with union labor, and it seemed that in spite of boyd's plan to be first at kalvik, marsh's force would beat him to the ground unless greater efforts were made. when he communicated these fears to big george, the fisherman suddenly became a slave-driver. he passed among his men, cajoling, threatening, bribing, and they began to work like demons, with the result that when the twentieth arrived he was able to announce to his partner that the work would be finished some time during the following morning.
the next day emerson and clyde drove down to the dock with cherry in a closed carriage, experiencing no annoyance beyond some jeers and insults as they passed through the picket line. boyd had barely seen them comfortably established on board, when up the ship's gangway came "fingerless" fraser radiantly attired, three heavily laden hotel porters groaning at his back, the customary thick-waisted cigar between his teeth.
"are you going with us?" boyd inquired.
"see here. is life one long succession of surprise parties with you?"
"why, i've figgered on this right along."
"but the ship is jammed now. there is no room."
"oh, i fixed that up long ago. i am going to bunk with the steward."
"well, why in the world didn't you let us know you were coming?"
"say, don't kid yourself. you knew i couldn't stay behind." fraser blew a cloud of smoke airily. "i never start anything i can't finish, i keep telling you, and i'm going to put this deal through, now that i've got it started." with a half-embarrassed laugh and a complete change of manner, he laid his hand upon boyd's shoulder, saying: "pal, i ain't much good to myself or anybody else, but i like you and i want to stick around. maybe i'll come in useful yet--you can't tell."
emerson had never glimpsed this side of the man's nature, and it rather surprised him.
"of course you can come along, old man," he responded, heartily. "we're glad to have you."
to one who has never witnessed the spring sailing of a northern cannery-tender, the event is well worth seeing; it is one of the curiosities of the seattle water-front. not only is there the inevitable confusion involved in the departure of an overloaded craft, but likewise there is all the noisy excitement that attends a shipment of oriental troops.
the chinese maintain such a clatter as to drown the hoarse cries of the stevedores, the complaint of the creaking tackle, and the rumble of the winches. they scurry hither and yon like a distracted army, forever in the way, shouting, clacking, squealing in senseless turmoil. they are timid as to the water, and for them a voyage is at all times beset with many alarms. it is no more possible to restrain them than to calm a frightened herd of wild pigs, nor will they embark at all until their frenzy has run its course and died of its own exhaustion. to discipline them according to the seamen's standard is inadvisable, for many of them are "cutters," big, evil, saffron-hued fellows, whose trade it is to butcher and in whose dextrous hands a knife becomes a frightful weapon.
the japs, ordinarily so noiseless and submissive, yield to the contagion and add their share to the uproar. each man carries a few pounds of baggage in bundles or packs or valises, and these scanty belongings he guards with shrieking solicitude.
while the pandemonium of the orientals who gathered to board the bedford castle was sufficient in itself to cause consternation, it was as nothing to that which broke loose when the fishermen began to assemble. to a man they were drunk, belligerent and, declamatory. a few, to be sure, were still busy with the tag ends of the cargo, but the majority had gone to their lodgings for their packs, and now reappeared in a state of the wildest exuberance; for this would be their last spree of the season, and before them lay a period of long, sleepless nights, exposure, and unceasing labor, wherein a year's work must be crowded into three months. they, therefore, inaugurated the change in befitting style.
on the whole, no explosive has ever been invented that is so noisy in its effect, so furiously expansive in its action, as the fumes of cheap whiskey. the great dock-shed soon began to reverberate to the wildest clamor, which added to the fury of the crowd outside. the strikers, unable to enter the building, flowed down upon the adjoining wharf, or clambered to the roofs nearby, whence they jeered insultingly. among them was a newspaper photographer, bent on securing an unusual picture for his publication, and in truth the scene from this point of view was sufficiently novel and striking.
the decks of the big, low-lying tramp steamer were piled high with gear of every description. a trio of stout tow-boats were blocked up amidships, long piles of lumber rose higher than a man's head, and the roofs of the deck-houses were jammed with fishing-boats nested, one inside the other, like pots in a kitchen. every available inch was crowded with cases of gasoline, of groceries, and of the varied provisions required on an expedition of this magnitude. aft, on rows of hooks, were suspended the carcasses of sheep and bullocks and hogs; there seemed to be nowhere another foot of available room. the red water-line of the ship was already submerged, yet notwithstanding this fact her derricks clanged noisily, her booms swung back and forth, and her gaping hatches swallowed momentary loads. those fishermen who had come aboard early had settled like flies in the rigging, whence they taunted their enemies, hurling back insult for insult.
it was much like the departure of a gold steamer during the early famine stages of the northward stampede, save that now there were no women, while the confusion was immeasurably greater, and through it all might be felt a certain strained and angry menace. all the long afternoon the bedford castle lay at her moorings subjected to the customary eleventh-hour delays. as the time dragged on, and the liquor died in the fishermen, it became a herculean task to prevent them from issuing forth into the street, while the crowds outside seemed possessed of a desperate determination to force an entrance and bring the issue to a final settlement. but across the shore end of the dock a double cordon was drawn which hurled back the intruders at every advance.
the fishermen who remained inside the barnlike structure, unable to come at their enemies, fought among themselves, bidding fair to wreck the building in the extravagance of their delirium, while outside the rival faction kept up a fire of missiles and execrations. as the hours crept onward the tension increased, and at last boyd turned to captain peasley saying, "you'd better be ready to pull out at any minute, for if the mob breaks in we'll never be able to hold these maniacs." he pointed to the black swarm aloft, whence issued hoarse waves of sound. "i don't like the look of things, a little bit."
"they are a trifle strained, to be sure," the captain acknowledged. "i'll stand by to cast off at your signal, so you'd better pass the word around."
boyd left the ship and went to the dock-office, for there still remained one thing to be done: he could not leave without sounding a final note of triumph for mildred. how sweet it would be to her ears he knew full well, yet he could not help wondering if she would feel the thrill that mastered him at this moment. as he saw the empty spaces where had stood those masses of freight which he had gathered at such cost, as he heard his own men bellowing defiance at his enemies and realized that his first long stride toward success had been taken, his heart swelled with gladness and the breath caught momentarily in his throat. after all, he was going to win! out of the shimmering distance of his desire, the lady of his dreams drew closer to him; and ere long he could lay at her feet the burden of his travail, and then--. oblivious to the turmoil all about, he wrote rapidly, almost incoherently, to mildred, transcribing the mood of mingled tenderness and exultation which possessed him.
"outside the building," he concluded, "there is a raging mob. they would ruin me if they could, but they can't do it, they can't do it. we have beaten them all, my lady. we have won!"
he was sealing his letter, when, without warning, "fingerless" fraser appeared at his side, his fishlike eyes agleam, his colorless face drawn with anxiety.
"they've come to grab you for killing that striker," he began, breathlessly; "there's a couple of 'square-toes' on the dock now. better take it on the 'lam'--quick!"
"there's two plain-clothes men," he heard fraser running on. "i 'made' 'em as they were talking to peasley. you'd better 'beat' it, quick!"
"how? i couldn't get through that crowd. they know me. listen!" outside the street broke into a roar at some taunt of the fishermen high up in the rigging. "i can't run away, and if those detectives get me i'm ruined."
"well! what's to be done?" demanded fraser, sharply. "if you say the word, we'll shoot it out with them, and get away on the ship before--"
"we can't do that--there are a dozen policemen in front here."
"well, you'll have to move quick, or they'll 'cop' you, sure."
boyd clinched his hands in desperation. "i guess they've got me," he said, bitterly. "there's no way out."
his eyes fell upon the letter containing his boastful assurance of victory. what a mockery!
"from what they said i don't think they know you," fraser continued. "anyhow, they wanted peasley to point you out. when they come off, maybe you can slip 'em."
"but how?" boyd seized eagerly upon the suggestion. "the wharf is empty--see! i'll have to cross it in plain sight."
through the rear door of the office that opened upon the dock proper they beheld the great floor almost entirely clear. save for a few tons of freight at which big george's men were working, it was as unobstructed as a lawn; and, although it was nearly the size of a city block, it afforded no more means of concealment than did the little office itself, with its glass doors, its counter, and its long desk, at the farther end of which a bill-clerk was poring over his task. iron-barred windows at the front of the room looked out upon the street; other windows and a door at the right opened upon the driveway and railroad track, while at the rear the glass-panelled door through which they had just been peering gave egress only to the dock itself, up which the two officers were likely to come at any instant. even as emerson, with a last desperate glance, summed up the possible places of concealment, fraser exclaimed, softly:
"there they are now!" and they saw at the foot of the gang-plank two men talking with big george. they saw balt point the strangers carelessly to the office, whence he had seen boyd disappearing a few moments before, and turn back to his stevedores; then they saw the plain-clothes men approaching.
"here! gimme your coat and hat, quick!" cried fraser in a low voice, his eyes blazing at a sudden, thought. he stripped his own garments from his back with feverish haste. "put mine on. there! i'll stall for you. when they grab me, take it on the run. understand!"
"that won't do. everybody knows me." boyd cast an apprehensive glance at the arched back of the bill-clerk, but fraser, quick of resource in such a situation, forced him swiftly to make the change, saying:
"nix. it's your only 'out.' stand here, see!" he indicated a position beside the rear door. "i'll step out the other way where they can see me," he continued, pointing to the wagon-way at the right. "savvy? when they grab me, you beat it, and don't wait for nothing."
already they could hear the footsteps of the officers.
"i'll take a chance. good-bye."
there was no time even for a hand-shake; fraser stepped swiftly to the door, then strolled quietly out into the view of the two men, who an instant later accosted him.
"are you mr. boyd emerson?"
the adventurer answered brusquely, "yes, but i can't talk to you now."
"you are under arrest, mr. emerson."
boyd waited to hear no more. the glass door swung open noiselessly under his hand, and he stepped out just as the bill-clerk looked up from his work, staring out through the other entrance.
"fingerless" fraser's voice was louder now, as if for a signal. "arrest me? what do you mean? get out of my way."
"you'd better come peaceably."
boyd heard a sharp exclamation--"get him, bill!" and then the sound of men struggling. he ran, followed by a roar from the strikers, in whose full view fraser's encounter with the plain-clothes men was taking place. a backward glance showed him that fraser had drawn his pursuers to the street. he had broken away and dodged out into the open, where the other officers responded at a call and seized him as he apparently undertook to break through the cordon. this diversion served an unexpected purpose. not only did it draw attention from emerson's retreat, but it also gave the mob its long-awaited opportunity. recognizing in the officers' quarry the supposed figure of emerson, the hated cause of all this strife, the strikers gave vent to a great shout of rage and triumph, and surged forward across the wide street, carrying the police before them with irresistible force.
in a moment it became not a question of keeping the entrance to the wharf, but of protecting the life of the prisoner, and the policemen rallied with their backs to the wall, their clubs working havoc with the heads that came within striking distance.
scarcely had boyd reached big george, when a wing of the besieging army swept in through the unguarded entrance and down the dock like an avalanche, leaving behind them the battling officers and the hungry pack clamoring for the prisoner.
"drop that freight, and get aboard the best way you can!" boyd yelled at the fishermen, and with a bound was out into the open crying to captain peasley on the bridge:
"here they come! cast off, for god's sake!"
instantly a wild cry of rage and defiance rose from the clotted rigging and upper works of the bedford castle. down the fishermen swarmed, ready to over-flow the sides of the ship, but, with a sharp order to george, boyd ran up the gang-plank and rushed along the rail to a commanding position in the path of his men, where, drawing his revolver, he roared at them to keep back, threatening the first to go ashore. his lungs were bursting from his sprint, and it was with difficulty that his voice rose above the turmoil; but he presented such a figure of determination that the men paused, and then the steamship whistle interrupted opportunely, with a deafening blast.
the dozen men who had been slinging freight on the dock hastened up the gang-plank or climbed the fenders, while the signal-man clung to the lifting tackle, and, at the piping cry of his whistle, was swung aloft out of the very arms of the rioters.
above, on the flying bridge, captain peasley was bellowing orders; a quartermaster was running up the iron steps to the pilot-house; on deck the sailors were fighting their way to their posts through the ranks of the raging fishermen and the shrieking confusion of the orientals; the last men aboard, with a "heave ho!" in unison, slid the gang-plank upward and out of reach. the neighboring roofs, lately so black, were emptying now, the onlookers hastening to join in the attack.
big george alone remained upon the wharf. as he saw the rush coming he had ordered his men to abandon their load; then he ran to the after-mooring, and, taking slack from a deck hand, cast it off. back up the dock he went to the forward hawser, where, at a signal, he did the same, moving, toward the last, without excessive hurry, as if in a spirit of bravado. the ship was clear, and he had not cut a hawser. he had done his work; all but a ton or two of the cargo was stowed. there was no longer cause for delay.
"get aboard! are you mad?" emerson shouted, but the cry never reached him. back he came slowly, in front of the press, secure in his tremendous strength, defiance in his every move, a smouldering challenge in his eyes; and noting that gigantic frame with its square-hewn, flaming face, not one of his enemies dared oppose him. but as he passed they yapped and snarled and jostled at his heels, hungry to rend him and only lacking courage.
as yet the ship, although throbbing to the first pulsations of her engines, lay snug along the piling, but gradually her stern swung off and a wedge of clearance showed. almost imperceptibly she drew back and rubbed against the timbers. a fender began to squeeze and complain. the dock planking creaked. sixty seconds more and she would be out of arm's-reach, and still george made no haste. again boyd shouted at him, and then with one farewell glower over his shoulder the big fellow mounted a pile, stretched his arms upward to the bulwarks, and swung himself lightly aboard.
even yet emerson's anxiety was of the keenest; for, notwithstanding the stress of these dragging moments, he had not forgotten fraser, the vagabond, the morally twisted rascal, to whose courage and resourcefulness he owed so much. he strained his eyes for a glimpse of the fellow, at the same time dreading the sight of a uniform. would the ship never get under way and out of hailing distance? if those officers had discovered their mistake, they might yet have time to stop him. he vowed desperately that he would not let them, not if he had to take the bedford castle to sea with a gun at the back of her helmsman. he made his way hurriedly to the bridge, where he hastily explained to captain peasley his evasion of the officers; and here he found cherry, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling with excitement, but far too wise to speak to him in his present state of mind.
a scattered shower of missiles came aboard as the strikers kept pace with the steamer to the end of the slip, exciting the fishermen, who had again mounted the rigging, to a simian frenzy. oaths, insults, and jeers were hurled back and forth; but as the big steamer gathered momentum and slid out of her berth, they grew gradually more indistinct, until at last they became muffled, broken, and meaningless. even then the rival ranks continued to volley profanely at each other, while the captain, with hand on the whistle-rope, blew taunting blasts; nor did the fishermen descend from their perches until the forms on the dock had blurred together and the city lay massed in the distance, tier upon tier, against the gorgeous evening sky.
in which a mutiny is threatened
even after they were miles down the sound, boyd remained at his post, sweeping the waters astern in an anxious search for some swift harbor craft, the appearance of which would signal that his escape had been discovered.
"i won't feel safe until we are past port townsend," he confessed to cherry, who maintained a position at his side.
"why port townsend? we don't stop there."
"no. but the police can wire on from seattle to stop us and take me off at that point."
"if they find out their mistake."
"they must have found it out long ago. that's why i've got peasley forcing this old tub; she's doing ten knots, and that's a breakneck speed for her. once we're through the straits, i'll be satisfied. but meanwhile--" emerson lowered his glasses with a sigh of fatigue, and in the soft twilight the girl saw that his face was lined and careworn. the yearning at her heart lent poignant sympathy to her words, as she said:
"you deserve to win, boyd; you have made a good fight."
"oh, i'll win!" he declared, wearily. "i've got to win; only i wish we were past port townsend."
"what will happen to fraser?" she queried.
"nothing serious, i am sure. you see, they wanted me, and nobody else; once they find they have the wrong man i rather believe they will free him in disgust."
a moment later he went on: "just the same, it makes me feel depressed and guilty to leave him--i--i wouldn't desert a comrade for anything if the choice lay with me."
"you did quite right," cherry warmly assured him.
"you see, i am not working for myself; i am doing this for another."
it was the girl's turn to sigh softly, while the eyes she turned toward the west were strangely sad and dreamy. to her companion she seemed not at all like the buoyant creature who had kindled his courage when it was so low, the brave girl who had stood so steadfastly at his shoulder and kept his hopes alive during these last, trying weeks. it struck him suddenly that she had grown very quiet of late. it was the first time he had had the leisure to notice it, but now, when he came to reflect on it, he remembered that she had never seemed quite the same since his interview with her on that day when hilliard had so unexpectedly come to his rescue. he wondered if in reality this change might not be due to some reflected alteration in himself. well! he could not help it.
her strange behavior at that time had affected him more deeply than he would have thought possible; and while he had purposely avoided thinking much about the banker's sudden change of front, back of his devout thankfulness for the miracle was a vague suspicion, a curious feeling that made him uncomfortable in the girl's presence. he could not repent his determination to win at any price; yet he shrank, with a moral cowardice which made him inwardly writhe, from owning that cherry had made the sacrifice at which clyde and the others had hinted. if it were indeed true, it placed him in an intolerable position, wherein he could express neither his gratitude nor his censure. no doubt she had read the signs of his mental confusion, and her own delicate sensibility had responded to it.
they remained side by side on the bridge while the day died amidst a wondrous panoply of color, each busied with thoughts that might not be spoken, in their hearts emotions oddly at variance. the sky ahead of them was wide-streaked with gold, as if for a symbol, interlaid with sooty clouds in silhouette; on either side the mountains rose from penumbral darkness to clear-cut heights still bright from the slanting radiance. here and there along the shadowy shore-line a light was born; the smell of the salt sea was in the air. above the rhythmic pulse of the steamer rose the voices of men singing between decks, while the parting waters at the prow played a soft accompaniment. a steward summoned them to supper, but boyd refused, saying he could not eat, and the girl stayed with him while the miles slowly slipped past and the night encompassed them.
"two hours more," he told her, as the ship's bell sounded. "then i can eat and sleep--and sing."
captain peasley was pacing the bridge when later they breasted the glare of port townsend and saw in the distance the flashing searchlights of the forts that guard the straits. they saw him stop suddenly, and raise his night-glasses; boyd laid his hand on cherry's arm. presently the captain crossed to them and said:
"you won't stop, will you?" questioned emerson.
"i don't know, i am sure. i may have to."
the two boats were drawing together rapidly, and soon those on the bridge heard the faint but increasing patter of a gasoline exhaust. carrying the same speed as the bedford castle, the launch shortly came within hailing distance. the cyclopean eye of the ship's searchlight blazed up, and the next instant, out from the gloom leaped a little craft, on the deck of which a man stood waving a lantern. she held steadfastly to her course, and a voice floated up to them:
"ahoy! what ship?"
"the bedford castle, cannery-tender for bristol bay," peasley shouted back.
the man on the launch relinquished his lantern, and using both palms for a funnel, cried, more clearly now: "heave to! we want to come aboard."
with an exclamation of impatience, the commanding officer stepped to the telegraph, but emerson forestalled him.
"wait, they're after me, captain; it's the port townsend police, and if you let them aboard they'll take me off."
"what makes you think so?" demanded peasley.
turning, the skipper bellowed down the gleaming electric pathway, "who are you?"
"police! we want to come aboard."
"what did i tell you?" cried emerson.
once more the captain shouted: "what do you want?"
"one of your passengers--emerson. heave to. you're passing us."
"that's bloody hard luck, mr. emerson; i can't help myself," the captain declared. but again boyd blocked him as he started for the telegraph.
"i won't stand it, sir. it's a conspiracy to ruin me."
"but, my dear young man--"
"don't touch that instrument!"
from the launch came cries of growing vehemence, and a startled murmur of voices rose from somewhere in the darkness of the deck beneath.
"stand aside," peasley ordered, gruffly; but the other held his ground, saying, quietly:
"i warn you. i am desperate."
"shall i stop her, sir?" the quartermaster asked from the shadows of the wheel-house.
"no!" emerson commanded, sharply, and in the glow from the binnacle-light they saw he had drawn his revolver, while on the instant up from the void beneath heaved the massive figure of big george balt, a behemoth, more colossal and threatening than ever in the dim light. rumbling curses as he came, he leaped up the pilot-house steps, wrenched open the door, and with one sweep of his hairy paw flung the helmsman from his post, panting,
"keep her going, cap', or i'll run them down!"
the launch was abreast of them now, and skimming along so close that one might have tossed a biscuit aboard of her. for an instant captain peasley hesitated; then emerson saw the ends of his bristly mustache rise above an expansive grin as he winked portentously. but his voice was convincingly loud and wrathful as he replied:
"what do you mean, sir? i'll have my blooming ship libelled for this."
"i'll make good your losses," emerson volunteered, quickly, realizing that other ears were open.
"why, it's mutiny, sir."
"exactly! you can say you went out under duress."
"i never heard of such a thing," stormed the skipper. then, more quietly, "but i don't seem to have any choice in the matter; do i?"
"tell them to go to hell!" growled balt from the open window above their head.
a blasphemous outcry floated up from the launch, while heads protruded from the deck-house openings, the faces white in the slanting glare. "why don't you heave to?" demanded a voice.
peasley stepped to the end of the bridge and called down: "i can't stop, my good man, they won't allow it, y' know. you'll have to bloody well come aboard yourself." then, obedient to his command, the search-light traced an arc through the darkness and died out, leaving the little craft in darkness, save for its dim lantern.
unseen by the amazed quartermaster, who was startled out of speech and action, emerson gripped the captain's shoulder and whispered his thanks, while the britisher grumbled under his breath:
"bli' me! won't that labor crowd be hot? they nearly bashed in my head with that iron spike. four hundred pounds! my word!"
the sputter of the craft alongside was now punctuated by such a volley of curses that he raised his voice again: "belay that chatter, will you? there's a lady aboard."
the police launch sheered off, and the sound of her exhaust grew rapidly fainter and fainter. but not until it had wholly ceased did big george give over his post at the wheel. even then he went down the ladder reluctantly, and without a word of thanks, of explanation, or of apology. with him this had been but a part of the day's work. he saw neither sentiment nor humor in the episode. the clang of the deep-throated ship's bell spoke the hour, and, taking cherry's arm, boyd helped her to the deck.
"now let's eat something," said she.
"yes," he agreed, relief and triumph in his tone, "and drink something, too."
"we'll drink to the health of 'fingerless' fraser."
"to the health of 'fingerless' fraser," he echoed. "we will drink that standing."
a week later, after an uneventful voyage across a sea of glass, the bedford castle made up through a swirling tide-rip and into the fog-bound harbor of unalaska. the soaring "goonies" that had followed them from flattery had dropped astern at first sight of the volcanic headlands, and now countless thousands of sea-parrots fled from the ship's path, squattering away in comic terror, dragging their fat bodies across the sea as a boy skips a flat rock. it had been captain peasley's hope, here at the gateway of the misty sea, to learn something about the lay of the big ice-floes to the northward, but he was disappointed, for the season was yet too young for the revenue-cutters, and the local hunters knew nothing. forced to rely on luck and his own skill, he steamed out again the next day, this time doubling back to the eastward and laying a cautious course along the second leg of the journey.
once through the ragged barrier that separates the north pacific from her sister sea, the dank breath of the arctic smote them fairly. the breeze that wafted out from the north brought with it the chill of limitless ice-fields, and the first night found them hove-to among the outposts of that shifting desert of death which debouches out of behring straits with the first approach of autumn, to retreat again only at the coming of reluctant summer. from the crow's-nest the lookout stared down upon a white expanse that stretched beyond the horizon. at dawn they began their careful search, feeling their way eastward through the open lanes and tortuous passages that separated the floes, now laying-to for the northward set of the fields to clear a path before them, now stealing through some narrow lead that opened into freer waters.
the bedford castle was a steel hull whose sides, opposed to the jaws of the ponderous masses, would have been crushed like an eggshell in a vise. unlike a wooden ship, the gentlest contact would have sprung her plates, while any considerable collision would have pierced her as if she had been built of paper. appreciating to the full the peril of his slow advance, captain peasley did all the navigating in person; but eventually they were hemmed in so closely that for a day and a night they could do nothing but drift with the pack. in time, however, the winds opened a crevice through which they retreated to follow the outer limits farther eastward, until they were balked again.
opposed to them were the forces of nature, and they were wholly dependent upon her fickle favor. it might be a day, a week, a month before she would let them through, and, even when the barrier began to yield, another ship, a league distant, might profit by an opening which to them was barred. for a long, dull period the voyagers lay as helpless as if in dry-dock, while wandering herds of seals barked at them or bands of walruses ceased their fishing and crept out upon the ice-pans to observe these invaders of their peace. when an opportunity at last presented itself, they threaded their way southward, there to try another approach, and another, and another, until the first of may had come and gone, leaving them but little closer to their goal than when they first hove-to. late one evening they discerned smoke on the horizon, and the next morning's light showed a three-masted steamship fast in the ice, a few miles to the westward.
"that's the juliet," big george informed his companions, "one of the north american packers' association tenders."
"she was loading when we left seattle," boyd remarked.
"it is willis marsh's ship, so he must be aboard," supplemented cherry. "she's a wooden ship, and built for this business. if we don't look out he'll beat us in, after all."
"what good will that do him?" clyde questioned. "the fish don't bite--i mean run--for sixty days yet."
emerson and balt merely shrugged.
to cherry malotte this had been a voyage of dreams; for once away from land, boyd had become his real self again--that genial, irrepressible self she had seen but rarely--and his manner had lost the restraint and coolness which recently had disturbed their relations. of necessity their cramped environment had thrown them much together, and their companionship had been most pleasant. she and boyd had spent long hours together, during which his light-heartedness had rivalled that of alton clyde--hours wherein she had come to know him more intimately and to feel that he was growing to a truer understanding of herself. she realized beyond all doubt that for him there was but one woman in all the world, yet the mere pleasure of being near him was an anodyne for her secret distress. womanlike, she took what was offered her and strove unceasingly for more.
two days after sighting the juliet they raised another ship, one of the sailing fleet which they knew to be hovering in the offing, and then on the fifth of the month the capricious current opened a way for them. slowly at first they pushed on between the floes into a vast area of slush-ice, thence to a stretch as open and placid as a country mill-pond. the lookout pointed a path out of this, into which they steamed, coming at length to clear water, with the low shores of the mainland twenty miles away.
at sundown they anchored in the wide estuary of the kalvik river, the noisy rumble of their chains breaking the silence that for months had lain like a smother upon the port. the indian village gave sign of life only in thin, azure wisps of smoke that rose from the dirt roofs; the cannery buildings stood as naked and uninviting as when boyd had last seen them. the greek cross crowning the little white church was gilded by the evening sun. through the glasses cherry spied a figure in the door of her house which she declared was constantine, but with commendable caution the big breed forebore to join the fleet of kyaks now rapidly mustering. taking clyde with them, she and boyd were soon on their way to the land, leaving george to begin discharging his cargo. the long voyage that had maddened the fishermen was at last at an end, and they were eager to begin their tasks.
a three-mile pull brought the ship's boat to cherry's landing, where constantine and chakawana met them, the latter hysterical with joy, the former showing his delight in a rare display of white teeth and a flow of unintelligible english. even the sledge-dogs, now fat from idleness, greeted their mistress with a fierce clamor that dismayed alton clyde, to whom all was utterly new and strange.
"glory be!" he exclaimed. "they're nothing but wolves. won't they bite? and the house--ain't it a hit! why, it looks like a stage setting! oh, say, i'm for this! i'm getting rough and primitive and brutal already!"
when they passed from the store, with its shelves sadly naked now, to the cozy living quarters behind, his enthusiasm knew no bounds. leaving chakawana and her mistress to chatter and clack in their patois, he inspected the premises inside and out, peering into all sorts of corners, collecting souvenirs, and making friends with the saturnine breed.
cherry would not return to the ship, but emerson and clyde re-embarked and were rowed down to the cannery site, abreast of which lay the bedford castle, where they lingered until the creeping twilight forced them to the boat again. when they reached the ship the cool arctic night had descended, but its quiet was broken by the halting nimble of steam-winches, the creak of tackle, the cries of men, and the sounds of a great activity. baring his head to the breezes boyd filled his lungs full of the bracing air, sweet with the flavor of spring, vowing secretly that no music that he had ever heard was the equal of this. he turned his face to the southward and smiled, while his thoughts sped a message of love and hope into the darkness.
wherein "fingerless" fraser returns
his early training as an engineer now stood him in good stead, for a thousand details demanded expert supervision; but he was as completely at home at this work as was big george in his own part of the undertaking, and it was not long before order began to emerge from what seemed a hopeless chaos. never did men have more willing hands to do their bidding than did he and george; and when a week later the juliet, with willis marsh on board, came to anchor, the bunk-houses were up and peopled, while the new site had become a beehive of activity.
the mouth of the kalvik river is several miles wide, yet it contains but a small anchorage suitable for deep-draught ships, the rest of the harbor being underlaid with mud-bars and tide-flats over which none but small boats may pass; and as the canneries are distributed up and down the stream for a considerable distance, it is necessary to transport all supplies to and from the ships by means of tugs and lighters. owing to the narrowness of the channel, the juliet came to her moorings not far from the bedford castle.
to marsh, already furious at the trick the ice had played him, this forced proximity to his rival brought home with added irony the fact that he had been forestalled, while it emphasized his knowledge that henceforth the conflict would be carried on at closer quarters. it would be a contest between two men, both determined to win by fair means or foul.
emerson was a dream-dazzled youth, striving like a knight-errant for the love of a lady and the glory of conquest, but he was also a born fighter, and in every emergency he had shown himself as able as his experienced opponent.
as marsh looked about and saw how much boyd's well-directed energy was accomplishing, he was conscious of a slight disheartenment. still, he was on his own ground, he had the advantage of superior force, and though he was humiliated by his failure to throttle the hostile enterprise in its beginning, he was by no means at the end of his expedients. he was curious to see his rival in action, and he decided to visit him and test his temper.
it was on the afternoon following his arrival that marsh, after a tour of inspection, landed from his launch and strolled up to where boyd emerson was at work. he was greeted courteously, if a bit coolly, and found, as on their last meeting, that his own bearing was reflected exactly in that of boyd. both men, beneath the scant politeness of their outward manner, were aware that the time for ceremony had passed. here in the northland they faced each other at last as man to man.
"i see you have a number of my old fishermen," marsh observed.
"yes, we were fortunate in getting such good ones."
"you were fortunate in many ways. in fact you are a very lucky young man."
"well, don't you think you were lucky to beat that strike?"
"it wasn't altogether luck. however, i do consider myself fortunate in escaping at the last moment," boyd laughed easily. "by the way, what happened to the man they mistook for me?"
"let him go, i believe. i didn't pay much attention to the matter." marsh had been using his eyes to good advantage, and, seeing the work even better in hand than he had supposed, he was moved by irritation and the desire to goad his opponent to say more than he had intended: "i rather think you will have a lot to explain, one of these days," he said, with deliberate menace.
"with fifty thousand cases of salmon aboard the bedford castle i will explain anything. meanwhile the police may go to the devil!" the cool assurance of the young man's tone roused his would-be tormentor like a personal affront.
"you got away from seattle, but there is a commissioner at dutch harbor, also a deputy marshal, who may have better success with a warrant than those policemen had." the trust's manager could not keep down the angry tremor in his voice, and the other, perceiving it, replied in a manner designed to inflame him still more:
"yes, i have heard of those officers. i understand they are both in your employ."
"i hear you have bought them."
"do you mean to insinuate--"
"i don't mean to insinuate anything. listen! we are where we can talk plainly, marsh, and i am tired of all this subterfuge. you did what you could to stop me, you even tried to have me killed--"
"you dare to--"
"but i guess it never occurred to you that i may be just as desperate as you are."
the men stared at each other with hostile eyes, but the accusation had come so suddenly and with such boldness as to rob marsh of words. emerson went on in the same level voice: "i broke through in spite of you, and i'm on the job. if you want to cry quits, i'm willing; but, by god! i won't be balked, and if any of your hired marshals try to take me before i put up my catch i'll put you away. understand?"
willis marsh recoiled involuntarily before the sudden ferocity that blazed up in the speaker's face. "you are insane," he cried.
"am i?" emerson laughed, harshly. "well, i'm just crazy enough to do what i say. i don't think you're the kind that wants hand-to-hand trouble, so let's each attend to his own affair. i'm doing well, thank you, and i think i can get along better if yon don't come back here until i send for you. something might fall on you."
marsh's full, red lips went pallid with rage as he said "then it is to be war, eh?"
"suit yourself." boyd pointed to the shore. "your boatman is waiting for you."
as marsh made his way to the water's edge he stumbled like a blind man; his lips were bleeding where his small, sharp teeth had bitten them, and he panted like an hysterical woman.
during the next fortnight the sailing-ships began to assemble, standing in under a great spread of canvas to berth close alongside the two steamships; for, once the ice had moved north, there was no further obstacle to their coming, and the harbor was soon livened with puffing tugs, unwieldy lighters, and fleets of smaller vessels. where, but a short time before, the brooding silence had been undisturbed save for the plaint of wolf-dogs and the lazy voices of natives, a noisy army was now at work. the bustle of a great preparation arose; languid smoke-wreaths began to unfurl above the stacks of the canneries; the stamp and clank of tin-machines re-echoed; hammer and saw maintained a never-ceasing hubbub. down at the new plant scows were being launched while yet the pitch was warm on their seams; buildings were rising rapidly, and a crew had gone up the river to get out a raft of piles.
on the morning after the arrival of the last ship, emerson and his companions were treated to a genuine surprise. cherry had come down to the site as usual--she could not let a day go by without visiting the place--and clyde, after a tardy breakfast, had just come ashore. they were watching big george direct the launching of a scow, when all of a sudden they heard a familiar voice behind them cry, cheerfully:
"hello, white folks! here we are, all together again."
they turned to behold a villanous-looking man beaming benignly upon them. he was dirty, his clothes were in rags, and through a riotous bristle of beard that hid his thin features a mangy patch showed on either cheek. it was undeniably "fingerless" fraser, but how changed, how altered from that radiant flower of indolence they had known! he was pallid, emaciated, and bedraggled; his attitude showed hunger and abuse, and his bony joints seemed about to pierce through their tattered covering. as they stood speechless with amazement, he made his identification complete by protruding his tongue from the corner of his mouth and gravely closing one eye in a wink of exceeding wisdom.
"fraser!" they cried in chorus, then fell upon him noisily, shaking his grimy hands and slapping his back until he coughed weakly. summoned by their shouts, big george broke in upon the incoherent greeting, and at sight of his late comrade began to laugh hoarsely.
"glad to see you, old man!" he cried, "but how did you get here?"
fraser drew himself up with injured dignity, then spoke in dramatic accents. "i worked my way!" he showed the whites of his eyes, tragically.
"you look like you'd walked in from kansas," george declared.
"yes, sir, i worked! me!"
"on that bloody wind-jammer." he stretched a long arm toward the harbor in a theatrical gesture.
"but the police?" queried boyd.
"oh, i squared them easy. it's you they want. yes, sir, i worked." again he scanned their faces anxiously. "i'm a scullery-maid."
"that's what i said. i've rustled garbage-cans till the smell of food gives me a cold sweat. i'm as hungry as a starving cuban, and yet the sight of a knife and fork turns my stomach." he wheeled suddenly upon alton clyde, whose burst of shrill laughter offended him. "don't cry. your sympathy unmans me."
"tell us about it," urged cherry.
"what's the use?" he demanded, with a glare at clyde. "that bone-head wouldn't understand."
"go ahead," boyd seconded, with twitching lips. "you look as if you had worked, and worked hard."
"hard? i'm the only man in the world who knows what hard work is!"
"start at the beginning--when you were arrested."
"well, i didn't care nothing about the sneeze," he took up the tale, "for i figure it out that they can't slough me without clearing you, so i never take no sleeping-powders, and, sure enough, about third drink-time the bulls spring me, and i screw down the main stem to the drink and get jerry to your fade--"
"tell it straight," interrupted cherry. "they don't understand you."
"well, there ain't any pullmans running to this resort, so i stow away on a coal-burner, but somebody flags me. then i try to hire out as a fisherman, but i ain't there with the gang talk and my stuff drags, so i fix it for a hide-away on the blessed isle--that's her name. can you beat that for a monaker? this sailor of mine goes good to grub me, but he never shows for forty-eight hours--or years, i forget which. anyhow, i stand it as long as i can, then i dig my way up to a hatch and mew like a house-cat. it seems they were hep from the start, and battened me down on purpose, then made book on how long i'd stay hid. oh, it's a funny joke, and they all get a stomach laugh when i show. when i offer to pay my way they're insulted. nix! that ain't their graft. they wouldn't take money from a stranger. oh, no! they permit me to work my way. the scullion has quit, see? so they promote me to his job. it's the only job i ever held, and i held it because it wouldn't let go of me, savvy? there's only three hundred men aboard the blessed isle, so all i have to do, regular, is to understudy the cooks, carry the grub, wait on table, wash the dishes, mop the floors, make the officers' beds, peel six bushels of potatoes a day, and do the laundry. then, of course, there's some odd tasks. oh, it was a swell job--more like a pastime. when a mop sees me coming now it dances a hornpipe, and i can't look a dish-rag in the face. all i see in my dreams is potato-parings and meat-rinds. i've got dish-water in my veins, and the whole universe looks greasy to me. naturally it was my luck to pick the slowest ship in the harbor. we lay three weeks in the ice, that's all, and nobody worked but me and the sea-gulls."
"you deserted this morning, eh?"
he showed no interest whatever in the new plant, refusing even to look it over or to express an opinion upon the progress of the work; so they sent him out to the ship, where for days he remained in a toad-like lethargy, basking in the sun, sleeping three-fourths of the time and spending his waking hours in repeating the awful tale of his disgraceful peonage.
hearing a confused shouting to shoreward, boyd ran to the rail in time to see one of the company tugs at the head of a string of towboats bearing down ahead of the current directly upon his own slow-moving lighter. already it was so close at hand as to make disaster seem inevitable. he saw balt wave his arms furiously and heard him bellow profane warnings while the fishermen scurried about excitedly, but still the tug held to its course. boyd raised his voice in a wild alarm, but had they heard him there was nothing they could have done. then suddenly the affair altered its complexion.
the oncoming tug was barely twice its length from the scow when boyd saw big george cease his violent antics and level a revolver directly at the wheel-house of the opposing craft. two puffs of smoke issued from weapon, then out from the glass-encased structure the steersman plunged, scrambled down the deck and into the shelter of the house. instantly the bow of the tug swung off, and she came on sidewise, striking balt's scow a glancing blow, the sound of which rose above the shouts, while its force threw the big fellow and his companions to their knees and shattered the glass in the pilot-house windows. the boats behind fouled each other, then drifted down upon the scow, and the tide, seizing the whole flotilla, began to spin it slowly. rushing to the ladder, emerson leaped into another launch which fortunately was at hand, and the next instant as the little craft sped out from the side of the bedford castle, he saw that a fight was in progress on the lighter. it was over quickly, and before he reached the scene the current had drifted the tows apart. george, it seemed, had boarded the tug, dragged the captain off, and beaten him half insensible before the man's companions had come to his rescue.
"is the scow damaged?" emerson cried, as he came alongside.
"she's leaking, but i guess we can make it," george reassured him.
they directed the second launch to make fast, and, towed by both tugs, they succeeded in beaching their cargo a mile below the landing.
"we'll calk her at low tide," george declared, well satisfied at this outcome of the misadventure. then he fell to reviling the men who had caused it.
"don't waste your breath on them," boyd advised. "we're lucky enough as it is. if that tug hadn't sheered off she would have cut us down, sure."
"that fellow done it a-purpose," george swore. "seamen ain't that careless. he tried to tell me he was rattled, but i rattled him."
"if that's the case they may try it again," said the younger man.
"huh! i'll pack a 'thirty-thirty' from now on, and i bet they don't get within hailing distance without an iron-clad."
the more calmly emerson regarded the incident, the more he marvelled at the good-fortune that had saved him. "we had better wake up," he said. "we have been asleep so far. if marsh planned this, he will plan something more."
"yes, and if he puts one wallop over we're done for," george agreed, pessimistically. "i'll keep a watchman aboard the scows hereafter. that's our vital spot."
but the days sped past without further interference, and the construction of the plant progressed by leaps and bounds, while the bedford castle, having discharged her cargo, steamed away to return in august.
the middle of june brought the first king salmon, scouts sent on ahead of the "sockeyes;" but boyd made no effort to take advantage of this run, laboring manfully to prepare for the advance of the main army, that terrific horde that was soon to come from the mysterious depths, either to make or ruin him. once the run proper started, there would be no more opportunity for building or for setting up machinery. he must be ready and waiting by the first of july.
it was for the title to the ground where his present operations were going forward that george had been so cruelly disciplined by the "interests;" and while he had held stubbornly to his rights for years in spite of the bitterest persecution, he was now for the first time able to utilize his site. accordingly his exultation was tremendous.
as for boyd, the fever in his veins mounted daily as he saw his dream assuming concrete form. the many problems arising as the work advanced afforded him unceasing activity; the unforeseen obstacles which were encountered hourly required swift and certain judgment, taxing his ingenuity to the utmost. he became so filled with it all, so steeped with the spirit of his surroundings, that he had thought for nothing else. every dawn marked the beginning of a new battle, every twilight heralded another council. his duties swamped him; he was worried, exultant, happy. always he found cherry at his shoulder, unobtrusive and silent for the most part, yet intensely observant and keenly alive to every action. she seemed to have the faculty of divination, knowing when to be silent and when to join her mood with his, and she gave him valuable help; for she possessed a practical mind and a masculine aptitude for details that surprised both him and george. but, rapidly as the work progressed, it seemed that good-fortune would never smile upon them for long. one day, when their preparations were nearly completed, a foreman came to boyd, and said excitedly:
"boss, i'd like you to look at the iron chinks right away."
"i don't know, but something is wrong." a hurried examination showed the machines to be cunningly crippled; certain parts were entirely missing, while others were broken.
"they were all right when we brought them ashore," the man declared. "somebody's been at them lately."
"when? how?" questioned boyd. "we have had watchmen on guard all the time. have any strangers been about?"
"nobody seems to know. when we got ready to set 'em just now, i saw this."
the iron chink, or mechanical cleaner, is perhaps the most ingenious of the many labor-saving devices used in the salmon fisheries. it is an awkward-looking, yet very effective contrivance of revolving knives and conveyors which seizes the fish whole and delivers it cleaned, clipped, cut, and ready to be washed. with superhuman dexterity it does the work of twenty lightning-like butchers. without the aid of these iron chinks, boyd knew that his fish would spoil before they could be handled. in a panic, he pursued his investigation far enough to realize that the machines were beyond repair; that what had seemed at first a trivial mishap was in fact an appalling disaster. then, since his own experience left him without resource, he hastened straightway to george balt. a half-hour's run down the bay and he clambered from his launch to the pile-driver, where, amid the confusion and noise, he made known his tidings. the big fellow's calmness amazed him.
"what are you going to do now?"
"butcher by hand," said the fisherman.
"but how? that takes skilled labor--lots of it."
george grinned. "i'm too old a bird to be caught like this. i figured on accidents from the start, and when i hired my chinamen i included a crew of cutters."
"by jove, you never told me!"
"there wasn't no use. we ain't licked yet, not by a damned sight. willis marsh will have to try again."
a hand in the dark
while they were talking a tug-boat towing a pile-driver came into view. boyd asked the meaning of its presence in this part of the river.
"i don't know," answered big george, staring intently. "yonder looks like another one behind it, with a raft of piles."
"i thought all the company traps were up-stream."
"so they are. i can't tell what they're up to."
a half-hour later, when the new flotilla had come to anchor a short distance below, emerson's companion began to swear.
"i might have known it."
"marsh aims to 'cork' us."
"what is that?"
"he's going to build a trap on each side of this one and cut off our fish."
"good lord! can he do that?"
"sure. why not? the law gives us six hundred yards both ways. as long as he stays outside of that limit he can do anything he wants to."
"then of what use is our trap? the salmon follow definite courses close to the shore, and if he intercepts them before they reach us--why, then we'll get only what he lets through."
"that's his plan," said big george, sourly, "it's an old game, but it don't always work. you can't tell what salmon will do till they do it. i've studied this point of land for five years, and i know more about it than anybody else except god 'lmighty. if the fish hug the shore, then we're up against it, but i think they strike in about here; that's why i chose this site. we can't tell, though, till the run starts. all we can do now is see that them people keep their distance."
the "lead" of a salmon-trap consists of a row of web-hung piling that runs out from the shore for many hundred feet, forming a high, stout fence that turns the schools of fish and leads them into cunningly contrived enclosures, or "pounds," at the outer extremity, from which they are "brailed" as needed. these corrals are so built that once the fish are inside they cannot escape. the entire structure is devised upon the principle that the salmon will not make a short turn, but will swim as nearly as possible in a straight line. it looked to boyd as if marsh, by blocking the line of progress above and below, had virtually destroyed the efficiency of the new trap, rendering the cost of its construction a total loss.
"sometimes you can cork a trap and sometimes you can't," balt went on. "it all depends on the currents, the lay of the bars, and a lot of things we don't know nothing about. i've spent years in trying to locate the point where them fish strike in, and i think it's just below here. it'll all depend on how good i guessed."
"exactly! and if you guessed wrong--"
"then we'll fish with nets, like we used to before there was any traps."
that evening, when he had seen the night-shift started, emerson decided to walk up to cherry's house, for he was worried over the day's developments and felt that an hour of the girl's society might serve to clear his thoughts. his nerves were high-strung from the tension of the past weeks, and he knew himself in the condition of an athlete trained to the minute. in his earlier days he had frequently felt the same nervousness, the same intense mental activity, just prior to an important race or game, and he was familiar with those disquieting, panicky moments when, for no apparent reason, his heart thumped and a physical sickness mastered him. he knew that the fever would leave him, once the salmon began to run, just as it had always vanished at the crack of the starter's pistol or the shrill note of the referee's whistle. he was eager for action, eager to find himself possessed of that gloating, gruelling fury that drives men through to the finish line. meanwhile, he was anxious to divert his mind into other channels.
cherry's house was situated a short distance above the cannery which served as willis marsh's headquarters, and boyd's path necessarily took him past his enemy's very stronghold. finding the tide too high to permit of passing beneath the dock, he turned up among the buildings, where, to his surprise, he encountered his own day-foreman talking earnestly with a stranger.
the fisherman started guiltily as he saw him, and boyd questioned him sharply.
"what are you doing here, larsen?"
"i just walked up after supper to have a talk with an old mate."
"who is he?" boyd glanced suspiciously at larsen's companion.
"he's mr. marsh's foreman."
emerson spoke out bluntly: "see here. i don't like this. these people have caused me a lot of trouble already, and i don't want my men hanging around here."
"oh, that's all right," said larsen, carelessly. "him and me used to fish together." and as if this were a sufficient explanation, he turned back to his conversation, leaving emerson to proceed on his way, vaguely displeased at the episode, yet reflecting that heretofore he had never had occasion to doubt larsen's loyalty.
he found cherry at home, and, flinging himself into one of her easy-chairs, relieved his mind of the day's occurrences.
"marsh is building those traps purely out of spite," she declared, indignantly, when he had finished. "he doesn't need any more fish--he has plenty of traps farther up the river."
"to be sure! it looks as if we might have to depend upon the gill-netters."
"we will know before long. if the fish strike in where george expects, marsh will be out a pretty penny."
"exactly! it's a fascinating business, isn't it? it's a business in which the unexpected is forever happening. but the stakes are high and--i know you will succeed."
boyd smiled at her comforting assurance, her belief in him was always stimulating.
"by-the-way," she continued, "have you heard the historic story about the pink salmon?"
he shook his head.
"well, there was a certain shrewd old cannery-man in washington state whose catch consisted almost wholly of pink fish. as you know, that variety does not bring as high a price as red salmon, like these. well, finding that he could not sell his catch, owing to the popular prejudice about color, this man printed a lot of striking can-labels, which read, 'best grade pink salmon, warranted not to turn red in the can.' they tell me it worked like a charm."
"no wonder!" boyd laughed, beginning to feel the tension of his nerves relax at the restfulness of her influence. as usual, he fell at once into the mood she desired for him. he saw that her brows were furrowed and her rosy lips drawn into an unconscious pout as she said, more to herself than to him:
"i wish i were a man. i'd like to engage in a business of this sort, something that would require ingenuity and daring. i'd like to handle big affairs."
"it seems to me that you are in a business of that sort. you are one of us."
"oh, but you and george are doing it all."
"there is your copper-mine. you surely handled that very cleverly."
cherry's expression altered, and she shot a quick glance at him as he went on:
"how is it coming along, by-the-way? i haven't heard you mention it lately?"
"very well, i believe. the men were down the other day, and told me it was a big thing."
"i'm delighted. how does it seem, to be rich?"
there was the slightest hint of constraint in the girl's voice as she stared out at the slowly gathering twilight, murmuring:
"i--i hardly know. rich! that has always been my dream, and yet--"
"the wonderful feature about dreams," he took advantage of her pause to say, "is that they come true."
"not all of them--not the real, wonderful dreams," she returned.
"oh yes! my dream is coming true, and so is yours."
"i have given up hoping for that," she said, without turning.
something in the girl's attitude and in her silence made him feel that his words rang hollow and commonplace. while they had talked, an unaccustomed excitement had been mounting in his brain, and it held him now in a kind of delicious embarrassment. it was as if both had been suddenly enfolded in a new and mysterious understanding, without the need of speech. he did not tell himself that cherry loved him; but he roused to a fresh perception of her beauty, and felt himself privileged in her nearness. at the same time he was seized with the old, half-resentful curiosity to learn her history. what wealth of romance lay shadowed in her eyes, what tragic story was concealed by her consistent silence, he could only guess; for she was a woman who spoke rarely of herself and lived wholly in the present. her very reticence inspired confidence, and boyd felt sure that here was a girl to whom one might confess the inmost secrets of a wretched soul and rest secure in the knowledge that his confession would be inviolate as if locked in the heart of mountains. he knew her for a steadfast friend, and he t'elt that she was beautiful, not only in face and form, but in all those little indescribable mannerisms which stamp the individual. and this girl was here alone with him, so close that by stretching out his arms he might enfold her. she allowed him to come and go at will; her intimacy with him was almost like that of an unspoiled boy--yet different, so different that he thrilled at the thought, and the blood pounded up into his throat.
he stopped her at last, and they talked in the half-light, floating along together half dreamily, as if upon the bosom of some great current that bore them into strange regions which they dreaded yet longed to explore.
they heard a child crying somewhere in the rear of the house, and chakawana's voice soothing, then in a moment the indian girl appeared in the doorway saying something about going out with constantine. cherry acquiesced half consciously, impatient of the intrusion.
for a long time they talked, so completely in concord that for the most part their voices were low and their sentences so incomplete that they would have sounded incoherent and foolish to other ears. they were roused finally by the appreciation that it had grown very late and a storm was brewing. boyd rose, and going to the door, saw that the sky was deeply overcast, rendering the night as dark as in a far lower latitude.
"i've overstayed my welcome," he ventured, and smiled at her answering laugh.
with a trace of solicitude, she said:
"wait! i'll get you a rain-coat," but he reached out a detaining hand. in the darkness it encountered the bare flesh of her arm.
"please don't! you'd have to strike a light to find it, and i don't want a light now."
he was standing on the steps, with her slightly above him, and so close that he heard her sharp-drawn breath.
"it has been a pleasant evening," she said, inanely.
"i saw you for the first time to-night, cherry. i think i have begun to know you."
with trembling, gentle hands she pushed him from her; but even when the sound of his footsteps had died away, she stood with eyes straining into the gloom, in her breast a gladness so stifling that she raised her hands to still its tumult.
emerson, with the glow still upon him, felt a deep contentment which he did not trouble to analyze. it has been said that two opposite impulses may exist side by side in a man's mind, like two hostile armies which have camped close together in the night, unrevealed to each other until the morning. to emerson the dawn had not yet come. he had no thought of disloyalty to mildred, but, after his fashion, took the feeling of the moment unreflectively. his mood was averse to thought, and, moreover, the darkness forced him to give instant attention to his path. while the waters of the bay out to his right showed a ghostly gray, objects beneath the bluff where he walked were cloaked in impenetrable shadow. the air was damp with the breath of coming rain, and at rare intervals he caught a glimpse of the torn edges of clouds hurrying ahead of a wind that was yet unfelt.
greatly relieved, boyd was about to go on, when a sharp cry, like a signal, came in the woman's voice, a cry which turned to a genuine wail of distress. the listener heard a man's voice cursing in answer, and then the sound of a scuffle, followed at length by a choking cry, that brought him bounding into the building. he ran forward, recklessly, but before he had covered half the distance he collided violently with a piece of machinery and went sprawling to the floor. a glance upward revealed the dim outlines of a "topper," and showed him farther down the building, silhouetted briefly against the lesser darkness of the windows, two struggling figures. as he regained his footing, something rushed past him--man or animal he could not tell which, for its feet made no more sound upon the floor than those of a wolf-dog. then, as he bolted forward, he heard a man cry out, and found himself in the midst of turmoil. his hands encountered a human body, and he seized it, only to be hurled aside as if with a giant's strength. again he clinched with a man's form, and bore it to the floor, cursing at the darkness and reaching for its throat. his antagonist raised his voice in wild clamor, while boyd braced himself for another assault from those huge hands he had met a moment before. but it did not come. instead, he heard a cry from the woman, an answer in a deeper voice, and then swift, pattering footsteps growing fainter. meanwhile the man with whom he was locked was fighting desperately, with hands and feet and teeth, shouting hoarsely. other footsteps sounded now, this time approaching, then at the door a lantern flared. a watchman came running down between the lines of machinery, followed by other figures half revealed.
boyd had pinned his antagonist against the cold sides of a retort at last, and with fingers clutched about his throat was beating his head violently against the iron, when by the lantern's gleam he caught one glimpse of the fat, purple face in front of him, and loosed his hold with a startled exclamation. released from the grip that had nearly made an end of him, willis marsh staggered to his feet, then lurched forward as if about to fall from weakness. his eyes were staring, his blackened tongue protruded, while his head, battered and bleeding, lolled grotesquely from side to side as if in hideous merriment. his clothes were torn and soiled from the litter underfoot, and he presented a frightful picture of distress. but it was not this that caused emerson the greatest astonishment. the man was wounded, badly wounded, as he saw by the red stream which gushed down over his breast. boyd cast his eyes about for the other participants in the encounter, but they were nowhere visible; only an open door in the shadows close by hinted at the mode of their disappearance.
there was a brief, noisy interval, during which emerson was too astounded to attempt an answer to the questions hurled broadcast by the new-comers; then marsh levelled a trembling finger at him and cried, hysterically:
"there he is, men. he tried to murder me. i--i'm hurt. i'll have him arrested."
"i didn't do that. i heard a fight going on and ran in here--"
"he's a liar," the wounded man interrupted, shrilly. "he stabbed me! see?" he tried to strip the shirt from his wounds, then fell to chattering and shaking. "oh, god! i'm hurt." he staggered to a packing-case and sank upon it weakly fumbling at his sodden shoulder.
"i didn't do that," repeated boyd. "i don't know who stabbed him. i didn't."
"then who did?" some one demanded.
"what are you doing in here? you'd a killed him in a minute," said the man with the lantern.
"we'll fix you for this," a third voice threatened.
"listen," boyd said, in a tone to make them pause. "there has been a mistake here. i was passing the building when i heard a woman scream, and i rushed in to prevent marsh from choking her to death."
"that's what i said."
"where is she now?"
"i don't know. i didn't see her at all. i grappled with the first person i ran into. she must have gone out as you came in." boyd indicated the side door, which was still ajar.
"it's a lie," screamed marsh.
"it's the truth," stoutly maintained emerson, "and there was a man with her, too. who was she, marsh? who was the man?"
"she--she--i don't know."
"i'm hurt," reiterated the stricken man, feebly. then, seeing the bewilderment in the faces about him, he burst out anew: "don't stand there like a lot of fools. why don't you get him?"
"if i stabbed him i must have had a knife," emerson said, again checking the forward movement. "you may search me if you like. see?" he opened his coat and displayed his belt.
"he's got a six-shooter," some one said.
"yes, and i may use it," said emerson, quietly.
"maybe he dropped the knife," said the watchman, and began to search about the floor, followed by the others.
"it may have been the woman herself who stabbed mr. marsh," offered emerson. "he was strangling her when i arrived."
roused by this statement to a fresh denial, marsh cried out:
"i tell you there wasn't any woman."
"and there isn't any knife either," emerson sneered.
the men paused uncertainly. seeing that they were undecided whether to believe him or his assailant, marsh went on:
"if he hasn't a knife, then he must have had a friend with him--"
"then tell your men what we were doing in here and how you came to be alone with us in the dark." emerson stared at his accuser curiously, but the trust's manager seemed at a loss. "see here, marsh, if you will tell us whom you were choking, maybe we can get at the truth of this affair."
without answering, marsh rose, and, leaning upon the watchman's arm, said:
"help me up to the house. i'm hurt. send the launch to the upper plant for john; he knows something about medicine." with no further word, he made his way out of the building, followed by the mystified fishermen.
no one undertook to detain emerson, and he went his way, wondering what lay back of the night's adventure. he racked his brain for a hint as to the identity of the woman and the reason of her presence alone with marsh in such a place. again he thought of that mysterious third person whose movements had been so swift and furious, but his conjectures left him more at sea than ever. of one thing he felt sure. it was not enmity alone that prompted marsh to accuse him of the stabbing. the man was concealing something, in deadly fear of the truth, for rather than submit to questioning he had let his enemy go scot-free.
suddenly boyd paused in his walk, recalling again the shadowy outlines of the figure with whom he had so nearly collided on his way up from the beach. there was something familiar about it, he mused; then, with a low whistle of surprise, he smote his palms together. he began to see dimly.
for more than an hour the young man paced back and forth before the door of his sleeping-quarters, so deeply immersed in thought that only the breaking storm drove him within. when at last he retired, it was with the certainty that this night had placed a new weapon in his hand; but of what tremendous value it was destined to prove, he little knew.
the silver horde
the main body of salmon struck into the kalvik river on the first day of july. for a week past the run had been slowly growing, while the canneries tested themselves, but on the opening day of the new month the horde issued boldly forth from the depths of the sea, and the battle began in earnest. they came during the hush of the dawn, a mad, crowding throng from no man's land, to wake the tide-rips and people the shimmering reaches of the bay, lashing them to sudden life and fury. outside, the languorous ocean heaved as smiling and serene as ever, but within the harbor a wondrous change occurred.
as if in answer to some deep-sea signal, the tides were quickened by a coursing multitude, steadfast and unafraid, yet foredoomed to die by the hand of man, or else more surely by the serving of their destiny. clad in their argent mail of blue and green, they worked the bay to madness; they overwhelmed the waters, surging forward in great droves and columns, hesitating only long enough to frolic with the shifting currents, as if rejoicing in their strength and beauty.
at times they swam with cleaving fins exposed: again they churned the placid waters until swift combers raced across the shallow bars like tidal waves while the deeper channels were shot through with shadowy forms or pierced by the lightning glint of silvered bellies. they streamed in with the flood tide to retreat again with the ebb, but there was neither haste nor caution in their progress; they had come in answer to the breeding call of the sea, and its exultation was upon them, driving them relentlessly onward. they had no voice against its overmastering spell.
mustering in the early light like a swarm of giant white-winged moths, the fishing-boats raced forth with the flowing tide, urged by sweep and sail and lusty sinews. paying out their hundred-fathom nets, they drifted over the banks like flocks of resting sea-gulls, only to come ploughing back again deep laden with their spoils. grimy tugboats lay beside the traps, shrilling the air with creaking winches as they "brailed" the struggling fish, a half-ton at a time, from the "pounds," now churned to milky foam by the ever-growing throng of prisoners; and all the time the big plants gulped the sea harvest, faster and faster, clanking and gnashing their metal jaws, while the mounds of salmon lay hip-deep to the crews that fed the butchering machines.
the time had come for man to take his toll.
now dawned a period of feverish activity wherein no one might rest short of actual exhaustion. haste became the cry, and comfort fled.
at emerson's cannery there fell a sudden panic, for fifty fishermen quit. returning from the banks on the night before the run started, they stacked their gear and notified boyd emerson of their determination. then, despite his utmost efforts to dissuade them, they took their packs upon their shoulders and marched up the beach to willis marsh's plant. larsen, the day-foreman, acted as their so the real size and bounds of the republic must be set down as somewhat indeterminate.
the circumstances under which panama became an independent nation have been set forth in an earlier chapter. it is safe to say that with the heavy investment made by the united states in the canal zone, on the strength of a treaty with the infant republic, the sovereignty of panama will be forever maintained against all comers--except the united states itself. there are political philosophers who think that the isthmus state may yet be the southern boundary of the great republic of the north. for the present however uncle sam is quite content with the canal zone and a certain amount of diplomatic influence over the government of panama.
panama is divided into seven provinces, bocas del toro, cocle, colon, chiriqui, los santos, panama and veragua. its total population by the census of 1911 was 386,749, a trifle more than the district of columbia which has about one five-thousandth of its area, and almost precisely the same population as montana which has less than half its size. so it is clearly not over-populated. of its population 51,323 are set down by its own census takers as white, 191,933 as mestizo, or a cross between white and indian, 48,967 as negro; 2313 mongol, and 14,128 indian. the census takers estimated that other indians, living in barbarism remote from civilization and unapproachable by the enumerators, numbered 36,138.
all these figures have to be qualified somewhat. the mestizos are theoretically a cross between whites and indians, but the negro blood is very generally present. it is doubtful, too, whether those classed as white are not often of mixed blood.
a singularly large proportion of the population lives in the towns. in 12 towns, exceeding 7000 inhabitants each, are more than 150,000 people. more than one-third of the people therefore are town dwellers, which is to say they are unproductive citizens. meanwhile more than five-eighths of the arable land in the country is not under cultivation.
the five chief towns of panama with their population in 1911 are:
of these towns david is the capital of the chiriqui province, the portion of the republic in which cattle growing and agriculture have been most developed. bocas del toro is a banana port, dependent upon that nutritious fruit for its very existence, and the center of the business of the united fruit company in panama. at present the former town is reached by a 300 mile water trip from panama city; the latter by boat from colon. the government has under way plans for a railroad from panama to david which give every indication of being consummated.
the soil of the republic differs widely in its varying sections, from the rich vegetable loam of the lowlands along the atlantic coast, the outcome of years of falling leaves and twigs from the trees to the swamp below, to the high dry lands of the savannas and the hillsides of the chiriqui province. all are undeniably fertile, that is demonstrated by the rapid and rank growth of the jungle. but opinions differ as to the extent to which they are available for useful agriculture. some hold that the jungle soil is so rich that the plants run to wood and leaves to the exclusion of fruits. others declare that on the hillsides the heavy rains of the rainy seasons wash away the surface soil leaving only the harsh and arid substratum. this theory seems to be overthrown by the fact that it is rare to see a hillside in all panama not covered with dense vegetation. a fact that is well worth bearing in mind is that there has never been a systematic and scientific effort to utilize any part of the soil of panama for productive purposes that has not been a success. the united fruit company in its plantations about bocas del toro has developed a fruitful province and created a prosperous town. in the province of cocle a german company has set out about 75,000 cacao trees, 50,000 coffee bushes and 25,000 rubber trees, all of which have made good progress.
the obstacles in the path of the fuller development of the national resources of panama have sprung wholly from the nature of its population. the indian is, of course, not primarily an agriculturist, not a developer of the possibilities of the land he inhabits. the spanish infusion brought to the native population no qualities of energy, of well-directed effort, of the laborious determination to build up a new and thriving commonwealth. spanish ideals run directly counter to those involved in empire building. such energy, such determination as built up our great northwest and is building in british columbia the greatest agricultural empire in the world, despite seven months annually of drifting snow and frozen ground, would make of the panama savannas and valleys the garden spot of the world. that will never be accomplished by the present agrarian population, but it is incredible that with population absorbing and overrunning the available agricultural lands of other zones, the tropics should long be left dormant in control of a lethargic and indolent people.
benjamin kidd, in his stimulative book, “social evolution”, says on this subject:
“with the filling up to the full limit of the remaining territories suitable for european occupation, and the growing pressure of population therein, it may be expected that the inexpediency of allowing a great extent of territory in the richest region of the globe--that comprised within the tropics--to remain undeveloped, with its resources running largely to waste under the management of races of low social efficiency, will be brought home with ever-growing force to the minds of the western (northern) peoples. the day is probably not far distant when, with the advance science is making, we shall recognize that it is in the tropics and not in the temperate zones we have the greatest food-producing and material-producing regions of the earth; that the natural highways of commerce in the world are those which run north and south; and that we have the highest possible interest in the proper development and efficient administration of the tropical regions, and in an exchange of products therewith on a far larger scale than has yet been attempted or imagined.... it will probably be made clear, and that at no distant date, that the last thing our civilization is likely to permanently tolerate is the wasting of the resources of the richest regions of the earth through lack of the elementary qualities of social efficiency in the races possessing them”.
at the cattle port of aguadulce
some of the modern psychologists who are so expert in solving the riddles of human consciousness that they hardly hesitate to approach the supreme problem of life after death may perhaps determine whether the indolence of the panamanian is racial, climatic, or merely bred of consciousness that he does not have to work hard in order to get all the comforts of which he has knowledge. the life-story of an imaginary couple will serve as the short and simple annals of tens of thousands of panama’s poor:
miguel lived on the banks of the chagres river, about half way between cruces and alhajuela. to him cruces was a city. were there not at least thirty huts of bamboo and clay thatched with palmetto like the one in which he lived? was there not a church of sawn boards, with an altar to which a priest came twice a month to say mass, and a school where a gringo taught the children strange things in the hated english tongue? where he lived there was no other hut within two or three hours poling up the river, but down at cruces the houses were so close together you could almost reach one while sitting in the shade of another. at home after dark you only heard the cry of the whippoorwill, or occasionally the wail of a tiger cat in the jungle, but at cruces there was always the loud talk of the men in the cantina, and a tom-tom dance at least once a week, when everybody sat up till dawn dancing to the beat of the drums and drinking the good rum that made them all so jolly.
but greater than cruces was the yankee town of matachin down on the banks of the river where the crazy americans said there was going to be a lake that some day would cover all the country, and drown out cruces and even his father’s house. they were paying all the natives along the river for their lands that would be sunken, and the people were taking the pesos gladly and spending them gaily. they did not trouble to move away. many years ago the french too said there would be a lake, but it never came and the french suddenly disappeared. the americans would vanish the same way, and a good thing, too, for their thunderous noises where they were working frightened away all the good game, and you could hardly find an iguana, or a wild hog in a day’s hunting.
once a week miguel’s father went down to market at matachin, and sometimes the boy went along. the long, narrow cayuca was loaded with oranges, bananas and yams, all covered with big banana leaves, and with miguel in the bow and his father in the stern the voyage commenced. going down stream was easy enough, and the canoists plied their paddles idly, trusting chiefly to the current to carry them along. but coming back would be the real work, then they would have to bend to their poles and push savagely to force the boat along. at places they would have to get overboard and fairly carry the boat through the swift, shallow rapids. but miguel welcomed the work for it showed him the wonders of matachin, where great iron machines rushed along like horses, drawing long trains of cars; where more people worked with shovels tending queer machines than there were in ten towns like cruces; where folk gave pesos for bananas and gave cloth, powder and shot, things to eat in cans, and rum in big bottles for the pesos again. it was an exciting place this matachin and made miguel understand what the gringoes meant when they talked about new york, chicago and other cities like it.
when he grew older miguel worked awhile for the men who were digging away all this dirt, and earned enough to buy himself a machete and a gun and a few ornaments for a girl named maria who lived in another hut near the river. but what was the use of working in that mad way--picking up your shovel when a whistle blew and toiling away until it blew again, with a boss always scolding at you and ready with a kick if you tried to take a little siesta. the pesos once a week were good, that was true. if you worked long enough you might get enough to buy one of those boxes that made music, but quien sabe? it might get broken anyway, and the iguanas in the jungle, the fish in the river and the yams and bananas in the clearing needed no silver to come to his table. besides he was preparing to become a man of family. maria was quite willing, and so one day they strolled off together hand in hand to a clearing miguel had made with his machete on the river bank. with that same useful tool he cut some wooden posts, set them erect in the ground and covered them with a heavy thatch of palmetto leaves impervious to sun or rain. the sides of the shelter were left open during the first months of wedded life. later perhaps, when they had time they would go to cruces at the period of the priest’s regular visit and get regularly married. when the rainy season came on and walls were as necessary as a roof against the driving rain, they would build a little better. when that time came he would set ten stout uprights of bamboo in the ground in the shape of an oblong, and across the tops would fasten six cross pieces of girders with withes of vine well soaked to make them pliable. this would make the frame of the first floor of his house. the walls he would make by weaving reeds, or young bamboo stalks in and out betwixt the posts until a fairly tight basketwork filled the space. this was then plastered outside with clay. the dirt, which in time would be stamped down hard, formed the floor. for his second story a tent-shaped frame of lighter bamboo tightly tied together was fastened to the posts, and cane was tied to each of the rafters as we nail laths to scantling. thus a strong peaked roof, about eight feet high from the second floor to the ridgepole was constructed, and thatched with palm leaves. its angle being exceedingly steep it sheds water in the fierce tropic rain storms. the floor of the second story is made of bamboo poles laid transversely, and covered heavily with rushes and palmetto. this is used only as the family sleeping apartment, and to give access to it miguel takes an 8-inch bamboo and cuts notches in it, into which the prehensile toes of his family may fit as they clamber up to the land of nod. furniture to the chamber floor there is none. the family herd together like so many squirrels, and with the bamboo climbing pole drawn up there is no danger of intrusion by the beasts of the field.
in the typical indian hut there is no furniture on the ground floor other than a rough hewn bench, a few pieces of pottery and gourds, iron cooking vessels and what they call a kitchen, which is in fact a large flat box with raised edges, about eight square feet in surface and about as high from the floor as a table. this is filled with sand and slabs of stone. in it a little fire is built of wood or charcoal, the stones laid about the fire support the pots and pans and cooking goes on as gaily as in any modern electric kitchen. the contrivance sounds primitive, but i have eaten a number of excellent meals cooked on just such an apparatus.
now it will be noticed that in all this habitation, sufficient for the needs of an indian, there is nothing except the iron pots and possibly some pottery for which money was needed, and there are thousands of families living in just this fashion in panama today. true, luxury approaches in its insidious fashion and here and there you will see a $1.25 white iron bed on the main floor, real chairs, canned goods on the shelves and--final evidence of indian prosperity!--a crayon portrait of the head of the family and a phonograph, of a make usually discarded at home. but when miguel and maria start out on the journey of life a machete, a gun and the good will of their neighbors who will lend them yams until their own planting begins to yield forms a quite sufficient capital on which to establish their family. therefore, why work?
a typical native hut
it is beyond doubt to the ease with which life can be sustained, and the torpidity of the native imagination which depicts no joys to spur one on to effort that the unwillingness of the native to do systematic work is due. and from this difficulty in getting labor follows the fact that not one quarter of the natural resources of panama are developed. whether the labor problem will be solved by the distribution throughout the republic of the caribbean blacks who have worked so well on the zone is yet to be seen. it may be possible that because of this the fertile lands of panama, or the savannas so admirably fitted for grazing, can only be utilized by great corporations who will do things on so great a scale as to justify the importation of labor. today the man who should take up a large tract of land in the chiriqui country with a view to tilling it would be risking disaster because of the uncertainty of the labor supply.
with the lack of labor, and the uncertainty of land titles, the final impediment to the general development of the interior of panama is to be found in the lack of roads. it is not that the roads are bad--that is the case in many of our own commonwealths. but in a great part of panama there are literally no roads at all. trails, choked by the jungle and so washed by the rains that they are merely lanes floored with boulders, are the rule. the heavy ox-cart is the only vehicle that will stand the going, and our light american farm wagons would be speedily racked to pieces. in the canal zone the commission has built some of the best roads in the world, utilizing the labor of employees convicted of minor offenses. stimulated by this example the panama government has built one excellent road from the chief city across the savannas to old panama and thence onward into the interior. it is hoped that the spectacle of the admirable roads in the zone will encourage the authorities of the republic to go into road building on a large scale in their own country. in no other way can its possibilities be realized. at present the rivers afford the surest highways and land abutting them brings higher prices.
david, the largest interior town of panama, is the central point of the cattle industry. all around it are woods, or jungles, plentifully interspersed with broad prairies, or llanos, covered with grass, and on which no trees grow save here and there a wild fig or a ceibo. cattle graze on the llanos, sleek reddish beasts with spreading horns like our texas cattle. there are no huge herds as on our western ranges. droves of from ten to twenty are about the average among the small owners who rely on the public range for subsistence. the grass is not sufficiently nutritious to bring the cattle up to market form, so the small owners sell to the owners of big ranches who maintain potreros, or fattening ground sown with better grasses. a range fed steer will fetch $15 to $18, and after six or eight months on the potrero it will bring $30 to $35 from the cattle shipper at david. since the cost of feeding a beeve for that period is only about one dollar, and as the demand is fairly steady the profit of the ranchman is a good one. but like all other industries in panama, this one is pursued in only a retail way. the market is great enough to enrich ranchmen who would go into the business on a large scale, but for some reason none do.
passing from llano to llano the road cuts through the forest which towers dense and impenetrable on either side, broken only here and there by small clearings made by some native with the indispensable machete. these in the main are less than four acres. the average panamanian farmer will never incur the scriptural curse laid upon them that lay field unto field. he farms just enough for his daily needs, no more. the ambition that leads our northern farmer to always covet the lands on the other side of his boundary fence does not operate in panama. one reason is, of course, the aggressiveness of the jungle. stubborn to clear away, it is determined in its efforts to regain the land from which it has been ousted. such a thing as allowing a field to lie fallow for two or three years is unknown in panama. there would be no field visible for the new jungle growth.
agriculture therefore is conducted in a small way only, except for the great corporations that have just begun the exploitation of panama. whether the country affords a hopeful field for the individual settler is at least doubtful. its climate is excellent. the days are warm but never scorchingly hot as are customary in washington and frequent in new york. the nights are cool. from december to may a steady trade wind blows over the isthmus from north to south, carrying away the clouds so that there is no rain. in this dry season the fruits mature, so that it corresponds to the northern summer; on the other hand such vegetation as sheds its leaves, or dies down annually, does so at this season, giving it a seeming correspondence to the northern winter. in a temperature sense there is neither summer nor winter, and the variation of the thermometer is within narrow limits. the highest temperature in years at culebra, a typical inland point, was 96 degrees; the lowest 61.
the list of natural products of the isthmus is impressive in its length and variety, but for most of them even the home demand is not met or supplied by the production. only where some stimulating force from the outside has intervened, like the united fruit company with the banana, has production been brought up to anything like its possibility. in the chiriqui country you can see sugar cane fields that have gone on producing practically without attention for fifteen seasons. cornfields have been worked for half a century without fertilizing or rotation of crops. the soil there is volcanic detritus washed down during past ages from the mountainsides, and lies from six to twenty feet thick. it will grow anything that needs no frost, but the province supports less than four people to the square mile, nine-tenths of the land is unbroken and panama imports fruit from jamaica, sugar from cuba and tobacco and food stuffs from the united states.
the fruits of panama are the orange, which grows wild and for the proper cultivation of which no effort has been made, which is equally the case with the lemon and the lime; the banana, which plays so large a part in the economic development of the country that i shall treat of it at length later; the pineapple, cultivated in a haphazard way, still attains so high an order of excellence that taboga pines are the standard for lusciousness; the mango, which grows in clusters so dense that the very trees bend under their weight, but for which as yet little market has been found, as they require an acquired taste; the mamei, hard to ship and difficult to eat because of its construction but withal a toothsome fruit; the paypaya, a melon not unlike our cantaloupe which has the eccentricity of growing on trees; the sapodillo, a fruit of excellent flavor tasting not unlike a ripe persimmon, but containing no pit. with cultivation all of these fruits could be grown in great quantities in all parts of the republic, but to give them any economic importance some special arrangement for their regular and speedy marketing would have to be made, as with the banana, most of them being by nature extremely perishable.
northern companies are finding some profit in exploiting such natural resources of panama as are available in their wild state. of these the most promising is rubber, the tree being found in practically every part of the country. one concern, the boston-panama company, has an estate approximating 400 square miles on which are about 100,000 wild rubber trees, and which is being further developed by the planting of bananas, pineapples, cocoanuts and other tropical fruits.
coffee, sugar and cacao are raised on the isthmus, but of the two former not enough to supply the local demand. the development of the cacao industry to large proportions seems probable, as several foreign corporations are experimenting on a considerable scale. cocoanuts are easily grown along both coasts of the isthmus. a new grove takes about five years to come into bearing, costing an average of about three dollars a tree. once established the trees bring in a revenue of about one dollar each at present prices and, as the demand for panama cocoanuts is steady, the industry seems to offer attractive possibilities. the groves must be near the coast, as the cocoanut tree needs salt air to reach its best estate. given the right atmospheric conditions they will thrive where no other plant will take root. growing at the edge of the sea, water transportation is easy.
there is still much land available for cocoanut planting, though but little of it is government land. both coasts are fit for this industry, unlike the banana industry, which thrives only on the atlantic shore. panama is outside of the hurricane belt, which gives an added advantage to the cocoanut planter. elsewhere in the caribbean the trees suffer severely from the high winds.
the lumber of panama will in time come to be one of its richest assets. in the dense forests hardwoods of a dozen varieties or more are to be found, but as yet the cost of getting it out is prohibitive in most sections. only those forests adjacent to streams are economically valuable and such activity as is shown is mainly along the bayano, chucunaque, and tuyra rivers. the list of woods is almost interminable. the prospectus of one of the companies with an extended territory on the bayano river notes eighteen varieties of timber, commercially valuable on its territory. among those the names of which are unfamiliar are the espavé (sometimes spelled espevé), the cocobolo, the espinosa cedar, the zoro and the sangre. all are hard woods serviceable in cabinet making. the espavé is as hard as mahogany and of similar color and marking. the trees will run four to five feet thick at the stump with saw timber 60 to 70 feet in length. espinosa trees are of the cedar type, growing to enormous size, frequently exceeding 16 feet in circumference. the cocobolo is a hard wood, but without the beauty to fit it for cabinet work. the sangre derives its name from its red sap which exudes from a gash like blood. it takes a high polish, and is in its general characteristics not unlike our cherry.
for the casual tourist the lumber district most easy of access is that along the bayano river reached by a motor boat or steam launch in a few hours from panama. the trip is frequently made by pleasure seekers, for perhaps nowhere in the world is the beauty of a phosphorescent sea at night so marvelously shown, and few places easily found by man show such a horde of alligators or crocodiles, as are seen in crocodile creek, one of the affluents of the bayano. this river, which empties into the gulf of panama, is in its lower reaches a tide-water stream and perhaps because of the mingling of the salt and the fresh the water is densely filled with the microscopic infusoria which at night blaze forth in coldly phosphorescent gleams suggestive of the sparkling of a spray of diamonds. put your hand into the stream, lift it and let the water trickle through your fingers. every drop gleams and glistens as it falls with a radiance comparable with nothing in nature unless it be the great fire-flies of the tropics. even diamonds have to pass through the hands of the cutter before they will blaze with any such effulgence as the trickling waters of this tropical stream. one who has passed a night upon it may well feel that he has lived with one of the world’s marvels, and can but wonder at the matter-of-fact manner in which the natives go about their tasks unmoved by the contact with so much shining glory.
there is always controversy on the isthmus over the question whether the gigantic saurians of crocodile creek are in fact crocodiles or alligators. whether expert scientific opinion has ever been called upon to settle the problem i do not know, but i rather suspect that crocodile was determined upon because it gave to the name of crocodile creek in which they are so plentifully found “apt alliteration’s artful aid” to make it picturesque. whatever the precise zoological classification given to the huge lizards may be is likely to be relatively unimportant before long, because the greatest joy of every tourist is found in killing them. the fascination which slaughter possesses for men is always hard to understand, but just what gives the killing of alligators its peculiar zest i could never understand. the beasts are slow, torpid and do not afford a peculiarly difficult test of marksmanship, even though the vulnerable part of their bodies is small. they are timid and will not fight for their lives. there is nothing of the sporting proposition in pursuing them that is to be found in hunting the tiger or the grizzly. they are practically harmless, and in the bayano region wholly so, as there are no domestic animals upon which they can prey. it is true their teeth and skins have a certain value in the market, but it is not for these the tourist kills them. most of those slain for “sport” sink instantly and cannot be recovered.
however if you visit crocodile creek with a typical party you will be given a very fair imitation of a lively skirmish in actual war. from every part of the deck, from the roof of the cabin, and from the pilot house shots ring out from repeating rifles in a fierce desire to kill. the emersonian doctrine of compensation is often given illustration by the killing of one of the hunters in the eagerness to get at the quarry. in fact that is one of the commonest accidents of the tourist season in panama.
crocodile creek is a deep, sluggish black stream, almost arched over by the boughs of the thick forest along the shores. here and there the jungle is broken by a broad shelving beach on which the ungainly beasts love to sun themselves, and to which the females resort to deposit their eggs. at the sound of a voice or a paddle in the stream the awkward brutes take to the water in terror, for there are few animals more timid than they. when in the water the crocodile floats lazily, displaying only three small bumps above the surface--the nostrils and the horny protruberances above the eyes. once the pool in which they float is disturbed they sink to the bottom and lurk there for hours. alligator hunting for business purposes is not as yet generally pursued on the isthmus, though one hunter and trapper is said to have secured as many as 60,000 in a year. but as the demand for the skins, and to a lesser degree for the teeth, of the animals is a constant one, it is probable that with the aid of the tourists they will be exterminated there as thoroughly as they have been in the settled parts of florida. while on the subject of slaughter and the extermination of game it may be noted that the canal commission has already established very stringent game laws on the zone, particularly for the protection of plumed birds like the egret, and it is seriously proposed to make of that part of gatun lake within the zone a refuge for birds in which no shooting shall be permitted. such action would stop mere wanton slaughter from the decks of passing steamers, and in the end would greatly enhance the beauty and interest of the trip through the lake which would be fairly alive with birds and other animal life.
the bayano river region beside being the center of such lumbering activities as the zone knows at present is the section in which are found the curious vegetable ivory nuts which, though growing wild, have become one of the principal products of panama. only a few years ago they were looked upon merely as curiosities but are now a useful new material. they are gathered by the natives and sold to dealers in panama who ship them north to be made into buttons and other articles of general use. nobody has yet experimented with the cultivation of the tree, and there is reason to believe that with cultivation larger nuts could be obtained, and, by planting, considerable groves established. the trees grow well in every part of the darien, and the demand, with the rapid diminution in the supply of real ivory, should be a growing one.
indeed, the more one studies panama and its resources the more one is convinced that all that is necessary to make the country a rich and prosperous one, or at any rate to cause it to create riches and prosperity for investors, is the application of capital, labor and systematic management to the resources it already possesses. in its 400 years of spanish and mestizo control these three factors have been continuously lacking. there are men in panama, of native birth and of spanish origin, who have undertaken to develop certain of the land’s resources and have moderately enriched themselves. but the most striking evidence of the success to be obtained from attacking the industrial problem in panama systematically and in a big way is that furnished by the operations of the united fruit company, the biggest business fact in the tropics.
panama is, of course, only one link in the colossal chain of the operations of this company in the tropics. the rapidly increasing prosperity of many of the central republics is due largely to the sweeping scope of the united fruit company, and its impress is in evidence all along the north coast of south america and throughout the west indies. its interests in jamaica are enormous. cuba put jamaica off the sugar map, but the united fruit company came to her rescue with an offer to purchase all the bananas her planters could furnish, and jamaica now leads the american tropics with 17,000,000 bunches annually, of which the united fruit company obtains nearly half, the balance being handled by its competitors. the company also owns the famous titchfield hotel of port antonio, and operates the myrtle bank hotel of kingston. in cuba the company owns 60,000 acres of sugar plantations and its two great sugar mills will this year add to the world’s product an amount with a market value in excess of $10,000,000. its scores of white steamships, amazingly well contrived and fitted for tropical service, constitute one of the pleasantest features of travel on these sunlit seas.
the united fruit company is by far the greatest agricultural enterprise the world has ever known. its fruit plantations constitute a farm half a mile wide and more than seven hundred miles long. all of its farm lands exceed in area the 1332 square miles which constitute the sovereign state of rhode island. on these farms are more than 25,000 head of live stock. this agricultural empire is traversed by nearly 1000 miles of railroad. to carry the fruits from the plantations to the seaports there are employed 100 locomotives and 3000 freight cars. an army of nearly 40,000 men is employed in this new and mammoth industry. the republics of central america were inland nations before the united fruit company made gardens of the low caribbean coast lands and created from the virgin wilderness such ports as barrios, cortez, limon and bocas del toro.
this yankee enterprise has erected and maintains at its own expense many of the lighthouses which serve its own great fleet and the ships of all the world. it has dredged new channels and marked them with buoys. it has installed along the central and south american coasts a wireless telegraph service of the highest power and efficiency. it has constructed hundreds of miles of public roads, maintains public schools, and in other ways renders at its own expense the services which are presumed to fall on governments. the american financiers associated with it are now pushing to completion the pan-american railroad which soon will connect new york with panama by an all-rail route, and thus realize what once was esteemed an impractical dream.
but it is the united fruit company’s activities in panama only that are pertinent to this book. they demonstrate strikingly how readily one natural opportunity afforded by this land responded to the call of systematic effort, and there are a dozen products beside the banana which might thus be exploited.
on the atlantic coast, only a night’s sail from colon, is the port of bocas del toro (the mouths of the bull), a town of about 9000 inhabitants, built and largely maintained by the banana trade. here is the largest and most beautiful natural harbor in the american tropics, and here some day will be established a winter resort to which will flock people from all parts of the world. almirante bay and the chiriqui lagoon extend thirty or forty miles, dotted with thousands of islands decked with tropical verdure, and flanked to the north and west by superb mountain ranges with peaks of from seven to ten thousand feet in height.
the towns of bocas del toro and almirante are maintained almost entirely by the banana trade. other companies than the united fruit raise and buy bananas here, but it was the initiative of the leading company which by systematic work put the prosperity of this section on a firm basis. lands that a few years ago were miasmatic swamps are now improved and planted with bananas. over 4,000,000 bunches were exported from this plantation in 1911, and 35,000 acres are under cultivation there. a narrow gauge railway carries bananas exclusively. the great white steamships sail almost daily carrying away little except bananas. the money spent over the counters of the stores in bocas del toro comes from natives who have no way of getting money except by raising bananas and selling them, mostly to the united fruit company. it has its competitors, but it invented the business and has brought it to its highest development. at this panama town, and for that matter in the other territories it controls, the company has established and enforces the sanitary reforms which col. gorgas applied so effectively in colon and panama. its officials proudly claim that they were the pioneers in inventing and applying the methods which have conquered tropical diseases. at bocas del toro the company maintains a hospital which lacks nothing of the equipment of the ancon hospital, though of course not so large. it has successfully adopted the commissary system established on the canal zone. labor has always been the troublesome factor in industrial enterprises in central america. the fruit company has joined with the isthmian commission in the systematic endeavor to keep labor contented and therefore efficient.
probably it will be the policy which any corporation attempting to do work on a large scale will be compelled to adopt.
to my mind the united fruit company, next to the panama canal, is the great phenomenon of the caribbean world today. some day some one with knowledge will write a book about it as men have written the history of the british east india company, or the worshipful company of hudson bay adventurers, for this distinctly american enterprise has accomplished a creative work so wonderful and so romantic as to entitle it to equal literary consideration. its coöperation with the republic of panama and the manner in which it has followed the plans formulated by the isthmian commission entitles it to attention in a book treating of panama.
the banana business is the great trade of the tropics, and one that cannot be reduced in volume by new competition, as cane sugar was checked by beet sugar. but it is a business which requires special machinery of distribution for its success. from the day the banana is picked until it is in the stomach of the ultimate consumer the time should not exceed three weeks. the fruit must be picked green, as, if allowed to ripen on the trees, it splits open and the tropical insects infect it. this same condition, by the way, affects all tropical fruits. all must be gathered while still unripe. the nearest wholesale market for bananas is new orleans, five days’ steaming. new york is seven days away. that means that once landed the fruit must be distributed to commission houses and agents all over the united states with the utmost expedition lest it spoil in transit. there can be no holding it in storage, cold or otherwise, for a stronger demand or a higher market. this means that the corporation must deal with agents who can be relied upon to absorb the cargoes of the ships as regularly as they arrive. from its budding near the panama canal to its finish in the alimentary canal of its final purchaser the banana has to be handled systematically and swiftly.
from officials of the company i learned that they would welcome the opportunity to transfer their ships to american registry, except for certain requirements of the navigation laws which make such a change hazardous. practically all the ownership of the ships is vested in americans, but to fly the british flag is for them a business necessity. chief among the objections is the clause which would give the united states authority to seize the vessels in time of war. it is quite evident that this power might be employed to the complete destruction of the fruit company’s trade; in fact to its practical extinction as a business concern. a like power existing in england or germany would not be of equal menace to any single company flying the flag of that nation, for there the government’s needs could be fully supplied by a proper apportionment of requisitions for ships among the many companies. but with the exceedingly restricted merchant marine of the united states the danger of the enforcement of this right would be an ever-present menace. it is for this reason that the fruit company steamers fly the british flag, and the american in colon may see, as i did one day, nine great ocean ships in the port with only one flying the stars and stripes. the opening of the canal will not wholly remedy this.
in all respects save the registry of its ships, however, the fruit company is a thoroughly american concern and to its operations in the caribbean is due much of the good feeling toward the united states which is observable there. in 1912 it carried 1,113,741 tons of freight, of which 359,686 was general freight, carried for the public in addition to company freight. this is a notable public service, profitable no doubt but vital to the interests of the american tropics. it owns or holds under leases 852,650 acres, and in 1912 carried to the united states about 25,000,000 bunches of bananas, and 16,000,000 bunches to great britain and the continent. viewed from the standpoint of the consumer its work certainly has operated to cheapen bananas and to place them on sale at points where they were never before seen. the banana has not participated in the high cost of living nor has one company monopolized the market, for the trade statistics show 17,000,000 bunches of bananas imported by rival companies in 1912. as for its stimulation of the business of the ports of new orleans, galveston and mobile, and its revivifying of trade along the caribbean, both are matters of common knowledge.
the banana thrives best in rich soil covered with alluvial deposits and in a climate of great humidity where the temperature never falls below 75 degrees fahrenheit. once established the plantation needs little attention, the plant being self-propagating from suckers which shoot off from the “mat,” the tangled roots of the mother plant. it begins to bear fruit at the age of ten or eleven months, and with the maturing of one bunch of fruit the parent plant is at once cut down so that the strength of the soil may go into the suckers that succeed it. perhaps the most technical work of the cultivator is to select the suckers so that the plantation will not bring all its fruit to maturity in one season, but rather yield a regular succession of crops, month after month. it was interesting to learn from a representative of the united fruit company at bocas del toro, that the banana has its dull season--not in production but in the demand for it which falls off heavily in winter, though one would suppose that summer, when our own fruits are in the market, would be the period of its eclipse.
while most of the fruit gathered in the neighborhood of bocas del toro is grown on land owned and tilled by the company, there are hundreds of small individual growers with plantations of from half an acre to fifty acres or even more. all fruit is delivered along the railway lines, and the larger growers have tramways, the cars drawn by oxen or mules, to carry their fruit to the stipulated point. notice is given the growers of the date on which the fruit will be called for, and within twelve to eighteen hours after it has been cut it is in the hold of the vessel. it is subjected to a rigid inspection at the docks, and the flaws for which whole bunches are rejected would often be quite undiscernible to the ordinary observer.
the banana is one of the few fruits which are free from insect pests, being protected by its thick, bitter skin. if allowed to ripen in the open, however, it speedily falls a prey to a multitude of egg-laying insects. the tree itself is not so immune. lately a small rodent, something like the gopher of our american states, has discovered that banana roots are good to eat. from time immemorial he lived in the jungle, burrowing and nibbling the roots of the plants there, but in an unlucky moment for the fruit companies he discovered that tunneling in soil that had been worked was easier and the roots of the cultivated banana more succulent than his normal diet. therefore a large importation of scientists from europe and the united states to find some way of eradicating the industrious pest that has attacked the chief industry of the tropics at the root, so to speak.
baron humboldt is said to have first called the attention of civilized people to the food value of the banana, but it was one of the founders of the united fruit company, a new england sea captain trading to colon, who first introduced it to the general market in the united states. for a time he carried home a few bunches in the cabin of his schooner for his family and friends, but, finding a certain demand for the fruit, later began to import it systematically. from this casual start the united fruit company and its hustling competitors have grown. the whole business is the development of a few decades and people still young can remember when bananas were sold, each wrapped in tissue paper, for five or ten cents, while today ten or fifteen cents a dozen is a fair price. the fruit can be prepared in a multitude of fashions, particularly the coarser varieties of plantains, and the fruit company has compiled a banana cook book but has taken little pains to circulate it, the demand for the fruit being at times still in excess of the supply. there seems every indication that the demand is constant and new banana territory is being steadily developed.
several companies share with the united fruit company the panama market. the methods of gathering and marketing the crop employed by all are practically the same, but the united fruit company is used as an illustration here because its business is the largest and because it has so closely followed the isthmian canal commission in its welfare work.
the banana country lies close to the ocean and mainly on the atlantic side of the isthmus. the lumber industry nestles close to the rivers, mainly in the bayano region. cocoanuts need the beaches and the sea breezes. native rubber is found in every part of the republic, though at present it is collected mainly in the darien, which is true also of vegetable ivory. the only gold which is mined on a large scale is taken from the neighborhood of the tuyra river in the darien. but for products requiring cultivation like cacao and coffee the high lands in the chiriqui province offer the best opportunity.
david is really the center of this territory. it is a typical central american town of about 15,000 people, with a plaza, a cathedral, a hotel and all the appurtenances of metropolitan life in panama. the place is attractive in its way, with its streets of white-walled, red-tiled dwellings, with blue or green doors and shutters. it seems to have grown with some steadiness, for though the panama census for 1912 gave it 15,000 inhabitants, travelers like mr. forbes lindsay and albert edwards, who visited it only a year or two earlier, gave it only from 5000 to 8000 people. its growth, however, is natural and healthy, for the country round it is developing rapidly. you reach david now by boats of the pacific mail and the national navigation company from panama. the quickest trip takes thirty hours. when the government railroad is built, about which there is some slight doubt, the whole country will be opened and should be quickly settled. the road in all probability will be continued to bocas del toro on the atlantic coast.
while the cattle business of the chiriqui region is its chief mainstay, it is far from being developed to its natural extent. the commissary officials of the canal organization tried to interest cattle growers to the extent of raising enough beef for the need of the canal workers, but failed. practically all of the meat thus used is furnished by the so-called “beef trust” of the united states. it is believed that there are not more than 50,000 head of cattle all told in panama. i was told on the isthmus that agents of a large chicago firm had traveled through chiriqui with a view to establishing a packing house there, but reported that the supply of cattle was inadequate for even the smallest establishment. yet the country is admirably adapted for cattle raising.
the climate of this region is equable, both as to temperature and humidity. epidemic diseases are practically unknown among either men or beasts. should irrigation in future seem needful to agriculture the multitude of streams furnish an ample water supply and innumerable sites for reservoirs.
westward from david the face of the country rises gently until you come to the caldera valley which lies at the foot of the chiriqui peak, an extinct volcano perhaps 8000 feet high. nowhere in panama do the mountains rise very high, though the range is clearly a connection of the cordilleras of north and south america. the chiriqui peak has not in the memory of man been in eruption, but the traces of its volcanic character are unmistakable. its crater is a circular plain about half a mile in diameter surrounded by a densely wooded precipitous ridge. as the ascent is continued the woods give way to grass and rocks. while there is a distinct timber line, no snow line is attained. at the foot of the mountain is el bouquette, much esteemed by the panamanians as a health resort. thither go canal workers who, not being permitted to remain on the zone during their vacations, wish to avoid the long voyage to north american ports.
this neighborhood is the center of the coffee-growing industry which should be profitable in panama if a heavy protective tariff could make it so. but not even enough of the fragrant berries are grown to supply home needs, and the industry is as yet largely prosecuted in an unsystematic and haphazard manner. it is claimed that sample shipments of coffee brought high prices in new york, but as yet not enough is grown to permit exportation. cacao, which thrives, is grown chiefly by english and german planters, but as yet in a small way only. cotton, tobacco and fiber plants also grow readily in this region but are little cultivated.
a curious industry of the chiriqui country, now nearly abandoned, was the collection of gold ornaments which the guaymi indians formerly buried with their dead. these images sometimes in human form, more often in that of a fish, sometimes like frogs and alligators, jointed and flexible, were at one time found in great quantities and formed a conspicuous feature of the panama curiosity shops. in seeking these the hunters walked back and forth over the grounds known to be indian burial places, tapping the ground with rods. when the earth gave forth a hollow sound the spade was resorted to, and usually a grave was uncovered. jars which had contained wine and food were usually found in the graves, which were in fact subterranean tombs carefully built with flat stones. the diggers tell of finding skulls perfectly preserved apparently but which crumbled to pieces at a touch. evidently the burial places which can be identified through local tradition have been nearly exhausted, for the ancient trinkets cannot longer be readily found in the panama shops.
another panamanian product which the tourists buy eagerly but which is rapidly becoming rare is the pearl. in the gulf of panama are a group of islands which have been known as las islas des perlas--the pearl islands. this archipelago is about thirty miles long, with sixteen big islands and a quantity of small ones, and lies about sixty miles south of panama city. balboa saw them from the shore and intended to visit them but never did. pizarro stopped there on his way to peru and plundered them to his heart’s content. otherwise their history has been uneventful. saboga on the island of the same name is a beautiful little tropical village of about 300 huts, on a high bluff bordering a bay that affords excellent anchorage. whales are plentiful in these waters and pacific whalers are often seen in port. san miguel, the largest town of the archipelago, is on rey island and has about 1000 inhabitants. the tower of its old church is thickly inlaid with glistening, pearly shell.
the pearl fisheries have been overworked for years, perhaps centuries, and begin to show signs of being exhausted. nevertheless the tourist who takes the trip to the islands from the city of panama will find himself beset by children as he lands offering seed pearls in quantities. occasionally real bargains may be had from “beach combers” not only at rey island, but even at taboga, where i knew an american visitor to pick up for eleven dollars three pearls valued at ten or twelve times as much when shown in the united states. there are stories of lucky finds among divers that vie with the tales of nuggets among gold prospectors. once a native boy diving for sport in one of the channels near naos island brought up an oyster in which was a black pearl that was sold in panama for $3000. the report does not say how much of this the boy got, but as the pearl was afterward sold in paris for $12,000 it is quite evident that the share of the middleman, of whom political economists just now talk so much, was heavy. the panama pearls are sometimes of beautiful colors, green, pale blue and a delicate pink. on the chiriqui coast a year or two ago a pearl weighing about forty-two carats, about the size and shape of a partridge egg, greenish black at the base and shading to a steel gray at the tip, was found. it was sold in paris for $5000.
it is a curious fact that the use of mussels from our western rivers is one cause for the decadence of the panama pearl industry. for years the actual expense of maintaining these fisheries was met by the sale of the shell for use in making buttons and mother-of-pearl ornaments. the pearls represented the profit of the enterprise, which was always therefore more or less of a gamble--but a game in which it was impossible to lose, though the winnings might be great or small according to luck. now that the demand for pearl oyster shells has fallen off, owing to the competition of mussels, the chances in the game are rather against the player and the sport languishes.
the authorities of the republic are making some effort to establish a system of industrial schools which may lead to the fuller utilization of the natural resources of the country. every tourist who visits the isthmus is immediately taught by one who has been there a day or two longer than he that panama hats are not made in panama. this seems to be the most precious information that anyone on the zone has to impart. most of the hats there sold are indeed made in ecuador and the name “panama” was first attached to them years ago, because their chief market was found in panama city, whence they were distributed to more northern countries. the palm of which they are made however grows generally in panama and the government has established in the chiriqui province a school in which native boys are taught the art of hat making. in the national institute at panama city there is also a government trades school where boys are given a three years’ course in the elements of the carpenters’ and machinists’ trades. indeed the rulers of the republic, which was so abruptly created, deserve great credit for the steps they are taking for the creation of a general system of public education, both literary and practical. the school system is not yet on a par with that of states of longer existence, nor will it in all probability ever quite conform to more northern ideas of an educational establishment. for example, the national institute is closed to girls, who for their higher education are limited to the schools maintained by the church. a normal school, however, in which girls are prepared for teaching in the primary grades is maintained with about 125 students. the school system of panama must be regarded merely as a nucleus from which a larger organism may grow. yet when one recalls the state of society which has resulted from revolutions in other central american states, one is impelled to a certain admiration for the promptitude with which the men who erected the republic of panama gave thought to the educational needs of people. they were suddenly put in authority over an infant state which had no debt, but, on the contrary, possessed a capital of $10,000,000 equivalent to about $30 for every man, woman and child of its population. instead of creating an army, buying a navy and thus wasting the money on mere militarism which appeals so strongly to the latin-american mind, they organized a civil government, equipped it with the necessary buildings, established a university and laid the foundation of a national system of education.
the thoughtful traveler will concede to the republic of panama great natural resources and a most happy entrance to the family of nations. it is the especial protégé of the united states and under the watchful care of its patron will be free from the apprehension of misuse, revolution or invasion from without which has kept other central american governments in a constant state of unrest. about the international morality of the proceedings which created the relations now existing between the united states and panama perhaps the least said the better. but even if we reprobate the sale of joseph by his brethren, in the scripture story, we must at least admit that he did better in egypt than in his father’s house and that the protection and favor of the mighty pharaoh was of the highest advantage to him, and in time to his unnatural brethren as well.
at present the republic suffers not only from its own checkered past, but from the varied failings of its neighbors. its monetary system affords one illustration. the highest coin of the land is the peso, a piece the size of our silver dollar but circulating at a value of fifty cents. if a man should want to pay a debt of $500 he would have to deliver 1000 pesos unless he was possessed of a bank account and could settle by check. no paper money is issued. “who would take paper money issued by a central american republic?” ask the knowing ones scornfully when you inquire about this seeming lack in the monetary system. yet the republic of panama is the most solvent of nations, having no national debt and with money in bank.
probably the one obstacle to the progress of the republic to greatness is the one common to all tropical countries on which benjamin kidd laid an unerring finger when he referred to the unwisdom of longer permitting the riches of the tropics to “remain undeveloped with resources running to waste under the management of races of low social efficiency”. the panamanian authorities are making apparently sincere endeavors to attract new settlers of greater efficiency. in proportion to the success that attends the efforts the future of panama will be bright.
vendor of fruit and pottery
the indians of panama
while that portion of the panama territory that lies along the border of colombia known as the darien is rather ill-defined as to area and to boundaries, it is known to be rich in timber and is believed to possess gold mines of great richness. but it is practically impenetrable by the white man. through this country balboa led his force on his expedition to the unknown pacific, and was followed by the bloodthirsty pedrarias who bred up in the indians a hatred of the white man that has grown as the ages passed. no expedition can enter this region even today except as an armed force ready to fight for the right of passage. in 1786 the spaniards sought to subdue the territory, built forts on both the atlantic and pacific coasts and established a line of trading posts connecting them. but the effort failed. the posts were abandoned. today the white man who tries to enter the darien does so at the risk of his life.
in 1854 a navy exploring expedition of twenty-seven men, under command of lieutenant isaac c. strain, entered the jungle of the darien at caledonia bay, on the atlantic side, the site of patterson’s ill-fated colony. they purposed crossing the isthmus and making a survey for a canal route, as an english adventurer not long before had asserted--falsely as it proved--that he had discovered a route by which a canal could be built with but three or four miles of cutting. the party carried ten days’ provisions and forty rounds of ball cartridge per man. they expected to have to traverse about forty or fifty miles, for which the supply of provisions seemed wholly adequate. but when they had cut their way through the jungle, waded through swamps and climbed hills until their muscles were exhausted and their clothing torn to tatters, they found themselves lost in the very interior of the isthmus with all their food gone. diaries kept by members of the party show that they lived in constant terror of the indians. but no attack was made upon them. the inhabitants contented themselves with disappearing before the white men’s advance, sweeping their huts and fields clear of any sort of food. the jungle not its people fought the invaders. for food they had mainly nuts with a few birds and the diet disturbed their stomachs, caused sores and loosened their teeth. the bite of a certain insect deposited under the skin a kind of larva, or worm, which grew to the length of an inch and caused the most frightful torments. despairing of getting his full party out alive, after they had been twenty-three days fighting with the jungle, strain took three men and pushed ahead to secure and send back relief. it was thirty-nine days before the men left behind saw him again.
trapping an aborigine
death came fast to those in the jungle. the agonies they suffered from starvation, exposure and insect pests baffle description. “truxton in casting his eyes on the ground saw a toad”, wrote the historian. “instantly snatching it up, he bit off the head and, spitting it away, devoured the body. maury looked at him a moment, and then picked up the rejected head, saying, ‘well, truxton, you are getting quite particular. something of an epicure, eh’? with these words he quietly devoured the head himself.”
nine of the twenty-seven men who entered the darien with strain died. when the leader returned with the relief party they were found, like greely at camp starvation, unable to move and slowly dying. those who retained life never fully regained strength. every condition which brought such frightful disaster upon the strain party exists in the darien today. the indians are as hostile, the trails as faintly outlined, the jungle as dense, the insects as savage. only along the banks of the rivers has civilization made some little headway, but the richest gold field twenty miles back in the interior is as safe from civilized workings as though it were walled in with steel and guarded by dragons. every speculative man you meet in panama will assure you that the gold is there but all agree that conditions must be radically changed before it can be gotten out unless a regiment and a subsistence train shall follow the miners.
the authorities of panama estimate that there are about 36,000 tribal indians, that is to say aborigines, still holding their tribal organizations and acknowledging fealty to no other government now in the isthmus. the estimate is of course largely guesswork, for few of the wild indians leave the jungle and fewer still of the census enumerators enter it. most of these indians live in the mountains of the provinces of bocas del toro, chiriqui and veragua, or in the darien. their tribes are many and the sources of information concerning them but few. the most accessible and complete record of the various tribes is in a pamphlet issued by the smithsonian institution, and now obtainable only through public libraries, as the edition for distribution has been exhausted. the author, miss eleanor yorke bell, beside studies made at first hand has diligently examined the authorities on the subject and has presented the only considerable treatise on the subject of which i have knowledge.
of life among the more civilized natives she says:
“the natives of the isthmus in general, even in the larger towns, live together without any marriage ceremony, separating at will and dividing the children. as there is little or no personal property, this is accomplished amicably as a rule, though should disputes arise the alcalde of the district is appealed to, who settles the matter. this informal system is always stoutly defended by the women, even more than by the men, for, as among all people low in the scale of civilization, it is generally held that the women receive better treatment when not bound and therefore free to depart at any time. recently an effort has been made to bring more of the inhabitants under the marriage laws, with rather amusing results in many instances. the majority of the population is nominally catholic, but the teachings of the church are only vaguely understood, and its practices consist in the adoration of a few battered images of saints whose particular degree of sanctity is not even guessed at and who, when their owners are displeased with them, receive rather harsh treatment, as these people have usually no real idea of christianity beyond a few distorted and superstitious beliefs. after the widespread surveys of the french engineers, a sincere effort was made to re-christianize the inhabitants of the towns in darien as well as elsewhere, for, until this time, nothing had been done toward their spiritual welfare since the days of the early jesuits. in the last thirty years spasmodic efforts have been made to reach the people with little result, and, excepting at penonome, david, and santiago, there are few churches where services are held outside of panama and the towns along the railroad.
“the chief amusements of the isthmian are gambling, cock-fighting, and dancing, the latter assisted by the music of the tom-tom and by dried beans rattled in a calabash. after feasts or burials, when much bad rum and whisky is consumed, the hilarity keeps up all night and can be heard for miles, increased by the incessant howls of the cur dogs lying under every shack. seldom does an opportunity come to the stranger to witness the really characteristic dances, as the natives do not care to perform before them, though a little money will sometimes work wonders. occasionally, their dancing is really remarkably interesting, when a large amount of pantomime enters into it and they develop the story of some primitive action, as, for instance, the drawing of the water, cutting the wood, making the fire, cooking the food, etc., ending in a burst of song symbolizing the joys of the new prepared feast. in an extremely crude form it reminds one of the old opera ballets and seems to be a composite of the original african and the ancient spanish, which is very probably the case.
“the orientals of the isthmus deserve a word in passing. they are chiefly chinese coolies and form a large part of the small merchant class. others, in the hill districts, cultivate large truck gardens, bringing their produce swinging over the shoulders on poles to the city markets. their houses and grounds are very attractive, built of reed or bamboo in the eastern fashion and marked everywhere by extreme neatness, contrasting so strikingly with the homes and surroundings of their negro neighbors. many cultivate fields of cane or rice as well, and amidst the silvery greens, stretching for some distance, the quaint blue figures of the workmen in their huge hats make a charming picture. through the rubber sections chinese ‘middlemen’ are of late frequently found buying that valuable commodity for their fellow countrymen in panama city, who are now doing quite a large business in rubber. these people live much as in their native land, seldom learning more than a few words of spanish (except those living in the towns), and they form a very substantial and good element of the population”.
to enumerate even by names the aboriginal tribes would be tedious and unavailing. among the more notable are the doracho-changuina, of chiriqui, light of color, believing that the great spirit lived in the volcano of chiriqui, and occasionally showing their displeasure with him by shooting arrows at the mountain. the guaymies, of whom perhaps 6000 are left, are the tribe that buried with their dead the curious golden images that were once plentiful in the bazaars of panama, but are now hard to find. they have a pleasant practice of putting a calabash of water and some plantains by a man they think dying and leaving him to his fate, usually in some lonesome part of the jungle. the cunas or caribs are the tribes inhabiting the darien. all were, and some are, believed still to be cannibals. eleven lesser tribes are grouped under this general name. as a rule they are small and muscular. most of them have abandoned their ancient gaudy dress, and so far as they are clothed at all wear ordinary cotton clothing. painting the face and body is still practiced. the dead often are swung in hammocks from trees and supplied with fresh provisions until the cords rot and the body falls to the ground. then the spirit’s journey to the promised land is held to be ended and provisions are no longer needed. sorcery and soothsaying are much in vogue, and the sorcerers who correspond to the medicine men of our north american indians will sometimes shut themselves up in a small hut shrieking, beating tom-toms and imitating the cries of wild animals. when they emerge in a sort of self-hypnotized state they are held to be peculiarly fit for prophesying.
all the indians drink heavily, and the white man’s rum is to some extent displacing the native drink of chica. this is manufactured by the women, usually the old ones, who sit in a circle chewing yam roots or cassava and expectorating the saliva into a large bowl in the center. this ferments and is made the basis of a highly intoxicating drink. curiously enough the same drink is similarly made in far-away samoa. the dutiful wives after thus manufacturing the material upon which their spouses get drunk complete their service by swinging their hammocks, sprinkling them with cold water and fanning them as they lie in a stupor. smoking is another social custom, but the cigars are mere hollow rolls of tobacco and the lighted end is held in the mouth. among some of the tribes in comagre the bodies of the caciques, or chief men, were preserved after death by surrounding them with a ring of fire built at a sufficient distance to gradually dry the body until skin and bone alone remained.
the indians with whom the visitor to panama most frequently comes into contact are those of the san blas or manzanillo country. these indians hover curiously about the bounds of civilization, and approach without actually crossing them. they are fishermen and sailors, and many of their young men ship on the vessels touching at colon, and, after visiting the chief seaports of the united states, and even of france and england, are swallowed up again in their tribe without affecting its customs to any appreciable degree. if in their wanderings they gain new ideas or new desires they are not apparent. the man who silently offers you fish, fruits or vegetables from his cayuca on the beach at colon may have trod the docks at havre or liverpool, the levee at new orleans or wandered along south street in new york. not a word of that can you coax from him. even in proffering his wares he does so with the fewest possible words, and an air of lofty indifference. uncas of the leather-stocking tales was no more silent and self-possessed a red-skin than he.
courtesy national geographic magazine
a choco indian in full costume
in physiognomy the san blas indians are heavy of feature and stocky of frame. their color is dark olive, with no trace of the negro apparent, for it has been their unceasing study for centuries to retain their racial purity. their features are regular and pleasing and, among the children particularly, a high order of beauty is often found. to get a glimpse of their women is almost impossible, and a photograph of one is practically unknown. if overtaken on the water, to which they often resort in their cayucas, the women will wrap their clothing about their faces, rather heedless of what other portions of their bodies may be exposed, and make all speed for the shore. these women paint their faces in glaring colors, wear nose rings, and always blacken their teeth on being married. among them more pains is taken with clothing than among most of the savage indians, many of their garments being made of a sort of appliqué work in gaudy colors, with figures, often in representation of the human form, cut out and inset in the garment.
it was the ancestors of these indians who made welcome patterson and his luckless scotchmen, and in the 200 years that have elapsed they have clung to the tradition of friendship for the briton and hatred for the spaniard. dr. pittier reports having found that queen victoria occupied in their villages the position of a patron saint, and that they refused to believe his assertion that she was dead. his account of the attitude of these indians toward outsiders, recently printed in the national geographic magazine, is an authoritative statement on the subject:
“the often circulated reports of the difficulty of penetrating into the territory of the cuna-cuna are true only in part”, he says. “the backwoods aborigines, in the valleys of the bayano and chucunaque rivers, have nourished to this day their hatred for all strangers, especially those of spanish blood. that feeling is not a reasoned one: it is the instinctive distrust of the savage for the unknown or inexplicable, intensified in this particular case by the tradition of a long series of wrongs at the hands of the hated spaniards.
“so they feel that isolation is their best policy, and it would not be safe for anybody to penetrate into their forests without a strong escort and continual watchfulness. many instances of murders, some confirmed and others only suspected, are on record, and even the natives of the san blas coast are not a little afraid of their brothers of the mountains.
“of late, however, conditions seem to have bettered, owing to a more frequent intercourse with the surrounding settlements. a negro of la palma, at the mouth of the tuyra river, told me of his crossing, some time ago, from the latter place to chepo, through the chucunaque and bayano territories, gathering rubber as he went along with his party. at the headwaters of the canaza river he and his companions were held up by the ‘bravos’, who contented themselves with taking away the rubber and part of the equipment and then let their prisoners go with the warning not to come again.
courtesy of national geographic magazine
“the narrative of that expedition was supplemented by the reflection of an old man among the hearers that twenty years ago none of the party would have come out alive.
the village of playon grand, eighty-five miles east of the canal
courtesy nat’l geographic magazine
“among the san blas indians, who are at a far higher level of civilization, the exclusion of aliens is the result of well-founded political reasons. their respected traditions are a long record of proud independence; they have maintained the purity of their race and enjoyed freely for hundreds of years every inch of their territory. they feel that the day the negro or the white man acquires a foothold in their midst these privileges will become a thing of the past. this is why, without undue hostility to strangers, they discourage their incursions.
courtesy nat’l geographic magazine
“their means of persuasion are adjusted to the importance of the intruder. they do not hesitate to shoot at any negro of the nearby settlements poaching on their cocoanuts or other products; the trader or any occasional visitor is very seldom allowed to stay ashore at night; the adventurers who try to go prospecting into indian territory are invariably caught and shipped back to the next panamanian port”.
among the men of the san blas tribe the land held by their people is regarded as a sacred trust, bequeathed to them by their ancestors and to be handed down by them to the remotest posterity. during the early days of the canal project it was desired to dig sand from a beach in the san blas country. a small united states man-of-war was sent thither to broach the subject to the indians, and the captain held parley with the chief. after hearing the plea and all the arguments and promises with which it was strengthened the old indian courteously refused the privilege:
“he who made this land”, said he, “made it for cuna-cuna who live no longer, for those who are here today and also for the ones to come. so it is not ours only and we could not sell it”.
to this decision the tribe adhered, and the wishes of the aborigines have been respected. it has been the policy of the united states to avoid any possibility of giving offense to the native population of the isthmus, and even a request from the chief that the war vessel that brought the negotiator on his fruitless errand should leave was acceded to. it is quite unlikely, however, that the indians will be able to maintain their isolation much longer. already there are signs of its breaking down. while i was in panama they sent a request that a missionary, a woman it is true, who had been much among them, should come and live with them permanently. they also expressed a desire that she should bring her melodeon, thus giving new illustration to the poetic adage, “music hath charms to soothe the savage breast”. perhaps the phonograph may in time prove the open sesame to many savage bosoms. among this people it is the women who cling most tenaciously to the primitive customs, as might be expected, since they have been so assiduously guarded against the wiles of the world. but catholic missionaries have made some headway in the country, and at narganá schools for girls have been opened under auspices of the church. it is probably due to the feminine influence that the san blas men return so unfailingly to primitive customs after the voyages that have made them familiar with civilization. if the women yield to the desire for novelty the splendid isolation of the san blas will not long endure. perhaps that would be unfortunate, for all other primitive peoples who have surrendered to the wiles of the white men have suffered and disappeared.
courtesy national geographic magazine
daughter of chief don carlos
in their present state the san blas are relatively rich. all the land belongs to all the people--that is why the old chief declined to sell the sandy beach. there is a sort of private property in improvements. a banana plantation, a cocoanut grove or an orange tree planted and cared for, becomes a positive possession handed down to descendants of the owner through the female line. perhaps one reason for keeping the women so shut off from the world is that they are the real owners of all individual property. ownership does not, however, attach to trees or plants growing wild; they are as much communal as the land. so the vegetable ivory, balata and cocoanuts which form the marketable products are gathered by whomsoever may take the trouble. land that has been tilled belongs to the one who improved it. if he let it lapse into wilderness it reverts to the community. the san blas indians have the essence of the single tax theory without the tax.
they have a hazily defined religious system, and have curiously reversed the position held by their priests or sorcerers. these influential persons are not representatives of the spirit of good, but of the bad spirit. very logically the san blas savages hold that any one may represent the good spirit by being himself good, and that the unsupported prayers of such a one are sure to be heard. but to reach the devil, to induce that malicious practitioner of evil to rest from his persecutions and to abandon the pursuit of the unfortunate, it is desirable to have as intermediary some one who possesses his confidence and high regard. hence the strong position of the sorcerers in the villages. the people defer to them on the principle that it is well to make friends with “the mammon of unrighteousness”.
polygamy is permitted among these indians, but little practiced. even the chiefs whose high estate gives them the right to more than one wife seldom avail themselves of the privilege. the women, as in most primitive tribes, are the hewers of wood and drawers of water. dress is rather a more serious matter with them than among some of the other indians, the chocoes for example. they wear as a rule blouses and two skirts, where other denizens of the darien dispense with clothing above the waist altogether. their hair is usually kept short. the nose ring is looked upon as indispensable, and other ornaments of both gold and silver are worn by both sexes. americans who have had much to do with the indians of the darien always comment on the extreme reticence shown by them in speaking of their golden ornaments, or the spot whence they were obtained. it is as though vague traditions had kept alive the story of the pestilence of fire and sword which ravaged their land when the spaniards swept over it in search of the yellow metal. gold is in the darien in plenty. everybody knows that, and the one or two mines near the rivers now being worked afford sufficient proof that the region is auriferous. but no indian will tell of the existence of these mines, nor will any guide a white man to the spot where it is rumored gold is to be found. seemingly ineradicably fixed in the inner consciousness of the indian is the conviction that the white man’s lust for the yellow metal is the greatest menace that confronts the well-being of himself and his people.
the san blas are decidedly a town-dwelling tribe. they seem to hate solitude and even today, in their comparatively reduced state, build villages of a size that make understandable balboa’s records of the size and state of the chief with whom he first fought, and then made friends. at narganá are two large islands, fairly covered with spacious houses about 150 feet long by 50 broad. the ridge pole of the palm-thatched roof is 30 to 40 feet from the ground. a long corridor runs through the house longitudinally, and on either side the space is divided by upright posts into square compartments, each of which is supposed to house an entire family. the side walls are made of wattled reeds caked with clay. one of these houses holds from sixteen to twenty families, and the edifices are packed so closely together as to leave scarce room between for a razor-back hog to browse. the people within must be packed about as closely and the precise parental relationship sustained to each other by the various members of the family would be an interesting study.
courtesy national geographic magazine
guaymi indian man
the choco indians are one of the smaller and least known tribes of the darien. prof. pittier--who may without disrespect be described as the most seasoned “tropical tramp” of all central america--described them so vividly that extracts from his article in the national geographic magazine will be of interest:
“never, in our twenty-five years of tropical experience, have we met with such a sun-loving, bright and trusting people, living nearest to nature and ignoring the most elementary wiles of so-called civilization. they are several hundred in number and their dwellings are scattered along the meandrous sambu and its main reaches, always at short distance, but never near enough to each other to form real villages. like their houses, their small plantations are close to the river, but mostly far enough to escape the eye of the casual passer-by.
“dugouts drawn up on the beach and a narrow trail breaking the reed wall at the edge of the bank are the only visible signs of human presence, except at the morning hours and near sunset, when a crowd of women and children will be seen playing in the water, and the men, armed with their bows and long harpooned arrows, scrutinizing the deeper places for fish or looking for iguanas and crabs hidden in the holes of the banks.
“physically the chocoes are a fine and healthy race. they are tall, as compared with the cuna-cuna, well proportioned, and with a graceful bearing. the men have wiry limbs and faces that are at once kind and energetic, while as a rule the girls are plump, fat, and full of mischief. the grown women preserve their good looks and attractiveness much longer than is generally the case in primitive peoples, in which their sex bears the heaviest share of every day’s work.
“both males and females have unusually fine white teeth, which they sometimes dye black by chewing the shoots of one of the numerous wild peppers growing in the forests. the skin is of a rich olive-brown color and, as usual, a little lighter in women and children. though all go almost naked, they look fairer than the san blas cunas, and some of the women would compare advantageously in this respect with certain mediterranean types of the white race.
“the hair is left by all to grow to its natural length, except in a few cases, in which the men have it cropped at the neck. it is coarse and not jet black, as reported of most indians, but with a reddish hue, which is better noticed when the sun is playing through the thick mass.
“in young children it decidedly turns at times to a blond color, the only difference from the caucasian hair being the pronounced coarseness of the former. as there are no white people living within a radius of fifty miles, but only negroes, mulattoes and zambos, this peculiarity cannot be explained by miscegenation, and may therefore be considered as a racial feature of the choco tribe.
“in men the every-day dress consists of a scanty clout, made of a strip of red calico about one foot broad and five feet long. this clout is passed in front and back of the body over a string tied around the hips, the forward extremity being left longer and flowing like an apron. on feast days the string is replaced by a broad band of white beads. around the neck and chest they wear thick cords of the same beads and on their wrists broad silver cuffs. hats are not used; the hair is usually tied with a red ribbon and often adorned with the bright flowers of the forest.
“the female outfit is not less simple, consisting of a piece of calico less than three feet wide and about nine feet long, wrapped around the lower part of the body and reaching a little below the knees. this is all, except that the neck is more or less loaded with beads or silver coins. but for this the women display less coquetry than the men, which may be because they feel sufficiently adorned with their mere natural charms. fondness for cheap rings is, however, common to both sexes, and little children often wear earrings or pendants.
courtesy national geographic magazine
“the scantiness of the clothing is remedied very effectually by face and body painting, in which black and red colors are used, the first exclusively for daily wear. at times men and women are painted black from the waist down; at other times it is the whole body or only the hands and feet, etc., all according to the day’s fashion, as was explained by one of our guides. for feast days the paintings are an elaborate and artistic affair, consisting of elegantly drawn lines and patterns--red and black or simply black--which clothe the body as effectually as any costly dress.
“from the above one might conclude that cleanliness and modesty are not the rule among the chocos. as a matter of fact, the first thing they do in the morning is to jump into the near-by river, and these ablutions are repeated several times in the course of the day.
“the kitchen utensils are always thoroughly washed before using, and, contrary to our former experience, their simple dishes, prepared mostly in our presence, looked almost always inviting. during our stay among these good people nothing was noticed that would hurt the most delicate sense of decency.
“the chocoes seem to be exclusively monogamist, and both parents surround their babies with tender care, being mindful, however, to prepare them early for the hard and struggling life ahead of them. small bows and arrows, dexterously handled by tiny hands, are the favorite toys of the boys, while the girls spend more time in the water playing with miniature dugouts, washing, and swimming. the only dolls seen among them were imported ones, and they seemed to be as much in favor among grown women as among children. these latter go naked until they are about five years old, when the girls receive a large handkerchief to be used as a ‘paruma’, or skirt, and the boys a strip of some old maternal dress for an ‘antia’ or clout.
“the chocoes are very industrious. during the dry spells their life, of course, is an out-of-door one, planting and watching their crops, hunting, fishing and canoeing. but when the heavy rains come they stay at home, weaving baskets of all kinds--a work in which the women are proficient--making ropes and hammocks, carving dishes, mortars, stools, and other objects out of tree trunks”.
in the country which will be traversed by the panama-david railroad are found the guaymies, the only primitive people living in large numbers outside the darien. there are about 5000 of them, living for the most part in the valley of mirando which lies high up in the cordilleras, and in a region cut off from the plains. here they have successfully defended their independence against the assaults of both whites and blacks. to remain in their country without consent of the great chief is practically impossible, for they are savage fighters and in earlier days it was rare to see a man whose body was not covered with scars. it is apparent that in some ways progress has destroyed their industries and made the people less rather than more civilized, for they now buy cloth, arms, tools, and utensils which they were once able to make. at one time they were much under the influence of the catholic missionaries, but of late mission work has languished in wild panama and perhaps the chief relic of that earlier religious influence is the fact that the women go clothed in a single garment. this simple raiment, not needed for warmth, seems to be prized, for if caught in a rainstorm the women will quickly strip off their clothing, wrap it in a large banana or palm leaf that it may not get wet, and continue their work, or their play, in nature’s garb.
it is said, too, that when strangers are not near clothes are never thought of. the men follow a like custom, and invariably when pursuing a quarry strip off their trousers, tying their shirts about their loins. trousers seem to impede their movements, and if a lone traveler in chiriqui comes on a row of blue cotton trousers tied to the bushes he may be sure that a band of guaymies is somewhere in the neighborhood pursuing an ant bear or a deer.
courtesy national geographic magazine
choco indian of sambu valley
as a rule these indians--men or women--are not pleasing to the eye. the lips are thick, the nose flat and broad, the hair coarse and always jet black. yet the children are not infrequently really beautiful. any traveler in panama who forsakes the beaten track up and down the canal zone will be impressed by the wide extent to which beauty is found among the children, whatever their race or combination of races. but the charm soon fades. it is seldom that one sees a mature woman who is attractive to caucasian eyes. among the women of the guaymies face painting is practiced only on great occasions, black, red and white being the usual colors. the men go painted at all times, the invariable pattern being a sort of inverted v, with the apex between the eyes, and the two arms extending to points, half an inch or so from the corners of the mouth. the lips are colored to make them seem thicker than normal, and heavy shadows are painted in under the eyes.
among some tribes the wealth of a man is reckoned by the number of his cattle; among the guaymies by the number of his wives. for this reason, perhaps, the attainment of marriageable age is an occasion of much festivity for children of both sexes. the boy is exposed to tests of his manly and war-like qualities, and, in company with his fellows of equal age, is taken by the wisemen of the tribe into the solitude of the forest that by performing tasks assigned to him he may prove himself a man. there, too, they learn from the elders, who go masked and crowned with wreaths, the traditions of their tribes told in rude chants like the norse sagas. until this ceremony has been fulfilled the youth has no name whatsoever. after it he is named and celebrates his first birthday.
the ceremonies in which the girls play the chief part are less elaborate, but one would think rather painful, since they include the breaking of a front tooth in sign that they are ready for marriage. they marry young and mothers at twelve years are not uncommon.
once a year the guaymies have a great tribal feast--“balceria” the spaniards call it. word is sent to all outlying huts and villages by a mystic symbol of knotted rags, which is also tied to the branches of the trees along the more frequented trails. on the appointed day several hundred will gather on the banks of some river in which a general bath is taken, with much frolicking and horseplay. then the women employ several hours in painting the men with red and blue colors, following the figures still to be seen on the old pottery, after which the men garb themselves uncouthly in bark or in pelts like children “dressing up” for a frolic. at night is a curious ceremonial dance and game called balsa, in which the indians strike each other with heavy sticks, and are knocked down amid the pile of broken boughs. the music--if it could be so called--the incantations of the wisemen, the frenzy of the dancers, all combine to produce a sort of self-hypnotism, during which the indians feel no pain from injuries which a day later often prove to be very serious.
there seems to have been no written language, nor even any system of hieroglyphics among the tribes of panama, a fact that places them far below our north american indians in the scale of mental development. on the other hand in weaving and in fashioning articles for domestic use they were in advance of the north american aborigines. their domestic architecture was more substantial, and they were less nomadic, the latter fact being probably due to the slight encouragement given to wandering by the jungle. the great houses of the san blas indians in their villages recall the “long houses” of the iroquois as described by parkman.
courtesy national geographic magazine
thus far what we call civilization has dealt less harshly with the indians of the isthmus than with our own. they have at least survived it and kept a great part of their territory for their own. the “squaw-man” who figures so largely in our own southwestern indian country is unknown there. unquestionably during the feverish days of the spaniards’ hunt for gold the tribes were frightfully thinned out, and even today sections of the country which writers of balboa’s time describe as thickly populated are desert and untenanted. yet much land is still held by its aboriginal owners, and unless the operation of the canal shall turn american settlement that way will continue so to be held. the panamanian has not the energy to dislodge the indians nor to till their lands if he should possess them.
many studies of the panama indians as a body, or of isolated tribes, have been made by explorers or scientists, and mainly by french or spanish students. the smithsonian institution catalogues forty-seven publications dealing with the subject. but there is an immense mine of anthropological information yet to be worked in the isthmus. it is not to be acquired readily or without heavy expenditure of energy, patience and money. a thoroughly scientific exploring expedition to unravel the riddle of the darien, to count and describe the indian tribes of the isthmus, and to record and authenticate traditions dating back to the spanish days, would be well worth the while of a geographical society, a university or some patron of exploring enterprises.
social life on the canal zone
from ocean to ocean the territory which is called the canal zone is about forty-three miles long, ten miles wide and contains about 436 square miles, about ninety-five of which are under the waters of the canal, and miraflores and gatun lakes. it is bounded on the north by the caribbean sea, on the south by the pacific ocean, and on the east and west by the republic of panama. it traverses the narrowest part of panama, the waist so to speak, and has been taken out of that body politic by the diplomatic surgeons as neatly as though it had been an obnoxious vermiform appendix. its territory does not terminate at low water-mark, but extends three marine miles out to sea, and, as i write, a question of jurisdiction has arisen between the two republics--hardly twin republics--of panama and the united states concerning jurisdiction over three malefactors captured by the zone police in a motor boat out at sea. it may be noted in passing that panama is properly tenacious of its rights and dignity, and that cases of conflicting jurisdiction are continually arising when any offender has only to foot it a mile or two to be out of the territory in which his offense was committed. the police officials of the zone affect to think that the panama authorities are inclined to deal lightly with native offenders who commit robbery or murder on the zone and then stroll across the line to be arrested in their native state.
there was a quarrel on while i was on the zone over the custody of a panamanian who killed his wife, with attendant circumstances of peculiar brutality, and then balked the vengeance of the zone criminal authorities by getting himself arrested in panama. “we want to show these fellows”, remarked a high police official of the zone, “that if they do murder in our territory we are going to do the hanging”. that seemed a laudable purpose--that is if hanging is ever laudable--but the panama officials are quite as determined to keep the wheels of their criminal law moving. the proprietors of machines like to see them run--which is one of the reasons why too many battleships are not good for a nation.
to return, however, to the statistics of the zone. its population is shifting, of course, and varies somewhat in its size according to the extent to which labor is in demand. the completion of a part of the work occasionally reduces the force. in january, 1912, the total population of the zone, according to the official census, was 62,810; at the same time, by the same authority, there were employed by the canal commission and the panama railroad 36,600 men. these figures emphasize the fact that the working force on the zone is made up mainly of unmarried men, for a working population of 36,600 would, under the conditions existing in the ordinary american community, give a population of well over 100,000. though statistics are not on hand, and would probably be impossible to compile among the foreign laborers, it is probable that not more than one man in four on the zone is married. from this situation it results that the average maiden who visits the zone for a brief holiday goes rushing home to get her trousseau ready before some young engineer’s next annual vacation shall give him time to go like a young lochinvar in search of his bride. indeed, the life of the zone for many reasons has been singularly conducive to matrimony, and as a game preserve for the exciting sport of husband-hunting, it has been unexcelled.
probably it was more a desire for experience and adventure than any idea of increased financial returns that led young jack maxon to seek a job in engineering on the canal. graduated from the engineering department of a state university, with two years or so of active experience in the field, jack was a fair type of young american--clean, wholesome, healthy, technically trained, ambitious for his future but quite solicitious about the pleasures of the present, as becomes a youth of twenty-three.
the job he obtained seemed at the outset quite ideal. in the states he could earn about $225 a month. the day he took his number on the canal zone he began to draw $250 a month. and that $250 was quite as good as $300 at home. to begin with he had no room-rent to pay, but was assigned comfortable if not elegant quarters, which he shared with one other man; carefully screened and protected from all insects by netting, lighted by electricity, with a shower-bath handy and all janitor or chambermaid service free. instead of a boarding-house table or a cheap city easter lamb, and while it is still a-cooking experience the inevitable effects of plentiful wine on an empty stomach. again, just as the rites of eleusis were nocturnal, so the chief services of holy week are those of the friday night and the saturday night; and it may be that the torch-light processions which close the services on those two nights are related to the δᾳδουχία of eleusis. but these are minor details; it is in the actual services of good friday and easter that the most striking resemblance to the eleusinian mysteries is found, and the spirit in which the worshippers approach may still be the same now as then. let me briefly describe the festival as i saw it in the island of santorini, or, to give it the old name which has revived in modern times, thera.
the lenten fast was drawing to a close when i arrived. for the first week it is strictly observed, meat, fish, eggs, milk, cheese, and even olive-oil being prohibited, so that the ordinary diet is reduced to bread and water, to which is sometimes added a nauseous soup made from dried cuttle-fish or octopus; for these along with shellfish are not reckoned to be animal food, as being bloodless. during the next four weeks some relaxation is allowed; but no one with any pretensions to piety would even then partake of fish, meat, or eggs; the last-mentioned are stored up until easter and then, being dyed red, are either eaten or--more wisely--offered to visitors. then comes ‘the great week’ (ἡ μεγάλη ἑβδομάδα), and with it the same strict regulations come into force as during the first week of lent. it was not hard to perceive that for most of the villagers the fast had been a real and painful abstinence. work had almost ceased; for there was little energy left. leisure was not enjoyed; for there was little spirit even for chatting. everywhere white, sharp-featured faces told of real hunger; and the silence was most often broken by an outburst of irritability. in a few days time i could understand it; for i too perforce fasted; and i must own that a daily diet of dry bread for déjeuner and of dry bread and octopus soup for dinner soon changed my outlook upon life. little wonder then if these folk after six weeks of such treatment were nervous and excitable.
such was the condition of body and mind in which they attended the long service of good friday night. service i have said, but drama were a more fitting word, a funeral-drama. at the top of the nave, just below the chancel-step, stood a bier and upon it lay the figure of the christ, all too death-like in the dim light. the congregation gaze upon him, reverently hushed, while the priests’ voices rise in prayer and chant as it were in lamentation for the dead god lying there in state. hour after hour passes. the women have kissed the dead form, and are gone. the moment has come for carrying the christ out to burial. the procession moves forward--in front, the priests with candles and torches and, guarded by them, the open bier borne shoulder-high--behind, a reverent, bare-headed crowd. the night is dark and gusty. it rains, and the rugged, tortuous alleys of the town are slippery. it is late, but none are sleeping. unheeding of wind and rain, the women kneel at open door or window, praying, swinging censers, sprinkling perfume on the passing bier. slowly, haltingly, led by the dirge of priests, now in darkness, now lighted by the torches’ flare and intermittent beams from cottage doorways, groping at corners, stumbling in ill-paved by-ways, the mourners follow their god to his grave. the circuit of the town is done. all have taken their last look upon the dead. the sepulchre is reached--a vault beneath the church from which the funeral started. the priests alone enter with the bier. there is a pause. the crowd waits. the silence is deep as the darkness, only broken here and there by a deep-drawn sigh. is it the last depth of anguish, or is it well-nigh relief that the long strain is over? the priests return. in silence the crowd have waited, in silence they disperse. it is finished.
but there is a sequel on the morrow. soon after dark on easter-eve the same weary yet excited faces may be seen gathered in the church. but there is a change too; there is a feeling abroad of anxiety, of expectancy. hours must yet pass ere midnight, and not till then is there hope of the announcement, ‘christ is risen!’ the suspense seems long. to-night there is restlessness rather than silence. some go to and fro between the church and their homes; others join discordantly in the chants and misplace the responses; anything to cheat the long hours of waiting. midnight draws near; from hand to hand are passed the tapers and candles which shall light the joyful procession, if only the longed-for announcement be made. what is happening there now behind those curtains which veil the chancel from the expectant throng? midnight strikes. the curtains are drawn back. yes, there is the bier, borne but yesternight to the grave. it is empty. that is only the shroud upon it. the words of the priest ring out true, ‘christ is risen!’ and there behind the chancel, see, a second veil is drawn back. there in the sanctuary, on the altar-steps, bright with a blaze of light stands erect the figure of the christ who, so short and yet so long a while ago, was borne lifeless to the tomb. a miracle, a miracle! quickly from the priest’s lighted candle the flame is passed. in a moment the dim building is illumined by a lighted taper in every hand. a procession forms, a joyful procession now. everywhere are light and glad voices and the embraces of friends, crying aloud the news ‘christ is risen’ and answering ‘he is risen indeed.’ in every home the lamb is prepared with haste, the wine flows freely; in the streets is the flash of torches, the din of fire-arms, and all the exuberance of simple joy. the fast is over; the dead has been restored to life before men’s eyes; well may they rejoice even to ecstasy. for have they not felt the ecstasy of sorrow? this was no tableau on which they looked, no drama in which they played a part. it was all true, all real. the figure on the bier was indeed the dead christ; the figure on the altar-steps was indeed the risen christ. in these simple folk religion has transcended reason; they have reached the heights of spiritual exaltation; they have seen and felt as minds more calm and rational can never see nor feel.
and the ancient greeks, had not they too the gift of ecstasy, the faculty to soar above facts on the wings of imagination? when the drama of demeter and kore was played before the eyes of the initiated at eleusis, were not they too uplifted in mind until amid the magic of night they were no longer spectators of a drama but themselves had a share in demeter’s sorrow and wandering and joy? for the pagan story is not unlike the christian story in its power to move both tears and gladness. as now men mourn beside the bier of christ, so in old time may men have shared demeter’s mourning for her child who though divine had suffered the lot of men and passed away to the house of hades. as now men rejoice when they behold the risen christ, so in old time may men have shared demeter’s joy when her child returned from beneath the earth, proving that there is life beyond the grave. but the old story taught more than this. not only did kore live in the lower world, but her passing thither was not death but wedding. therefore just as now the resurrection of christ, who though divine is the representative of mankind, is held to be an earnest of man’s resurrection, so the wedded life of kore in the nether world may have been to the initiated an assurance of the same bliss to be vouchsafed to them hereafter.
but the mere fact that a scene of rape should form any part of a religious rite, was to the christians a stumbling-block. this was their insurmountable objection to the mysteries, and they were only too prone to exaggerate a ceremony, which with reverent and delicate treatment need have been in no way morally deleterious, into a sensual and noxious orgy. the story, how demeter’s beautiful and innocent daughter was suddenly carried off from the meadow where she was gathering flowers into the depths of the dark under-world, spoke to them only of the violence and lust of her ravisher aïdoneus. but the legend might bear another complexion. kore, as representative of mankind or at least of the initiated among mankind, suffers what seems the most cruel lot, a sudden departure from this life in the midst of youth and beauty and spring-time; and demeter searches for her awhile in vain, and mourns for her as men mourn their dead. yet afterward it is found that there is no cruelty in kore’s lot, for she is the honoured bride of the king of that world to which she was borne away; and demeter is comforted, for her child is not dead nor lost to her, but is allowed to return in living form to visit her. what then must have been the ‘happier hopes’ held out to those who had looked on the great drama of eleusis? what was meant by that prospect of being ‘god-beloved and sharing the life of gods’? how came it that the assembly of the initiated believed their salvation to lie in the union of hades and persephone, represented in the persons of hierophant and priestess, in the subterranean nuptial-chamber? what was the bearing of the legend dramatically enacted upon these hopes and prospects and beliefs? surely it taught that not only was there physical life beyond death, but a life of wedded happiness with the gods.
nor did the cults of demeter and kore monopolise these hopes and beliefs. in the religious drama of aphrodite and adonis, in the sabazian mysteries, in the holiest rites of dionysus, in the wild worship of cybele, the same thought seems ever to recur. it matters little whether these gods and their rites were foreign or hellenic in origin. if they were not native, at least they were soon naturalised, and that for the simple reason that they satisfied the religious cravings of the greek race. the essential spirit of their worship, whatever the accidents of form and expression, was the spirit of the old pelasgian worship of demeter; and therefore, though dionysus may have been an immigrant from northern barbarous peoples, the greeks did not hesitate to give him room and honour beside demeter in the very sanctuary of eleusis. similar, we may well believe, was the lot of other foreign gods and rites. whencesoever derived, they owed their reception in greece to the fact that their character appealed to certain native religious instincts of the greek folk. once transplanted to hellenic soil, they were soon completely hellenized; those elements which were foreign or distasteful to greek religion were quickly eradicated or of themselves faded into oblivion, while all that accorded with the hellenic spirit throve into fuller perfection; for the character of a deity and of a cult depends ultimately upon the character of the worshippers.
there is good reason then to suppose that in old time death may have been even inflicted as the means of effecting wedlock between men and gods; and that the mystic rite of union between dionysus and the wife of the athenian magistrate was based on the same fundamental idea as the mysteries of demeter and persephone or of aphrodite. though in this instance, when once human sacrifice had been given up, all suggestion of death was, so far as we know, removed from the solemnity, yet the repetition year by year of a ceremony of marriage between the god and a mortal woman representing his worshippers might still keep bright in their minds those ‘happier hopes’ of the like bliss laid up for themselves hereafter.
thus our examination of the mysteries, so far as they are known to us, tends to prove that the doctrines revealed in them to the initiated were simply a development of certain vaguer popular ideas which have been prevalent among the greek folk from the classical age down to our own day. the people entertained hopes that this physical life would continue in a similar form after death; the mysteries gave definite assurance of that immortality by exhibiting to the initiated persephone or adonis or attis restored from the lower world in bodily form; and though that exhibition was in fact merely a dramatic representation, yet to the eyes of religious ecstasy it seemed just as much a living reality as does the risen christ in the modern celebration of easter. the people again were wont to think and to speak of death as a marriage into the lower world; the mysteries showed to the initiated certain representatives of mankind who by death, or even in life, had been admitted to the felicity of wedlock with deities, and thereby confirmed the faithful in their happier hopes of being in like manner themselves god-beloved and of sharing the life of gods.
since then there is good reason to believe that this was in effect the secret teaching of the mysteries, it would naturally be expected that human marriage should have been reckoned as it were a foretaste of that union with the divine which was promised hereafter, and also that death should have been counted the hour of its approaching fulfilment; in other words, if my view of the mysteries is correct, it would almost inevitably follow that the mysteries should have been brought into close association both with weddings and with funerals. this expectation is confirmed by the facts.
thus then the evidence for the intimate association of the mysteries, or of the main idea which runs through them, with human weddings is complete and, i hope, convincing; and the custom of the water-pitcher, which concludes it, fitly introduces at the same time the evidence for the association of the same idea with funerals. this is equally plentiful. the vague conception of death as a wedding, which as i have shown was elaborated in the mysteries, has of course already been exemplified in all those passages of ancient literature and modern folk-songs which i have adduced, and i have found in it also the motive for the assimilation of funeral-customs to the customs of marriage. but the evidence that the actual doctrines of the mysteries, in which more definite expression was given to that vague idea, were closely associated with death and funeral-custom is to be found rather in epitaphs and sepulchral monuments. the tone of the epitaphs may be sufficiently illustrated by a single couplet:
considered collectively, such epitaphs would suggest a distinctly offensive conception of persephone; but in each taken separately, as it was composed, it will be allowed, i think, that if there is supreme audacity, there is equal sublimity. it is just these qualities which give pungency to a blasphemous parody of such epitaphs, in which the wit of ausonius exposes the worst possible aspect of a religious conception which to the pure-minded was wholly pure. my apology for quoting lines which i will not translate must be the fact that a caricature is often no less instructive than a true portrait. the mock epitaph concludes as follows:
ausonius in jest bears an unpleasant resemblance to clement in earnest; both perverted to their uttermost a doctrine which commanded nothing but reverence from faithful participants in the mysteries.
‘out of the pure i come, pure queen of them below, eukles and eubouleus and the other gods immortal. for i also avow me that i am of your blessed race, but fate laid me low and the other gods immortal ... starflung thunderbolt. i have flown out of the sorrowful weary wheel. i have passed with eager feet to the circle desired. i have sunk beneath the bosom of despoina, queen of the underworld. i have passed with eager feet from the circle desired. happy and blessed one, thou shalt be god instead of mortal. a kid i have fallen into milk.’
the gist of the document which the dead man takes with him is then briefly this. he claims to have been pure originally and of the same race as his gods; but as a man he was mortal and exposed to death, and in this respect differed from his gods. he states however that he has performed certain ritual acts which entitle him to be re-admitted to the pure fellowship of the gods now that death is passed. and the answer comes, ‘thou shalt be god instead of mortal.’
even more abundant evidence is furnished by sepulchral monuments; and in support of my views i cannot do better than quote two high authorities who coincide in their verdict upon the meaning of the scenes represented. in reference to those scenes ‘in which death is conceived in the guise of a marriage’ furtwängler writes: ‘the monuments belonging to this class are extraordinarily numerous, and exhibit very different methods of treating the idea which they carry out. a relief upon a sarcophagus from the villa borghese shows the god of the dead in the act of carrying down the fair kore to be his bride in the lower world. above the steeds of his chariot, which are already disappearing into the depths of the earth, flies eros as guide. the bride however appears to be going only under compulsion and after some struggle; the look of the bridegroom expresses sternness rather than gentleness; and the mother who sits with face averted seems to exclude all thoughts of the daughter’s return. only in the torches which the guide carries in his hand, in the snakes which are looking upward, and in the observant attitude of hecate, can a suggestion of the return be found.
‘on another sarcophagus--from nazzara--which represents the same marriage-journey, eros is not merely the guide of the steeds, but aids the bridegroom in carrying off kore, so that in this case the struggle with death takes purely the form of a struggle with love. at the same time the mother is driving along with her chariot, thereby signifying the renewal of life, which is yet more clearly betokened in the ploughman and the sower at her side.
‘in a yet gentler spirit we see the same journey conceived in a vase-painting from lower italy. here there is a look of gentleness on hades’ face; the bride accompanies him gladly, and even takes an affectionate farewell of her mother, who appears to acquiesce in her departure. in this case too eros is flying above the horses, and is turned towards the lovers, while in front of him there flies a dove, the bird sacred to the goddess of love. hecate with torches guides the steeds; near at hand waits hermes to escort the procession; and above the whole scene the stars are shining, as if to indicate the new life in the region of death.
to sum up briefly: we have seen alike in the literature of ancient greece and in the folk-songs of modern greece that death has commonly been conceived by the hellenic race in the guise of a wedding; a review of marriage-customs and funeral-customs both ancient and modern has re-affirmed the constant association of death and marriage, and has shown how deep-rooted in the minds of the common people that idea must have been which produced a deliberate assimilation of funeral-rites to the ceremonies of marriage. next we investigated the connexion of the mysteries with the popular religion, and saw reason to hold that, far from being subversive of it or alien to it, they inculcated doctrines which were wholly evolved from vaguer popular ideas always current in greece. finally we traced in many of those legends, on which the dramatic representations of the mysteries are known to have been based, a common motif, the idea that death is the entrance for men into a blissful estate of wedded union with their deities. and this religious ideal not only satisfies the condition of agreement with, and evolution from, those popular views in which death figured somewhat vaguely as a form of wedding, but also proves to be the natural and necessary outcome of two religious sentiments with which earlier chapters have dealt; first, the ardent desire for close communion with the gods, and secondly, the belief that men’s bodies as well as their souls survived death and dissolution; for if the body by means of its disintegration rejoined the soul in the nether world, and the human entity was then complete, enjoying the same substantial existence, the same physical no less than mental powers, which it had enjoyed in the upper world, and which the immortal gods enjoyed uninterrupted by death, then, since the same rite of marriage was the consummation both of divine life and of human life, men’s yearning for close communion with their gods required for its ideal and perfect satisfaction the full union of wedlock; and the sacrament which assured men of this consummation was the highest development of the whole greek religion, the mysteries.
‘out of the pure i come, pure queen of them below, eukles and eubouleus and the other gods immortal. for i also avow me that i am of your blessed race, but fate laid me low....’
so far with pindar. but the dead man’s claims do not end there: ‘i was admitted to the embrace of despoina, queen of the underworld’; already had he received a foretaste of that divine wedlock which implied equality with the gods; and so there comes the answer, ‘happy and blessed one, thou shalt be god instead of mortal.’
thus even the highest aspirations of the most spiritually-minded of pagan thinkers owed much to the purely popular religion. the orphic tablet links up the popular conception of death as a wedding with the platonic conception of the deification of the soul. ‘i was admitted to the embrace of despoina, queen of the underworld’: ‘happy and blessed one, thou shalt be god instead of mortal.’
this is not platonic philosophy but popular religion. phrase after phrase reveals the origin of this conception of love. the hopes most high were the hopes held forth by the mysteries; the blessedness and the loving fellowship with gods were the fulfilment of those hopes. in such language did men ever hint at the joys to which their mystic sacraments gave access. and plato here ventures yet further. the author of those high hopes, the founder of that blessedness, he proclaims, is none other than love--love that appealed not to the soul only of the initiated, but to the whole man, both soul and body--love that meant not only the yearning after wisdom and holiness and spiritual equality with the gods, but that same passion which drew together man and woman, god and goddess--the passion of mankind for their deities, fed in this life by manifold means of communion and even by sacramental union, satisfied hereafter in the full fruition of wedded bliss.
absolution, and dissolution, 401; of the dead, 396 ff.
achaeans, religion of, 521 f.
alastores, 462 ff.; not originally deities, 467 ff.
allatius, on vrykolakes, 364 ff.
artemidorus, on death and marriage, 553 ff.
ass-centaurs, 235 and 237 f.
augury (see auspices)
beast-dances, 224 ff.
bells, worn at popular festivals, 224 ff.
bones of the dead, how treated after exhumation, 540 f.
bridal customs (see wedding, marriage)
‘bridge of arta,’ the, 262 f.
carnival, celebrations of, 224 ff.
centaurs (see callicantzari), 190-255; and lapithae, 242; as wizards, 248 f.; compared with callicantzari, 253; general character of, 246; heracles’ fight with, 253; how represented in art, 247; in hesiod, 242; in homer, 243; in pindar, 241; popular conception of, how affected by art, 252; prof. ridgeway’s view of, 244 ff.; various species of, 235, 237; whether human or divine in origin, 241 ff.; why called ‘beasts,’ 245 ff.
character of modern greeks, 28 ff.
charon’s obol, 108, 285; as charm to prevent soul from re-entering body, 434; custom of, how interpreted, 405 f.
chiron, 241 ff., 248; as magician and prophet, 248 f.
church, influenced by paganism, 572 f.
‘constantine and areté’ (ballad), 391 f.
corpse, re-animation of, 112 (see re-animation, resuscitation)
cremation (see also funeral-rites), 485 ff.; ceremonial, 496, 512; ceremonial substitute for, 491; christian attitude towards, 501; combined with inhumation, 494; disuse of, 501 f.; for disposing of revenants in ancient greece, 416; for disposing of vrykolakes, 411; in theory preferable to inhumation, 488 f.; in recent times, 503; introduced by achaeans, 491; motives for, 502 f.; preferred to inhumation, 500 f.; revival of, 502; serving same religious end as inhumation, 491 ff.
curses, 387 ff., 409; diagnosed by their effects, 396; executed by demonic agents, 448; fixity of, 417; in euripides, 418; in sophocles, 419; operation of, 447; parental, 391 ff.; revoking of, 388 f.
daemons, plutarch’s theory of, 583 f.
creatures that once were men.
in front of you is the main street, with two rows of miserable looking huts with shuttered windows and old walls pressing on each other and leaning forward. the roofs of these time-worn habitations are full of holes, and have been patched here and there with laths; from underneath them project mildewed beams, which are shaded by the dusty-leaved elder-trees and crooked white willows--pitiable flora of those suburbs inhabited by the poor.
the dull green time-stained panes of the windows look upon each other with the cowardly glances of cheats. through the street and towards the adjacent mountain, runs the sinuous path, winding through the deep ditches filled with rain-water. here and there are piled heaps of dust and other rubbish--either refuse or else put there purposely to keep the rain-water from flooding the houses. on the top of the mountain, among green gardens with dense foliage, beautiful stone houses lie hidden; the belfries of the churches rise proudly towards the sky, and their gilded crosses shine beneath the rays of the sun. during the rainy weather the neighbouring town pours its water into this main road, which, at other times, is full of its dust, and all these miserable houses seem, as it were, thrown by some powerful hand into that heap of dust, rubbish, and rain-water. they cling to the ground beneath the high mountain, exposed to the sun, surrounded by decaying refuse, and their sodden appearance impresses one with the same feeling as would the half-rotten trunk of an old tree.
at the end of the main street, as if thrown out of the town, stood a two-storied house, which had been rented from petunikoff, a merchant and resident of the town. it was in comparatively good order, being further from the mountain, while near it were the open fields, and about half-a-mile away the river ran its winding course.
this large old house had the most dismal aspect amidst its surroundings. the walls bent outwards and there was hardly a pane of glass in any of the windows, except some of the fragments which looked like the water of the marshes--dull green. the spaces of wall between the windows were covered with spots, as if time were trying to write there in hieroglyphics the history of the old house, and the tottering roof added still more to its pitiable condition. it seemed as if the whole building bent towards the ground, to await the last stroke of that fate which should transform it into a chaos of rotting remains, and finally into dust.
the gates were open, one half of them displaced and lying on the ground at the entrance, while between its bars had grown the grass, which also covered the large and empty court-yard. in the depths of this yard stood a low, iron-roofed, smoke-begrimed building. the house itself was of course unoccupied, but this shed, formerly a blacksmith's forge, was now turned into a "dosshouse," kept by a retired captain named aristid fomich kuvalda.
in the interior of the dosshouse was a long, wide and grimy board, measuring some 28 by 70 feet. the room was lighted on one side by four small square windows, and on the other by a wide door. the unpainted brick walls were black with smoke, and the ceiling, which was built of timber, was almost black. in the middle stood a large stove, the furnace of which served as its foundation, and around this stove and along the walls were also long, wide boards, which served as beds for the lodgers. the walls smelt of smoke, the earthen floor of dampness, and the long wide board of rotting rags.
before renting this house, aristid kuvalda had kept a registry office for servants in the town. if we look further back into his former life, we shall find that he once owned printing works, and previous to this, in his own words, he "just lived! and lived well too, devil take it, and like one who knew how!"
he was a tall, broad-shouldered man of fifty, with a rawlooking face, swollen with drunkenness, and with a dirty yellowish beard. his eyes were large and grey, with an insolent expression of happiness. he spoke in a bass voice and with a sort of grumbling sound in his throat, and he almost always held between his teeth a german china pipe with a long bowl. when he was angry the nostrils of his big crooked red nose swelled, and his lips trembled, exposing to view two rows of large and wolf-like yellow teeth. he had long arms, was lame, and always dressed in an old officer's uniform, with a dirty, greasy cap with a red band, a hat without a brim, and ragged felt boots which reached almost to his knees. in the morning, as a rule, he had a heavy drunken headache, and in the evening he caroused. however much he drank, he was never drunk, and so was always merry.
in the evenings he received lodgers, sitting on his brickmade bench with his pipe in his mouth.
"whom have we here?" he would ask the ragged and tattered object approaching him, who had probably been chucked out of the town for drunkenness, or perhaps for some other reason not quite so simple. and after the man had answered him, he would say, "let me see legal papers in confirmation of your lies." and if there were such papers they were shown. the captain would then put them in his bosom, seldom taking any interest in them, and would say:
"don't you sell tea, bread, or anything to eat?"
"i trade only in walls and roofs, for which i pay to the swindling proprietor of this hole--judas petunikoff, merchant of the second guild--five roubles a month," explained kuvalda in a business-like tone. "only those come to me who are not accustomed to comfort and luxuries .... but if you are accustomed to eat every day, then there is the eating-house opposite. but it would be better for you if you left off that habit. you see you are not a gentleman. what do you eat? you eat yourself!"
for such speeches, delivered in a strictly business-like manner, and always with smiling eyes, and also for the attention he paid to his lodgers the captain was very popular among the poor of the town. it very often happened that a former client of his would appear, not in rags, but in something more respectable and with a slightly happier face.
"good-day, your honour, and how do you do?"
"alive, in good health! go on."
"don't you know me?"
"i did not know you."
"do you remember that i lived with you last winter for nearly a month .... when the fight with the police took place, and three were taken away?"
"my brother, that is so. the police do come even under my hospitable roof!"
"my god! you gave a piece of your mind to the police inspector of this district!"
"wouldn't you accept some small hospitality from me? when i lived with you, you were ..."
"gratitude must be encouraged because it is seldom met with. you seem to be a good man, and, though i don't remember you, still i will go with you into the public-house and drink to your success and future prospects with the greatest pleasure."
"you seem always the same ... are you always joking?"
"what else can one do, living among you unfortunate men?"
they went. sometimes the captain's former customer, uplifted and unsettled by the entertainment, returned to the dosshouse, and on the following morning they would again begin treating each other till the captain's companion would wake up to realise that he had spent all his money in drink.
"your honour, do you see that i have again fallen into your hands? what shall we do now?"
"the position, no doubt, is not a very good one, but still you need not trouble about it," reasoned the captain. "you must, my friend, treat everything indifferently, without spoiling yourself by philosophy, and without asking yourself any question. to philosophise is always foolish; to philosophise with a drunken headache, ineffably so. drunken headaches require vodki and not the remorse of conscience or gnashing of teeth ... save your teeth, or else you will not be able to protect yourself. here are twenty kopecks. go and buy a bottle of vodki for five kopecks, hot tripe or lungs, one pound of bread and two cucumbers. when we have lived off our drunken headache we will think of the condition of affairs ..."
as a rule the consideration of the "condition of affairs" lasted some two or three days, and only when the captain had not a farthing left of the three roubles or five roubles given him by his grateful customer did he say:
"you came! do you see? now that we have drunk everything with you, you fool, try again to regain the path of virtue and soberness. it has been truly said that if you do not sin, you will not repent, and, if you do not repent, you shall not be saved. we have done the first, and to repent is useless. let us make direct for salvation. go to the river and work, and if you think you cannot control yourself, tell the contractor, your employer, to keep your money, or else give it to me. when you get sufficient capital, i will get you a pair of trousers and other things necessary to make you seem a respectable and hard-working man, persecuted by fate. with decent-looking trousers you can go far. now then, be off!"
then the client would go to the river to work as a porter, smiling the while over the captain's long and wise speeches. he did not distinctly understand them, but only saw in front of him two merry eyes, felt their encouraging influence, and knew that in the loquacious captain he had an arm that would assist him in time of need.
and really it happened very often that, for a month or so, some ticket-of-leave client, under the strict surveillance of the captain, had the opportunity of raising himself to a condition better than that to which, thanks to the captain's co-operation, he had fallen.
"now, then, my friend!" said the captain, glancing critically at the restored client, "we have a coat and jacket. when i had respectable trousers i lived in town like a respectable man. but when the trousers wore out, i too fell off in the opinion of my fellow-men and had to come down here from the town. men, my fine mannikin, judge everything by the outward appearance, while, owing to their foolishness, the actual reality of things is incomprehensible to them. make a note of this on your nose, and pay me at least half your debt. go in peace; seek, and you may find."
"how much do i owe you, aristid fomich?" asks the client, in confusion.
"one rouble and 70 kopecks.... now, give me only one rouble, or, if you like, 70 kopecks, and as for the rest, i shall wait until you have earned more than you have now by stealing or by hard work, it does not matter to me."
"i thank you humbly for your kindness!" says the client, touched to the heart. "truly you are a kind man....; life has persecuted you in vain.... what an eagle you would have been in your own place!"
the captain could not live without eloquent speeches.
"what does 'in my own place' mean? no one really knows his own place in life, and every one of us crawls into his harness. the place of the merchant judas petunikoff ought to be in penal servitude, but he still walks through the streets in daylight, and even intends to build a factory. the place of our teacher ought to be beside a wife and half-a-dozen children, but he is loitering in the public-house of vaviloff. and then, there is yourself. you are going to seek a situation as a hall porter or waiter, but i can see that you ought to be a soldier in the army, because you are no fool, are patient and understand discipline. life shuffles us like cards, you see, and it is only accidentally, and only for a time, that we fall into our own places!"
such farewell speeches often served as a preface to the continuation of their acquaintance, which again began with drinking and went so far that the client would spend his last farthing. then the captain would stand him treat, and they would drink all they had.
a repetition of similar doings did not affect in the least the good relations of the parties.
the teacher mentioned by the captain was another of those customers who were thus reformed only in order that they should sin again. thanks to his intellect, he was the nearest in rank to the captain, and this was probably the cause of his falling so low as dosshouse life, and of his inability to rise again. it was only with him that aristid kuvalda could philosophise with the certainty of being understood. he valued this, and when the reformed teacher prepared to leave the dosshouse in order to get a corner in town for himself, then aristid kuvalda accompanied him so sorrowfully and sadly that it ended, as a rule, in their both getting drunk and spending all their money. probably kuvalda arranged the matter intentionally so that the teacher could not leave the dosshouse, though he desired to do so with all his heart. was it possible for aristid kuvalda, a nobleman (as was evident from his speeches), one who was accustomed to think, though the turn of fate may have changed his position, was it possible for him not to desire to have close to him a man like himself? we can pity our own faults in others.
this teacher had once taught at an institution in one of the towns on the volga, but in consequence of some story was dismissed. after this he was a clerk in a tannery, but again had to leave. then he became a librarian in some private library, subsequently following other professions. finally, after passing examinations in law he became a lawyer, but drink reduced him to the captain's dosshouse. he was tall, round-shouldered, with a long sharp nose and bald head. in his bony and yellow face, on which grew a wedge-shaped beard, shone large, restless eyes, deeply sunk in their sockets, and the corners of his mouth drooped sadly down. he earned his bread, or rather his drink, by reporting for the local papers. he sometimes earned as much as fifteen roubles. these he gave to the captain and said:
"it is enough. i am going back into the bosom of culture. another week's hard work and i shall dress respectably, and then addio, mio caro!"
"very exemplary! as i heartily sympathise with your decision, philip, i shall not give you another glass all this week," the captain warned him sternly.
"i shall be thankful! .... you will not give me one drop?"
the captain heard in his voice a beseeching note to which he turned a deaf ear.
"even though you roar, i shall not give it you!"
"as you like, then," sighed the teacher, and went away to continue his reporting. but after a day or two he would return tired and thirsty, and would look at the captain with a beseeching glance out of the corners of his eyes, hoping that his friend's heart would soften.
the captain in such cases put on a serious face and began speaking with killing irony on the theme of weakness of character, of the animal delight of intoxication, and on such subjects as suited the occasion. one must do him justice: he was captivated by his role of mentor and moralist, but the lodgers dogged him, and, listening sceptically to his exhortations to repentance, would whisper aside to each other:
"cunning, skilful, shifty rogue! i told you so, but you would not listen. it's your own fault!"
"his honour is really a good soldier. he goes first and examines the road behind him!"
the teacher then hunted here and there till he found his friend again in some corner, and grasping his dirty coat, trembling and licking his dry lips, looked into his face with a deep, tragic glance, without articulate words.
"can't you?" asked the captain sullenly.
the teacher answered by bowing his head and letting it fall on his breast, his tall, thin body trembling the while.
"wait another day ... perhaps you will be all right then," proposed kuvalda. the teacher sighed, and shook his head hopelessly.
the captain saw that his friend's thin body trembled with the thirst for the poison, and took some money from his pocket.
"in the majority of cases it is impossible to fight against fate," said he, as if trying to justify himself before someone. but if the teacher controlled himself for a whole week then there was a touching farewell scene between the two friends, which ended as a rule in the eating-house of vaviloff. the teacher did not spend all his money, but spent at least half on the children of the main street. the poor are always rich in children, and in the dirt and ditches of this street there were groups of them from morning to night, hungry, naked and dirty. children are the living flowers of the earth, but these had the appearance of flowers that have faded prematurely, because they grew in ground where there was no healthy nourishment. often the teacher would gather them round him, would buy them bread, eggs, apples and nuts, and take them into the fields by the river side. there they would sit and greedily eat everything he offered them, after which they would begin to play, filling the fields for a mile around with careless noise and laughter. the tall, thin figure of the drunkard towered above these small people, who treated him familiarly, as if he were one of their own age. they called him "philip," and did not trouble to prefix "uncle" to his name. playing around him, like little wild animals, they pushed him, jumped upon his back, beat him upon his bald head, and caught hold of his nose. all this must have pleased him, as he did not protest against such liberties. he spoke very little to them, and when he did so he did it cautiously as if afraid that his words would hurt or contaminate them. he passed many hours thus as their companion and plaything, watching their lively faces with his gloomy eyes. then he would thoughtfully and slowly direct his steps to the eatinghouse of vaviloff, where he would drink silently and quickly till all his senses left him.
almost every day after his reporting he would bring a newspaper, and then gather round him all these creatures that once were men.
then appeared pavel solntseff, a man of thirty years of age, suffering from consumption. the ribs of his left side had been broken in a quarrel, and the sharp, yellow face, like that of a fox, always wore a malicious smile. the thin lips, when opened, exposed two rows of decayed black teeth, and the rags on his shoulders swayed backwards and forwards as if they were hung on a clothes pole. they called him "abyedok." he hawked brushes and bath brooms of his own manufacture, good strong brushes made from a peculiar kind of grass.
then followed a lean and bony man of whom no one knew anything, with a frightened expression in his eyes, the left one of which had a squint. he was silent and timid, and had been imprisoned three times for theft by the high court of justice and the magisterial courts. his family name was kiselnikoff, but they called him paltara taras, because he was a head and shoulders taller than his friend, deacon taras, who had been degraded from his office for drunkenness and immorality. the deacon was a short, thick-set person, with the chest of an athlete and a round, strong head. he danced skilfully, and was still more skilful at swearing. he and paltara taras worked in the wood on the banks of the river, and in free hours he told his friend or any one who would listen, "tales of my own composition," as he used to say. on hearing these stories, the heroes of which always seemed to be saints, kings, priests, or generals, even the inmates of the dosshouse spat and rubbed their eyes in astonishment at the imagination of the deacon, who told them shameless tales of lewd, fantastic adventures, with blinking eyes and a passionless expression of countenance. the imagination of this man was powerful and inexhaustible; he could go on relating and composing all day, from morning to night, without once repeating what he had said before. in his expression you sometimes saw the poet gone astray, sometimes the romancer, and he always succeeded in making his tales realistic by the effective and powerful words in which he told them.
there was also a foolish young man called kuvalda meteor. one night he came to sleep in the dosshouse and had remained ever since among these men, much to their astonishment. at first they did not take much notice of him. in the daytime, like all the others, he went away to find something to eat, but at nights he always loitered around this friendly company till at last the captain took notice of him.
"boy! what business have you here on this earth?"
the boy answered boldly and stoutly:
"i am a barefooted tramp ...."
the captain looked critically at him. this youngster had long hair and a weak face, with prominent cheek-bones and a turned-up nose. he was dressed in a blue blouse without a waistband, and on his head he wore the remains of a straw hat, while his feet were bare.
"you are a fool!" decided aristid kuvalda. "what are you knocking about here for? you are of absolutely no use to us ... do you drink vodki? ... no? ... well, then, can you steal?" again, "no." "go away, learn, and come back again when you know something, and are a man ..."
the youngster smiled.
"no. i shall live with you."
"just because ..."
"oh you ... meteor!" said the captain.
"i will break his teeth for him," said martyanoff.
"and why?" asked the youngster.
"and i will take a stone and hit you on the head," the young man answered respectfully.
martyanoff would have broken his bones, had not kuvalda interrupted with:
"leave him alone.... is this a home to you or even to us? you have no sufficient reason to break his teeth for him. you have no better reason than he for living with us."
"well, then, devil take him! ... we all live in the world without sufficient reason.... we live, and why? because! he also because ... let him alone...."
"but it is better for you, young man, to go away from us," the teacher advised him, looking him up and down with his sad eyes. he made no answer, but remained. and they soon became accustomed to his presence, and ceased to take any notice of him. but he lived among them, and observed everything.
the above were the chief members of the captain's company, and he called them with kind-hearted sarcasm "creatures that once were men." for though there were men who had experienced as much of the bitter irony of fate as these men, yet they were not fallen so low. not infrequently, respectable men belonging to the cultured classes are inferior to those belonging to the peasantry, and it is always a fact that the depraved man from the city is immeasurably worse than the depraved man from the village. this fact was strikingly illustrated by the contrast between the formerly well-educated men and the mujiks who were living in kuvalda's shelter.
the representative of the latter class was an old mujik called tyapa. tall and angular, he kept his head in such a position that his chin touched his breast. he was the captain's first lodger, and it was said of him that he had a great deal of money hidden somewhere, and for its sake had nearly had his throat cut some two years ago: ever since then he carried his head thus. over his eyes hung greyish eyebrows, and, looked at in profile, only his crooked nose was to be seen. his shadow reminded one of a poker. he denied that he had money, and said that they "only tried to cut his throat out of malice," and from that day he took to collecting rags, and that is why his head was always bent as if incessantly looking on the ground. when he went about shaking his head, and minus a walking-stick in his hand, and a bag on his back--the signs of his profession--he seemed to be thinking almost to madness, and, at such times, kuvalda spoke thus, pointing to him with his finger:
"look, there is the conscience of merchant judas petunikoff. see how disorderly, dirty, and low is the escaped conscience."
tyapa, as a rule, spoke in a hoarse and hardly audible voice, and that is why he spoke very little, and loved to be alone. but whenever a stranger, compelled to leave the village, appeared in the dosshouse, tyapa seemed sadder and angrier, and followed the unfortunate about with biting jeers and a wicked chuckling in his throat. he either put some beggar against him, or himself threatened to rob and beat him, till the frightened mujik would disappear from the dosshouse and never more be seen. then tyapa was quiet again, and would sit in some corner mending his rags, or else reading his bible, which was as dirty, worn, and old as himself. only when the teacher brought a newspaper and began reading did he come from his corner once more. as a rule, tyapa listened to what was read silently and sighed often, without asking anything of anyone. but once when the teacher, having read the paper, wanted to put it away, tyapa stretched out his bony hand, and said, "give it to me ..."
"what do you want it for?"
"give it to me ... perhaps there is something in it about us ..."
"about the village."
they laughed at him, and threw him the paper. he took it, and read in it how in the village the hail had destroyed the cornfields, how in another village fire destroyed thirty houses, and that in a third a woman had poisoned her family,--in fact, everything that it is customary to write of,--everything, that is to say, which is bad, and which depicts only the worst side of the unfortunate village. tyapa read all this silently and roared, perhaps from sympathy, perhaps from delight at the sad news.
he passed the whole sunday in reading his bible, and never went out collecting rags on that day. while reading, he groaned and sighed continually. he kept the book close to his breast, and was angry with any one who interrupted him or who touched his bible.
"oh, you drunken blackguard," said kuvalda to him, "what do you understand of it?"
"nothing, wizard! i don't understand anything, and i do not read any books ... but i read ..."
"therefore you are a fool ..." said the captain, decidedly. "when there are insects in your head, you know it is uncomfortable, but if some thoughts enter there too, how will you live then, you old toad?"
"i have not long to live," said tyapa, quietly.
once the teacher asked how he had learned to read.
"in prison," answered tyapa, shortly.
"have you been there?"
"i was there...."
"just so.... it was a mistake.... but i brought the bible out with me from there. a lady gave it to me.... it is good in prison, brother."
"is that so? and why?"
"it teaches one.... i learned to read there.... i also got this book.... and all these you see, free...."
when the teacher appeared in the dosshouse, tyapa had already lived there for some time. he looked long into the teacher's face, as if to discover what kind of a man he was. tyapa often listened to his conversation, and once, sitting down beside him, said:
"i see you are very learned.... have you read the bible?"
"i have read it...."
"i see; i see.... can you remember it?"
"yes.... i remember it...."
then the old man leaned to one side and gazed at the other with a serious, suspicious glance.
"there were the amalekites, do you remember?"
"where are they now?"
"disappeared ... tyapa ... died out ..."
the old man was silent, then asked again: "and where are the philistines?"
"these also ..."
"have all these died out?"
"yes ... all ..."
"and so ... we also will die out?"
"there will come a time when we also will die," said the teacher indifferently.
"and to what tribe of israel do we belong?"
the teacher looked at him, and began telling him about scythians and slavs....
the old man became all the more frightened, and glanced at his face.
"you are lying!" he said scornfully, when the teacher had finished.
"what lie have i told?" asked the teacher.
"you mentioned tribes that are not mentioned in the bible."
he got up and walked away, angry and deeply insulted.
"you will go mad, tyapa," called the teacher after him with conviction.
then the old man came back again, and stretching out his hand, threatened him with his crooked and dirty finger.
"god made adam--from adam were descended the jews, that means that all people are descended from jews ... and we also ..."
"tartars are descended from ishmael, but he also came of the jews ..."
"what do you want to tell me all this for?"
"nothing! only why do you tell lies?" then he walked away, leaving his companion in perplexity. but after two days he came again and sat by him.
"you are learned ... tell me, then, whose descendants are we? are we babylonians, or who are we?"
"we are slavs, tyapa," said the teacher, and attentively awaited his answer, wishing to understand him.
"speak to me from the bible. there are no such men there."
then the teacher began criticising the bible. the old man listened, and interrupted him after a long while.
"stop ... wait! that means that among people known to god there are no russians? we are not known to god? is it so? god knew all those who are mentioned in the bible ... he destroyed them by sword and fire, he destroyed their cities; but he also sent prophets to teach them. that means that he also pitied them. he scattered the jews and the tartars ... but what about us? why have we prophets no longer?"
"well, i don't know!" replied the teacher, trying to understand the old man. but the latter put his hand on the teacher's shoulder, and slowly pushed him backwards and forwards, and his throat made a noise as if he were swallowing something....
"tell me! you speak so much ... as if you knew everything. it makes me sick to listen to you ... you darken my soul.... i should be better pleased if you were silent. who are we, eh? why have we no prophets? ha, ha! ... where were we when christ walked on this earth? do you see? and you too, you are lying.... do you think that all die out? the russian people will never disappear.... you are lying.... it has been written in the bible, only it is not known what name the russians are given. do you see what kind of people they are? they are numberless.... how many villages are there on the earth? think of all the people who live on it, so strong, so numerous! and you say that they will die out; men shall die, but god wants the people, god the creator of the earth! the amalekites did not die out. they are either german or french.... but you, eh, you! now then, tell me why we are abandoned by god? have we no punishments nor prophets from the lord? who then will teach us?" tyapa spoke strongly and plainly, and there was faith in his words. he had been speaking a long time, and the teacher, who was generally drunk and in a speechless condition, could not stand it any longer. he looked at the dry, wrinkled old man, felt the great force of these words, and suddenly began to pity himself. he wished to say something so strong and convincing to the old man that tyapa would be disposed in his favour; he did not wish to speak in such a serious, earnest way, but in a soft and fatherly tone. and the teacher felt as if something were rising from his breast into his throat ... but he could not find any powerful words.
"what kind of a man are you? ... your soul seems to be torn away--and you still continue speaking ... as if you knew something ... it would be better if you were silent."
"ah, tyapa, what you say is true," replied the teacher, sadly. "the people ... you are right ... they are numberless ... but i am a stranger to them ... and they are strangers to me ... do you see where the tragedy of my life is hidden? ... but let me alone! i shall suffer ... and there are no prophets also ... no. you are right, i speak a great deal ... but it is no good to anyone. i shall be always silent ... only don't speak with me like this ... ah, old man, you do not know ... you do not know ... and you cannot understand."
and in the end the teacher cried. he cried so easily and so freely, with such torrents of flowing tears, that he soon found relief.
"you ought to go into a village ... become a clerk or a teacher ... you would be well fed there. what are you crying for?" asked tyapa, sadly.
but the teacher was crying as if the tears quieted and comforted him.
from this day they became friends, and the "creatures that once were men," seeing them together, said: "the teacher is friendly with tyapa ... he wishes his money. kuvalda must have put this into his head ... to look about to see where the old man's fortune is ..."
probably they did not believe what they said. there was one strange thing about these men, namely, that they painted themselves to others worse than they actually were. a man who has good in him does not mind sometimes showing his worse nature.
when all these people were gathered round the teacher, then the reading of the newspaper would begin.
"well, what does the newspaper discuss to-day? is there any feuilleton?"
"no," the teacher informs him.
"your publisher seems greedy ... but is there any leader?"
"there is one to-day.... it appears to be by gulyaeff."
"aha! come, out with it. he writes cleverly, the rascal."
"'the taxation of immovable property,'" reads the teacher, "'was introduced some fifteen years ago, and up to the present it has served as the basis for collecting these taxes in aid of the city revenue ...'"
"that is simple," comments captain kuvalda. "it continues to serve. that is ridiculous. to the merchant who is moving about in the city, it is profitable that it should continue to serve. therefore it does continue."
"the article, in fact, is written on the subject," says the teacher.
"is it? that is strange, it is more a subject for a feuilleton..."
"such a subject must be treated with plenty of pepper...."
then a short discussion begins. the people listen attentively, as only one bottle of vodki has been drunk.
after the leader, they read the local events, then the court proceedings, and, if in the police court it reports that the defendant or plaintiff is a merchant, then aristid kuvalda sincerely rejoices. if someone has robbed the merchant, "that is good," says he. "only it is a pity they robbed him of so little." if his horses have broken down, "it is sad that he is still alive." if the merchant has lost his suit in court, "it is a pity that the costs were not double the amount."
"that would have been illegal," remarks the teacher
"illegal! but is the merchant himself legal?" inquires kuvalda, bitterly. "what is the merchant? let us investigate this rough and uncouth phenomenon. first of all, every merchant is a mujik. he comes from a village, and in course of time becomes a merchant. in order to be a merchant, one must have money. where can the mujik get the money from? it is well known that he does not get it by honest hard work, and that means that the mujik, somehow or other, has been swindling. that is to say, a merchant is simply a dishonest mujik."
"splendid!" cry the people, approving the orator's deduction, and tyapa bellows all the time, scratching his breast. he always bellows like this as he drinks his first glass of vodki, when he has a drunken headache. the captain beams with joy. they next read the correspondence. this is, for the captain, "an abundance of drinks," as he himself calls it. he always notices how the merchants make this life abominable, and how cleverly they spoil everything. his speeches thunder at and annihilate merchants. his audience listens to him with the greatest pleasure, because he swears atrociously. "if i wrote for the papers," he shouts, "i would show up the merchant in his true colours ... i would show that he is a beast, playing for a time the role of a man. i understand him! he is a rough boor, does not know the meaning of the words 'good taste,' has no notion of patriotism, and his knowledge is not worth five kopecks."
abyedok, knowing the captain's weak point, and fond of making other people angry, cunningly adds:
"yes, since the nobility began to make acquaintance with hunger, men have disappeared from the world ..."
"you are right, you son of a spider and a toad. yes, from the time that the noblemen fell, there have been no men. there are only merchants, and i hate them."
"that is easy to understand, brother, because you, too, have been brought down by them ..."
"i? i was ruined by love of life ... fool that i was, i loved life, but the merchant spoils it, and i cannot bear it, simply for this reason, and not because i am a nobleman. but if you want to know the truth, i was once a man, though i was not noble. i care now for nothing and nobody ... and all my life has been tame--a sweetheart who has jilted me--therefore i despise life, and am indifferent to it."
"you lie!" says abyedok.
"i lie?" roars aristid kuvalda, almost crimson with anger.
"why shout?" comes in the cold sad voice of martyanoff.
"why judge others? merchants, noblemen ... what have we to do with them?"
"seeing that we are" ... puts in deacon taras.
"be quiet, abyedok," says the teacher, goodnaturedly.
"why do you provoke him?" he does not love either discussion or noise, and when they quarrel all around him his lips form into a sickly grimace, and he endeavours quietly and reasonably to reconcile each with the other, and if he does not succeed in this he leaves the company. knowing this, the captain, if he is not very drunk, controls himself, not wishing to lose, in the person of the teacher, one of the best of his listeners.
"i repeat," he continues, in a quieter tone, "that i see life in the hands of enemies, not only enemies of the noble but of everything good, avaricious and incapable of adorning existence in any way."
"but all the same," says the teacher, "merchants, so to speak, created genoa, venice, holland--and all these were merchants, merchants from england, india, the stroyanoff merchants ..."
"i do not speak of these men, i am thinking of judas petunikoff, who is one of them...."
"and you say you have nothing to do with them?" asks the teacher, quietly.
"but do you think that i do not live? aha! i do live, but i suppose i ought not to be angry at the fact that life is desecrated and robbed of all freedom by these men."
"and they dare to laugh at the kindly anger of the captain, a man living in retirement?" says abyedok, teasingly.
"very well! i agree with you that i am foolish. being a creature who was once a man, i ought to blot out from my heart all those feelings that once were mine. you may be right, but then how could i or any of you defend ourselves if we did away with all these feelings?"
"now then, you are talking sense," says the teacher, encouragingly.
"we want other feelings and other views on life.... we want something new ... because we ourselves are a novelty in this life...."
"doubtless this is most important for us," remarks the teacher.
"why?" asks kanets. "is it not all the same whatever we say or think? we have not got long to live ... i am forty, you are fifty ... there is no one among us younger than thirty, and even at twenty one cannot live such a life long."
"and what kind of novelty are we?" asked abyedok, mockingly.
"since nakedness has always existed ..."
"yes, and it created rome," said the teacher.
"yes, of course," says the captain, beaming with joy. "romulus and remus, eh? we also shall create when our time comes ..."
"violation of public peace," interrupts abyedok. he laughs in a self-satisfied way. his laughter is impudent and insolent, and is echoed by simtsoff, the deacon and paltara taras. the naive eyes of young meteor light up, and his cheeks flush crimson.
kanets speaks, and it seems as if he were hammering their heads.
"all these are foolish illusions ... fiddle-sticks!"
it was strange to see them reasoning in this manner, these outcasts from life, tattered, drunken with vodki and wickedness, filthy and forlorn. such conversations rejoiced the captain's heart. they gave him an opportunity of speaking more, and therefore he thought himself better than the rest. however low he may fall, a man can never deny himself the delight of feeling cleverer, more powerful, or even better fed than his companions. aristid kuvalda abused this pleasure, and never could have enough of it, much to the disgust of abyedok, kubar, and others of these creatures that once were men, who were less interested in such things.
politics, however, were more to the popular taste. the discussions as to the necessity of taking india or of subduing england were lengthy and protracted. nor did they speak with less enthusiasm of the radical measure of clearing jews off the face of the earth. on this subject abyedok was always the first to propose dreadful plans to effect the desired end, but the captain, always first in every other argument, did not join in this one. they also spoke much and impudently about women, but the teacher always defended them, and sometimes was very angry when they went so far as to pass the limits of decency. they all, as a rule, gave in to him, because they did not look upon him as a common person, and also because they wished to borrow from him on saturdays the money which he had earned during the week. he had many privileges. they never beat him, for instance, on these occasions when the conversation ended in a free fight. he had the right to bring women into the dosshouse; a privilege accorded to no one else, as the captain had previously warned them.
"no bringing of women to my house," he had said. "women, merchants and philosophers, these are the three causes of my ruin. i will horsewhip anyone bringing in women. i will horsewhip the woman also.... and as to the philosopher i'll knock his head off for him." and notwithstanding his age he could have knocked anyone's head off, for he possessed wonderful strength. besides that, whenever he fought or quarrelled, he was assisted by martyanoff, who was accustomed during a general fight to stand silently and sadly back to back with kuvalda, when he became an all-destroying and impregnable engine of war. once when simtsoff was drunk, he rushed at the teacher for no reason whatever, and getting hold of his head tore out a bunch of hair. kuvalda, with one stroke of his fist in the other's chest sent him spinning, and he fell to the ground. he was unconscious for almost half-an-hour, and when he came to himself, kuvalda compelled him to eat the hair he had torn from the teacher's head. he ate it, preferring this to being beaten to death.
besides reading newspapers, fighting and indulging in general conversation, they amused themselves by playing cards. they played without martyanoff because he could not play honestly. after cheating several times, he openly confessed:
"i cannot play without cheating ... it is a habit of mine."
"habits do get the better of you," assented deacon taras. "i always used to beat my wife every sunday after mass, and when she died i cannot describe how extremely dull i felt every sunday. i lived through one sunday--it was dreadful, the second i still controlled myself, the third sunday i struck my asok.... she was angry and threatened to summon me. just imagine if she had done so! on the fourth sunday, i beat her just as if she were my own wife! after that i gave her ten roubles, and beat her according to my own rules till i married again!" ...
"you are lying, deacon! how could you marry a second time?" interrupted abyedok.
"ay, just so... she looked after my house...."
"did you have any children?" asked the teacher.
"five of them.... one was drowned ... the oldest ... he was an amusing boy! two died of diphtheria ... one of the daughters married a student and went with him to siberia. the other went to the university of st. petersburg and died there ... of consumption they say. ye--es, there were five of them.... ecclesiastics are prolific, you know." he began explaining why this was so, and they laughed till they nearly burst at his tales. when the laughter stopped, aleksei maksimovitch simtsoff remembered that he too had once had a daughter.
"her name was lidka ... she was very stout ..." more than this he did not seem to remember, for he looked at them all, was silent and smiled ... in a guilty way. those men spoke very little to each other about their past, and they recalled it very seldom and then only its general outlines. when they did mention it, it was in a cynical tone. probably, this was just as well, since, in many people, remembrance of the past kills all present energy and deadens all hope for the future.
on rainy, cold, or dull days in the late autumn, these "creatures that once were men" gathered in the eatinghouse of vaviloff. they were well known there, where some feared them as thieves and rogues, and some looked upon them contemptuously as hard drinkers, although they respected them, thinking that they were clever.
the eating-house of vaviloff was the club of the main street, and the "creatures that once were men" were its most intellectual members. on saturday evenings or sunday mornings, when the eating-house was packed, the "creatures that once were men" were only too welcome guests. they brought with them, besides the forgotten and poverty-stricken inhabitants of the street, their own spirit, in which there was something that brightened the lives of men exhausted and worn out in the struggle for existence, as great drunkards as the inhabitants of kuvalda's shelter, and, like them, outcasts from the town. their ability to speak on all subjects, their freedom of opinion, skill in repartee, courage in the presence of those of whom the whole street was in terror, together with their daring demeanour, could not but be pleasing to their companions. then, too, they were well versed in law, and could advise, write petitions, and help to swindle without incurring the risk of punishment. for all this they were paid with vodki and flattering admiration of their talents.
the inhabitants of the street were divided into two parties according to their sympathies. one was in favour of kuvalda, who was thought "a good soldier, clever, and courageous," the other was convinced of the fact that the teacher was "superior" to kuvalda. the latter's admirers were those who were known to be drunkards, thieves, and murderers, for whom the road from beggary to prison was inevitable. but those who respected the teacher were men who still had expectations, still hoped for better things, who were eternally occupied with nothing, and who were nearly always hungry.
the nature of the teacher's and kuvalda's relations towards the street may be gathered from the following:
once in the eating-house they were discussing the resolution passed by the corporation regarding the main street, viz., that the inhabitants were to fill up the pits and ditches in the street, and that neither manure nor the dead bodies of domestic animals should be used for the purpose, but only broken tiles, etc., from the ruins of other houses.
"where am i going to get these same broken tiles and bricks? i could not get sufficient bricks together to build a hen-house," plaintively said mokei anisimoff, a man who hawked kalaches (a sort of white bread) which were baked by his wife.
"where can you get broken bricks and lime rubbish? take bags with you, and go and remove them from the corporation buildings. they are so old that they are of no use to anyone, and you will thus be doing two good deeds; firstly, by repairing the main street; and secondly, by adorning the city with a new corporation building."
"if you want horses get them from the lord mayor, and take his three daughters, who seem quite fit for harness. then destroy the house of judas petunikoff and pave the street with its timbers. by the way, mokei, i know out of what your wife baked to-day's kalaches; out of the frames of the third window and the two steps from the roof of judas' house."
when those present had laughed and joked sufficiently over the captain's proposal, the sober market gardener, pavlyugus asked:
"but seriously, what are we to do, your honour? ... eh? what do you think?"
"i? i shall neither move hand nor foot. if they wish to clean the street let them do it."
"some of the houses are almost coming down...."
"let them fall; don't interfere; and when they fall ask help from the city. if they don't give it you, then bring a suit in court against them! where does the water come from? from the city! therefore let the city be responsible for the destruction of the houses."
"they will say it is rain-water."
"does it destroy the houses in the city? eh? they take taxes from you but they do not permit you to speak! they destroy your property and at the same time compel you to repair it!" and half the radicals in the street, convinced by the words of kuvalda, decided to wait till the rain-water came down in huge streams and swept away their houses. the others, more sensible, found in the teacher a man who composed for them an excellent and convincing report for the corporation. in this report the refusal of the street's inhabitants to comply with the resolution of the corporation was so well explained that the corporation actually entertained it. it was decided that the rubbish left after some repairs had been done to the barracks should be used for mending and filling up the ditches in their street, and for the transport of this five horses were given by the fire brigade. still more, they even saw the necessity of laying a drain-pipe through the street. this and many other things vastly increased the popularity of the teacher. he wrote petitions for them and published various remarks in the newspapers. for instance, on one occasion vaviloff's customers noticed that the herrings and other provisions of the eating-house were not what they should be, and after a day or two they saw vaviloff standing at the bar with the newspaper in his hand making a public apology.
"it is true, i must acknowledge, that i bought old and not very good herrings, and the cabbage ... also ... was old. it is only too well known that anyone can put many a five-kopeck piece in his pocket in this way. and what is the result? it has not been a success; i was greedy, i own, but the cleverer man has exposed me, so we are quits ..."
this confession made a very good impression on the people, and it also gave vaviloff the opportunity of still feeding them with herrings and cabbages which were not good, though they failed to notice it, so much were they impressed.
this incident was very significant, because it increased not only the teacher's popularity, but also the effect of press opinion.
it often happened, too, that the teacher read lectures on practical morality in the eating-house.
"i saw you," he said to the painter yashka tyarin, "i saw you, yakov, beating your wife ..."
yashka was "touched with paint" after two glasses of vodki, and was in a slightly uplifted condition.
the people looked at him, expecting him to make a row, and all were silent.
"did you see me? and how did it please you?" asks yashka.
the people control their laughter.
"no; it did not please me," replies the teacher. his tone is so serious that the people are silent.
"you see i was just trying it," said yashka, with bravado, fearing that the teacher would rebuke him. "the wife is satisfied.... she has not got up yet to-day...."
the teacher, who was drawing absently with his fingers on the table, said, "do you see, yakov, why this did not please me? ... let us go into the matter thoroughly, and understand what you are really doing, and what the result may be. your wife is pregnant. you struck her last night on her sides and breast. that means that you beat not only her but the child too. you may have killed him, and your wife might have died or else have become seriously ill. to have the trouble of looking after a sick woman is not pleasant. it is wearing, and would cost you dear, because illness requires medicine, and medicine money. if you have not killed the child, you may have crippled him, and he will be born deformed, lop-sided, or hunch-backed. that means that he will not be able to work, and it is only too important to you that he should be a good workman. even if he be born ill, it will be bad enough, because he will keep his mother from work, and will require medicine. do you see what you are doing to yourself? men who live by hard work must be strong and healthy, and they should have strong and healthy children.... do i speak truly?"
"yes," assented the listeners.
"but all this will never happen," says yashka, becoming rather frightened at the prospect held out to him by the teacher. "she is healthy, and i cannot have reached the child ... she is a devil--a hag!" he shouts angrily. "i would ... she will eat me away as rust eats iron."
"i understand, yakov, that you cannot help beating your wife," the teacher's sad and thoughtful voice again breaks in. "you have many reasons for doing so ... it is your wife's character that causes you to beat her so incautiously ... but your own dark and sad life ..."
"you are angry with your life, but your wife is patient; the closest relation to you--your wife, and you make her suffer for this, simply because you are stronger than she. she is always with you, and cannot get away. don't you see how absurd you are?"
"that is so.... devil take it! but what shall i do? am i not a man?"
"just so! you are a man.... i only wish to tell you that if you cannot help beating her, then beat her carefully and always remember that you may injure her health or that of the child. it is not good to beat pregnant women ... on their belly or on their sides and chests.... beat her, say, on the neck ... or else take a rope and beat her on some soft place ..."
the orator finished his speech and looked upon his hearers with his dark, pathetic eyes, seeming to apologise to them for some unknown crime.
the public understands it. they understand the morale of the creature who was once a man, the morale of the public-house and much misfortune.
"well, brother yashka, did you understand? see how true it is!"
yakov understood that to beat her incautiously might be injurious to his wife. he is silent, replying to his companions' jokes with confused smiles.
"then again, what is a wife?" philosophises the baker, mokei anisimoff. "a wife ... is a friend ... if we look at the matter in that way. she is like a chain, chained to you for life ... and you are both just like galley slaves. and if you try to get away from her, you cannot, you feel the chain ..."
"wait," says yakovleff; "but you beat your wife too."
"did i say that i did not? i beat her... there is nothing else handy... do you expect me to beat the wall with my fist when my patience is exhausted?"
"how hard and difficult our life is, my brothers! there is no real rest for us anywhere!"
"and even you beat your wife by mistake," some one remarks humorously. and thus they speak till far on in the night or till they have quarrelled, the usual result of drink or of passions engendered by such discussions.
the rain beats on the windows, and outside the cold wind is blowing. the eating-house is close with tobacco smoke, but it is warm, while the street is cold and wet. now and then, the wind beats threateningly on the windows of the eating-house, as if bidding these men to come out and be scattered like dust over the face of the earth. sometimes a stifled and hopeless groan is heard in its howling which again is drowned by cold, cruel laughter. this music fills one with dark, sad thoughts of the approaching winter, with its accursed short, sunless days and long nights, of the necessity of possessing warm garments and plenty to eat. it is hard to sleep through the long winter nights on an empty stomach. winter is approaching. yes, it is approaching... how to live?
these gloomy forebodings created a strong thirst among the inhabitants of the main street, and the sighs of the "creatures that once were men" increased with the wrinkles on their brows, their voices became thick and their behaviour to each other more blunt. and brutal crimes were committed among them, and the roughness of these poor unfortunate outcasts was apt to increase at the approach of that inexorable enemy, who transformed all their lives into one cruel farce. but this enemy could not be captured because it was invisible.
then they began beating each other brutally, and drank till they had drunk everything which they could pawn to the indulgent vaviloff. and thus they passed the autumn days in open wickedness, in suffering which was eating their hearts out, unable to rise out of this vicious life and in dread of the still crueller days of winter.
kuvalda in such cases came to their assistance with his philosophy.
"don't lose your temper, brothers, everything has an end, this is the chief characteristic of life. the winter will pass, summer will follow ... a glorious time, when the very sparrows are filled with rejoicing." but his speeches did not have any effect--a mouthful of even the freshest and purest water will not satisfy a hungry man.
deacon taras also tried to amuse the people by singing his songs and relating his tales. he was more successful, and sometimes his endeavours ended in a wild and glorious orgy at the eating-house. they sang, laughed and danced, and for hours behaved like madmen. after this they again fell into a despairing mood, sitting at the tables of the eating-house, in the black smoke of the lamp and the tobacco; sad and tattered, speaking lazily to each other, listening to the wild howling of the wind, and thinking how they could get enough vodki to deaden their senses.
and their hand was against every man, and every man's hand against them.
all things are relative in this world, and a man cannot sink into any condition so bad that it could not be worse. one day, towards the end of september, captain aristid kuvalda was sitting, as was his custom, on the bench near the door of the dosshouse, looking at the stone building built by the merchant petunikoff close to vaviloff's eatinghouse, and thinking deeply. this building, which was partly surrounded by woods, served the purpose of a candle factory.
yesterday, ivan andreyevitch petunikoff was in the dosshouse yard with his son and an architect. they measured the yard and put small wooden sticks in various places, which, after the exit of petunikoff and at the order of the captain, meteor took out and threw away. to the eyes of the captain this merchant appeared small and thin. he wore a long garment like a frock-coat, a velvet cap, and high, well-cleaned boots. he had a thin face with prominent cheekbones, a wedge-shaped greyish beard, and a high forehead seamed with wrinkles from beneath which shone two narrow, blinking, and observant grey eyes ... a sharp, gristly nose, a small mouth with thin lips ... altogether his appearance was pious, rapacious, and respectably wicked. "cursed cross-bred fox and pig!" swore the captain under his breath, recalling his first meeting with petunikoff. the merchant came with one of the town councillors to buy the house, and seeing the captain asked his companion:
"is this your lodger?"
and from that day, a year and a half ago, there has been keen competition among the inhabitants of the dosshouse as to which can swear the hardest at the merchant. and last night there was a "slight skirmish with hot words," as the captain called it, between petunikoff and himself. having dismissed the architect the merchant approached the captain.
"what are you hatching?" asked he, putting his hand to his cap, perhaps to adjust it, perhaps as a salutation.
"what are you plotting?" answered the captain in the same tone. he moved his chin so that his beard trembled a little; a non-exacting person might have taken it for a bow; otherwise it only expressed the desire of the captain to move his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other. "you see, having plenty of money, i can afford to sit hatching it. money is a good thing, and i possess it," the captain chaffed the merchant, casting cunning glances at him. "it means that you serve money, and not money you," went on kuvalda, desiring at the same time to punch the merchant's belly.
"isn't it all the same? money makes life comfortable, but no money," ... and the merchant looked at the captain with a feigned expression of suffering. the other's upper lip curled, and exposed large, wolf-like teeth.
"with brains and a conscience, it is possible to live without it. men only acquire riches when they cease to listen to their conscience ... the less conscience the more money!"
"just so; but then there are men who have neither money nor conscience."
"were you just like what you are now when you were young?" asked kuvalda simply. the other's nostrils twitched. ivan andreyevitch sighed, passed his hand over his eyes and said:
"oh! when i was young i had to undergo a great many difficulties ... work! oh! i did work!"
"and you cheated, too, i suppose?"
"people like you? nobles? i should just think so! they used to grovel at my feet!"
"you only went in for robbing, not murder, i suppose?" asked the captain. petunikoff turned pale, and hastily changed the subject.
"you are a bad host. you sit while your guest stands."
"let him sit, too," said kuvalda.
"but what am i to sit on?"
"on the earth ... it will take any rubbish ..."
"you are the proof of that," said petunikoff quietly, while his eyes shot forth poisonous glances.
and he went away, leaving kuvalda under the pleasant impression that the merchant was afraid of him. if he were not afraid of him he would long ago have evicted him from the dosshouse. but then he would think twice before turning him out, because of the five roubles a month. and the captain gazed with pleasure at petunikoff's back as he slowly retreated from the courtyard. following him with his eyes, he noticed how the merchant passed the factory and disappeared into the wood, and he wished very much that he might fall and break all his bones. he sat imagining many horrible forms of disaster while watching petunikoff, who was descending the hill into the wood like a spider going into its web. last night he even imagined that the wood gave way before the merchant and he fell ... but afterwards he found that he had only been dreaming.
and to-day, as always, the red building stands out before the eyes of aristid kuvalda, so plain, so massive, and clinging so strongly to the earth, that it seems to be sucking away all its life. it appears to be laughing coldly at the captain with its gaping walls. the sun pours its rays on them as generously as it does on the miserable hovels of the main street.
"devil take the thing!" exclaimed the captain, thoughtfully measuring the walls of the factory with his eyes. "if only ..."
trembling with excitement at the thought that had just entered his mind, aristid kuvalda jumped up and ran to vaviloff's eating-house, muttering to himself all the time.
vaviloff met him at the bar, and gave him a friendly welcome.
"i wish your honour good health!" he was of middle height, and had a bald head, grey hair, and straight moustaches like tooth-brushes. upright and neat in his clean jacket, he showed by every movement that he was an old soldier.
"egorka, show me the lease and plan of your house," demanded kuvalda, impatiently.
"i have shown it you before." vaviloff looked up suspiciously and closely scanned the captain's face.
"show it me!" shouted the captain, striking the bar with his fist and sitting down on a stool close by.
"but why?" asked vaviloff, knowing that it was better to keep his wits about him when kuvalda got excited.
"you fool! bring it at once."
vaviloff rubbed his forehead, and turned his eyes to the ceiling in a tired way.
"where are those papers of yours?"
there was no answer to this on the ceiling, so the old sergeant looked down at the floor, and began drumming with his fingers on the bar in a worried and thoughtful manner.
"it's no good your making wry faces!" shouted the captain, for he had no great affection for him, thinking that a former soldier should rather have become a thief than an eating-house keeper.
"oh! yes! aristid fomich, i remember now. they were left at the high court of justice at the time when i came into possession."
"get along, egorka! it is to your own interest to show me the plan, the title-deeds, and everything you have immediately. you will probably clear at least a hundred roubles over this, do you understand?"
vaviloff did not understand at all; but the captain spoke in such a serious and convincing tone that the sergeant's eyes burned with curiosity, and, telling him that he would see if the papers were in his desk, he went through the door behind the bar. two minutes later he returned with the papers in his hand, and an expression of extreme astonishment on his face.
"here they are; the deeds about the damned houses!"
"ah! you ... vagabond! and you pretend to have been a soldier, too!" and kuvalda did not cease to belabour him with his tongue, as he snatched the blue parchment from his hands. then, spreading the papers out in front of him, and excited all the more by vaviloff's inquisitiveness, the captain began reading and bellowing at the same time. at last he got up resolutely, and went to the door, leaving all the papers on the bar, and saying to vaviloff:
"wait! don't lift them!"
vaviloff gathered them up, put them into the cash-box, and locked it, then felt the lock with his hand, to see if it were secure. after that, he scratched his bald head, thoughtfully, and went up on the roof of the eating-house. there he saw the captain measuring the front of the house, and watched him anxiously, as he snapped his fingers, and began measuring the same line over again. vaviloff's face lit up suddenly, and he smiled happily.
"aristid fomich, is it possible?" he shouted, when the captain came opposite to him.
"of course it is possible. there is more than one short in the front alone, and as to the depth i shall see immediately."
"the depth ... seventy-three feet."
"what? have you guessed, you shaved ugly face?"
"of course, aristid fomich! if you have eyes you can see a thing or two," shouted vaviloff, joyfully.
a few minutes afterwards they sat side by side in vaviloff's parlour, and the captain was engaged in drinking large quantities of beer.
"and so all the walls of the factory stand on your ground," said he to the eating-house keeper. "now, mind you show no mercy! the teacher will be here presently, and we will get him to draw up a petition to the court. as to the amount of the damages you will name a very moderate sum in order not to waste money in deed stamps, but we will ask to have the factory knocked down. this, you see, donkey, is the result of trespassing on other people's property. it is a splendid piece of luck for you. we will force him to have the place smashed, and i can tell you it will be an expensive job for him. off with you to the court. bring pressure to bear on judas. we will calculate how much it will take to break the factory down to its very foundations. we will make an estimate of it all, counting the time it will take too, and we will make honest judas pay two thousand roubles besides."
"he will never give it!" cried vaviloff, but his eyes shone with a greedy light.
the captain's eyes were alight with happiness, and his face red with excitement. he worked upon vaviloff's greed, and urging upon him the importance of immediate action in the matter, went away in a very joyful and happy frame of mind.
for a fortnight the inhabitants of the dosshouse awaited the further development of events, but petunikoff never once visited the building. it was known that he was not in town and that the copy of the petition had not yet been handed to him. kuvalda raged at the delays of the civil court. it is improbable that anyone had ever awaited the merchant with such impatience as did this bare-footed brigade.
"he isn't even thinking of coming, the wretch! ..."
"that means that he does not love me!" sang deacon taras, leaning his chin on his hand and casting a humorous glance towards the mountain.
at last petunikoff appeared. he came in a respectable cart with his son playing the role of groom. the latter was a red-checked, nice-looking youngster, in a long square-cut overcoat. he wore smoked eyeglasses. they tied the horse to an adjoining tree, the son took the measuring instrument out of his pocket and gave it to his father, and they began to measure the ground. both were silent and worried.
"aha!" shouted the captain, gleefully.
all those who were in the dosshouse at the moment came out to look at them and expressed themselves loudly and freely in reference to the matter.
"what does the habit of thieving mean? a man may sometimes make a big mistake when he steals, standing to lose more than he gets," said the captain, causing much laughter among his staff and eliciting various murmurs of assent.
"take care, you devil!" shouted petunikoff, "lest i have you in the police court for your words!"
"you can do nothing to me without witnesses ... your son cannot give evidence on your side" ... the captain warned him.
"look out all the same, you old wretch, you may be found guilty too!" and petunikoff shook his fist at him. his son, deeply engrossed in his calculations, took no notice of the dark group of men, who were taking such a wicked delight in adding to his father's discomfiture. he did not even once look in their direction.
"the young spider has himself well in hand," remarked abyedok, watching young petunikoff's every movement and action. having taken all the measurements he desired, ivan andreyevitch knit his brows, got into the cart, and drove away. his son went with a firm step into vaviloff's eating-house, and disappeared behind the door.
"ho, ho! that's a determined young thief! ... what will happen next, i wonder ...?" asked kuvalda.
"next? young petunikoff will buy out egor vaviloff," said abyedok with conviction, and smacked his lips as if the idea gave him great pleasure.
"and you are glad of that?" kuvalda asked him, gravely.
"i am always pleased to see human calculations miscarry," explained abyedok, rolling his eyes and rubbing his hands with delight. the captain spat angrily on the ground and was silent. they all stood in front of the tumble-down building, and silently watched the doors of the eating-house. more than an hour passed thus. then the doors opened and petunikoff came out as silently as he had entered. he stopped for a moment, coughed, turned up the collar of his coat, glanced at the men, who were following all his movements with their eyes, and then went up the street towards the town.
the captain watched him for a moment, and turning to abyedok said, smilingly:
"probably you were right after all, you son of a scorpion and a wood-louse! you nose out every evil thing. yes, the face of that young swindler shows that he has got what he wanted... i wonder how much egorka has got out of them. he has evidently taken something... he is just the same sort of rogue that they are ... they are all tarred with the same brush. he has got some money, and i'm damned if i did not arrange the whole thing for him! it is best to own my folly... yes, life is against us all, brothers ... and even when you spit upon those nearest to you, the spittle rebounds and hits your own face."
having satisfied himself with this reflection, the worthy captain looked round upon his staff. every one of them was disappointed, because they all knew that something they did not expect had taken place between petunikoff and vaviloff, and they all felt that they had been insulted. the feeling that one is unable to injure anyone is worse than the feeling that one is unable to do good, because to do harm is far easier and simpler.
"well, why are we loitering here? we have nothing more to wait for ... except the reward that i shall get out--out of egorka,..." said the captain, looking angrily at the eating-house. "so our peaceful life under the roof of judas has come to an end. judas will now turn us out.... so do not say that i have not warned you."
kanets smiled sadly.
"what are you laughing at, jailer?" kuvalda asked.
"where shall i go then?"
"that, my soul, is a question that fate will settle for you, so do not worry," said the captain, thoughtfully, entering the dosshouse. "the creatures that once were men" followed him.
"we can do nothing but await the critical moment," said the captain, walking about among them. "when they turn us out we shall seek a new place for ourselves, but at present there is no use spoiling our life by thinking of it ... in times of crisis one becomes energetic ... and if life were fuller of them and every moment of it so arranged that we were compelled to tremble for our lives all the time ... by god! life would be livelier and even fuller of interest and energy than it is!"
"that means that people would all go about cutting one another's throats," explained abyedok, smilingly.
"well, what about it?" asked the captain, angrily. he did not like to hear his thoughts illustrated.
"oh! nothing! when a person wants to get anywhere quickly he whips up the horses, but of course it needs fire to make engines go ..."
"well, let everything go to the devil as quickly as possible. i'm sure i should be pleased if the earth suddenly opened up or was burned or destroyed somehow .. only i were left to the last in order to see the others consumed ..."
"ferocious creature!" smiled abyedok.
"well, what of that? i ... i was once a man .. now i am an outcast ... that means i have no obligations. it means that i am free to spit on everyone. the nature of my present life means the rejection of my past ... giving up all relations towards men who are well fed and well dressed, and who look upon me with contempt because i am inferior to them in the matter of feeding or dressing. i must develop something new within myself, do you understand? something that will make judas petunikoff and his kind tremble and perspire before me!"
"ah! you have a courageous tongue!" jeered abyedok.
"yes ... you miser!" and kuvalda looked at him contemptuously. "what do you understand? what do you know? are you able to think? but i have thought and i have read ... books of which you could not have understood one word."
"of course! one cannot eat soup out of one's hand ... but though you have read and thought, and i have not done that or anything else, we both seem to have got into pretty much the same condition, don't we?"
"go to the devil!" shouted kuvalda. his conversations with abyedok always ended thus. when the teacher was absent his speeches, as a rule, fell on the empty air, and received no attention, and he knew this, but still he could not help speaking. and now, having quarrelled with his companion, he felt rather deserted; but, still longing for conversation, he turned to simtsoff with the following question: "and you, aleksei maksimovitch, where will you lay your grey head?"
the old man smiled good-humouredly, rubbed his hands, and replied, "i do not know ... i will see. one does not require much, just a little drink."
"plain but honourable fare!" the captain said. simtsoff was silent, only adding that he would find a place sooner than any of them, because women loved him. this was true. the old man had, as a rule, two or three prostitutes, who kept him on their very scant earnings. they very often beat him, but he took this stoically. they somehow never beat him too much, probably because they pitied him. he was a great lover of women, and said they were the cause of all his misfortunes. the character of his relations towards them was confirmed by the appearance of his clothes, which, as a rule, were tidy, and cleaner than those of his companions. and now, sitting at the door of the dosshouse, he boastingly related that for a long time past redka had been asking him to go and live with her, but he had not gone because he did not want to part with the company. they heard this with jealous interest. they all knew redka. she lived very near the town, almost below the mountain. not long ago, she had been in prison for theft. she was a retired nurse; a tall, stout peasant woman, with a face marked by smallpox, but with very pretty, though always drunken, eyes.
"just look at the old devil!" swore abyedok, looking at simtsoff, who was smiling in a self-satisfied way.
"and do you know why they love me? because i know how to cheer up their souls."
"do you?" inquired kuvalda.
"and i can make them pity me.... and a woman, when she pities! go and weep to her, and ask her to kill you ... she will pity you--and she will kill you."
"i feel inclined to commit a murder," declared martyanoff, laughing his dull laugh.
"upon whom?" asked abyedok, edging away from him.
"it's all the same to me ... petunikoff ... egorka ... or even you!"
"and why?" inquired kuvalda.
"i want to go to siberia ... i have had enough of this vile life ... one learns how to live there!"
"yes, they have a particularly good way of teaching in siberia," agreed the captain, sadly.
they spoke no more of petunikoff, or of the turning out of the inhabitants of the dosshouse. they all knew that they would have to leave soon, therefore they did not think the matter worth discussion. it would do no good, and besides the weather was not very cold though the rains had begun ... and it would be possible to sleep on the ground anywhere outside the town. they sat in a circle on the grass and conversed about all sorts of things, discussing one subject after another, and listening attentively even to the poor speakers in order to make the time pass; keeping quiet was as dull as listening. this society of "creatures that once were men" had one fine characteristic--no one of them endeavoured to make out that he was better than the others, nor compelled the others to acknowledge his superiority.
the august sun seemed to set their tatters on fire as they sat with their backs and uncovered heads exposed to it ... a chaotic mixture of the vegetable, mineral, and animal kingdoms. in the corners of the yard the tall steppe grass grew luxuriantly.... nothing else grew there but some dingy vegetables, not even attractive to those who nearly always felt the pangs of hunger.
the following was the scene that took place in vaviloff's eating-house.
young petunikoff entered slowly, took off his hat, looked around him, and said to the eating-house keeper:
"egor terentievitch vaviloff? are you he?"
"i am," answered the sergeant, leaning on the bar with both arms as if intending to jump over it.
"i have some business with you," said petunikoff.
"delighted. please come this way to my private room."
they went in and sat down, the guest on the couch and his host on the chair opposite to him. in one corner a lamp was burning before a gigantic icon, and on the wall at the other side there were several oil lamps. they were well kept and shone as if they were new. the room, which contained a number of boxes and a variety of furniture, smelt of tobacco, sour cabbage, and olive oil. petunikoff looked around him and made a face. vaviloff looked at the icon, and then they looked simultaneously at one another, and both seemed to be favourably impressed. petunikoff liked vaviloff's frankly thievish eyes, and vaviloff was pleased with the open, cold, determined face of petunikoff, with its large cheeks and white teeth.
"of course you already know me, and i presume you guess what i am going to say to you," began petunikoff.
"about the lawsuit? ... i presume?" remarked the ex-sergeant, respectfully.
"exactly! i am glad to see that you are not beating about the bush, but going straight to the point like a business man," said petunikoff, encouragingly.
"i am a soldier," answered vaviloff, with a modest air.
"that is easily seen, and i am sure we shall be able to finish this job without much trouble."
"good! you have the law on your side, and will, of course, win your case. i want to tell you this at the very beginning."
"i thank you most humbly," said the sergeant, rubbing his eyes in order to hide the smile in them.
"but tell me, why did you make the acquaintance of your future neighbours like this through the law courts?"
vaviloff shrugged his shoulders and did not answer.
"it would have been better to come straight to us and settle the matter peacefully, eh? what do you think?"
"that would have been better, of course, but you see there is a difficulty ... i did not follow my own wishes, but those of others ... i learned afterwards that it would have been better if ... but it was too late."
"oh! i suppose some lawyer taught you this?"
"someone of that sort."
"aha! do you wish to settle the affair peacefully?"
"with all my heart!" cried the soldier.
petunikoff was silent for a moment, then looked at him, and suddenly asked, coldly and drily, "and why do you wish to do so?"
vaviloff did not expect such a question, and therefore had no reply ready. in his opinion the question was quite unworthy of any attention, and so he laughed at young petunikoff.
"that is easy to understand. men like to live peacefully with one another."
"but," interrupted petunikoff, "that is not exactly the reason why. as far as i can see, you do not distinctly understand why you wish to be reconciled to us ... i will tell you."
the soldier was a little surprised. this youngster, dressed in a check suit, in which he looked ridiculous, spoke as if he were colonel rakshin, who used to knock three of the unfortunate soldier's teeth out every time he was angry.
"you want to be friends with us because we should be such useful neighbours to you ... because there will be not less than a hundred and fifty workmen in our factory, and in course of time even more. if a hundred men come and drink one glass at your place, after receiving their weekly wages, that means that you will sell every month four hundred glasses more than you sell at present. this is, of course, the lowest estimate ... and then you have the eating-house besides. you are not a fool, and you can understand for yourself what profitable neighbours we shall be."
"that is true," vaviloff nodded, "i knew that before."
"well, what then?" asked the merchant, loudly.
"nothing ... let us be friends!"
"it is nice to see that you have decided so quickly. look here, i have already prepared a notification to the court of the withdrawal of the summons against my father. here it is; read it, and sign it."
vaviloff looked at his companion with his round eyes and shivered, as if experiencing an unpleasant sensation.
"pardon me ... sign it? and why?"
"there is no difficulty about it ... write your christian name and surname and nothing more," explained petunikoff, pointing obligingly with his finger to the place for the signature.
"oh! it is not that ... i was alluding to the compensation i was to get for my ground."
"but then this ground is of no use to you," said petunikoff, calmly.
"but it is mine!" exclaimed the soldier.
"of course, and how much do you want for it?"
"well, say the amount stated in the document," said vaviloff, boldly.
"six hundred!" and petunikoff smiled softly. "you are a funny fellow!"
"the law is on my side... i can even demand two thousand. i can insist on your pulling down the building ... and enforce it too. that is why my claim is so small. i demand that you should pull it down!"
"very well. probably we shall do so ... after three years, and after having dragged you into enormous law expenses. and then, having paid up, we shall open our public-house and you will be ruined ... annihilated like the swedes at poltava. we shall see that you are ruined ... we will take good care of that. we could have begun to arrange about a public-house now, but you see our time is valuable, and besides we are sorry for you. why should we take the bread out of your mouth without any reason?"
egor terentievitch looked at his guest, clenching his teeth, and felt that he was master of the situation, and held his fate in his hands. vaviloff was full of pity for himself at having to deal with this calm, cruel figure in the checked suit.
"and being such a near neighbour you might have gained a good deal by helping us, and we should have remembered it too. even now, for instance, i should advise you to open a small shop for tobacco, you know, bread, cucumbers, and so on... all these are sure to be in great demand."
vaviloff listened, and being a clever man, knew that to throw himself upon the enemy's generosity was the better plan. it was as well to begin from the beginning, and, not knowing what else to do to relieve his mind, the soldier began to swear at kuvalda.
"curses be upon your head, you drunken rascal! may the devil take you!"
"do you mean the lawyer who composed your petition?" asked petunikoff, calmly, and added, with a sigh, "i have no doubt he would have landed you in rather an awkward fix ... had we not taken pity upon you."
"ah!" and the angry soldier raised his hand. "there are two of them ... one of them discovered it, the other wrote the petition, the accursed reporter!"
"why the reporter?"
"he writes for the papers ... he is one of your lodgers ... there they all are outside ... clear them away, for christ's sake! the robbers! they disturb and annoy everyone in the street. one cannot live for them ... and they are all desperate fellows ... you had better take care, or else they will rob or burn you ..."
"and this reporter, who is he?" asked petunikoff, with interest.
"he? a drunkard. he was a teacher but was dismissed. he drank everything he possessed ... and now he writes for the papers and composes petitions. he is a very wicked man!"
"h'm! and did he write your petition, too? i suppose it was he who discovered the flaws in the building. the beams were not rightly put in?"
"he did! i know it for a fact! the dog! he read it aloud in here and boasted, 'now i have caused petunikoff some loss!'"
"ye--es... well, then, do you want to be reconciled?"
"to be reconciled?" the soldier lowered his head and thought. "ah! this is a hard life!" said he, in a querulous voice, scratching his head.
"one must learn by experience," petunikoff reassured him, lighting a cigarette.
"learn ... it is not that, my dear sir; but don't you see there is no freedom? don't you see what a life i lead? i live in fear and trembling ... i am refused the freedom so desirable to me in my movements, and i fear this ghost of a teacher will write about me in the papers. sanitary inspectors will be called for ... fines will have to be paid ... or else your lodgers will set fire to the place or rob and kill me ... i am powerless against them. they are not the least afraid of the police, and they like going to prison, because they get their food for nothing there."
"but then we will have them turned out if we come to terms with you," promised petunikoff.
"what shall we arrange, then?" asked vaviloff, sadly and seriously.
"tell me your terms."
"well, give me the six hundred mentioned in the claim."
"won't you take a hundred roubles?" asked the merchant, calmly, looking attentively at his companion, and smiling softly. "i will not give you one rouble more," ... he added.
after this, he took out his eye-glasses, and began cleaning them with his handkerchief. vaviloff looked at him sadly and respectfully. the calm face of petunikoff, his grey eyes and clear complexion, every line of his thickset body betokened self-confidence and a well-balanced mind. vaviloff also liked petunikoff's straightforward manner of addressing him without any pretensions, as if he were his own brother, though vaviloff understood well enough that he was his superior, he being only a soldier. looking at him, he grew fonder and fonder of him, and, forgetting for a moment the matter in hand, respectfully asked petunikoff:
"where did you study?"
"in the technological institute. why?" answered the other, smiling:
"nothing. only ... excuse me!" the soldier lowered his head, and then suddenly exclaimed, "what a splendid thing education is! science--light. my brother, i am as stupid as an owl before the sun ... your honour, let us finish this job."
with an air of decision he stretched out his hand to petunikoff and said:
"well, five hundred?"
"not more than one hundred roubles, egor terentievitch." petunikoff shrugged his shoulders as if sorry at being unable to give more, and touched the soldier's hairy hand with his long white fingers. they soon ended the matter, for the soldier gave in quickly and met petunikoff's wishes. and when vaviloff had received the hundred roubles and signed the paper, he threw the pen down on the table and said, bitterly:
"now i will have a nice time! they will laugh at me, they will cry shame on me, the devils!"
"i don't know. i'm not a spaceman, responsible for the lives of three people--at a hundred clams an hour."
"some day i'm going to shove those hundred fish down your throat."
"do. and i'll spit 'em back at you!"
norton roughly took her shoulders in his hands. he twisted her to face him, clamped down on her soft shoulders until she turned her face up to complain with welling eyes. he put his lips on hers and tried to force some warmth into them. she submitted calmly, and when he found no response and opened his eyes, she was staring at him vacantly.
abruptly he let her go. she relaxed in the seat.
"i'm not afraid to work," he said in a hollow voice.
"prove it," she replied flatly.
he got up, left her there, and went below.
wilson sat in the information center and eyed the search grid glumly. it stretched stereoscopically out in the room, a lot of its vacant network of gleaming white lines frosted over with white shading, to mark where the search had covered.
there were a lot of untouched spaces--a horde, a myriad. on the side wall was a chart, showing that nine squadrons of twenty-five spacecraft each were patrolling back and forth through the uncharted wastes, seeking the space-wrecked lifeships.
the maddening part was the hourly report from both lifeships. it was like someone hiding in the dark and calling for aid, invisible and alone. and not really calling for aid, but only making whimpering noises. for the signaling equipment on the lifeships was not equipped with the complicated infrawave phone, but only with the simple signal-emitter, coded to transmit the identification call of the unit.
on the hour they came in, calling three times, "lifeship seventy-nine, seventy-nine, number three." number two had not been heard from. presumably it was not in use, or hadn't made the grade.
wilson chewed his fingernails and fretted. was alice on number one or number three, or was she on number two and it had foundered?
if she were still alive, what kind of fellow survivors were with her?
but wilson, if willing to face such transient loving at all, would have preferred that alice have her chance to pick and choose, rather than have the matter thrust upon her in the middle of a threatening situation. the passion that comes with the shadow of death is only the instinct of racial preservation, and it mates men and women unsuited to one another during subsequent peace and quiet.
above all, he did not want alice to emerge from this moment of personal danger morally bound to some unsuitable mate because of a child conceived under the shadow of the sword!
hourly, after the coded signals came in, ted wilson took the microphone himself and called out into space in the infrawave. he called messages of hope, and explained how many spacecraft were scouring the deep black void. he could only pray that he would be heard, that his voice would give alice some firm foundation for hope.
he could not be sure the passengers from the wrecked spaceship even had their receivers turned on, because infrawave receivers drink up a lot of power and lifeships are not equipped with any vast reserve. there just was not the room in a lifeship for anything more than the bare necessities of living.
the search grid was a truncated cone, and the whitened areas of finished search had finally filled the smaller end of the cone. there was the flared skirt of the cone yet to be combed, and this provided more volume than the cylinder taken out of the middle. it also provided a shorter search path as the searching spacecraft built out the volume, ring after ring around the first pass along the line of flight.
far, far to one side a detector registered, and brought every man in the fleet to the alert. then they relaxed unhappily again as the scooter returned with another report of a small gas cloud. wilson thought glumly that they had discovered enough space meteors, gas clouds, and unawakened comets to make up a small sun.
then his attention was taken from his own personal troubles by the arrival of another squadron from centauri. he found himself busy readjusting the search pattern to accommodate this new contingent.
he eyed the pattern in the stereo and hoped it was good enough.
there was the basic aggregate of nine full squadrons spread out flat in a space lattice that ran back and forth from narrow end to wide end of the cone of probability. there was one full squadron of roving ships that went aimlessly back and forth across the pattern, just to cope with the happenstance factor.
one squadron was parked at either end of the search grid as space markers, with a computer ship at either end to maintain a constant check on their space coordinates. the big search pattern shuttled from one end to the other, and if they came back to miss the marker ships, they retraced their path so that no space went uncombed.
the infrawave chattered and space admiral stone was calling for commodore theodore wilson.
"how're you coming?"
wilson replied, "we're still at it, admiral. so far we haven't seen her."
"don't forget, wilson, there's more lost out there than the woman you want."
ted wanted to snap back angrily, but all he said was, "you don't mind if i take this search personally, do you, admiral stone? i'm not overlooking any bets, but i do admit that miss hemingway is a bit more important to me than any of the rest."
"no, i suppose no one could blame you for that. just keep it up, wilson."
"sure," ted said wearily. "after all, this is a black and white job i'm on. either we'll be successful--or we won't."
"spaceman's luck, admiral."
wilson went back to his brooding....
charles andrews came back into the salon with a brisk air. he flexed his arms, took a deep breath, and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. he sat down beside alice and smiled at her warmly.
"that thing is a wonder worker," he said, breathing deeply. "nothing like exercise to make a man feel fine and fit."
alice looked up at him with some amusement. "mr. andrews, tell me. are you the kind of man who opens the window on a winter morning about six o'clock, and takes deep lungsful of icy air?"
"not quite that bad, my dear. not quite. but brisk living does keep a man sharp and hard. i daresay i acquitted myself well on that pedal generator despite my fifty years."
andrews chuckled. "i'll do better than our young pilot friend. the man is big, and should be muscular, but he is soft from lack of exercise. yet he'll attempt to stay there longer than i did, i guess."
he eyed her sharply, not missing her repetitious dry reply.
"which, incidentally," he said, "gives me my first chance to speak with you alone since we took off from earth."
"that's so. but--"
"miss hemingway, you are an exceedingly brisk young woman, attractive and intelligent. may i ask if you have ever taken a lover?"
"never considered it?"
she smiled thinly. "naturally. all women think about it. most do. i--er--"
alice let her voice trail away uncertainly. the direct, frontal attack had put her off-balance, but she realized that this was andrews' direct way.
he had smiled at her uncertainty, and said swiftly, "then may i be the first--" when he noted the fading amusement in her face and glibly ad libbed--"to congratulate you on your choice of young men? the space commodore to whom you bade farewell in chicago was an up and coming man, i'd assume."
"i rather imagine he's out here somewhere in the search group," she said.
"he may even be directing it," andrews said carefully.
one thing he knew well--never run down a rival. it always brought on a defensive attitude. build the rival up, and the return might be sympathetic. a clever course could be traveled between build-up and tear-down.
looking at alice thoughtfully, andrews got up and began to rummage through a few lockers. eventually he found a blanket and brought it to her.
"i'm not too familiar with these life cans," he told her, with a disarming smile. "i hope i remain in ignorance of them. but i found what i was after. now, miss hemingway, if you'll stretch out, i'll tuck you in, and you can get some shut-eye."
"that i can use," she said honestly.
the blanket felt good. so did his hands, smoothing out the blanket, but being carefully tender and proper. andrews was a smooth operator of many years' experience.
eventually she slept.
andrews found another cigar, and smoked it languidly, his eyes roaming around the metal walls of the cabin. he was thinking that he disliked jack norton immensely, although he knew that chances of survival were better with norton's boorish, interfering presence than without. he was bored, he was angry, he was above all resentful of the time wasted in this spacewreck business....
an orderly tapped commodore wilson on the shoulder. "message from terra," he said.
wilson groaned and reached for the telephone beside his bunk. "wilson here," he said. "go ahead!"
"admiral stone. wilson, a new ship is on the way. i want you to get into this thing fully, so i'm briefing you now."
"new type of ship?"
"well, not a new ship, but some new equipment. the infrawave section of the space department radiation laboratory has some experimental gear they want to try in actual service."
"sheer experiment, wilson. it's supposed to be an infrawave detecting and ranging device. it's shown low grade response so far, and it may be entirely useless to you. but radiation feels that even something incomplete and erratic may be better than going it blind."
wilson sat up, interested. "how does it work?"
"darned if i know. it took a whole cruiser class to carry the junk that makes it tick. it's piled in with twine and baling wire, and when the crate took off the advanced techs were still connecting cables and adjusting the guts. er--how're you feeling?"
"tired and frustrated."
"mind a bad joke?"
"go on and have a laugh, wilson. this gizmo reminded me of the new machine that made shoes so fast that it put twelve shoemakers out of work--and it took only eighteen men to run it."
a silence ensued. then stone said:
"well, wilson, i thought you'd like to know we're pouring the best we've got into space for you. ship should be along in another hour or two."
wearily commodore ted wilson climbed out of his bunk and began to dress....
viggon sarri said, "now we know more about this race. they definitely are of the class where the individual is of extreme importance to the whole. this belies both the communal, or insect type and the anarchistic, or individualistic type. the quantity of men and machinery they are pouring into this search is amazing."
"they aren't much closer to success," offered regin naylo. "and we're wasting time."
"you think so?"
"we both think so," faren twill said firmly.
"oh?" viggon sarri looked at them in surprise. "then maybe i have the wrong idea. let me hear your suggestions."
twill and naylo looked at one another, fencing with their eyes. finally twill nodded and said, "you say it, regin."
"it's already been said." regin naylo looked pointedly at linus brein. "a day or so ago you claimed that you'd picked up some primitive infrawave emission that looked as though someone might be trying to develop a detecting and ranging device."
"then it is my contention that any moves we make against this race should be made before anybody down there gets such a detector and ranger working."
"why?" demanded viggon sarri.
regin naylo looked at his commander. "we're losing a technical advantage. whether we go in with a benign and peaceful-looking air and show them how big and fast we are, or whether we plunge in and hit 'em with every battery we've got and reduce 'em to submission, we've got to do it before anybody succeeds in making an infrawave space detector. understand?"
viggon sarri looked from one to the other, grimly. "you believe i'm wasting time? is that it?"
the two aides answered together, "yes!" and "absolutely!"
viggon sarri said, "i am still in command of this force. we'll continue to observe until i am satisfied. you two officers have one common idea--that of moving in fast. you have differing ideas of how we are to move in. until you can settle your difference and provide me with a good logical basis for your decision--whichever way--then we'll follow my plan. and my plan is to move in just as soon as we have enough data on the character and strength of this race to provide us with the correct way to take them."
"then you are going to continue stalling?" demanded naylo.
"yes, if you wish to call it stalling. maybe another man might call it planning."
"we'll be just wasting time, as i've already said. we have enough stuff to take 'em right now."
viggon sarri shrugged. "yes. we could swoop in and take them like mowing down a wheat field. tell me, young men, what happens when you mow down a wheat field."
they looked at him blankly.
viggon smiled in a superior manner. "one of two things, depending upon how you operate. if you mow it down and let it lay, you drop seeds and next year it comes up thicker. if you mow it down, remove the seeds, sow it with salt and kill the field, you have a useless plot of land, a worthless territory. then some day up comes weed and briar--which then must be removed root and branch before the land is plantable again. just remember, we are after a profitable exchange of economy, not another stellar system to list as a conquest for the sake of history our children will read. i want my reward now, or next week. having my name on a monument does not have much appeal."
he was half standing with his hands closed into fists, his knuckles on the table supporting him as he leaned forward to drive his facts home.
"or," he added scathingly, "are you two firebrands so youthful that you don't know that a man has only one single lone chance at this business of living? and that your finest reward at eventide is knowing you have lived a full and eventful life without screwing it up somewhere along the line by making a lot of idiotic moves?"
viggon sarri turned on a heel and walked out.
naylo and twill turned to linus brein.
"what do you think?" twill asked.
linus brein shrugged. "he is undoubtedly right. besides, we don't know all there is to know about the strange race out there yet."
"oh, faugh! what else--"
linus brein smiled. he said slowly. "we don't even know whether or not they are oxygen-breathing."
"we can assume from the stellar type of their primaries that they are."
linus nodded. "probably, but not positively."
regin naylo said, "and what's second, linus?"
"they may be contraterrene."
linus brein nodded. "in which case from both sides we must watch our steps. get involved with a seetee race the wrong way and you have two cultures with absolutely nothing in common but a life-factor, busy tossing chunks of their own kind of matter at one another in a fight to exterminate. so before either of you start making half-baked plans, you'd better get your heads together and plan something that sounds reasonable to the big boss. right?"
commodore wilson eyed the spacecraft full of hastily assembled instruments with a grimace. the ship was swarming with techs who were peering into oscilloscopes, watching meters, and tinkering with signal generators. a huge concave hemispherical dome above was a splatter of little flickering green pinpoints and dark patches.
"this idea is hopelessly haywire," wilson said unhappily.
"it sure is," said space-tech maury allison. "but everything is, at first."
"you hope to make something out of it?"
"we hope," replied allison. "we can't be sure."
"but surely this pile of junk has been tested before?"
"some. we've had as much as five minutes of constant operation out of it."
as he spoke, the hemisphere over their heads flashed a full bright green, then went black. a bell tinkled somewhere and a couple of techs dropped their tools and headed for the back room on the double. a couple of others stood up from their work and lit cigarettes because their instruments had gone dead. some of the rest continued to nurse their particular circuits because that section was still running.
after scanning the operation to see which section had gone blooey, allison went on. "we've never tested this outfit under anything but ideal conditions. we've had spacecraft sent out to specified distances, fired up the gizmo and found fragments of response right where there should be a response."
"that's hardly fair, is it?" commented wilson.
"it's a start. you have to start somewhere. radio--know its start? the first message was sent across the ocean a few hundred years ago from one man to the other after they had made a complete plan as to time, date, location and frequency, and also the transmitted message. sure enough, they got through. that, too, was under the ideal test conditions. so when we finally assembled the half-a-hundred separate circuits and devices that made it look as though we might have a space detector, we put up targets, aimed our equipment, and looked for a response where there should be one."
"we don't know where our target is," objected wilson.
"and we haven't yet fired up this equipment to seek a target of unknown position and range," admitted allison. "but this gear is better than nothing."
again the green spots flickered in the dome over their heads.
"what do all those spots mean?" asked wilson.
"those are false targets, probably caused by background noise. although the infrawave is noiseless, we still seem to be getting it. dr. friedrich disagrees. he claims this is not noise, but interferences. however, the good doctor is not at all certain that the so-called interferences come from localized conditions within the equipment or from external sources."
wilson shrugged. "i don't see how it's done with a radiation type that has neither a directional quality nor a velocity of propagation."
"do you understand accum?"
"i stopped shortly before matrix. accumulative math is so much pothooks on a sheet of paper to me."
"um. then i'd find it hard to explain. the theory seems to be demonstrable, and the accumulative mathematics upholds the experimental evidence. but there hasn't yet been an acceptable verbal description of what happens."
"i've often wondered, leaving the nondirectional quality out of it, why we couldn't cut our emitting power and somehow compute range by observing the incoming power from a distant infrawave transmitter."
allison shook his head. "oddly enough, the matrix mathematics that deal with radiation shows that for any hypothetical radiation with an infinite velocity of propagation, there can be no attenuation with distance."
"meaning that we should be able to transmit all the way from here to hell and back."
"not exactly. infrawave radiation comes in quanta, you know. a kilowatt covers two point one, seven nine three six plus parsecs. two kilowatts covers twice that distance minus the ninth root of two point, seven nine three six plus. three kilowatts covers three times two point et cetera, minus two times the ninth root." allison shrugged and spread his hands.
"and so on it goes," he said, "indicating that at some devilish distance--i've forgotten the figure but we had the master computer chew it out on the big machine at radiation once--an additional kilowatt just shoves the signal coverage distance out by a micron. but if you don't put in your honest kilowatt, you don't excite the infraspace that carries infrawaves. and if you put in a kilowatt and a half, you have to dissipate the half."
wilson grunted. "nice to have things come out even. who'd have thunk that the creator wanted the terran kilowatt to equal one quanta of infrawave distance?"
allison laughed. "poor argument, commodore wilson. actually, the figure is point nine, eight three four plus. close, but no cigar. we've just come to accept the figure as a kilowatt, just as for everyday calculation we accept the less refined figure of two point, one eight parsecs, or even two point, two. at any rate--"
there was a puff of something, and a sound like the puncture of a tire. the green speckles on the dome merged with one another and became a riot of flaming green. there were shouts and cries and a lot of haphazard orders and several techs scrambled to snap toggle switches.
down the room one of the techs went head-first into a rack with a pair of pliers and a soldering iron. he backed out carrying a smoking little shapeless thing that had lost any character it once possessed. the tech picked up a nice, shiny new doodad from a small box and went into the rack again. when he came out this time he gave a hoarse cheer. toggles were snapped back and the spreckles reappeared.
one of the techs came up to allison and said, "see that spot up there, sir? the one just this side of the eighty-one degree longitude circle, and a little below the forty-five latitude ring?"
it was a small round disc no more than an inch in diameter.
"we think that may be a response."
wilson said, "you mean a target? possibly one of the lifeships?"
"i'll have a scooter go out and see. what's its spacial position?"
the tech took another look. "i'd say eighty-one plus longitude and forty-three latitude."
"from what?" demanded wilson.
"from ship's axis, sir."
"oh, about half a parsec."
wilson groaned. "haven't you determined any spacial attitude?"
"the angle of the ship's axis with respect to the stellar positions. so you've a blotch out there at half a parsec. it's an inch or so in diameter. have one of your juniors run off some trig on the calculator and then tell me how much probable space volume that so-called response represents."
the tech thought a minute. "we've never run this gear anywhere but at radiation, right at mojave labs, on earth. our spacial coordinates--well, i'm afraid we--" his voice trailed away unhappily.
wilson picked up the interphone and barked a call.
he listened to hugh weston's reply.
"yeah," he said then. "we know where the target is with respect to the ship, but we don't know the spacial attitude of the ship with respect to the galactic check points. right over? good."
as wilson hung up the dome flickered, then went into a regular flash-flash-flash until something else came unglued and the dome went blank. there was shouting and rather heart-felt cussing, and some running around again before the dome light came back.
a tech--not the one that had come up before--moved into place alongside the commodore.
"mr. wilson, sir," he said, "i wonder if--er--that is, sir--er--"
"take it easy," said wilson, half-smiling.
"well, sir, we've been getting a lot of interference."
wilson looked up at the flickering dome. he merely nodded.
"well, sir--er--i was wondering if you could issue some--er--order to have the other ships move away? i'm sure we could find those lifeships if the rest of space were clear. but you've got three hundred--"
wilson stared the youngster down coldly. "somewhere out there," he said sourly, "are two lifeships in which men, and a woman, are waiting for us to come and collect 'em. i'm combing space almost inch by inch. i can hardly give up my squadron for a half-finished flash in the dome like this, can i?"
"no sir--ah--i suppose not."
"then you live with the responses tossed back by my squadron. it'll be good training for you. er--get the hell out of my way!"
the junior tech melted out of sight and went back to his control panel.
weston came over within the hour. ted wilson explained the situation and told hugh to set up and measure the coordinates with respect to the stellar centers. then he told him to send a space scooter out to investigate that spot.
wilson went back to his own flagship wondering whether that fancy infrawave detector would turn out to be anything. an untried doodad. but now and then--
wearily again, commodore wilson called commander hatch, who skippered one of the scout carriers. he told hatch to make himself available either to hugh weston or maury allison, to investigate infrawave response targets as they saw fit.
then wilson hit the sack to finish his off-duty.
he dozed fitfully, but he did not sleep worth a damn. he would have been better off if he could have taken the controls of one of the spacers and gone out himself. then, at least, he would have something to fill his mind and idle hands....
alice hemingway awoke from a rather pleasant dream that had something to do with either ice skating or skiing, or it might have been tobogganing--the dream had faded so fast she could not be sure--to face the fact that she was feeling on the chill side.
her blanket had slipped. she caught it around her, and in minutes felt fairly warm again. it was not so much, she thought, the actual temperature in the lifeship, but the whole damned attitude of people, and everything else that was so chilling.
the lights were running all right, and from deep below she could hear the ragged throb of the pedal generator. she wondered which of the two men was pumping it this time.
when jock norton came in, she knew. he was mopping his face with a towel. he looked clean and bright, freshly shaved.
she looked at him and wished she could have a hot shower herself, and a change of clothing. she wanted a ten-hour sleep in a nice soft bed with clean sheets, too, and wearing a silk-soft nightgown.
"awake, alice?" norton asked brightly.
"awake again," she said unhappily. "for.... what is it? the ninth day?"
"eighth," he said. "can't go on much longer."
"i hope not."
"you look all in," he said softly. he sat down on the edge of the divan, beside her, and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "take it easy, m'lady. they're really scouring space for us. we'll be all right. you'll see."
unexpectedly he bent and kissed her chastely on the forehead. alice tensed at first, but relaxed almost immediately because the warmth of that honest affection made her feel less alone and cold, in the depths of uncharted space. some of the worry and concern was erased, at least. she stretched warmly as he rubbed her forehead with his cheek.
then he sat up and looked down at her. he put his hand on her cheek gently and said, "we'll be all right, kid."
"eight days," she said in a hoarse whisper.
he nodded solemnly. "every hour means they must be coming closer and closer. every lonely hour means that it can't be many more, because they've covered all the places where we weren't. follow me, alice?"
she shook her head unhappily.
doggedly he tried to explain. "they know that we must lie within a certain truncated conical volume of space. they comb this space bit by bit and chart it. since the volume is known, and since it takes so many hours of work to comb a given volume, that means that at the end of a given time all the predicted volume of space has been covered. since we must lie within that, we are bound to be picked up before they cover the last cubic mile."
"but how long?" she breathed.
"i wouldn't know," he told her honestly. "i have no possible way of computing it. they've got the best of computers and plotters, and they've got the law of probabilities on their side. but it's dead certain we'll be found."
"i know," he said.
"you've changed, jock norton."
"you looked on this as a lark, before."
"not exactly," he objected.
"but you did."
slowly he shook his head. "not exactly," he repeated. "i don't think i've changed at all. i still think that when you're faced with something inevitable you might as well look at it from the more cheerful side. after all, there was the chance that we might not have made it this far, you know. now, tell me honestly, does it make sense getting all worried-up by thinking of how horrible it would have been if we'd been caught back there when seventy-nine blew up?"
"i suppose not."
"well, then," he said in a semi-cheerful tone, "since we did make it out safely, and are still waiting after eight days, we might as well expect to be collected soon."
charles andrews said, from behind him, "at a hundred dollars an hour, norton?"
norton turned around angrily. "so it's the hundred clams per," he snapped back. "that's damned poor payment for having to live with the likes of you in a space can this cramped."
andrews eyed the pilot with distaste. "tell me," he said smoothly, "did my last effort on the pedal generator go for power storage, or for a couple of gallons of hot water for that shave and shower you've enjoyed?"
"you're a cheap, chiseling--"
"easy, andrews! easy. there's a lady present. besides, i might forget my easy-going nature and take a swing at you."
andrews said scornfully, "without a doubt, a man of your age and build could wipe up the lifeship with me."
norton chuckled. "don't count on your age being good protection, andrews. you may push me far enough to make me forget that you're a decrepit old man who has to buy what your physique can't get you."
"now see here!" roared andrews.
he was stopped short by norton who took one long step forward to grasp him by the coat lapels. andrews' face went white, because he was looking into the face of dark anger. norton's other hand was clenched in a large, tight fist. he eyed the older man sourly for a minute, then shoved him backward to collapse in a chair.
"what are you trying to do?" sneered norton. "make me mad enough to clip you so you can yell 'foul!'? i know as well as you do that the law doesn't even recognize taunts and tongue-lashings as contributory to assault."
alice got up from her couch and stood between them. "stop it, both of you!" she cried. "stop it!"
norton's anger subsided. "all right," he said to andrews. "now that we've all had our lungs exercised, i'll go below and pedal that generator. alice, you can have the bathroom first. andrews, you take it with what she leaves. is that okay?"
"aren't you the hard-working little boy scout?"
"sure." norton grinned. "i am that." he disappeared down the ladder towards the generator room.
andrews turned to alice. "you're not going to go for that fancy routine, are you?" he demanded crossly.
alice shrugged. "he's the spaceman," she said simply. "if he thinks we can spare the power for a bath, i could certainly use one."
"how can you trust the likes of him?"
"we've got to," she said. "we've got to."
"i wouldn't," said andrews. "i can't."
she looked at her employer seriously. "we've both got to trust him," she said quietly. "because, right or wrong, he is the only one who knows anything about space and what's likely to happen next."
"at a hundred an hour," andrews said for the ninetieth time or so, scathingly.
alice nodded soberly. "but you mustn't forget that isn't going to do him any good unless he gets us all home so that he can use it."
reluctantly, andrews nodded. "i suppose you're right."
then alice added, "and even if it weren't for the hundred per, he isn't the kind to kill himself."
andrews grunted, "no, he isn't. but alice, i'm not at all sure that norton knows whether he's doing the right thing or not."
she shook her head. there was no answer to that argument. furthermore, it was the kind of unresolvable argument that could go on and on until the answer was supplied from the outside. there could be no end to it until they were either picked up safely or died in lonely space.
she decided to drop the discussion as pointless, so headed for the bathroom. a hot shower and a quick tubbing of her underclothing were on her mind. her garments, of course, would dry instantly. she had to smile a little. to think that a hundred years ago women thought something they called nylon was wonderful because it was fairly quick-drying! not instantaneous, of course, as was the material of which her lingerie was made.
anyhow, getting it clean now, and having a bath herself would make her feel better. and she would be better equipped to face the nerve-gruelling business of just sitting there watching the clock go around and around, with nothing to do but wait.
regin naylo faced his superior with a scowl. "that rips it wide open," he said.
viggon sarri smiled confidently. he glanced at linus brein and asked, "just how competent do you think this new thing is?"
linus shrugged. "we've analyzed the infrawave pattern they've developed. it is obvious that this is their first prototype of an infrawave space detector. the pattern is of the primitive absorptive type, which is both inefficient as a detector and is also inclined to produce spurious responses. from our observations, their equipment must be extremely complex too. it must be loaded to the scuppers with fragile circuits and components, because the search pattern keeps breaking down, or becoming irregular. an efficient detector cannot be made of the infrawave bands until the third order of reflective response is discovered. i doubt that any research team, no matter how big, can start with the primitive absorption phase of the infrawaves and leap to the higher orders of infrawave radiation in less than a lifetime of study."
"so, gentlemen?" asked viggon of his two aides. "can you predict whether or not their new detector will deliver the goods?"
all looked expectantly at linus brein.
"and the other?" prompted viggon sarri, with interest.
viggon snorted. "i call ten to the minus ten chances rather hopeless. but go on, linus."
viggon waved a hand to indicate he had heard enough.
"gentlemen," he said quietly. "i've been criticized for waiting, but what one man calls study the other man calls timidity. we'll continue to wait for the final factor. then we'll know...."
the stereo pattern in the information center of commodore ted wilson's flagship was slowly being filled with the hazy white that indicated that these volumes had been combed carefully. as he watched, he could see how the search was progressing, and it was painfully obvious that the search was not going good at all.
the flights of spacecraft in set patterns back and forth through the stereo had covered nearly all of the truncated space cone. the random search ships were slowly cutting secondary lines through the regions already covered. there was a green sphere combing the stereo pattern now, indicating the new infrawave detector ship and its expected volume of detector coverage.
space was filled to overflowing with the fast patter of the communications officers, using infrawave for talks between flights, and ordinary radio for talks between ships of the same flight.
wilson had appointed chief communications officer haggerty to police the bands. haggerty had done a fine job, removing the howling confusion and interference caused from too many calls on the same channel. but the result was still a high degree of constant call and reply and cross talk. most of the chatter came from the infrawave detector ship, sending the scout craft flitting hither and thither on the trail of spurious responses.
it was almost impossible to grasp the extent of the operation. only in the stereo pattern could anybody begin to follow the complex operation, and those who watched the stereo knew that their pattern was only an idealized space map of what they hoped was going on.
it was worse than combing the area of an ocean from maps that contained a neat grid of cross rules. much worse. for the uncharted ocean is gridded with radio location finders so accurate that the position of two ships a hundred yards apart shows a hundred yards of difference in absolute position in the loran.
some day in the distant future space would be solid-gridded with infrawave navigation signals. then the space coordinates of any spacecraft could be found to a fine degree of precision. but now all that wilson and his nav-techs could do was to keep sighting the fixed stars, and from them compute their position.
this sort of space navigation was good enough to keep a ship on course, but far from precise enough to pinprick a true position. but, after all, a crude positioning in the middle of interstellar space is good enough. one literally has cubic light years to float around in. once the spacecraft begins to approach a destination, the space positioning can be made.
again, few spacecraft pause in mid-flight between stars long enough to care about their interstellar position. after all, space flight does provide a mode of travel where the destination lies within eyesight. or rather, it has lain within eyesight ever since it became commonly accepted that these ultimate destinations were places, instead of holes poked in an inverted ceramic bowl.
then, in the middle of the communications confusion, came a call from one of commander hatch's scout flights.
"pilot logan, flight eighteen, to commander hatch. report."
"hatch to logan. go ahead. find something, will?"
will logan said, "solid target detected on radar, commander. approached and found. i am now within five thousand yards of what appears to be lifeship one."
allison asked, "was that our target, logan?"
the habits of a lifetime which keeps the mind clear and the nerve firm. lois went on quietly preparing some sandwiches, which in all probability would never be eaten, and mrs. carmichael resigned martial occupation for the cutting-out of a baby's pinafore for an east-end child whom she had under her special patronage. but her mind was active and, stern, self-opinionated martinet that she was, she could not altogether crush the regrets that swarmed up in this last reckoning up of her life's activity. better had her charity and interest been centered on the dirty little children whom she had indignantly tolerated on her compound! better for them all would it have been had each one of them sought to win the love and respect of the subject race! then, perhaps, they would not have been deserted in this last hour of peril.
"no, thank you," she whispered, glancing down at the flushed, sleeping face. "we have done each other so little real service that i am glad to be able to do even this much. i don't suppose it will be for long. how quiet everything is!"
mrs. carmichael looked at the clock on the writing-table.
"it is not yet midnight," she said. "probably the rajah is keeping his promise." her expression relaxed a little. "don't tire yourself," she added bruskly to mrs. berry, who had been fanning the unconscious woman's face with an improvized paper fan. "i don't think she feels the heat."
the missionary's wife continued her good work with redoubled energy. it was perhaps one of the few really unselfish things which she had ever done in the course of a pious but fundamentally selfish life, and it gave her pleasure and courage. the knowledge that some one was weaker than herself and needed her was new strength to her new-born heroism.
"it is so frightfully hot," she said half apologetically. "why isn't the punkah-man at work?"
"the 'punkah-man' has bolted with the rest of them," mrs. carmichael answered. "i dare say i could work it, though i have never tried."
"it is hardly worth while to begin now," beatrice observed, and this simple acknowledgment that the end was at hand received no contradiction.
once again the silence was unbroken, save for the soft swish of the fan and mrs. cary's heavy, irregular breathing. yet the five women who in the full swing of their life had been diametrically opposed to one another were now united in a common sympathy. death, far more than a leveler of class, is the melting-pot into which are thrown all antagonisms, all violent discords of character. the one great fact overshadows everything, and the petty stumbling-blocks of daily life are forgotten. more than that still--it is the supreme moment in man's existence when the innermost treasures or unsuspected hells are revealed beyond all denial. and in these five women, hidden in two cases at least beneath a mass of meanness, selfishness and indifference, there lay an unusual power of self-sacrifice and pity. death was drawing near to them all, and their one thought was how to make his coming easier for the other. when the silence grew unbearable, it was mrs. carmichael who had the courage to break it with a trivial criticism respecting the manner in which lois was making the sandwiches.
"you should put the butter on before you cut them," she said tartly, "and as little as possible. i'm quite sure it has gone rancid, and then george won't touch them. he is so fussy about the butter."
"and, please, would you mind making one or two without butter?" she said. "percy says all indian butter is bad. of course, it's only an idea of his, but men are such faddy creatures, don't you think?"
"they wouldn't be men if they weren't--" mrs. carmichael had begun, when she broke off, and the scissors that had been snipping their way steadily through the rough linen jagged and dropped on the table. she picked them up immediately and went on with an impatient exclamation at her own carelessness. but the involuntary start had coincided with a loud report from outside in the darkness, and a smothered scream.
lois put down her knife.
"won't you come and help me?" she said to beatrice. "your mother will not notice that you have gone."
beatrice nodded, and letting the heavy head sink back among the cushions, came over to lois' side.
"how brave you are!" she said in a whisper. "you seem so cool and collected, just as though you believed your sandwiches would ever be eaten!"
"i am not braver than you are. look how steady your hand is--much steadier than mine."
beatrice held out her white hand and studied it thoughtfully.
"i am not afraid," she said, "but not because i am brave. there is no room for fear, that is all." she paused an instant, and then suddenly the hand fell on lois'. the two women looked at each other. "lois, i am so sorry."
"for you and every one. i have hurt so many. it has all been my fault. i would give ten lives if i had them to see the harm undone. but that isn't possible. oh, lois, there is surely nothing worse than helpless remorse!"
"is it ever helpless, though?"
"i can't give the dead life--i can't give back a man's faith, can i?"
the light of understanding deepened in lois' eyes.
"beatrice--i believe i know!"
"yes, i see you do. do you despise me? what does it matter if you do? it has been my fear of the world and its opinion that helped to lead me wrong. isn't it a just punishment? i have ruined both our lives. lois, i couldn't help hearing what captain nicholson said to you. it explained what you said to me about building on the ruins of the past. that was what he did--he built a beautiful palace on me--and i wrecked it. i failed him."
"have you really failed him?"
"lois, i don't know--i am beginning to believe not. but it is too late. i meant to clear away the rubbish--and build. but there is no time."
"you have done your best."
"oh, if i could only save him, lois! he was the first man i had ever met whom i trusted, the first to trust me. i owe him everything, the little that is good in me. it had to come to life when he believed in it so implicitly. and he owes me ruin, outward and inward ruin."
lois made no answer. with a warm, impulsive gesture she put her arms about the taller woman's neck and, drawing the beautiful face down to her own, kissed her. beatrice responded, and thus a friendship was sealed--not for life but for death, whose grim cordon was with every moment being drawn closer about them.
the sound of firing had now grown incessant. one report followed another at swift, irregular intervals, and each sounded like a clap of thunder in the silent room. mrs. cary stirred uneasily in her sleep, a low, scarcely audible groan escaped the parted lips, as though even in her dreams she was being pursued by fear's pitiless phantom. her self-appointed nurse continued to fan her with the energy of despair, the poor livid face twitching at every fresh threatening sound. mrs. carmichael still pretended to be absorbed in her pinafore, but the revolver lay on the table, ready to hand, and there was a look in the steady eyes which boded ill for the first enemy who should confront her. lois and beatrice continued their fruitless task.
a woman's courage is the supreme victory of mind over matter. it is no easy thing for a hero to sit still and helpless while death rattles his bullet fingers against the walls and screams in voices of hate and fury from a distance which every minute diminishes. for a woman burdened with the disability of a high-strung nervous system, it is a martyrdom. yet these women, brought up on the froth of an enervating, pleasure-seeking society, held out--held out with a martyr's courage and constancy--against the torture of inactivity, of an imagination which penetrated the sheltering walls out into the night where fifty men writhed in a death-struggle with hundreds--saw every bleeding wound, heard every smothered moan of pain, felt already the cold iron pierce their own breasts. the hours passed, and they did not yield. they had ceased from their incongruous tasks, and stood and waited, wordless and tearless.
as the first grey lights of dawn crept into the stifling room they heard footsteps hurrying across the adjacent room, and each drew herself upright to meet the end. mrs. carmichael's hand tightened over the revolver, but it was only mr. berry who entered. the little missionary, a shy, society-shunning man, noted for doing more harm than good among the natives by his zealous bigotry and ignorance of their prejudices, stood revealed in a new light. his face was grimed with dirt and powder, his clothes disordered, his weak eyes bright with the fire of battle.
"do not be afraid," he said quickly. "there is no immediate danger. i have only been sent to warn you to be ready to leave the bungalow. the front wall is shot-riddled, and the place may become indefensible at any moment. when that time comes, you must slip out to the old bungalow. nicholson believes he can hold out there."
"my husband--?" interrupted mrs. carmichael.
"your husband is safe. in fact, all three were well when i left. if i wasn't against such things, i should say it was a splendid fight--and every man a hero. the rajah--"
mr. berry looked in stern surprise at the pale face of the speaker.
"the rajah has a charmed life," he said somberly. "he is always in the front of his men--we can recognize him by his dress and figure--he is always within range, but we can't hit him. not that i ought to wish his death, though it's our only chance." he put his hands distractedly to his head. "heaven knows, it's too hard for a christian man! every time i see an enemy fall, i rejoice--and then i remember that it is my brother--" he stopped, the expression on his face of profound trouble giving way to active alarm. "hush! some one is coming!"
a second time the door opened, and travers rushed in. lois saw his face, and something in her recoiled in sick disgust. fear, an almost imbecilic fear, was written on the wide-open, staring eyes, and the hand that held the revolver trembled like that of an old man.
"quick--out by the back way!" he stammered incoherently. "i will lock the door--so. that will keep them off a minute. they are bound to look for us here first. nicholson is retiring with his men--they are going to have a try to bring down the rajah. it's our one chance. it may frighten the devils--they think he's a god. i believe he is, curse him!" all the time, he had been piling furniture against the door with a mad and feverish energy. "help me! help me!" he screamed. "why don't you help? do you want to be killed like sheep?"
lois drew him back by the arm.
"you are wasting time," she said firmly. "come with us! why, you are hurt!"
he looked at the thin stream which trickled down the soiled white of his coat. a silly smile flickered over his big face.
"oh, yes, a scratch. i hardly feel it. it isn't anything. it can't be anything. there's nothing vital thereabouts, is there, berry?"
the missionary shrugged his shoulders. he had flung open the glass doors which led on to the verandah, and the brightening dawn flooded in upon them.
"come and help me carry this poor lady," he said. "we have not a minute to lose."
travers tried to obey, but he had no strength, and the other thrust him impatiently on one side.
"mrs. carmichael, you are a strong woman," he appealed. between them they managed to bring mrs. cary's heavy, unconscious frame down the steps. it was a nerve-trying task, for their progress was of necessity a slow one, and the sound of the desperate fighting seemed to surround them on every side. it was with a feeling of intense relief that the little party saw nicholson appear from amidst the trees and run toward them.
"that's right!" he cried. "only be quick! they are at us on all sides now, but my men are keeping them off until you are out of the bungalow. the old ruin at the back of the garden is our last stand. carmichael is there already with a detachment, and is keeping off a rear attack. i shall remain here."
"alone?" berry asked anxiously.
"yes. i believe they will ransack the bungalow first. when they come, the rajah is sure to be at their head, and--well, it's going to be diamond cut diamond between us two when we meet. i know the beggars and their superstition. if i get in the first shot, they will bolt. if he does--"
"you are going to shoot him down like a rat in a trap!" beatrice burst out passionately.
the others had already hurried on. with a gentle force he urged her to follow them.
"or be shot down myself," he said. "leave me to do my duty as i think best."
she met his grave eyes defiantly, but perhaps some instinct told her that he was risking his life for a poor chance--for their last chance, for without a word she turned away, apparently in the direction which her companions had already taken.
as soon as she was out of sight, nicholson recharged his smoking revolver, and stood there quietly waiting. his trained ear heard the firing in front of the bungalow cease. he knew then that his men were retiring to join colonel carmichael, and that he stood alone, the last barrier between death and those he loved. the sound of triumphant shouting drew nearer; he heard the wrenching and tearing of doors crashing down before an impetuous onslaught, the cling of steel, a howl of sudden satisfaction. his hand tightened upon his revolver; he stood ready to meet his enemy single-handed, to fight out the duel between man and man. but no one came. a bewildering silence had followed upon the last bloodthirsty cry. it was as though the hand of death had fallen and with one annihilating blow beaten down the approaching horde in the high tide of their victory. but of the two this strange stillness was the more terrible. it penetrated to the little waiting group in the old bungalow and filled them with the chill horror of the unknown. something had happened--that they felt.
lois crept to the doorway and peered out into the gathering daylight. here and there, half hidden behind the shelter of the trees, she could see the khaki-clad figures of the gurkhas, some kneeling, some standing, their rifles raised to their dark faces, waiting like statues for the enemy that never came. a dead, petrified world, the only living thing the sunshine, which played in peaceful indifference upon the scene of an old and a new tragedy! lois thought of her mother. by the power of an overwrought imagination she looked back through a quarter of a century to a day of which this present was a strange and horrible repetition. for a moment she lived her mother's life, lived through the hours of torturing doubt and fear, and when a stifled cry called her back to the reality and forced her to turn from the sunlight to the dark room, it was as though the dead had risen, as though her dreams had taken substance. she saw pale faces staring at her; she saw on the rusty truckle-bed a figure which rose up and held out frantic, desperate arms toward her. but it was no dream--no phantom. mrs. cary, wild-eyed and distraught, struggled to rise to her feet and come toward her.
"where is beatrice?" she cried hysterically. "where is beatrice? i dreamed she was dead!--it isn't true! say it isn't true!"
lois hurried back. in the confusion of their retreat she had lost sight of beatrice, and now a cold fear froze her blood. she called her name, adding her voice to the half-delirious mother's appeal; but there was no answer, and as she prepared to leave the shelter of the bungalow to go in search of the lost girl, a pair of strong hands grasped her by the shoulders and forced her back.
"lois, stand back! they are coming!"
colonel carmichael thrust her behind him, and an instant later she heard the report of his revolver. there was no answering volley. a dark, scantily-clad figure sprang through the trees, waving one hand as though in imperative appeal.
"don't fire--don't fire! it's me!"
the colonel's still smoking revolver sank, and the supposed native swayed toward him, only to sink a few yards farther on to the ground. carmichael ran to his side and lifted the fainting head against his shoulder.
"good god, geoffries! don't say i've hit you! how on earth was i to know!"
"that's all right, colonel. only winded--don't you know--never hurried so much in life. have been in the midst of the beggars--just managed to slip through. o lor', give me something to drink, will you?" colonel carmichael put his flask to the parched and broken lips. "thanks, that's better. we got your message, and are coming on like fun. the regiment's only an hour off. you never saw saunders in such a fluster--it's his first big job, you know." he took another deep draft, and wiped his mouth with the corner of his ragged tunic. "i say--don't look at me, miss lois. i'm not fit to be seen." he laughed hoarsely. "these clothes weren't made in bond street, and webb assured me that the fewer i had the more genuine i looked. i say, colonel, this is a lively business!"
colonel carmichael nodded as he helped the gasping and exhausted man into the bungalow.
"too lively to be talked about," he said. "i doubt if the regiment isn't going to add itself to the general disaster."
"oh, rot!" was the young officer's forgetful lapse into disrespect. "the regiment will do for the beggars all right. they didn't expect us so soon, i fancy. just listen! i believe i've frightened them away already. there isn't a sound."
colonel carmichael lifted his head. true enough, no living thing seemed to move. a profound hush hung in the air, broken only by mrs. cary's pitiful meanings.
"oh, beatrice, beatrice, where are you?"
geoffries turned his stained face to the colonel's.
"beatrice! that's miss cary, isn't it? anything happened to her?"
colonel carmichael shrugged his shoulders with the impatience of a man whose nerves are overstrained by anxiety.
"i don't know--we've lost her," he said. "we must do something at once. heaven alone knows what has happened."
no one indeed knew what had happened--not even the lonely man who waited, revolver in hand, for the final encounter on whose issue hung the fortunes of them all.
only one knew, and that was beatrice herself as she stood before the shattered doorway of the colonel's drawing-room, amidst the debris of wrecked, shot-riddled furniture, face to face with nehal singh.
once before she had placed herself in his path, trusting to her skill, her daring, above all, her beauty. with laughter in her heart and cold-blooded coquetry she had chosen out the spot before the altar where the sunlight struck burnished gold from her waving hair and lent deeper, softening shades to her eyes. with cruel satisfaction, not unmixed with admiration, she had seen her power successful and the awe-struck wonder and veneration creep into his face. in the silence and peace of the temple she had plunged reckless hands into the woven threads of his life. amidst the shriek of war, face to face with death, she sought to save him. it was another woman who stood opposite the yielding, cracking door, past whose head a half-spent bullet spat its way, burying itself in the wall behind her,--another woman, disheveled, forgetful of her wan beauty, trusting to no power but that which her heart gave her to face the man she had betrayed and ruined. yet both in an instantaneous flash remembered that first meeting. the drawn sword sank, point downward. he stood motionless in the shattered doorway, holding out a hand which commanded, and obtained, a petrified, waiting silence from the armed horde whose faces glared hatred and the lust of slaughter in the narrow space behind. whatever had been his resolution, whatever the detestation and contempt which had filled him, all sank now into an ocean of reborn pain.
"why are you here?" he asked sternly. "why have you not fled?"
"we are all here," she answered. "none of us has fled. did you not know that?"
he looked about him. a flash of scorn rekindled in his somber eyes.
"you are alone. have they deserted you?"
"they do not know that i am here. i crept back of my own free will--to speak with you, nehal."
both hands clasped upon his sword-hilt, erect, a proud figure of misfortune, he stood there and studied her, half-wonderingly, half-contemptuously. the restless forces at his back were forgotten. they were no more to him than the pawns with which his will played life and death. he was their god and their faith. they waited for his word to sweep out of his path the white-faced englishwoman who held him checked in the full course of his victory. but he did not speak to them, but to her, in a low voice in which scorn still trembled.
"you are here, no doubt, to intercede for those others--or for yourself. you see, i have learned something in these two years. it is useless. no one can stop me now."
he smiled, and for the first time she saw a sneer disfigure his lips.
"not even you, miss cary. you have done a great deal with me--enough perhaps to justify your wildest hopes--but you have touched the limits of your powers and of my gullibility. or did you think there were no limits?"
"i do not recognize you when you talk like that!" she exclaimed.
"that is surprising, seeing that you have made me what i am," he answered. then he made a quick gesture of apology. "forgive me, that sounded like a reproach or a complaint. i make neither. that is not my purpose."
"and yet you have the right," she said, drawing a deep breath, "you have every right, nehal. it does not matter what the others did to you. i know that does not count an atom in comparison to my responsibilities. you trusted me as you trusted no one else, and i deceived you. so you have the right to hate me as you hate no one else. and yet--is it not something, does it not mitigate my fault a little, that i deceived myself far, far more than i ever deceived you?" he raised his eyebrows. there was mockery in the movement, and she went on, desperately resolute: "i played at loving you, nehal. i played a comedy with you for my own purposes. and one day it ceased to be a comedy. i did not know it. i did not know what was driving me to tell the truth, and reveal myself to you in the ugliest light i could. i only knew it was something in me stronger than any other impulse of my life. i know what it is now, and you must know, too. can't you understand? if it had been no more than a comedy, you must have found me out--months ago. but you never found me out. it was i who told you what i had done and who i was--"
"why did you tell me?" he took an involuntary step toward her. something in his face relaxed beneath the force of an uncontrollable emotion. he was asking a question which had hammered at the gates of his mind day after day and in every waking hour. "why?" he repeated.
"i have told you--because i had to. i had to speak the truth. i couldn't build up my new life on an old lie. you had to know. i had won your love by a trick. i had to show you the lowest and worst part of myself before the best in me could grow--the best in me, which is yours."
"you are raving!"
"i am not raving. you must see i am not. look at me. i am calmer than you, though i face certain death. i knew when i came here that the chances were i should be killed before i even saw you, but i had to risk that. i had to win your trust back somehow, honestly and fairly. i can not live without your trust."
"beatrice!" the name escaped him almost without his knowledge. he saw tears spring to her eyes.
"it is true. your love and your trust have become my life. then i was unworthy of both. i tried to make myself worthy. i did what i could. i told you the truth--i threw away the only thing that mattered to me. i could not hold your love any longer by a lie--i loved you too much!"
for that moment the passionate energy of her words, the sincerity and eloquence of her glance, swept back every thought of suspicion. he stood stupefied, almost overwhelmed. mechanically his lips formed themselves to a few broken sentences.
"you can not know what you are saying. you are beside yourself. once, in my ignorance, i believed it possible, but now i know that it could never be. your race despises mine--"
"i do not care what you are nor to whom you belong!" she broke in, exulting. "you are the man who taught me to believe that there is something in this world that is good, that is worthy of veneration; who awoke in me what little good i have. i love you. if i could win you back--"
"i would follow you to the world's end!"
"as my wife?"
"as your wife!"
he held out his arms toward her, impulse rising like the sun high and splendid above the mists of distrust. it was an instant's forgetfulness, which passed as rapidly as it had come. his arms sank heavily to his side.
"have you thought what that means? if you go with me, you must leave your people for ever."
"i would follow you gladly."
he shook his head.
"you do not understand. you must leave them now--now when i go against them."
"no!" she broke in roughly. "you can't, nehal, you can't. you have the right to be bitter and angry; you have not the right to commit a crime. and it would be a crime. you are plunging thousands into bloodshed and ruin--" he lifted his hand, and the expression in his eyes checked her.
"so it is, after all, a bargain that you offer me!" he said. "you are trying to save them. you offer a high price, but i am not a merchant. i can not buy you, beatrice."
"it is not a bargain!" for the first time she faltered, taken aback by the pitiless logic of his words. "can't you see that? can't you see that, however much i loved you, i could not act otherwise than implore you to turn back from a step that means destruction for those bound to me by blood and country? could i do less?"
"no," he said slowly.
she held out her hands to him.
"oh, nehal, turn back while there is yet time! for my sake, for yours, for us all, turn back from a bloody, cruel revenge. the power is yours. be generous. if we have wronged you, we have suffered and are ready to atone. i am ready to atone. i can atone, because i love you. i have spoken the truth to you. i have laid my soul bare to you as i have done to no other being. won't you trust me?"
his eyes met hers with a somber, hopeless significance which cut her to the heart.
"i can't," he said. "i can't. that is what you have taught me--to distrust you--and every one."
she stood silent now, paralyzed by the finality of his words and gesture. it was as though the shadow of her heartless folly had risen before her and become an iron wall of unrelenting, measured retribution against which she beat herself in vain. he lifted his head higher, seeming to gather together his shaken powers of self-control.
"i can not trust you," he said again, "nor can i turn back. but there is one thing from the past which can not be changed. i love you. it seems that must remain through all my life. and because of that love i must save you from the death that awaits your countrymen." he smiled in faint self-contempt. "it is not for your sake that i shall save you; it is because i am too great a coward, and can not face the thought that anything so horrible should come near you." he turned to two native soldiers behind him and gave an order. when he faced beatrice again he saw that she held a revolver in her hand.
"you do not understand," she said. "you say you mean to save me, but that is not in your power. it is in your power to save us all, but not one alone. i know what my people have resolved to do. there are weak, frightened women among them, but not one of them will fall into your hands alive. whatever happens, i shall share their fate."
though her tone was quiet and free from all bravado, he knew that she was not boasting. he knew, too, that she was desperate.
"you can not force me to kill you," he said sternly.
"i think it possible," she answered. she was breathing quickly, and her eyes were bright with a reckless, feverish excitement. but the hand that held the revolver pointed at the men behind him was steady--steadier than his own.
nehal singh motioned back the two natives who had advanced at his order.
"you play a dangerous game," he said, "and, as before, your strength lies in my weakness--in my folly. but this time you can not win. my word is given--to my people."
"i shall not plead with you," she returned steadily, "and you may be sure i shall not waver. i am not afraid to die. i had hoped to atone for all the wrong that has been done you with my love for you, nehal. i had hoped that then you would turn away from this madness and become once more our friend. to this end i have not hesitated to trample on my dignity and pride. i have not spared myself. but you will not listen, you are determined to go on, and i"--she caught her breath sharply--"surely you can understand? i love you, and you have made yourself the enemy of my country. death is the easiest, the kindest solution to it all."
nehal singh's brows knitted themselves in the anguish of a man who finds himself thwarted by his own nature. he tried not to believe her, and indeed, in all her words, though they had rung like music, his ear, tuned to suspicion, had heard the mocking undercurrent of laughter. she had laughed at him secretly through all those months when he had offered up to her the incense of an absolute faith, an unshared devotion. even now she might be laughing at him, playing on that in him which nothing could destroy or conceal--his love for her. and yet--! behind him he heard the uneasy stir of impatient feet, the hushed clash of arms. he stood between her and a certain, terrible death. one word from him, and it would be over--his path clear. but he could not speak that word. treacherous and cruel as she had been, the halo of her first glory still hung about her. he saw her as he had first seen her--the golden image of pure womanhood--and, strange, unreasoning contradiction of the human heart, beneath the ashes of his old faith a new fire had kindled and with every moment burned more brightly. unquenchable trust fought out a death struggle with distrust, and in that conflict her words recurred to him with poignant significance: "death is the easiest, the kindest solution to it all." for him also there seemed no other escape. he pointed to the revolver.
"for whom is that?" he asked.
"i do not know--but i will make them kill me."
"why do you not shoot me, then?" he demanded, between despair and bitterness. "that would save you all. if i fell, they would turn and fly. they think i am vishnu. haven't you thought of that? i am in your power. why don't you make yourself the benefactress of your country? why don't you shoot her enemy?"
she made no answer, but her eyes met his steadily and calmly. he turned away, groaning. in vain he fought against it, in vain stung himself to action by the memory of all that she had done to him. his love remained triumphant. in that supreme moment his faith burst through the darkness, and again he believed in her, believed in her against reason, against the world, against the ineffaceable past, and against himself. and it was too late. he no longer stood alone. his word was given.
"have pity on me!" he said, once more facing her. "let me save you!"
"i should despise myself, and you would despise me--even more than you do now. i can not do less than share the fate of those whose lives my folly has jeopardized."
"at least go back to them--do not stay here. beatrice, for god's sake!--i can not turn back. you have made me suffer enough--." he stood before her now as an incoherent pleader, and her heart burned with an exultation in which the thought of life and death played no part. she knew that he still loved her. it seemed for the moment all that mattered.
"i can not," she said.
"beatrice, do not deceive yourself. though my life is nothing to me--though i would give it a dozen times to save you--i can not do otherwise than go on. i may be weak, but i shall be stronger than my weakness. my word is given!"
he spoke with the tempestuous energy of despair. the minutes were passing with terrible swiftness, and any moment the sea behind him might burst its dam and sweep her and him to destruction. already in the distance he heard the dull clamour of voices raised in angry remonstrance at the delay. only those immediately about him were held in awed silence by the power of his personality. again beatrice shook her head. she stood in the doorway which opened out into the garden where the besieged had taken refuge. there was no other way. he advanced toward her. instantly she raised her revolver and pointed it at the first man behind him.
"if i fire," she said, "not even you will be able to hold them back."
it seemed to her that she stood like a frail wall between two overwhelming forces--on the one side, nehal with his thousands; on the other, nicholson--alone, truly, but armed with a set and pitiless resolve. a single sentence, which had fallen upon her ears months before, rose now out of an ocean of half-forgotten memories: "nicholson is the best shot in india," some one had said: "he never misses." and still nehal advanced. his jaws were locked, his eyes had a red fire in them. she knew then that the hour of hesitation was over, and that in that desperate struggle she had indeed lost. uncontrollable words of warning rushed to her lips.
"nehal--turn back! turn back!"
he did not understand her. he thought she was still pleading with him.
"i can not--god have pity on us both!"
then she too set her lips. she could not betray the last hope of that heroic handful of men and women behind her. he must go to his death--and she to hers. she fired,--whether with success or not, she never knew. in that same instant another sound broke upon their ears--the sound of distant firing, the rattle of drums and the high clear call of a trumpet. nehal singh swung around. she caught a glimpse of his face through the smoke, and she saw something written there which she could not understand. she only knew that his features seemed to bear a new familiarity, as though a mask had been torn from them, revealing the face of another man, of a man whom she had seen before, when and where she could not tell. she had no time to analyze her emotions nor the sense of violent shock which passed over her. she heard nehal singh giving sharp, rapid orders in hindustani. the room emptied. she saw him follow the retreating natives. at the door he turned and looked back at her. at no time had his love for her revealed itself more clearly than in that last glance.
"the english regiment has come to help you," he said. "fate has intervened between us this time. may we never meet again!"
he passed out through the shattered doorway, but she stood where he had left her, motionless, almost unconscious. it was thus nicholson and the colonel found her when, a moment later, they entered the room by the verandah. colonel carmichael's passionate reproaches died away as he saw her face.
"you must not stop here," he said. "you have frightened us all terribly. the regiment has come and is attacking. there will be some desperate fighting. we must all stick together."
she caught nicholson's eyes resting on her. she thought she read pity and sympathy in their steady depths, and wondered if he guessed what she had tried to do. but he said nothing, and she followed the two men blindly and indifferently back to the bungalow.
they had no light. they talked in whispers, and now and again, when the darkness grew too oppressive, they stretched out groping hands and touched each other. they did this without explanation. though none complained or spoke of fear, each needed the consolation of the other's company, and a touch was worth more than words. mrs. cary alone needed nothing. she lay on the rough truckle-bed and slept. thus she had been for a week--a whole week of nerve-wrecking struggle against odds which marked hope as vain. bullets had beaten like rain upon the walls about her, the moaning of wounded men on the other side of the hastily constructed partition mingled unceasingly with the cries of the ever-nearing enemy. and she had lain there quiet and indifferent. martins, the regiment's doctor, had looked in once at her and had shaken his head. "in all probability she will never wake," he had said. "perhaps it is the kindest thing that could happen to her." and then he had gone his way to those who needed him more.
mrs. berry knelt by the bedside. her hands were folded. she had been praying, but exhaustion had overcome her, and her quiet, peaceful breathing contrasted strangely with the other sounds that filled the bungalow. mrs. carmichael and beatrice sat huddled close together, listening. they could do nothing--not even help the wounded men who lay so close to them. everything was in pitch darkness, and no lights were allowed. they could not go out and help in the stern, relentless struggle that was going on about them. they bore the woman's harder lot of waiting, inactive, powerless, fighting the harder battle against uncertainty and all the horrors of the imagination.
"i am sorry the regiment has come," mrs. carmichael whispered. "there is no doubt they will be massacred with the rest of us. what are a few hundreds against thousands? it is a pity. they are such fine fellows."
her rough, tired voice had a ring of unconquerable pride in it. she was thinking of the gallant charge her husband's men had made only two weeks before; how they had broken through the wall of the enemy, and, cheering, had rushed to meet the besieged garrison. that had been a moment of rejoicing, transitory and deceptive. then the wall closed in about them again, and they knew that they were trapped.
"perhaps we can hold out till help comes," beatrice said.
she tried not to be indifferent. for the sake of her companions she would gladly have felt some desire for life, but in truth it had no value for her. she could think of nothing but the evil she had done and of the atonement that had been denied her. it was to no purpose that she worked unceasingly for the wounded. the sense of responsibility never left her. each moan, each death-sigh brought the same meaning to her ear: "you have helped to do this--this is your work."
"no help will come," mrs. carmichael said, shaking her head at the darkness. "when a whole province rises as this has done, it takes months to organize a sufficient force, and we shan't last out many days. i wonder what people in england are saying. how well i can see them over their breakfast cups! oh, dear, i mustn't think of breakfast cups, or i shall lose my nerve." she laughed under her breath, and there was a long silence.
presently the door of the bungalow opened, letting in a stream of moonlight. it was closed instantly, and soft footfalls came over the boarded floor.
"who is it?" mrs. carmichael whispered.
"i--lois," was the answer. the new-comer crept down by beatrice's side and leaned her head against the warm shoulder. "i am so tired," she said faintly. "i have been with archibald. he has been moaning so. mr. berry says he is afraid mortification has set in. it is terrible."
"poor little woman!" beatrice put her arm about the slender figure and drew her closer. "lay your head on my lap and sleep a little. you can do no good just now."
"thank you. i will, if you don't mind. you will wake me if anything happens, won't you?"
"yes, i promise." it gave beatrice a sense of comfort to have lois near her. very gently she passed her hand over the aching forehead, and presently lois fell into a sleep of absolute exhaustion.
by mutual consent, mrs. carmichael and beatrice ceased to talk, but when suddenly there was a movement close to them, and a dim light flashed over the partition, they exchanged a glance of meaning.
"that is my husband," mrs. carmichael whispered. "something is going to happen. listen!"
she was not wrong in her supposition. the colonel had entered the next room, followed by nicholson and saunders, and had closed the door carefully after him. all three men carried lanterns. they glanced instinctively at the wooden partition which divided them from the four women, but carmichael shook his head.
he came back to the table, where the others waited, and drew out a paper from his pocket.
"give me your light a moment, nicholson," he said.
"geoffries has just given me this," carmichael said. "it is a list of our provisions. we have enough food, but there is no fresh water. the enemy has cut off the supply. we could not expect them to do otherwise." he waited, and then, as neither spoke, he went on: "i have spoken with the others. you know, gentlemen, we can not go on another twenty-four hours without water. we have made a good fight for it, but this is the end. we must look the fact in the face."
"surely they must know at headquarters what a state we are in--" saunders began.
the colonel shrugged his shoulders.
"when do you propose to make the start, colonel?" nicholson asked.
"within an hour. the night favors us. the women must be kept in the center as much as possible. i have given geoffries special charge over them. they will be told at the last moment. there is no use in spoiling what little rest they have had." he drew out a pencil and began to scribble a despatch on the back of an old letter. "i advise you gentlemen to do likewise," he said. "very often a piece of paper gets through where a man can not, and it is our bounden duty to supply the morning periodicals with as much news as possible."
for some minutes there was no sound save that of the pencils scrawling the last messages of men with the seal of death already stamped upon their foreheads. all three had forgotten travers, and yet from the moment they had begun to speak he had been awake and listening. he sat up now, leaning upon his elbow.
"nicholson!" he said faintly.
nicholson turned and came to his side.
"hullo!" he said. "awake, are you? how are you?"
travers made no immediate answer; he took nicholson's hand in a feverish clasp and drew him nearer.
"i am in great pain," he said. "you don't need to pretend. i know. the fear of death has been on me all day. just now i am not afraid. is there no hope?"
"you mean--for us? none."
"i heard you talking, but i wanted to make sure. it has all been my fault--every bit of it. it's decent of you not to make me feel it more. you are not to blame--her. you know i tempted her, i made her help me. she isn't responsible. at any rate, she made a clean breast of it--that's something to her credit. i didn't want to--i never meant to. i am not the sort that repents. but this last week you have been so decent, and lois such a plucky little soul--she ought to hate me--and perhaps she does--but she has done her best. nicholson, are you listening? can you hear what i say? it's so damned hard for me to talk."
"i can hear," nicholson said kindly. "don't worry about what can't be helped." in spite of everything, he pitied the man, and his tone showed it.
travers lifted himself higher, clinging to the other's shoulder. his voice began to come in rough, uneven jerks.
"but it can be helped--it must be helped! don't you see--i came between you and lois purposely. from the first moment you spoke of her i knew that you loved her--and i wanted her. i never gave your message. i didn't dare. you are the sort of man a woman cares for--a woman like lois. i couldn't risk it. but now--well, i'm done, and afterward she will be free--"
nicholson drew back stiffly.
"you are talking nonsense," he said, in a colder tone. "no one wants you to die--and in any case, you know very well we have no chance of getting through this alive."
travers seized his arm. his eyes shone with a painful excitement.
"yes--yes!" he stammered. "you have a chance--a sure hope. i can save you; i can--atone. that's what i want. only you must help me. i am a dying man. i want you to bring me to the rajah--at once. only five minutes with him--that will be enough. then he will let you go--he must!"
nicholson freed himself resolutely from the clinging hands.
"you exaggerate your power," he said, "and, besides, what you ask is an impossibility."
he turned away, but travers caught his arm and held him with a frantic, desperate strength. little given to humiliating your neighbours, male or female....”
“yes, yes; but we are not so conceited or such play-actors as you are. a woman may think herself pretty and amiable and sweet, and not be so. that is true; but on the other hand, every man thinks himself braver than the cid, even if he is afraid of a fly, and more talented than seneca, even if he is a dolt.”
“to sum up, men are a calamity.”
“and women spend their lives fishing for these calamities.”
“they need them; there are inferior things which still are necessary.”
“and there are superior things which are good for nothing.”
“will you come and take a drive with me, philosopher brother?”
“let’s go to the villa borghese. the carriage will be here in a moment.”
“all right. let us go there.”
a two-horse victoria with rubber tires was waiting at the door, and laura and cæsar got in. the carriage went past the treasury, and out the porta salaria, and entered the gardens of the villa borghese.
the morning had been rainy; the ground was damp; the wind waved the tree-tops gently and caused a murmur like the tide. the carriage rolled slowly along the avenues. laura was very gay and chatty. cæsar listened to her as one listens to a bird warbling.
many times while listening he thought: “what is there inside this head? what is the master idea of her life? has she really any idea about life, or has she none?”
after several rounds they crossed the viaduct that unites the villa borghese with the pincio gardens.
from the pincio terrace
they approached the great terrace of the gardens by an avenue that has busts of celebrated men along both sides.
“poor great men!” exclaimed cæsar. “their statues serve only to decorate a public garden.” “they had their lives,” replied laura, gaily; “now we have ours.”
laura ordered the coachman to stop a moment. the air was still murmuring in the foliage, the birds singing, and the clouds flying slowly across the sky.
a man with a black box approached the carriage to offer them postcards.
“buy two or three,” said laura.
cæsar bought a few and put them into his pocket. the vendor withdrew and laura continued to look at rome with enthusiasm.
“oh, how beautiful, how lovely it is! i never get tired of looking at it. it is my favourite city. ‘o fior d’ogni cittá, donna del mondo.’”
“she is no longer mistress of the world, little sister.”
“for me she is. look at st. peter’s. it looks like a shred of cloud.”
“yes, that’s so. it’s of a blue shade that seems transparent.”
bells were ringing and great majestic white clouds kept moving along the horizon; on the janiculum the statue of garibaldi rose up gallantly into the air, like a bird ready to take wing.
“when i look at rome this way,” murmured laura, “i feel a pang, a pang of grief.”
“because i remember that i must die, and then i shall not come back to see rome. she will be here still, century after century, full of sunlight, and i shall be dead.... it is horrible, horrible!”
“and your religion?”
“yes, i know. i believe i shall see other things; but not these things that are so beautiful.”
“you are an epicurean.”
“it is so beautiful to be alive!”
they stayed there looking at the panorama. below, in the piazza del popólo, they saw a red tram slipping along, which looked, at that distance, like a toy.
“she must be a russian,” said cæsar.
“yes. do you like that type?”
“she has a lot of character. she looks like one of the women that would order servants to be whipped.”
the russian was smiling vaguely. laura told the coachman to drive on. they made a few rounds in the avenues of the pincio. the music was beginning; a few carriages, and groups of soldiers and seminarians, crowded around the bandstand; laura didn’t care for brass bands, they were too noisy for her, and she gave the coachman orders to drive to the corso.
they passed in front of the villa medici, and when they got near the piazza, della trinitá de’ monti they met a man on horseback, who, on seeing them, immediately approached the carriage. it was archibald marchmont, who had just arrived in rome.
“i thought you had forgotten us,” said laura.
“i forget you, marchesa! never.”
“you say you came to rome....”
“from nice i had to return to london, because my father was seriously ill with an attack of gout.”
“he is well again?”
“yes, thank you. you are coming back from a drive?”
“don’t you want to come and have tea with my wife and me?”
“at the hotel excelsior. we are staying there. will you come?” “all right.”
laura accepted, and they went to the via veneto with the englishman riding beside them.
they went into the hotel and passed through to the “hall” full of people, marchmont sent word to his wife by a servant, to come down. laura and cæsar seated themselves with the englishman.
“this hotel is unbearable,” exclaimed marchmont; “there is nothing here but americans.”
“your wife, however, must like that,” said cæsar.
“no. susanna is more european every day, and she doesn’t care for the shrieking elegance of her compatriots. besides, her father is here, and that makes her feel less american.”
“it is an odd form of filial enthusiasm,” remarked cæsar.
“it doesn’t shock me. i almost think it’s the rule,” replied marchmont; “at home i could see that my brothers and sisters hated one another cordially, and that every member of the family wanted to get away from the others. you two who are so fond of each other are a very rare instance. is it frequent in spain that brothers and sisters like one another?”
“yes, there are instances of it,” answered cæsar, laughing.
mrs. marchmont arrived, accompanied by an old man who evidently was her father, and two other men. susanna was most smart; she greeted laura and cæsar very affably, and presented her father, mr. russell; then she presented an english author, tall, skinny, with blue eyes, a white beard, and hair like a halo; and then a young englishman from the embassy, a very distinguished person named kennedy, who was a catholic.
after the introductions they passed into the dining-room, which was most impressive. it was an exhibition of very smart women, some of them ideally beautiful, and idle men. all about them resounded a nasal english of the american sort.
susanna marchmont served the tea and did the honours to her guests. they all talked french, excepting mr. russell, who once in a long while uttered some categorical monosyllable in his own language.
mr. russell was not of the classic yankee type; he looked like a vulgar englishman. he was a serious man, with a short moustache, grey-headed, with three or four gold teeth.
what to cæsar seemed wonderful in this gentleman was his economy of words. there was not one useless expression in his vocabulary, and not the slightest redundancy; whatever partook of merit, prestige, or nobility was condensed, for him, to the idea of value; whatever partook of arrangement, cleanliness, order, was condensed to the word “comfort”; so that mr. russell, with a very few words, had everything specified.
to susanna, imbued with her preoccupation in supreme chic, her father no doubt did not seem a completely decorative father; but he gave cæsar the impression of a forceful man.
near them, at a table close by, was a little blond man, with a hooked nose and a scanty imperial, in company with a fat lady. they bowed to marchmont and his wife.
“that gentleman looks like a jew,” said cæsar.
“he is,” replied marchmont, “that is señor pereyra, a rich jew; of portuguese origin, i think.”
“how quickly you saw it!” exclaimed susanna.
“he has that air of a sick goat, so frequent in jews.”
“his wife has nothing sickly about her, or thin either,” remarked laura.
“no,” said cæsar; “his wife represents another biblical type; one of the fat kine of somebody’s dream, which foretold abundance and a good harvest.”
the englishman, kennedy, had also little liking for jews.
“i do not hate a jew as anti-christian,” said cæsar; “but as super-christian. nor do i hate the race, but the tendency they have never to be producers, but always middlemen, and because they incarnate so well for our era the love of money, and of joy and pleasure.”
the english author was a great partisan of jews, and he asserted that they were more distinguished in science and the arts than any other race. the jewish question was dropped in an instant, when they saw a smart lady come in accompanied by a pale man with a black shock of hair and an uneasy eye.
“that is the hungarian violinist kolozsvar,” said susanna.
“kolozsvar, kolozsvar!” they heard everybody saying.
“is he a great virtuoso?” cæsar asked kennedy.
“no, i think not,” answered kennedy. “it seems that this hungarian’s speciality is playing the waltzes and folk-songs of his own country, which is certainly not anything great; but his successes are not obtained with the violin, but among the women. the ladies in london fight for him. his game is to pass himself off as a fallen man, depraved, worn-out. there you have his phraseology.... they see a man to save, to raise up, and convert into a great artist, and almost all of them yield to this temptation.”
“that is comical,” said cæsar, looking curiously at the fiddler and his lady.
“to a spaniard,” replied kennedy, “it is comical; and probably it would be to an italian too; but in england there are many women that have a purely imaginative idealism, a romanticism fed on ridiculous novels, and they fall into traps like these, which seem clumsy and grotesque to you here in the south, where people are more clear-sighted and realistic.”
cæsar watched the brave fiddler, who played the role of a man used up, to great perfection.
after tea, susanna invited them to go up to her rooms, and laura and her brother and kennedy and mr. russell went.
the english author had met a colleague, with whom he stayed behind talking, and marchmont remained in the “hall,” as if it did not seem to him proper for him to go to his wife’s rooms.
susanna’s rooms were very high, had balconies on the via veneto, and were almost opposite queen margherita’s palace. one overlooked the garden and could see the queen mother taking her walks, which is not without its importance for persons who live in a republic.
susanna was most amiable to laura; repeated to all of them her invitation to come and see her again; and after they had all promised to see one another frequently, cæsar and laura went down to their carriage, and took a turn on the corso by twilight.
xiii. esthetics and demagogy
susanna and the youngsters
from this meeting on, cæsar noticed that marchmont paid court to laura with much persistence. a light-hearted, coquettish woman, it pleased laura to be pursued by a person like this englishman, young, distinguished, and rich; but she was not prepared to yield. her bringing-up, her class-feelings impelled her to consider adultery a heinous thing. nor was divorce a solution for her, since accepting it would oblige her to cease being a catholic and to quarrel irrevocably with the cardinal. marchmont showed no discretion in the way he paid court to laura; he cared nothing about his wife, and talked of her with profound contempt....
laura found herself besieged by the englishman; she couldn’t decide to discourage him entirely, and at critical moments she would take the train, go off to naples, and come back two or three days later, doubtless with more strength for withstanding the siege.
“as a matter of reciprocal justice, since he makes love to my sister, i ought to make love to his wife,” thought cæsar, and he went several times to the hotel excelsior to call on susanna.
the yankee wife was full of complaints against her husband. her father had advised her simply to get a divorce, but she didn’t want to. she found such a solution lacking in distinction, and no doubt she considered the advice of an author in her own country very true, who had given this triple injunction to the students of a woman’s college: “do not drink, that is, do not drink too much; do not smoke, that is, do not smoke too much; and do not get married, that is, do not get married too much.”
it did not seem quite right to susanna to get married too much. besides she had a desire to become a catholic. one day she questioned cæsar about it:
“you want to change your religion!” exclaimed cæsar, “what for? i don’t believe you are going to find your lost faith by becoming a catholic.”
“and what do you think about it, kennedy?” susanna asked the young englishman, who was there too.
“to me a catholic woman seems doubly enchanting.”
“you would not marry a woman who wasn’t a catholic?”
“no, indeed,” the englishman proclaimed.
cæsar and kennedy disagreed about everything.
susanna discussed her plans, and constantly referred to paul bourget’s novel cosmopolis, which had obviously influenced her in her inclination for catholicism.
“are there many jewish ladies who aspire to be baptized and become catholics, as bourget says?” asked susanna.
“bah!” exclaimed cæsar.
“you do not believe that either?”
“no, it strikes me as a piece of naïvety in this good soul of a novelist. to become a catholic, i don’t believe requires more than some few pesetas.”
“you are detestable, as a cardinal’s nephew.”
“i mean that i don’t perceive that there are any obstacles to prevent anybody from becoming a catholic, as there are to prevent his becoming rich. what a high ambition, to aspire to be a catholic! while nobody anywhere does anything but laugh at catholics; and it has become an axiom: ‘a catholic country is a country bound for certain ruin.’”
kennedy burst out laughing.
susanna said that she had no real faith, but that she did have a great enthusiasm for churches and for choirs, for the smell of incense and religious music.
“spain is the place for all that,” said kennedy. “here in italy the church ceremonies are too gay. not so in spain; at toledo, at burgos, there is an austerity in the cathedrals, an unworldliness....”
“yes,” said cæsar; “unhappily we have nothing left there but ceremonies. at the same time, the people are dying of hunger.”
they discussed whether it is better to live in a decorative, esthetic sphere, or in a more humble and practical one; and susanna and kennedy stood up for the superiority of an esthetic life.
as they left the hotel cæsar said to kennedy:
“allow me a question. have you any intentions concerning mrs. marchmont?”
“why do you ask?”
“simply because i shouldn’t go to see her often, so as not to be in the way.”
“thank you ever so much. but i have no intentions in relation to her. she is too beautiful and too rich a woman for a modest employee like me to fix his eyes on.”
“bah! a modest diplomat! that is absurd. it is merely that you don’t take to her.”
“no. it’s because she is a queen. there ought to be some defect in her face to make her human.”
“yes; that’s true. she is too much of a prize beauty.”
“that is the defect in the yankee women; they have no character. the weight of tradition might be fatal to industry and modern life, but it is the one thing that creates the spirituality of the old countries. beyond contradiction american women have intelligence, beauty, energy, attractive flashes, but they lack that particular thing created by centuries: character. at times they have very charming impulses. have you heard the story about prince torlonia’s wife?”
“well, torlonia’s present wife was an american girl worth millions, who came with letters to the prince. he took her about rome, and at the end of some days he said to her, supposing that the beautiful american had the intention of marrying: ‘i will introduce some young noblemen to you’; and she answered: ‘don’t introduce anybody to me; because you please me more than anybody’; and she married him.”
“it was a pretty impulse.”
“yes, americans do things like that on the spur of the moment. but if you saw a spanish woman behave that way, it would seem wrong to you.”
chattering amicably they came to the piazza esedra.
“would you care to have lunch with me?” said kennedy.
“just what i was going to propose to you.”
“i eat alone.”
“i do not. i eat with my sister.”
“the marchesa di vaccarone?”
“then you must pardon me if i accept your invitation, for i am very anxious to meet her.”
“then come along.”
ruskin and the philistines
they reached the hotel and cæsar introduced his friend to laura.
“he is an admirer of yours.”
“a respectful admirer... from a distance,” explained kennedy.
“but are there admirers of that sort?” asked laura, laughing.
“here you have one,” said the englishman. “i have known you by sight ever since i came to rome, and have never had the pleasure of speaking to you until today.”
“and have you been here a long time?”
“nearly two years.”
“and do you like rome; eh?”
“i should say so! at first, i didn’t, i must admit. it was a disappointment to me. i had dreamed so much about rome!” and kennedy talked of the books and guides he had read about the eternal city.
“i must admit that i had never dreamed about rome,” said cæsar. “and you boast of that?” asked laura.
“no, i don’t boast of it, i merely state it. i understand how agreeable it is to know things. cæsar died here! cicero made speeches here! saint peter stumbled over this stone! it is fine! but not knowing things is also very comfortable. i am rather like a barbarian walking indifferently among monuments he knows nothing about.”
“doesn’t such an idea make you ashamed?”
“no, why? it would be a bother to me to know a lot of things offhand. to pass by a mountain and know how it was thrown up, what it is composed of, what its flora and fauna are; to get to a town and know its history in detail.... what things to be interested in! it’s tiresome! i hate history too much. i far prefer to be ignorant of everything, and especially the past, and from time to time to offer myself a capricious, arbitrary explanation.”
“but i think that knowing things not only is not tiresome,” said kennedy, “but is a great satisfaction.”
“you think even learning things is a satisfaction?”
“thousands of years ago one could know things almost without learning them; nowadays in order to know, one has to learn. that is natural and logical.”
“yes, certainly. and the effort to learn about useful things seems natural and logical to me too, but not to learn about merely agreeable things. to learn medicine and mechanics is logical; but to learn to look at a picture or to hear a symphony is an absurdity.”
“at any rate the neophytes that go to see a rafael picture or to hear a bach sonata and have an exclamation all ready, give me the sad impression of a flock of lambs. as for your sublime pedagogues of the ruskin type, they seem to me to be the fine flower of priggishness, of pedantry, of the most objectionable bourgeoisie.”
“what things your brother is saying!” exclaimed kennedy.
“you shouldn’t notice him,” said laura.
“those artistic pedagogues enrage me; they remind me of protestant pastors and of the friars that go around dressed like peasants, and who i think are called brothers of the christian doctrine. the pedagogues are brothers of the esthetic doctrine, one of the stupidest inventions that ever occurred to the english. i don’t know which i find more ridiculous, the salvation army or ruskin’s books.”
“why have you this hatred for ruskin?”
“i find him an idiot. i only skimmed through a book of his called the seven lamps of architecture, and the first thing i read was a paragraph in which he said that to use an imitation diamond or any other imitation stone was a lie, an imposition, and a sin. i immediately said: ‘this man who thinks a diamond is the truth and paste a lie, is a stupid fool who doesn’t deserve to be read.’”
“yes, all right: you take one point of view and he takes another. i understand why ruskin wouldn’t please you. what i do not understand is why you find it absurd that if a person has a desire to penetrate into the beauties of a symphony or a picture, he should do so. what is there strange in that?”
“you are right,” said cæsar; “whoever wants to learn, should. i have done so about financial questions.”
“is it true that your brother knows all about questions of money?” kennedy asked laura.
“he says so.”
“i haven’t much belief in his financial knowledge.”
“no, i have not. you are a sort of dilettante, half nihilist, half financier. you would like to pass for a tranquil, well-balanced man, for what is called a philistine, but you cannot compass it.”
“i will compass it. it is true that i want to be a philistine, but a philistine out in the real world. all those great artists you people admire, goethe, ruskin, were really philistines, who were in the business of being interested in poetry and statues and pictures.”
“moncada, you are a sophist,” said kennedy. “possibly i am wrong in this discussion,” retorted cæsar, “but the feeling i have is right. artists irritate me; they seem to me like old ladies with a flatulency that prevents their breathing freely.”
kennedy laughed at the definition.
chic and the revolution
“i understand hating bad kings and conquerors; but artists! what harm do they do?” said laura.
“artists are always doing harm to the whole of humanity. they have invented an esthetic system for the use of the rich, and they have killed the revolution. the chic put an end to the revolution. and now everything is coming back; enthusiasm for the aristocracy, for the church; the cult of kings. people look backward and the revolutionary movement is paralysed. the people that irritate me most are those esthetes of the ruskin school, for whom everything is religious: having money, buying jewels, blowing one’s nose... everything is religious. vulgar creatures, lackeys that they are!”
“my brother is a demagogue,” said laura ironically.
“yes,” added kennedy; “he doesn’t like categories.”
“but each thing has its value whether he likes it or not.”
“i do not deny different values, or even categories. there are things of great value in life; some natural, like youth, beauty, strength; others more artificial, like money, social position; but this idea of distinction, of aristocratic fineness, is a farce. it is a literary legend in the same style as the one current in novels, which tells us that the aristocrats of old families close their doors to rich americans, or like that other story mrs. marchmont was talking to us of, about the jewish ladies who were crazy to become catholics.”
“i don’t see what you are trying to prove by all this,” said laura.
“i am trying to prove that all there is underneath distinguished society is money, for which reason it doesn’t matter if it is destroyed. the cleverest and finest man, if he has no money, will die of hunger in a corner. smart society, which thinks itself superior, will never receive him, because being really superior and intelligent is of no value on the market. on the other hand, when it is a question of some very rich brute, he will succeed in being accepted and fêted by the aristocrats, because money has a real value, a quotable value, or i’d better say, it is the only thing that has a quotable value.”
“what you are saying isn’t true. a man doesn’t go with the best people merely because he is rich.”
“no, certainly; not immediately. there is a preparatory process. he begins by robbing people in some miserable little shop, and feels himself democratic. then he robs in a bank, and at that period he feels that he is a liberal and begins to experience vaguely aristocratic ideas. if business goes splendidly, the aristocratic ideas get crystallized. then he can come to rome and go into ecstasies over all the humbugs of catholicism; and after that, one is authorized to acknowledge that the religion of our fathers is a beautiful religion, and one finishes by giving a tip to the pope, and another to cardinal verry, so that they will make him prince of the ecumenical council or marquis of the holy crusade.”
“what very stupid and false ideas,” exclaimed laura. “really i appreciate having a brother who talks in such a vulgar way.”
“you are an aristocrat and the truth doesn’t please you. but such are the facts. i can see the chief of the bureau of papal titles. what fun he must have thinking up the most appropriate title for a magnate of yankee tinned beef or for an illustrious andean general! how magnificent it would be to gather all the bishops in partibus infidelium and all the people with papal titles in one drawing-room! the bishop of nicaea discussing with the marquis of the holy roman empire; the marchioness of easter sunday flirting with the bishop of sion, while the patriarchs of thebes, damascus, and trebizond played bridge with the sausage manufacturer, mr. smiles, the pork king, or with the illustrious general pérez, the hero of guachinanguito. what a moving spectacle it would be!”
“you are a clown!” said laura.
“he is a finished satirist,” added kennedy.
after lunch, laura, kennedy, and cæsar went into the salon, and laura introduced the englishman to the san martino girls and the countess brenda. they stayed there chatting until four o’clock, at which time the san martinos got ready to go out in a motor car, and laura, with the countess and her daughter, in a carriage.
cæsar and kennedy went into the street together.
“you are awfully well fixed here,” said kennedy, “with no americans, no germans, or any other barbarians.”
“yes, this hotel is a hive of petty aristocrats.”
“your sister was telling me that you might pick out a very rich wife here, among the girls.”
“yes, my sister would like me to live here, in a foreign country, in cowlike tranquillity, looking at pictures and statues, and travelling pointlessly. that wouldn’t be living for me; i am not a society man. i require excitement, danger.... though i warn you that i am not in the least courageous.”
“not at all. not now. at moments i believe i could control myself and take a trench without wavering.”
“but you have some fixed plan, haven’t you?”
“yes, i expect to go back to spain, and work there.”
“are you patriotic?”
“yes, up to a certain point. i have no transcendental idea of patriotism at all. patriotism, as i interpret it, is a matter of curiosity. i believe that there is strength in spain. if this strength could be led in a given direction, where would it get to? that is my form of patriotism; as i say, it is an experimental form.”
kennedy looked at cæsar with curiosity.
“and how can it help you with your plans to stay here in rome?” he asked.
“it can help me. in spain nobody knows me. this is the only place where i have a certain position, through being the nephew of a cardinal. i am trying to build on that. how am i going to arrange it? i don’t know. i am feeling out my future course, taking soundings.”
“but the support you could find here would be all of a clerical nature,” said kennedy.
“but you are not clerical!”
“no; but it is necessary for me to climb. afterwards there will be time to change.”
“you are not taking it into account, my dear cæsar, that the church is still powerful and that it doesn’t pardon people who impose upon it.”
“bah! i am not afraid of it.”
“and you were just saying you are not courageous! you are courageous, my dear man.... after this, i don’t doubt of your success.”
“i need data.”
“if i can furnish you with any....”
“wouldn’t it be disagreeable for you to help a man who is your enemy, so far as ideas go?”
“no; because i am beginning to have some curiosity too, as to whether you will succeed in doing something. if i can be of any use, let me know.”
“i will let you know.”
cæsar and kennedy took a walk about the streets, and at twilight they took leave of each other affectionately.
“i have arranged two interesting conferences for you,” said kennedy, a few days later.
“my dear man!”
“yes; one with cardinal spada, the other with the abbé tardieu. i have spoken to them both about you.”
“splendid! what kind of people are they?”
“cardinal spada is a very intelligent man and a very amiable one. at heart he is a liberal and fond of the french. as to the abbé tardieu, he is a very influential priest at the church of san luigi.”
after lunch they went direct to a solitary street in the old part of rome. at the door of the big, sad palace where cardinal spada lived, a porter with a cocked hat, a grey greatcoat, and a staff with a silver knob, was watching the few passers-by.
they went in by the broad entry-way, as far as a dark colonnaded court, paved with big flags which had grass between them.
in the middle of the court a fountain shot up a little way and fell into a stone basin covered with moss.
kennedy and cæsar mounted the wide monumental stairway; on the first floor a handsome glassed-in gallery ran around the court. the whole house had an air of solemnity and sadness. they entered the cardinal’s office, which was a large, sad, severe room.
monsignor spada was a vigorous man, despite his age. he looked frank and intelligent, but one guessed that there was a hidden bitterness and desolation in him. he wore a black cassock with red edges and buttons.
kennedy went close and was about to kneel to the cardinal, but he prevented him.
cæsar explained his ideas to the cardinal with modesty. he felt that this man was worthy of all his respect.
monsignor spada listened attentively, and then said that he understood nothing about financial matters, but that on principle he was in favour of having the administration of all the church’s property kept entirely at home, as in the time of pius ix. leo xiii had preferred to replace this paternal method by a trained bureaucracy, but the church had not gained anything by it, and they had lost credit through unfortunate negotiations, buying land and taking mortgages.
cæsar realized that it was useless to attempt to convince a man of the intelligence and austerity of the cardinal, and he listened to him respectfully.
monsignor spada conversed amiably, he escorted them as far as the door, and shook hands when they said good-bye.
the abbé tardieu
then they went to see the abbé tardieu. the abbé lived in the piazza. navona. his office, furnished in modern style, produced the effect of a violent contrast with cardinal spada’s sumptuous study, and yet brought it to mind. the abbé tardieu’s work-room was small, worldly, full of books and photographs.
the abbé, a tall young man, thin, with a rosy face, a long nose, and a mouth almost from ear to ear, had the air of an astute but jolly person, and laughed at everything said to him. he was liveliness personified. when they entered his office he was writing and smoking.
cæsar explained about his financial knowledge, and how he had gone on acquiring it, until he got to the point where he could discern a law, a system, in things where others saw nothing more than chance. the abbé tardieu promised that if he knew a way to utilize cæsar’s knowledge, he would send him word. in respect to giving him letters of introduction to influential persons in spain, he had no objection.
they took leave of the abbé.
“all this has to go slowly,” said kennedy.
“of course. one cannot insist that it should happen all at once.”
“if you have nothing to do, let’s take a walk,” said the englishman.
“if you like.”
“have you noticed the fountains in this square?”
“they are worth looking at.”
cæsar contemplated the central obelisk. it is set on top of a rock hollowed out like a cavern, in the mouth of which a lion is seen. afterwards they looked at the fountains at the ends of the square.
“the sculptures are by bernini,” explained kennedy. “bernini belonged to an epoch that has been very much abused by the critics, but nowadays he is much praised. he enchants me.”
“it is rather a mixed style, don’t you think?”
“the artist is not living?”
“for heaven’s sake, man! no.”
“well, if he were alive today they would employ him to make those gewgaws some people present to leading ladies and to the deputies of their district. he would be the king of the manufacturers of ornate barometers.”
“it is undeniable that bernini had a baroque taste.”
“he gives the impression of a rather pretentious and affected person.”
“yes, he does. he was an exuberant, luxuriant neapolitan; but when he chose he could produce marvels. haven’t you seen his saint teresa?”
“then you must see it. let’s take a carriage.”
they drove to the piazza san bernardo, a little square containing three churches and a fountain, and went into santa maria della vittoria.
kennedy went straight toward the high altar, and stopped to the left of it.
in an altar of the transept is to be seen a group carved in marble, representing the ecstasy of saint teresa. cæsar gazed at it absorbed. the saint is an attractive young girl, falling backward in a sensual spasm; her eyes are closed, her mouth open, and her jaw a bit dislocated. in front of the swooning saint is a little angel who smilingly threatens her with an arrow.
“well, what do you think of it?” said kennedy.
“it is wonderful,” exclaimed cæsar. “but it is a bedroom scene, only the lover has slipped away.”
“yes, that is true.”
“it really is pretty; you seem to see the pallor of the saint’s face, the circles under her eyes, the relaxation of all her muscles. then the angel is a little joker who stands there smiling at the ecstasy of the saint.”
“yes, that’s true,” said kennedy; “it is all the more admirable for the very reason that it is tender, sensual, and charming, all at once.”
“however, this sort of thing is not healthy,” murmured cæsar, “this kind of vision depletes your life-force. one wants to find the same things represented in works of art that one ought to look for in life, even if they are not to be found in life.”
“good! here enters the moralist. you talk like an englishman,” exclaimed kennedy. “let us go along.”
“i have to stop in at the french embassy a moment; then we can go where you like.”
corners of rome
they went back to the carriage, and having crossed through the centre of rome, got out in front of the farnese palace.
“i will be out inside of ten minutes,” said kennedy.
the farnese palace aroused great admiration in cæsar; he had never passed it before. by one of the fountains in the piazza, he stood gazing at the huge square edifice, which seemed to him like a die cut from an immense block of stone.
“this really gives me an impression of grandeur and force,” he said to himself. “what a splendid palace! it looks like an ancient knight in full armour, looking indifferently at everything, sure of his own worth.”
cæsar walked from one end of the piazza to the other, absorbed in the majestic pile of stone.
kennedy surprised him in his contemplation.
“now will you say that you are a good philistine?”
“ah, well, this palace is magnificent. here are grandeur, strength, overwhelming force.”
“yes, it is magnificent; but very uncomfortable, my french colleagues tell me.”
kennedy related the history of the farnese palace to cæsar. they went through the via del mascherone and came out into the via giulia.
“this via giulia is a street in a provincial capital,” said kennedy; “always sad and deserted; a cardinal or two who like isolation are still living here.”
at the entrance to the via dei farnesi, cæsar stopped to look at two marble tablets set into the wall at the two sides of a chapel door.
cut on the tablets were skeletons painted black; on one, the words: “alms for the poor dead bodies found in the fields,” and on the other: “alms for the perpetual lamp in the cemetery.”
“what does this mean?” said cæsar.
“that is the church of the orison of the confraternity of death. the tablets are modern.”
they passed by the “mascherone” again, and went rambling on until they reached the synagogue and the theatre of marcellus.
they went through narrow streets without sidewalks; they passed across tiny squares; and it seemed like a dead city, or like the outskirts of a village. in certain streets towered high dark palaces of blackish stone. these mysterious palaces looked uninhabited; the gratings were eaten with rust, all sorts of weeds grew on the roofs, and the balconies were covered with climbing plants. at corners, set into the wall, one saw niches with glass fronts. a painted madonna, black now, with silver jewels and a crown, could be guessed at inside, and in front a little lantern swung on a cord.
suddenly a cart would come down one of these narrow streets without sidewalks, driving very quickly and scattering the women and children seated by the gutter.
in all these poor quarters there were lanes crossed by ropes loaded with torn washing; there were wretched black shops from which an odour of grease exhaled; there were narrow streets with mounds of garbage in the middle. in the very palaces, now shorn of their grandeur, appeared the same decoration of rags waving in the breeze. in the theatre of marcellus one’s gaze got lost in the depths of black caves, where smiths stood out against flames.
this mixture of sumptuousness and squalor, of beauty and ugliness, was reflected in the people; young and most beautiful women were side by side with fat, filthy old ones covered with rags, their eyes gloomy, and of a type that recalled old african jewesses.
what can be read on walls
cæsar and kennedy went on toward the temple of vesta and followed the river bank until the tiber embankment ended.
here the banks were green and the river clearer and more poetic. to the left rose the aventine with its villas; in the harbour two or three tugs were tied up; and here and there along the pier stood a crane. evening was falling and the sky was filling with pink clouds.
they sat down awhile on the side of the road, and cæsar entertained himself deciphering the inscriptions written in charcoal on a mud-wall.
“do you go in for modern epigraphy?” asked kennedy.
“yes. it is one of the things i take pleasure in reading, in the towns i go to; the advertisements in the newspapers and the writings on the wall.”
“it’s a good kind of curiosity.”
“yes, i believe one learns more about the real life in a town from such inscriptions than from the guide- and text-books.”
“that’s possible. and what conclusions have you drawn from your observations?”
“they are not of much value. i haven’t constructed a science of wall-inscriptions, as that fake lambroso would have done.”
“but you will construct it surely, when you have lighted on the underlying system.”
“you think my epigraphical science is on the same level as my financial science. what a mistake!”
“all right. but tell me what you have discovered about different towns.”
“london, for instance, i have found, is childish in its inscriptions and somewhat clownish. when some sentimental foolishness doesn’t occur to a londoner of the people, some brutality or rough joke occurs to him.”
“you are very kind,” said kennedy, laughing.
“paris has a vulgar, cruel taste; in the frenchman of the people you find the tiger alternating with the monkey. there the dominant note on the walls is the patriotic note, insults to politicians, calling them assassins and thieves, and also sentiments of revenge expressed by an ‘a mort dupin!’ or ‘a mort duval!’ moreover, there is a great enthusiasm for the guillotine.”
“madrid is at heart a rude, moral town with little imagination, and the epigraphs on the walls and benches are primitive.”
“and in rome what do you find?”
“here one finds a mixture of pornography, romanticism, and politics. a heart pierced by an arrow and poetic phrases, alternate with some enormous piece of filthiness and with hurrahs for anarchy or for the ‘papa-re.’”
“well done!” said kennedy; “i can see that the branch of epigraphy you practise amounts to something. it should be systematized and given a name.”
“what do you think we should name it? wallography?”
“and one of these fine days we can systematize it. now we might go and get dinner.”
they took a tram which was coming back from st. paul’s beyond the walls, and returned to the heart of the city.
the monk with the red nose
the next day cæsar was finishing dressing when the servant told him that a gentleman was waiting for him.
“who is it?” asked cæsar.
“it’s a monk.”
cæsar went to the salon and there found a tall monk with an evil face, a red nose, and a worn habit.
cæsar recalled having seen him, but didn’t know where.
“what can i do for you?” asked cæsar.
“i come from his eminence, cardinal fort. i must speak with you.”
“let’s go into the dining-room. we shall be alone there.”
“it would be better to talk in your room.”
“no, there is no one here. besides, i have to eat breakfast. will you join me?”
“no, thanks,” said the monk.
cæsar remembered having seen that face in the altemps palace. he was doubtless one of the domestic monks who had been with the abbé preciozi.
the monk waited until the waiter was gone, and then said in a hard voice:
“his eminence the cardinal sent me to bid you not to present yourself anywhere again, giving his name.”
“what? what does this mean?” asked cæsar, calmly.
“it means that his eminence has found out about your intrigues and machinations.”
“intrigues? what intrigues were those?”
“you know perfectly well. and his eminence forbids you to continue in that direction.”
“his eminence forbids me to pay calls? and for what reason?”
“because you have used his name to introduce yourself into certain places.”
“it is not true.”
“you have told people you went to that you are cardinal fort’s nephew.”
“and i am not?” asked cæsar, after taking a swallow of coffee.
“you are trying to make use of the relationship, we don’t know with what end in view.”
“i am trying to make use of my relationship to cardinal fort? why shouldn’t i?”
“you admit it?”
“yes, i admit it. people are such imbeciles that they think it is an honour to have a cardinal in the family; i take advantage of this stupid idea, although i do not share it, because for me a cardinal is merely an object of curiosity, an object for an archeological museum....”
cæsar paused, because the monk’s countenance was growing dark. in the twilight of his pallid face, his nose looked like a comet portending some public calamity.
“poor wretch!” murmured the monk. “you do not know what you are saying. you are blaspheming. you are offending god.” “do you really believe that god has any relation to my uncle?” asked cæsar, paying more attention to his toast than to his visitor.
and then he added:
“the truth is that it would be extravagant behaviour on the part of god.”
the monk looked at cæsar with terrible eyes. those grey eyes of his, under their long, black, thick brows, shot lightning.
“poor wretch!” repeated the monk. “you ought to have more respect for things above you.”
“you are bothering me and preventing me from drinking my coffee,” he said, with exquisite politeness, and touched the bell.
“be careful!” exclaimed the monk, seizing cæsar’s arm with violence.
“don’t you touch me again,” said cæsar, pulling away violently, his face pale and his eyes flashing. “if you do, i have a revolver here with five chambers, and i shall take pleasure in emptying them one by one, taking that lighthouse you carry about for a nose, as my target.”
“fire it if you dare.”
fortunately the waiter had come in on hearing the bell.
“do you wish anything, sir?” he asked.
“yes, please escort this clerical gentleman to the door, and tell him on the way not to come back here.”
days later cæsar found out that there had been a great disturbance at the altemps palace in consequence of the calls he had made. preciozi had been punished and sent away from rome, and the various spanish monasteries and colleges warned not to receive cæsar.
“my dear cæsar,” said kennedy, “i believe it will be very difficult for you to find what you want by looking for it. you ought to leave it a little to chance.”
“abandon myself to events as they arrive? all right, it seems a good idea.”
“then if you find something practicable, utilize it.”
kennedy took his friend to a statue-shop where he used to pass some of his hours. the shop was in a lane near the forum, and its stock was in antiques, majolicas, and plaster casts of pagan gods.
the shop was dark and rather gloomy, with a small court at the back covered with vines. the proprietor was an old man, with a moustache, an imperial, and a shock of white hair. his name was giovanni battista lanza. he professed revolutionary ideas and had great enthusiasm about mazzini. he expressed himself in an ironical and malicious manner.
signora vittoria, his wife, was a grumbling old woman, rather devoted to wine. she spoke like a roman of the lowest class, was olive-coloured and wrinkled, and of her former beauty there remained only her very black eyes and hair that was still black.
the daughter, simonetta, a girl who resembled her father, blond, with the build of a goddess, was the one that waited on customers and kept the accounts.
simonetta, being the manager, divided up the profits; the elder son was head of the workshop and he made the most money; then came two workmen from outside; and then the father who still got his day’s wages, out of consideration for his age; and finally the younger son, twelve or fourteen years old, who was an apprentice.
simonetta gave her mother what was indispensable for household expenses and managed the rest herself.
kennedy retailed this information the first day they went to giovanni battista lanza’s house. cæsar could see simonetta keeping the books, while the small brother, in a white blouse that came to his heels, was chasing a dog, holding a pipe in his hand by the thick part, as if it were a pistol, the dog barking and hanging on to the blouse, the small boy shrieking and laughing, when signora vittoria came bawling out.
kennedy presented simonetta to his friend cæsar, and she smiled and gave her hand.
“is signore giovanni battista here?” kennedy asked signora vittoria.
“yes, he is in the court.” she answered in her gloomy way.
“is something wrong with your mamma?” said kennedy to simonetta.
they went into the court and giovanni battista arose, very dignified, and bowed to cæsar. the elder son and the two workmen in white blouses and paper caps were busy with water and wires, cleaning a plaster mould they had just emptied.
the mould was a big has-relief of the way of the cross. giovanni battista permitted himself various jocose remarks about the way of the cross, which his son and the other two workmen heard with great indifference; but while he was still emptying his store of anti-christian irony, the voice of signora vittoria was heard, crying domineeringly:
“what is it?”
“that’s enough, that’s enough! i can hear you from here.”
“that’s my wife,” said giovanni battista, “she doesn’t like me to be lacking in respect for plaster saints.” “you are a pagan!” screamed the old woman. “you shall see, you shall see what will happen to you.”
“what do you expect to have happen to me, darling?”
“leave her alone,” exclaimed the elder son, ill at ease; “you always have to be making mother fly into a rage.”
“no, my boy, no; she is the one who makes me fly into a rage.”
“giovanni battista is used to living among gods,” said kennedy, “and he despises saints.”
“no, no,” replied the cast-maker; “some saints are all right. if all the churches had figures by donatello or robbia, i would go to church oftener; but to go and look at those statues in the jesuit churches, those figures with their arms spread and their eyes rolling.... oh, no! i cannot look at such things.”
cæsar could see that giovanni battista expressed himself very well; but that he was not precisely a star when it came to working. after the mould for the bas-relief was cleaned and fixed, the cast-maker invited cæsar and kennedy to have a glass of wine in a wine-shop near by.
“how’s this, are you leaving already, father?” said simonetta, as he went through the shop to get to the street.
“i’m coming back, i’m coming back right away.”
the three of them went to a rather dirty tavern in the same lane, and settled themselves by the window. this post was a good point of observation for that narrow street, so crowded and so picturesque.
workmen went by, and itinerant vendors, women with kerchiefs, half head-dress and half muffler, and with black eyes and expressive faces. opposite was a booth of coloured candies, dried figs strung on a reed, and various kinds of sweets.
a wine-cart passed, and kennedy made cæsar observe how decorative it was with its big arm-seat in the middle and its hood above, like a prompter’s box.
giovanni battista ordered a flask of wine for the three of them. while he chatted and drank, friends of his came to greet them. they were men with beards, long hair, and soft hats, of the garbaldi and verdi type so abundant in italy.
among them were two serious old men; one was a model, a native of frascati, with the face of a venerable apostle; the other, for contrast, looked like a buffoon and was the possessor of a grotesque nose, long, thin at the end and adorned with a red wart.
“my wife has a deadly hatred for all of them,” said giovanni battista, laughing.
“and why so?” asked cæsar.
“because we talk politics and sometimes they ask me for a few pennies....”
“your wife must have a lively temper,...” said cæsar.
“yes, an unhappy disposition; good, awfully good; but very superstitious. christianity has produced nothing but superstitions.”
“giovanni battista is a pagan, as his wife well says,” asserted kennedy.
“what superstitions has your wife?” asked cæsar.
“all of them. romans are very superstitious and my wife is a roman. if you see a hunchback, it is good luck; if you see three, then your luck is magnificent and you have to swallow your saliva three times; on the other hand, if you see a humpbacked woman it is a bad omen and you must spit on the ground to keep away the jettatura. three priests together is a very good sign. we ought all to get along very well in rome, because we see three and up to thirty priests together.”
“a spider is also very significant,” said kennedy; “in the morning it is of bad augury, and in the evening good.”
“and at noon?” asked cæsar.
“at noon,” answered lanza, laughing, “it means nothing to speak of. but if you wish to make sure whether it is a good auspice or a bad, you kill the spider and count its legs. if they are an even number, it is a good omen; if uneven, bad.”
“but i believe spiders always have an even number of legs,” said cæsar.
“certainly,” responded the old man; “but my wife swears they do not; that she has seen many with seven and nine legs. it is religious unreasonableness.”
“are there many people like that, so credulous?” asked cæsar.
“oh, lots,” replied lanza; “in the shops you will find amulets, horns, hands made of coral or horseshoes, all to keep away bad luck. my wife and the neighbour women play the lottery, by combining the numbers of their birthdays, and the ages of their fathers, their mothers, and their children. when some relative dies, they make a magic combination of the dates of birth and death, the day and the month, and buy a lottery ticket. they never win; and instead of realizing that their systems are of no avail, they say that they omitted to count in the number of letters in the name or something of that sort. it is comical, so much religion and so much superstition.”
“but you confuse religion and superstition, my friend,” said kennedy.
“it’s all the same,” answered the old man, smiling his suavely ironical smile. “there is nothing except nature.”
“you do not believe in miracles, giovanni battista?” asked the englishman.
“yes, i believe in the earth’s miracles, making trees and flowers grow, and the miracle of children’s being born from their mothers. the other miracles i do not believe in. what for? they are so insignificant beside the works of nature!”
“he is a pagan,” kennedy again stated.
they were chatting, when three young lads came into the tavern, all three having the air of artists, black clothes, soft hats, flowing cravats, long hair, and pipes. “two of them are fellow-countrymen of yours,” kennedy told cæsar.
“they are spanish painters,” the old man added. “the other is a sculptor who has been in the argentine, and he talks spanish too.”
the three entered and sat down at the same table and were introduced to cæsar. everybody chattered. buonacossi, the italian, was a real type. of very low stature, he had a giant’s torso and strong little legs. his head was like a woe-begone eagle, his nose hooked, thin, and reddish, eyes round, and hair black.
buonacossi proved to be gay, exuberant, changeable, and full of vehemence.
he explained his artistic ideas with picturesque warmth, mingling them with blasphemies and curses. things struck him as the best or the worst in the world. for him there doubtless were no middle terms.
one of the two spaniards was serious, grave, jaundiced, sour-visaged, and named cortés; the other, large, ordinary, fleshy, and coarse, seemed rather a bully.
giovanni battista was not able to be long outside the workshop, no doubt because his conscience troubled him, and though with difficulty, he got up and left. kennedy, cæsar, and the two spaniards went toward the piazza, del campidoglio, and buonacossi marched off in the opposite direction.
on reaching the via nazionale, kennedy took his leave and cæsar remained with the two spaniards. the red, fleshy one, who had the air of a bully, started in to make fun of the italians, and to mimic their bows and salutes; then he said that he had an engagement with a woman and made haste to take his leave.
when he had gone, the grave spaniard with the sour face, said to cæsar:
“that chap is like the dandies here; that’s why he imitates them so well.”
afterwards cortés talked about his studies in painting; he didn’t get on well, he had no money, and anyway rome didn’t please him at all. everything seemed wrong to him, absurd, ridiculous.
cæsar, after he had said good-bye to him, murmured: “the truth is that we spaniards are impossible people.”
xvi. the portrait of a pope
two or three days later cæsar met the spaniard cortés in the piazza colonna. they bowed. the thin, sour-looking painter was walking with a beardless young german, red and snub-nosed. this young man was a painter too, cortés said; he wore a green hat with a cock’s feather, a blue cape, thick eyeglasses, big boots, and had a certain air of being a blond chinaman.
“would you like to come to the doria gallery with us?” asked cortés.
“what is there to see there?”
“a stupendous portrait by velázquez.”
“i warn you that i know nothing about pictures.”
“nobody does,” cortés declared roundly. “everybody says what he thinks.”
“is the gallery near here?”
in company with cortés and the german with the green hat with the cock’s feather, cæsar went to the piazza del collegio romano, where the doria palace is. they saw a lot of pictures which didn’t seem any better to cæsar than those in the antique shops and the pawnbrokers’, but which drew learned commentaries from the german. then cortés took them to a cabinet hung in green and lighted by a skylight. there was nothing to be seen in the cabinet except the portrait of the pope. in order that people might look at it comfortably, a sofa had been installed facing it.
“is this the velázquez portrait?” asked cæsar.
“this is it.”
cæsar looked at it carefully. “that man had eaten and drunk well before his portrait was painted,” said cæsar; “his face is congested.”
“it is extraordinary!” exclaimed cortés. “it is something to see, the way this is done. what boldness! everything is red, the cape, the cap, the curtains in the background.... what a man!”
the german aired his opinions in his own language, and took out a notebook and pencil and wrote some notes.
“what sort of man was this?” asked cæsar, whom the technical side of painting did not preoccupy, as it did cortés.
“they say he was a dull man, who lived under a woman’s domination.”
“the great thing is,” murmured cæsar, “how the painter has left him here alive. it seems as if we had come in here to salute him, and he was waiting for us to speak. those clear eyes are questioning us. it is curious.”
“not curious,” exclaimed cortés, “but admirable.”
legend and history
cæsar went out of the cabinet, leaving the german and cortés seated on the sofa, absorbed in the picture; he looked at various paintings in the gallery, went back, and sat down, beside the artists.
“this portrait,” he said presently, “is like history by the side of legend. all the other paintings in the gallery are legend, ‘folk-lore,’ as i believe one calls it. this one is history.”
“that’s what it is. it is truth,” agreed cortés.
“yes, but there are people who do not like the truth, my friend. i tell you: this is a man of flesh, somewhat enigmatic, like nature herself, and with arteries in which blood flows; this is a man who breathes and digests, and not merely a pleasant abstraction; you, who understand such things, will tell me that the drawing is perfect, and the colour such as it was in reality; but how about the person who doesn’t ask for reality?”
“stendhal, the writer, was affected that way by this picture,” said cortés; “he was shocked at its being hung among masterpieces.”
“he found it bad, no doubt.”
“was this stendhal english?”
“ah, then, you needn’t be surprised. a frenchman has no obligation to understand anything that’s not french.”
“nevertheless he was an intelligent man.”
“did he perhaps have a good deal of veneration?”
“no, he boasted of not having any.”
“doubtless he did have without suspecting it. with a man who had no veneration, what difference would it make whether there was one bad thing among a lot of good ones?”
the german with the green hat, who understood something of the conversation, was indignant at cæsar’s irreverent ideas. he asked him if he understood latin, and cæsar told him no, and then, in a strange gibberish, half latin and half italian, he let loose a series of facts, dates, and numbers. then he asserted that all artistic things of great merit were german: greece. rome, gothic architecture, the italian renaissance, leonardo da vinci, velázquez, all german.
the data of the befeathered german were too much for cæsar, and he took his leave of the painters.
xvii. evil days
accompanied by kennedy, cæsar called repeatedly on the most auspicious members of the french clerical element living in rome, and found persons more cultivated than among the rough spanish monks; but, as was natural, nobody gave him any useful information offering the possibility of his putting his financial talents to the proof.
“something must turn up,” he used to say to himself, “and at the least opening we will dive into the work.”
cæsar kept gathering notes about people who had connections in spain with the black party in rome; he called several times on father herreros, despite his uncle’s prohibition, and succeeded in getting the monk to write to the marquesa de montsagro, asking if there were no means of making cæsar moneada, cardinal fort’s nephew, conservative deputy for her district.
the marquesa wrote back that it was impossible; the conservative deputy for the district was very popular and a man with large properties there.
when holy week was over, laura and the countess brenda and her daughter decided to spend a while at florence, and invited cæsar to accompany them; but he was quite out of harmony with the brenda lady, and said that he had to stay on in rome.
a few days later mme. dawson and her daughters left, and the san martinos and the marchesa sciacca; and an avalanche of english people and germans, armed with their red baedekers, took the hotel by storm. susanna marchmont had gone to spend some days at corfu.
in less than a week cæsar remained alone, knowing nobody in the hotel, and despite his believing that he was going to be perfectly indifferent about this, he felt deserted and sad. the influence of the springtime also affected him. the deep blue sky, cloudless, dense, dark, made him languish. instead of entertaining himself with something or other, he did scarcely anything all day long but walk.
two absurd men
“i have continually near me in the hotel,” wrote cæsar to alzugaray, “two absurd fellows: one is one of those stout red germans with a square head; the other a fine slim norwegian. the german, who is a captain in some service or other, is a restless man, always busy about what the devil i don’t know. he is constantly carrying about trunks and boxes, with the aid of a sorrowful valet, dressed in black, who appears to detest his position. the captain must devote the morning to doing gymnastics, for i hear him from my room, which is next to his, jumping and dropping weights on the floor, each of which must weigh half a ton, to judge by the noise they make.
“he does all this to vocal commands, and when some feat doesn’t go right he reprimands himself.
“this german isn’t still a moment; he opens the salon door, crosses the room, stands at the window, takes up a paper, puts it down. he is a type that makes me nervous.
“the norwegian at first appeared to be a reasonable man, somewhat sullen. he looked frowningly at me, and i watched him equally frowningly, and took him for a thinker, an ibsenite whose imagination was lost among the ice of his own country. now and then i would see him walking up and down the corridor, rubbing his hands together so continuously and so frantically that they made a noise like bones.
“suddenly, this gentleman is transformed as if by magic; he begins to joke with the servants, he seizes a chair and dances with it, and the other day i saw him alone in the salon marching around with a paper hat on his head, like children playing soldiers, and blowing on a cornet, also made of paper.” i stared at him in amazement, he smiled like a child, and asked if he was disturbing me.
“‘no, no, not in the least,’ i told him.
“i have asked in the hotel if this man is crazy, and they have told me that he is not, but is a professor, a man of science, who is known to have these strange fits of gaiety.
“another of the norwegian’s doings has been to compose a serenade, with a vulgar melody that would disgust you, and which he has dedicated ‘a la bella italia.’ he wrote the italian words himself, but as he knows no music, he had a pianist come here and write out his serenade. what he especially wants is that it should be full of sentiment; and so the pianist arranged it with directions and many pauses, which satisfied the norwegian. almost every night the serenade ‘a la bella italia’ is sung. somebody who wants to amuse himself goes to the piano, the norwegian strikes a languid attitude and chants his serenade. sometimes he goes in front of the piano, sometimes behind, but invariably he hears the storm of applause when it ends, and he bows with great gusto.
“i don’t know whether it’s the other people who are laughing at him, or he who is laughing at the others.
“the other day he said to me in his macaronic italian:
“‘mr. spaniard, i have good eyesight, good hearing, a good sense of smell, and... lots of sentiment.’
“i didn’t exactly understand what he meant me to think, and i didn’t pay any attention to him.
“it seems that the norwegian is going away soon, and as the day of his departure approaches, he grows funereal.”
the sadness of life
“i don’t know why i don’t go away,” cæsar wrote to his friend another time. “when i go out in the evening and see the ochre-coloured houses on both sides and the blue sky above, a horrible sadness takes me. these spring days oppress me, make me want to weep; it seems to me it would be better to be dead, leaving no tomb or name or other ridiculous and disagreeable thing, but disappearing into the air or the sea. it doesn’t seem natural; but i have never been so happy as one time when i was in paris sick, alone and with a fever. i was in an hotel room and my window looked into the garden of a fine house, where i could see the tops of the trees; and i transformed them into a virgin forest, wherein marvellous adventures happened to me.
“since then i have often thought that things are probably neither good nor bad, neither sad nor happy, in themselves; he who has sound, normal nerves, and a brain equally sound, reflects the things around him like a good mirror, and feels with comfort the impression of his conformity to nature; nowadays we who have nerves all upset and brains probably upset too, form deceptive reflections. and so, that time in paris, sick and shut in, i was happy; and here, sound and strong, when toward nightfall, i look at the splendid skies, the palaces, the yellow walls that take an extraordinary tone, i feel that i am one of the most miserable men on the planet....”
one sunday afternoon
his lack of tranquillity led cæsar to make absurd resolutions which he didn’t carry out.
one sunday in the beginning of april, he went out into the street, disposed to take a walk outside of rome, following the road anywhere it led. a hard, fine rain was falling, the sky was grey, the air mild, the streets were full of puddles, the shops closed; a few flower merchants were offering branches of almond in blossom.
cæsar was very depressed. he went into a church to get out of the rain. the church was full; there were many people in the centre of it; he didn’t know what they were doing. doubtless they were gathered there for some reason, although cæsar didn’t understand what. cæsar sat down on a bench, worn out; he would have liked to listen to organ music, to a boy choir. no ideas occurred to him but sentimental ones. some time passed, and a priest began to preach. cæsar got up and went into the street.
“i must get rid of these miserable impressions, get back to noble ideas. i must fight this sentimental leprosy.”
he started to walk with long strides through the sad, empty streets.
he went toward the river and met kennedy, who was coming back, he told him, from the studio of a sculptor friend of his.
“you look like desolation. what has happened to you?”
“nothing, but i am in a perfectly hellish humour.”
“i am melancholy too. it must be the weather. let’s take a walk.”
they went along the bank of the tiber. full of clay, more turbid than ever, and very high between the white embankments hemming it in, the river looked like a big sewer.
“this is not the ‘coeruleus tibris’ that virgil speaks of in the aeneld, which presented itself to aeneas in the form of an ancient man with his head crowned with roses,” said kennedy.
“no. this is a horrible river,” cæsar opined.
they followed the shore, passed the castel sant’ angelo and the bridge with the statues.
from the embankment, to the right, they could now see narrow lanes, sunk almost below the level of the river. on the other bank a new, white edifice towered in the rain.
they went as far as the piazza d’armi, and then came back at nightfall to rome. the rain was gradually ceasing and the sky looked less threatening. a file of greenish gaslights followed the river-wall and then crossed over the bridge.
they walked to the piazza del popólo and through the via babuino to the piazza di spagna.
“would you like to go to a benedictine abbey tomorrow?” asked kennedy.
“and if you are still melancholy, we will leave you there.”
the next day, after lunch, kennedy and cæsar went to visit the abbey of sant’ anselmo on the aventine. the abbot, hildebrand, was a friend of kennedy’s, and like him an englishman.
they took a carriage and kennedy told it to stop at the church of santa sabina.
“it is still too early to go to the abbey. let us look at this church, which is the best preserved of all the old roman ones.”
they entered the church; but it was so cold there that cæsar went out again directly and waited in the porch. there was a man there selling rosaries and photographs who spoke scarcely any italian or french, but did speak spanish. probably he was a jew.
cæsar asked him where they manufactured those religious toys, and the pedlar told him in westphalia.
kennedy went to look at a picture by sassoferrato, which is in one of the chapels, and meanwhile the rosary-seller showed the church door to cæsar and explained the different bas-reliefs, cut in cypress wood by greek artists of the v century, and representing scenes from the old and new testaments.
kennedy came back, they got into the carriage again, and they drove to the benedictine abbey.
“is the abbot hildebrandus here?” asked kennedy.
out came the abbot, a man of about fifty, with a gold cross on his breast. they exchanged a few friendly words, and the superior showed them the convent.
the refectory was clean and very spacious; the long table of shining wood; the floor made of mosaic. the crypt held a statue, which cæsar assumed must be of sant’ anselmo. the church was severe, without ornaments, without pictures; it had a primitive air, with its columns of fine granite that looked like marble. a monk was playing the harmonium, and in the opaque veiled light, the thin music gave a strange impression of something quite outside this life.
afterwards they crossed a large court with palm-trees. they went up to the second story, and down a corridor with cells, each of which had on the lintel the name of the patron saint of the respective monk. each door had a card with the name of the occupant of the room.
it looked more like a bath-house than a monastery. the cells were comfortable inside, without any air of sadness; each held a bed, a divan, and a small bookcase.
by a window at the end of the passage, one could see, far away, the alban hills, looking like a blue mountain-range, half hidden in white haze, and nearby one could see the trees in the protestant cemetery and the pyramid of caïus cestius close to them.
cæsar felt a sort of deep repugnance for the people shut up here, remote from life and protected from it by a lot of things.
“the man who is playing the harmonium in this church with its opaque light, is a coward,” he said to himself. “one must live and struggle in the open air, among men, in the midst of their passions and hatreds, even though one’s miserable nerves quiver and tremble.”
after showing them the monastery, the abbot hildebrand took them to his study, where he worked at revising ancient translations of the bible. he had photographic copies of all the latin texts and he was collating them with the original.
they talked of the progress of the church, and the abbot commented with some contempt on the worldly success of the jesuit churches, with their saints who serve as well to get husbands and rich wives as to bring winning numbers in the lottery.
before going out, they went to a window, at the other end of the corridor from where they had looked out before. below them they could see the tiber as far as the ripa harbour; opposite, the heights of the janiculum, and further, saint peter’s.
when they went out, kennedy said to cæsar:
“what devilish effect has the abbey produced in you, that you are so much gayer than when we went in?”
“it has confirmed me in my idea, which i had lost for a few days.”
“what idea is that?”
“that we must not defend ourselves in this life, but attack, always attack.”
“and now you are contented at having found it again?”
“i am glad, because you have such a pitiable air when you are sad. would you like to go to the priory of malta, which is only a step from here?”
they went down in the carriage to the priory of malta. they knocked at the gate and a woman came out who knew kennedy, and who told them to wait a moment and she would open the church.
“here,” said kennedy, “you have all that remains of the famous order of saint john of jerusalem. that anti-historic man bonaparte rooted it out of malta. the order attempted to establish itself in catania, and afterwards at ferrara, and finally took refuge here. now it has no property left, and all that remains are its memories and its archives.”
“that is how our descendants will see our holy mother the church. in chicago or boston some traveller will find an abandoned chapel, and will ask: ‘what is this? ‘and they will tell him: ‘this is what remains of the catholic church.’”
“don’t talk like an homais,” said kennedy.
“i don’t know who homais is,” retorted cæsar.
“an atheistical druggist in flaubert’s novel, madame bovary. haven’t you read it?”
“yes; i have a vague idea that i have read it. a very heavy thing; yes, ... i think i have read it.”
the woman opened the door and they went into the church. it was small, overcharged with ornaments. they saw the tomb of bishop spinelli and giotto’s virgin, and then went into a hall gay with red flags with a white cross, on whose walls they could read the names of the grand masters of the order of malta. the majority of the names were french and polish. two or three were spanish, and among them that of cæsar borgia.
“your countryman and namesake was also a grand master of malta,” said kennedy.
“so it seems,” replied cæsar with indifference. “i see that you speak with contempt of that extraordinary man. is he not congenial to you?”
“the fact is i don’t know his history.”
“how strange! we must go tomorrow to the borgia apartment in the vatican.”
they saw the model of an ancient galley which was in the same hall, and went out through the church into the garden planned by piranesi. the woman showed them a very old palm, with a hole in it made by a hand-grenade in the year ‘49. it had remained that way more than half a century, and it was only a few days since the trunk of the palm had broken.
from the garden they went, by a path between trees, to the bastion of paul iii, a little terrace, from which they could see the tiber at their feet, and opposite the panorama of rome and its environs, in the light of a beautiful spring sunshine....
xviii. cæsar borgia’s motto, “aut cæsar, aut nihil”
the next day was one of the days for visiting the borgia apartment. cæsar and kennedy met in the piazza di san pietro, went into the vatican museum, and walked by a series of stairs and passageways to the gallery of inscriptions.
then they went down to a hall, at whose door there were guards dressed in slashed clothes, which were parti-coloured, red, yellow, and black. some of them carried lances and others swords.
“why are the guards here dressed differently?” asked cæsar.
“because this belongs to the dominions of the pope.”
“and what kind of guards are these?”
“these are pontifical swiss guards.”
“they look comic-opera enough,” said cæsar.
“my dear man, don’t say that. this costume was designed by no one less than michelangelo.”
“all right. at that time they probably looked very well, but now they have a theatrical effect.”
“it is because you have no veneration. if you were reverential, they would look wonderful to you.”
“very well, let us wait and see whether reverence will not spring up in me. now, you go on and explain what there is here.”
“this first room, the hall of audience, or of the popes, does not contain anything notable, as you see,” said kennedy; “the five we are coming to later, have been restored, but are still the same as at the time when your countryman alexander vi was pope. all five were decorated by pinturicchio and his pupils, and all with reference to the borgias. the borgias have their history, not well known in all its details, and their legend, which is more extensive and more picturesque. really, it unconquerable.
"i should have climbed that peak long ago if you, miss torsen, hadn't forbidden me," said the lawyer.
"you'd never have made it," said mrs. molie in an indifferent tone. this was probably her revenge. she turned to the dane again as though ready to believe him capable of anything.
"i shouldn't want anyone to think of climbing that peak," said miss torsen. "it's as bare as a ship's mast."
"what if i tried it, gerda?" the manufacturer asked his wife with a smile. "after all, i'm an old sailor."
"nonsense," she said, smiling a little.
"well, i climbed the mast of a schooner last spring."
"i don't know, though--all this mountain climbing--i haven't much use for it," said the manufacturer.
"what did you do it for? what did you climb the mast for?" his wife repeated nervously.
the manufacturer laughed.
"the curiosity of the female sex--!"
"how can you do a thing like that! and what about me and the children if you--"
she broke off. her husband grew serious and took her hand.
"it was stormy, my dear; the sails were flapping, and it was a question of life and death. but i shouldn't have told you. well--we'd better say good night now, gerda."
then the first man from bergen made another speech.
the manufacturer stayed with us for the promised three days, and then made ready to travel again. his mood never changed; he was contented and entertaining the whole time. every evening one whisky and soda was brought him--no more. before their bedtime, his little girls had a wildly hilarious half-hour with him. at night a tremendous snoring could be heard from his cottage. before his arrival, the little girls had spent a good deal of time with me, but now they no longer knew i existed, so taken up with their father were they. he hung a swing for them between the two rowan trees in the field, taking care to pack plenty of rag under the rope so as not to injure the tree.
he also had a talk with paul; there were rumors that he was intending to take his money out of the tore peak resort. paul's head was bent now, but he seemed even more hurt that the manufacturer should have paid a visit to the cotters to see how they were getting on.
"so that's where he's gone?" he said. "well, let him stay there, for all i care!"
"i can't salute you," the manufacturer said to us, smiling. "i'm not allowed to say good-bye."
the children rejoiced at this and cried, "no, he can't have his arm back; mummy, you hold him tight, too!"
"scotland? what are you going to scotland for?" the children asked.
he twisted round and nodded to us.
"these women! all curiosity!" he said.
but none of his family laughed.
he continued to us:
"i was telling my wife a story about a rich man who was curious, too. he shot himself just to find out what comes after death. ha, ha, ha! that's the height of curiosity, isn't it? shooting yourself to find out what comes after death!"
but he could not make his family laugh at this tale, either. his wife stood still; her face was beautiful.
"so you're leaving now," was all she said.
mr. brede's porter came out with his luggage; he had stayed at the farm for these three days in order to be at hand.
then the manufacturer walked down through the field, accompanied by his wife and children.
i don't know--this man with his good humor and kindliness and money and everything, fond of his children, all in all to his wife--
was he really everything to his wife?
the first evening he wasted time on a party, and every night he wasted time in snoring. and so the three days and nights went by....
it is very pleasant here at harvest time. scythes are being sharpened in the field, men and women are at work; they go thinly clad and bareheaded, and call to one another and laugh; sometimes they drink from a bucket of whey, then set to work again. there is the familiar fragrance of hay, which penetrates my senses like a song of home, drawing me home, home, though i am not abroad. but perhaps i am abroad after all, far away from the soil where i have my roots.
why, indeed, do i stay here any longer, at a resort full of schoolmistresses, with a host who has once more said farewell to sobriety? nothing is happening to me; i do not grow here. the others go out and lie on their backs; i steal off and find relish in myself, and feel poetry within me for the night. the world wants no, poetry; it wants only verses that have not been sung before.
and norway wants no red-hot irons; only village smiths forge irons now, for the needs of the mob and the honor of the country.
no one came; the stream of tourists went up and down stordalen and left our little reisa valley deserted. if only the northern railway could have come to reisa with cook's and bennett's tours--then stordalen in its turn would have lain deserted. meanwhile, the cotters who are cultivating the soil will probably go on harvesting half the crop of the outlying fields for the rest of time. there is every reason to think so--unless our descendants are more intelligent than we, and refuse to be smitten with the demoralizing effects of the tourist traffic.
now, my friend, you mustn't believe me; this is the point where you must shake your head. there is a professor scuttling about the country, a born mediocrity with a little school knowledge about history; you had better ask him. he'll give you just as much mediocre information, my friend, as your vision can grasp and your brain endure.
hardly had manufacturer brede left when paul began to live a most irregular life again. more and more all roads were closed to him; he saw no way out and therefore preferred to make himself blind, which gave him an excuse for not seeing. seven of our permanent guests now left together: the telephone operators, tradesman batt, schoolmistresses johnsen and palm, and two men who were in some sort of business, i don't quite know what. this whole party went across the fjeld to stordalen to be driven about in cars.
cases of various kinds of foodstuffs arrived for paul; they were carried up one evening by a man from the village. he had to make several journeys with the side of his cart let down, and bring the cases over the roughest spots one by one. that was the kind of road it was. josephine received the consignment, and noticed that one of the cases gave forth the sound of a liquid splashing inside. that had come to the wrong place, she said, and writing another address on it, she told the man to take it back. it was sirup that had come too late, she said; she had got sirup elsewhere in the meantime.
later in the evening we heard them discussing it in the kitchen; the sirup had not come too late, paul said angrily.
"and i've told you to clear these newspapers away!" he cried. we heard the sound of paper and glass being swept to the floor.
well, things were not too easy for paul; the days went by dull and empty, nor had he any children to give him pleasant thoughts at times. though he wanted to build still more houses, he could not use half those he had already. there was mrs. brede living alone with her children in one of them, and since seven of the guests had left, miss torsen was also alone in the south wing. paul wanted at all costs to build roads and share in the development of the tourist traffic; he even wanted to run a fleet of motor cars. but since he had not the power to do this alone and could get no assistance, nothing was left him but to resign himself. and now to make matters worse manufacturer brede had said he would withdraw his money....
paul's careworn face looked out of the kitchen door. before going out himself he wanted to make sure there was no one about, but he was disappointed in this, for the lawyer at once greeted him loudly: "good evening, paul!" and drew him outside.
they strolled down the field in the dusk.
assuredly there is little to be gained by "having a good talk" with a man about his drinking; such matters are too vital to be settled by talking. but paul seems to have admitted that the lawyer was right in all he said, and probably left him with good resolutions.
paul went down to the village again. he was going to the post office; the money he had from the seven departed guests would be scattered to all quarters of the globe. and yet it was not enough to cover everything--in fact not enough for anything, for interest, repayments, taxes, and repairs. it paid only for a few cases of food from the city. and of course he stopped the case of sirup from going back.
paul returned blind-drunk because he no longer wished to see. it was the same thing all over again. but his brain seemed in its own way to go on searching for a solution, and one day he asked the lawyer:
"what do you call those square glass jars for keeping small fish in--goldfish?"
"do you mean an aquarium?"
"that's it," said paul. "are they dear?"
"i don't know. why?"
"i wonder if i could get one."
"what do you want it for?"
"don't you think it might attract people to the place? oh, well, perhaps it wouldn't."
and paul withdrew.
madder than ever. some people see flies. paul saw goldfish.
the lawyer is constantly in miss torsen's company; he even swings her in the children's swing, and puts his arm around her to steady her when the swing stops. solem watches all this from the field where he is working, and begins to sing a ribald song. certainly these two have so ill-used him that if he is going to sing improper songs in self-defense, this is the time to do it; no one will gainsay that. so he sang his song very loud, and then began to yodel.
but miss torsen went on swinging, and the lawyer went on putting his arm round her and stopping her....
it was a saturday evening. i stood talking to the lawyer in the garden; he didn't like the place, and wanted to leave, but miss torsen would not go with him, and going alone was such a bore. he did not conceal that the young woman meant something to him.
solem approached, and lifted his cap in greeting. then he looked round quickly and began to talk to the lawyer--politely, as became his position of a servant:
"the danish gentleman is going to climb the peak tomorrow. i'm to take a rope and go with him."
the lawyer was startled.
the blankness of the lawyer's face was a remarkable sight. his small, athletic brain failed him. a moment passed in silence.
"yes, early tomorrow morning," said solem. "i thought i'd tell you. because after all it was your idea first."
"yes, so it was," said the lawyer. "you're quite right. but now he'll be ahead of me."
solem knew how to get round that.
"no, i didn't promise to go," he said. "i told him i had to go to the village tomorrow."
"but we can't deceive him. i don't want to do that."
"pity," said solem. "everybody says the first one to climb the blue peak will be in all the papers."
"he'll take offense," the lawyer murmured, considering the matter.
but solem urged him on:
"i don't think so. anyhow, you were the first one to talk about it."
"everybody here will know, and i'll be prevented," said the lawyer.
"we can go at dawn," said solem.
in the end they came to an agreement.
"you won't tell anyone?" the lawyer said to me.
the lawyer was missed in the course of the morning; he was not in his room, and not in the garden.
"perhaps the danish mountaineer can tell us where he is," i said. but it transpired that the dane had not even thought of climbing the blue peak that day, and knew nothing whatever about the expedition.
this surprised me greatly.
i looked at the clock; it was eleven. i had been watching the peak through my field glasses from the moment i got up, but there was nothing to be seen. it was five hours since the two men had left.
at half-past eleven solem came running back; he was drenched in sweat and exhausted.
"come and help us!" he called excitedly to the group of guests.
"what's happened?" somebody asked.
"he fell off."
how tired solem was and drenched to the skin! but what could we do? rush up the mountainside and look at the accident too?
"can't he walk?" somebody asked.
"no, he's dead," said solem, looking from one to another of us as though to read in our faces whether his message seemed credible. "he fell off; he didn't want me to help him."
a few more questions and answers. josephine was already halfway across the field; she was going to the village to telephone for the doctor.
"we shall have to get him down," said the danish mountaineer.
so he and i improvised a stretcher; solem was instructed to take brandy and bandages to the site of the accident, and the bergensians, the associate master, miss torsen, and mrs. molie went with him.
"did you really say nothing to solem about climbing the peak today?" i asked the dane.
"no," he replied. "i never said a word about it. if i had meant to go, i should certainly not have wanted company...."
later that afternoon we returned with the lawyer on the stretcher. solem kept explaining all the way home how the accident had happened, what he had said and what the lawyer had said, pointing to objects on the way as though this stone represented the lawyer and that the abyss into which he had plunged.... solem still carried the rope he had not had a chance to use. miss torsen asked no more than anyone else, and made purely conventional comments: "i advised him against it, i begged him not to go...."
but however much we talked, we could not bring the lawyer back to life. strange--his watch was still going, but he himself was dead. the doctor could do nothing here, and returned to his village.
there followed a depressing evening. solem went to the village to send a telegram to the lawyer's family, and the rest of us did what we thought decent under the circumstances: we all sat in the living room with books in our hands. now and again, some reference would be made to the accident: it was a reminder, we said, how small we mortals were! and the associate master, who had not the soul of a tourist, greatly feared that this disaster would injure the resort and make things still more difficult for paul; people would shun a place where they were likely to fall off and be killed.
no, the associate master was no tourist, and did not understand the anglo-saxon mind.
paul himself seemed to sense that the accident might benefit him rather than do him harm. he brought out a bottle of brandy to console us on this mournful evening.
and since it was a death to which we owed this attention, one of the men from bergen made a speech.
the accident became widely known. newspapermen came from the city, and solem had to pilot them up the mountain and show them the spot where it had taken place. if the body had not been removed at once, they would have written about that, too.
children and ignoramuses might be inclined to think it foolish that solem should be taken from the work in the fields at harvest time, but must not the business of the tourist resort go before all else?
"solem, tourists!" someone called to him. and solem left his work. a flock of reporters surrounded him, asked him questions, made him take them to the mountains, to the river. a phrase was coined at the farm for solem's absences:
"solem's with death."
but solem was by no means with death; on the contrary, he was in the very midst of life, enjoying himself, thriving. once again he was an important personage, listened to by strangers, doling out information. nor did his audience now consist of ladies only--indeed, no; this was something new, a change; these were keen, alert gentlemen from the city.
to me, solem said:
"funny the accident should have happened just when the scratch on my nail has grown out, isn't it?"
he showed me his thumbnail; there was no mark on it.
the newspaper reporters wrote articles and sent telegrams, not only about the blue peak and the dreadful death, but about the locality, and about the tore peak resort, that haven for the weary, with its wonderful buildings set like jewels in the mountains. what a surprise to come here: gargoyles, living room, piano, all the latest books, timber outside ready for new jewels in their setting, altogether a magnificent picture of norway's modern farming.
yes, indeed, the newspapermen appreciated it. and they did their advertising.
the english arrived.
"where is solem?" they asked, and "where is the blue peak?" they asked.
"we ought to get the hay in," said josephine and the wife at the farm. "there'll be rain, and fifty cartloads are still out!"
that was all very well, but "where is solem?" asked the english. so solem had to go with them. the two casual laborers began to cart away the hay, but then the women had no one to help them rake. confusion was rife. everyone rushed wildly hither and thither because there was no one to lead them.
the weather stayed fine overnight; it was patient, slow-moving weather. as soon as the dew dried up, more hay would be brought in, perhaps all the hay. oh, we should manage all right.
more english appeared; and "solem--the blue peak?" they said. their perverse, sportsmen's brains tingled and thrilled; they had successfully eluded all the resorts on the way, and arrived here without being caught. there was the blue peak, like a mast against the sky! they hurried up so fast that solem was hardly able to keep pace with them. they would have felt for ever disgraced if they had neglected to stand on this admirable site of a disaster, this most excellent abyss. some said it would be a lifelong source of regret to them if they did not climb the blue peak forthwith; others had no desire but to gloat over the lawyer's death fall, and to shout down the abyss, gaping at the echo, and advancing so far out on the ledge that they stood with their toes on death.
but it's an ill wind that blows good to none, and the resort earned a great deal of money. paul began to revive again, and the furrows in his face were smoothed out. a man of worth grows strong and active with good fortune; in adversity he is defiant. one who is not defiant in adversity is worth nothing; let him be destroyed! paul stopped drinking; he even began to take an interest in the harvesting, and worked in the field in solem's place. if only he had begun when the weather was still slow and patient!
but at least paul began to tackle things in the right spirit again; he only regretted that he had set aside for the cotters those outlying fields from which they were used to getting half the hay; this year he would have liked to keep it himself. but he had given his word, and there was nothing to be done about it.
besides, it was raining now. haymaking had to stop; they could not even stack what had already been gathered. outside, three cartloads of fodder were going to waste.
before long the novelty of the tore peak resort wore off again. the newspapermen wrote and sent telegrams about other gratifying misfortunes, the death on the blue peak having lost its news value. it had been an intoxication; now came the morning after.
the danish mountaineer quite simply deserted. he strapped on his knapsack and walked across the field like one of the villagers, caring no more for the blue peak. the commotion he had witnessed in the last week had taught him a lesson.
and the tourists swarmed on to other places.
"what harm have i done them," paul probably thought, "that they should be going again? have i been too much in the fields and too little with them? but i greeted them humbly and took my man out of the harvesting work to help them...."
"there's what's left of your lawyer that fell off."
"ha, ha, ha, ha!" laughed the other sprout.
yes, truly, they had acquired dashing ways among their sporting acquaintances.
it rained for three weeks; then came two fine days, and then rain again for a fortnight. the sun was not to be seen, the sky was invisible, the mountain tops had disappeared; we saw nothing but rain. the roofs at the tore peak resort began to leak more and more.
the hay that still lay spread on the ground was black and rotting, and the stacks had gone moldy.
the cotters had got their hay indoors during the patient spell. they had carried it, man, woman, and child, on their backs.
the men from bergen and mrs. brede with her children have left for home. the little girls curtsied and thanked me for taking them walking in the hills and telling them stories. the house is empty now. associate master höy and mrs. molie were the last to go; they left last week, traveling separately, though both were going to the same small town.
he went by way of the village--a very roundabout route--while she crossed the field. it is very quiet now, but miss torsen is still here.
why do i not leave? don't know. why ask? i'm here. have you ever heard anyone ask: "how much is a northern light?" hold your tongue.
where should i go if i did leave? do you imagine i want to go to the town again? or do you think i'm longing for my old hut and the winter, and madame? i'm not longing for any specific place; i am simply longing.
of course i ought to be old enough to understand what all sensible norwegians know, that our country is once more on the right road. the papers are all writing about the splendid progress the tourist traffic has made in stordalen since the motor road was opened--ought i not to go there and feel gratified?
from old habit, i still take an interest in the few of us who are left; miss torsen is still here.
miss torsen--what more is there to be said about her? well, she does not leave; she stays here to complete the picture of the woman torsen, child of the middle class who has read schoolbooks all through her formative years, who has learned all about artemis cotula, but undernourished her soul. that is what she is doing here.
i remember a few weeks ago, when we were infested with englishmen, a young sprout coming down from the mountain top with a bloodstained rag which he threw on the ground, saying, "here's what's left of your lawyer that fell off!" miss torsen heard it, and never moved a muscle. no, she never mourned the death of the lawyer very keenly; on the contrary, she wrote off at once to ask another friend to come. when he came, he turned out to be a swaggering scatterbrain--a "free lance," he called himself in the visitors' book. i have not mentioned him before because he was less important than she; less important, in fact, than any of us. he was beardless and wore his collar open; heaven knows if he wasn't employed at a theater or in the films. miss torsen went to meet him when he came, and said, "welcome to our mountains," and "thanks for coming." so evidently she had sent for him. but why did she not leave? why did she seem to strike root in the place, and even ask others to come here? yet she had been the first to want to leave last summer! there was something behind this.
i muse on all this, and understand that her staying here is somehow connected with her carnal desires, with the fact that solem is still here. how muddled it all is, and how this handsome girl has been spoiled! i saw her not long ago, tall and proud, upright, untouched, walking intentionally close to solem, yet not replying to his greeting. did she suspect him of complicity in the death of the lawyer and avoid him for that reason? not in the least; she avoided him less than before, even letting him take her letters to the post office, which she had not done previously. but she was unbalanced, a poor thing that had lost her bearings. whenever she could, she secretly defiled herself with pitch, with dung; she sniffed at foulness and was not repelled.
one day, when solem swore a needlessly strong oath at a horse that was restless, she looked at him, shivered, and went a deep red. but she mastered herself at once, and asked josephine:
"isn't that man leaving soon?"
"yes," josephine replied, "in a few days."
though she had seized this opportunity to ask her question with a great show of indifference, i am certain it was an important one to her. she went away in silence.
yes, miss torsen stayed, for she was sexually bound to solem. solem's despair, solem's rough passion that she herself had inflamed, his brutality, his masculinity, his greedy hands, his looks--she sniffed at all this and was excited by it. she had grown so unnatural that her sexual needs were satisfied by keeping this man at a distance. the torsen type no doubt lies in her solitary bed at night, reveling in the sensation that in another house a man lies writhing for her.
but her friend, the actor? he was in no sense the other's equal. there was nothing of the bull in him, nothing of action, only the braggadocio of the theater....
here am i, growing small and petty with this life. i question solem about the accident. we are alone together in the woodshed.
why had he lied and said the dane wanted to climb the blue peak that unfortunate sunday morning?
solem looked at me, pretending not to understand.
i repeated my question.
solem denied he had said any such thing.
"i heard you," i said.
"no, you didn't," he said.
suddenly he dropped to the floor of the shed, convulsed, without shape, an outline merely; a few minutes passed before he got up again. when he was on his feet once more, pulling his clothes to rights, we looked at each other. i had no wish to speak to him further, and left him. besides, he was going away soon.
after this, everything was dull and empty again. i went out alone, aping myself and shouting: "bricks for the palace! the calf is much stronger today!" and when this was done, i did other nothings, and when my money began to run out, i wrote to my publisher, pretending i would soon send him an unbelievably remarkable manuscript. in short, i behaved like a man in love. these were the typical symptoms.
and to take the bull by the horns: no doubt you suspect me of dwelling on the subject of miss torsen out of self-interest? in that case i must have concealed well in these pages that i never think of her except as an object, as a theme; turn back the pages and you will see! at my age, one does not fall in love without becoming grotesque, without making even the pharaohs laugh.
but there is one thing i cannot finish doing, and that is withdrawing to my room, and sitting alone with the good darkness round me. this, after all, is the last pleasure.
miss torsen and her actor are walking this way; i hear their footsteps and their voices; but since i am sitting in the dark of the evening, i cannot see them. they stop outside my open window, leaning against it, and the actor says something, asks her to do something she does not want to do, tries to draw her with him; but she resists.
then he grows angry.
"what the devil did you send for me for?" he asks roughly.
and she begins to weep and says:
"so that's all you've come for! oh, oh! but i'm not like that at all. why can't you leave me alone? i'm not hurting you."
am i one who understands women? self-deception. vain boasting. i made my presence known then because her weeping sounded so wretched; i moved a chair and cleared my throat.
the sound caught his attention at once, and he hushed her, trying to listen; but she said:
"no, it was nothing...."
but she knew very well this was not true; she knew what the sound was. it was not the first time miss torsen used this trick with me; she had often pretended that she thought i was not within hearing, and then created some such delicate situation. each time i had promised myself not to intervene; but she had not wept before; now she wept.
why did she use these wiles? to clear herself in my eyes--mine, the eyes of a settled man--to make me believe how good she was, how well-behaved! but, dear child, i knew that before; i could see it from your hands! you are so unnatural that in your seven and twentieth year, you walk unmarried, barren and unopen!
the pair drifted away.
and there is something else i cannot finish doing: withdrawing into solitude in the woods, alone with the good darkness round me. this is the last pleasure.
one needs solitude and darkness, not because one flees the company of others and can endure only one's own, but because of their quality of loftiness and religion. strange how all things pass distantly, yet all is near; we sit in an omnipresence. it must be god. it must be ourselves as a part of all things.
what would my heart, where would i stray? shall i leave the forest behind me? it was my home but yesterday; now toward the city i wend my way; to the darkness of night i've resigned me.
the world round me sleeps as i tarry, alone, soothing my ear with its quiet. how large and gray is the city of stone in which the many all hopes enthrone! shall i, too, accept their fiat?
hark! do the bells ring on the hillside?
back to the peace of the forest i turn in the nightly hour that's hoarest. there's a sweet-smelling hedgerow to which i yearn; i shall rest my head on heather and fern, and sleep in the depths of the forest.
hark, how the bells ring on the hillside!
romantic? yes. mere sentimentality, mood, rhyme--nothing? yes.
it is the last happiness.
the sun has returned. not darkly glowing and regal--more than that: imperial, because it is flaming. this you do not understand, my friend, whatever the language in which it is dished up for you. but i say there is an imperial sun in the sky.
it's a good day for going to the woods; it is sweeping time, for the woods are full of yellow things that have come suddenly into being. a short time ago they were not there, or i did not see them, or they had the earth's own complexion. there is something unborn about them, like embryos in an early stage. but if i whirl them about, they are miracles of fulfillment.
here are fungi of every sort, mushrooms and puffballs. how close is the poisonous mushroom to the happy family of the edible mushroom, and how innocently it stands there! yet it is deadly. what magnificent cunning! a spurious fruit, a criminal, habitual vice itself, but preening in splendor and brilliance, a very cardinal of fungi. i break off a morsel to chew; it is good and soft on the tongue, but i am a coward and spit it out again. was it not the poisonous mushroom that drove men berserker? but in the dawn of our own day, we die of a hair in the throat.
the sun is already setting. far up the mountainside are the cattle, but they are moving homeward now; i can hear by their bells that they are moving. tinkling bells and deep-mouthed bells, sometimes sounding together as though there were a meaning in it, a pattern of tones, a rapture.
and rapture, too, to see all the blades of grass and the tiny flowers and plants. beside me where i lie is a small pod plant, wonderfully meek, with tiny seeds pushing out of the pod--god bless it, it's becoming a mother! it has got caught in a dry twig and i liberate it. life quivers within it; the sun has warmed it today and called it to its destiny. a tiny, gigantic miracle.
now it is sunset, and the woods bend under a rustling that passes through them sweet and heavy; it is the evening.
i lie for another hour or two; the birds have long since gone to rest, and darkness falls thick and soft.... as i walk homeward, my feet feel their way and i hold my hands before me till i reach the field, where it is a little lighter. i walk on the hay that has been left outdoors; it is tough and black, and i slip on it because it is already rotting. as i approach the houses, bats fly noiselessly past me, as though on wings of foam. a slight shudder convulses me whenever they pass.
a man is walking here. i can see him against the wall of the new house. he has on a coat that looks like the actor's raincoat, but it is not the little comedian himself. there he goes, into the house, right into the house. it is solem.
"why, that's where she sleeps!" i think. "ah, well. alone in the building, in the south wing, miss torsen alone--yes, quite alone. and solem has just gone in."
i stand there waiting to be at hand, to rush in to the rescue, for after all i am a human being, not a brute. several minutes pass. he has not even bothered to be very quiet, for i hear him clicking the key in the lock. surely i ought to hear a cry now? i hear nothing, nothing; a chair scraping across the floor, that is all.
"but good heavens, he may do her some harm! he may injure her; he may overpower her with rape! ought i not to tap on the window? i--what for? but at the very first cry, i shall be on the spot, take my word for it."
not a single cry.
the hours pass; i have settled down to wait. of course i cannot go my way and desert a helpless woman. but the hours wear on. a very thorough business in there, nothing niggardly about this; it is almost dawn. it occurs to me that he may be killing her, perhaps has killed her already; i am alarmed and about to get up--when the key clicks in the lock again and solem emerges. he does not run, but walks back the way he came, down to the veranda of my own house. there he hangs the actor's raincoat where it hung before, and emerges again. but this time he is naked. he has been naked under the coat all this time. is it possible? why not? no inhibitions, no restraint, no covering; solem has thought it all out. now, stark naked, he stalks to his room.
what a man!
i sit thinking and collecting myself and regaining my wits. what has happened? the south wing is still wrapped in silence, but the lady is not dead; i can see that from solem's fearless manner as he goes to his room, lights the lamp, and goes to bed.
it relieves me to know she is alive, revives me, and makes me superlatively brave: if he has dared to kill her, i will report it at once. i shall not spare him. i shall accuse him of both her death and the lawyer's. i shall go further: i shall accuse others--the thief of last winter, the man that stole the sides of bacon from a tradesman and sold me rolls of tobacco out of his bag. no, i shall not keep silence about anything then....
when it grew light, solem went to the kitchen, had his breakfast, settled his business with paul and the women, and returned to his room. he was in no hurry; though it was no longer early in the day, he took his time about tying his bundles, preparatory to leaving. lingeringly he looked into the windows of the south wing as he passed.
then solem was gone.
a little later miss torsen came in to breakfast. she asked at once about solem. and why might she be so interested in solem? she had certainly stopped in her room intentionally so as to give him time to leave; if she wanted to see him she could have been here long ago. but was it not safest to seem a little angry? supposing, night owl that i was, that i had seen something!
"where is solem?" she asked indignantly.
"solem has gone now," josephine replied.
"lucky for him!"
"why?" asked josephine.
"oh, he's a dreadful creature!"
how agitated she was! but in the course of the day she calmed down. her anger dissolved, and there was neither weeping nor a scene; only she did not walk proudly, as was her habit, but preferred to sit in silence.
that passed too; she roused herself briskly soon after solem's departure, and in a few days she was the same as ever. she took walks, she talked and laughed with us, she made the actor swing her in the children's swing, as in the lawyer's day....
i went out one evening, for there was good weather and darkness for walking; there was neither a moon nor stars. the gentle ripple of the little reisa river was all the sound i heard; there were god and goethe and über allen gipfeln ist ruh' that night. on my return, i was in the mood to walk softly and on tiptoe, so i undressed and went to bed in the dark.
then they came again to my window, those two lunatics, the lady and the actor. what next? but it was not he that chose this spot; of that i was sure. she chose it because she was convinced i had returned. there was something she wanted me to hear.
why should i listen to him still pleading with her?
"i've had enough of this," he said. "i'm leaving tomorrow."
"oh, well...." she said. "no, let's not tonight," she added suddenly; "some other time. yes? in a few days? we'll talk about it tomorrow. good night."
for the first time it struck me: she wants to rouse you, too, settled man though you are; she wants to make you as mad as the others! that's what she's after!
and now i remember, before the lawyer arrived, when there was tradesman batt--i remember how during his first few days here, she would give me a kind word or a look that was quite out of the picture, and as unmistakable as her pride would permit. no, she had no objections to seeing old age wriggle. and listen to this: before this she had been intent to show a well-behaved indifference to sex, but that was finished; was she not at this moment resisting only faintly, and raising definite hopes? "not tonight, but some other time," she had said. yes, a half-refusal, a mere postponement, that i was meant to hear. she was corrupt, but she was also cunning, with the cunning of a madman. so corrupt.
dear child, pharaoh laughs before his pyramids; standing before his pyramids he laughs. he would laugh at me, too.
next day we three remaining guests were sitting in the living room. the lady and the actor read one book; i read another.
"will you," she says to him, "do me a great favor?"
"would you go out in the grounds where we sat yesterday and fetch my galoshes?"
so he went out to do her this great favor. he sang a well-known popular song as he crossed the yard, cheerful in his own peculiar way.
she turned to me.
"you seem silent."
"yes, you're very silent."
"listen to this," i said, and began to read to her from the book i held in my hands. i read a longish bit.
she tried to interrupt me several times, and at length said impatiently:
"what is this you want me to listen to?"
"the musketeers. you must admit it's entertaining."
"i've read it," she said. and then she began to clasp her hands and drag them apart again.
"then you must hear something you haven't read before," i replied, and went across to my room to fetch a few pages i had written. they were only a few poems--nothing special, just a few small verses. not that i am in the habit of reading such things aloud, but i seized on this for the moment because i wanted to prevent her from humbling herself, and telling me anything more.
while i was reading the poems to her, the actor returned.
"i couldn't find any galoshes there," he said.
"no?" she replied absently.
"no, i really looked everywhere, but...."
she got up and left the room.
he looked after her in some surprise, and sat still for a moment. then it occurred to him.
"i believe her galoshes are in the passage outside her door," he said, and hurried after her.
i sat back, thinking it over. there had been a sweetness in her face as she said, "yes, you're very silent." had she seen through me and my pretext for reading to her? of course she had. she was no fool. i was the fool, nobody else. i should have driven a sportsman to despair. some practice the sport of making conquests and the sport of making love, because they find it so agreeable; i have never practiced sport of any kind. i have loved and raged and suffered and stormed according to my nature--that is all; i am an old-fashioned man. and here i sit in the shadow of evening, the shadow of the half-century. let me have done!
the actor returned to the living room confused and dejected. she had turned him out; she had wept.
i was not surprised, for it was the mode of expression of her type.
"have you ever heard the like of it? she told me to get out! i shall leave tomorrow."
"have you found the galoshes?" i asked.
"of course," he replied. "they were right in the passage. 'here they are,' i said to her. 'yes, yes,' she said. 'right under your nose,' i said. 'yes, yes, go away,' she said, and began to cry. so i went away."
"she'll get over it."
"do you think so? yes, i expect she will. oh, well, it's my opinion nobody can understand women, anyhow. but they're a mighty sex, the women, a mighty sex. they certainly are."
he sat on a while, but he had no peace of mind, and soon went out again.
that evening the lady was in the dining room before us; she was there when we came in, and we all nodded slightly in greeting. to the actor she was very kind, quite making up for her petulance of the afternoon.
when he sat down he found a letter in his table napkin: a written note folded into the napkin. he was so surprised that he dropped everything he was doing to unfold and read it. with an exclamation and a smile, his blue, delighted eyes splashed over her; but she was looking down into her lap with her forehead wrinkled, so he put the note away in his vest pocket.
then it probably dawned on him that he had betrayed her, and he tried to cover it up somehow.
"well, here goes for food!" he said, as though he were going to require all his energy for the task of eating.
why had she written? there was nothing to prevent her speaking to him. he had, after all, been sitting on the doorstep when she emerged from her room and passed him. had she foreseen that the good comedian could not contain himself, but would surely let a third person into the secret?
why probe or question further? the actor did not eat much, but he looked very happy. so the note must have said yes, must have been a promise; perhaps she would not tantalize him further.
a few days later, they were going to leave. they would travel together, and that would be the end.
i might have pitied them both, for though life is good, life is stern. one result at any rate was accomplished. she had not sent for him in vain, nor had he come in vain.
that was the end of the act. but there were more acts to come--many more.
she had lost much: having been ravished, she gave herself away; why be niggardly now? and this is the destiny of her type, that they lose increasingly much, retaining ever less; what need to hold back now? the ground has been completely shifted: from half-measures to the immolation of all virtue. the type is well-known, and can be found at resorts and boarding-houses, where it grows and flourishes.
in spite of her wasted adolescence, her examination and her "independence," she has been coming home from her office stool or her teacher's desk more or less exhausted; suddenly she finds herself in the midst of a sweet and unlimited idleness, with quantities of tinned food for her meals. the company round her is continually changing, tourists come and go, and she passes from hand to hand for walks and talks; the tone is "country informality." this is sheer loose living; this is a life stripped of all purpose. she does not even sleep enough because she hears through the thin wall every sound made by her neighbor in the next room, while arriving or departing englishmen bang doors all night. in a short time she has become a neurotic, sated with company, surfeited with herself and the place. she is ready to go off with the next halfway respectable organ grinder that happens along. and so she pairs off with the most casual visitors, flirts with the guide, hovering about him and making bandages for his fingers, and at last throws herself into the arms of a nameless nobody who has arrived at the house today.
this is the torsen type.
and now, at this very moment, she retires to her room to collect the fragments of herself, in preparation for her departure--at the end of the summer. it takes time; there are so many fragments, one in every corner. but perhaps it consoles her to think that she knows the genitive of mensa.
things are not quite so bad for the actor. he has staked nothing, is committed to nothing. no part of his life is destroyed, nor anything within him. as he came, so he goes, cheerful, empty, nice. in fact he is even something more of a man because he has really made a conquest. he has no wish but to spend some pleasant hours with the torsen type.
he strolled about the garden waiting for her to get ready. once she was visible through the doorway, and he called to her:
"aren't you coming soon? don't forget we've got to cross the mountain!"
"well, i can't go bareheaded," she replied.
he was impatient.
"no, you've got to put your hat on, and what a lot of time that takes! ugh!"
she measured him coldly and said:
if he had paid her back in the same coin there would have been weeping and gnashing of teeth and cries of "go away! go alone!" and an hour's delay, and reconciliation and embraces. but the actor's manner changed at once, and he replied docilely, as his nature was,
"familiar? well--perhaps. sorry!"
then he strolled about the garden again, humming occasionally and swinging his stick. i took note of the oddly feminine shape of his knees, and the unusual plumpness of his thighs; there was something unnatural about this plumpness, as though it did not belong to his sex.
his shoes were down at the heel, and his collar was open. his raincoat hung regally from his shoulders and flapped in the wind, though it was not raining. he was a proud and comical sight. but why speak harsh words about a raincoat? it was not he, the owner, that had abused it, and it hung from his shoulders as innocently as a bridal veil.
why speak harsh words about anyone? life is good, but life is stern. perhaps when she comes out, i think to myself, the following scene will take place: i stand here waiting only for this departure. so she gives me her hand and says good-bye.
"why don't you say something?" she asks in order to seem bright and easy in her mind.
"because i don't want to hurt you in the great error of your ways."
"ha, ha, ha," she laughs, too loudly and in a forced tone; "the great error of my ways! well, really!"
and her anger grows, while i am assured and fatherly, standing on the firm ground of conscious virtue. yet i say an unworthy thing like this:
"don't throw yourself away, miss torsen!"
she raises her head then; yes, the torsen type would raise her head and reply, pale and offended:
"throw myself away?--i don't understand you."
but it is possible, too, that miss torsen, at heart a fine, proud girl, would have a lucid moment and see things in their true light:
"why not, why shouldn't i throw myself away? what is there to keep? i am thrown away, wasted ever since my school days, and now i am seven and twenty...."
my own thoughts run away with me as i stand there wishing i were somewhere else. perhaps she, too, in her room wishes me far away.
"good-bye," i say to the actor. "will you remember me to miss torsen? i must go now."
"good-bye," says he, shaking hands in some surprise. "can't you wait a few minutes? well, all right, i'll give her your greeting. good-bye, good-bye."
i take a short cut to get out of the way, and as i know every nook and corner, i am soon outside the farm, and find a good shelter. from here i shall see when these two leave. she has only to say good-bye now to the people of the farm.
it struck me that yesterday was the last time i spoke to her. we spoke only a few insignificant words that i have forgotten, and today i have not spoken to her....
here they come.
curious--they seemed somehow to have become welded together; though they walked separately up the mountain track, yet they belonged together. they did not speak; the essential things had probably already been said. life had grown ordinary for them; it still remained to them to be of use to each other. he walked first, while she followed many paces behind; it was lonely to look at against the rugged background of the mountain. where had her tall figure gone to? she seemed to have grown shorter because she had hitched up her skirt and was carrying her knapsack on her back. they each carried one, but he carried hers and she his, probably because, owing to the greater number of her clothes, hers was the heavier sack. thus had they shifted their burdens; what burdens would they carry in the future? she was, after all, no longer a schoolmistress, and perhaps he was no longer with the theater or the films.
i watched those two crossing rocky, mountainous ground, bare ground, with not a tree anywhere except a few stunted junipers; far away near the ridge murmured the little reisa. those two had put their possessions together, were walking together; at the next halt they would be man and wife, and take only one room because it was cheaper.
suddenly i started up and, moved by some impulse of human sympathy--nay, of duty--i wanted to run across to her, talk to her, say a word of warning: "don't go on!" i could have done it in a few minutes--a good deed, a duty....
they disappeared behind the shoulder of the hill.
her name was ingeborg.
and now i, too, must wander on again, for i am the last at the tore peak farm. the season is wearing on, and this morning it snowed for the first time--wet, sad snow.
it is very quiet at the farm now, and josephine might have played the piano again and been friendly to the last guest; but now i am leaving, too. besides, josephine has little to play and be cheerful for; things have gone badly this year, and may grow worse as time goes on. the prospect is not a good one. "but something will turn up," says josephine. she need not worry, for she has money in the bank, and no doubt there is a young man in the offing, on the other side of the fjeld.
oh, yes, josephine will always manage; she thinks of everything. the other day, for instance--when miss torsen and her friend left. the friend could not pay his bill, and all he said was that he had expected money, but it hadn't come, and he couldn't stay any longer because of his private affairs. that was all very well, but when would the bill be paid? why, he would send it from the town, of course; that was where he had his money!
"but how do we know we'll get the money?--from him, anyway," said josephine. "we've had these actor-people here before. and i didn't like the way he swanked about outside, thinking he was as good as anybody, and throwing his stick up in the air and catching it again. and then when miss torsen came in to say good-bye, i told her, and i wondered if she couldn't let me have the money for him. miss torsen was shocked, and said, 'hasn't he paid himself?' 'no,' i said, 'he hasn't, and this year being such a bad one, we need every penny.' so then miss torsen said of course we should get the money; how much was it? and i told her, and she said she couldn't pay for him now, but she would see the money was sent; we could trust her for that. and i think we can, too. we'll get the money all right, if not from him. i daresay she'll send it herself...."
and josephine went off to serve me my dinner.
paul is on his feet now, too. not that his step is always very steady, but at least he puts his feet to the ground. but he takes no interest in things; he does little more than feeding the horses and chopping some wood. he ought to be clearing the manure out of the summer cow houses for autumn use, but he keeps putting it off, and probably it will not be done at all. so far it hasn't mattered, but this morning's first wet snow has covered the hay outdoors and the maltreated land. and so it will remain till next spring. poor paul! he is an easygoing man at heart, but he pushes doggedly on against a whirlwind; sometimes he smiles to himself, knowing how useless it is to struggle--a distorted smile.
his father, the old man alone in his room, stands sometimes on his threshold, as he used to do, and reflects. he is lost in memories, for he has ninety years behind him. the many houses on the farm confuse him a little; the roofs are all too big for him, and he is afraid they might come down and carry him off. once he asked josephine if it was right that his hands and fingers should run away from him every day across the fields. so they put mittens on his hands, but he took to chewing them; in fact he ate everything he was given, and enjoyed a good digestion. so they must be thankful he had his health, josephine said, and could be up and about.
i did not follow the others across the field, but returned the way i had come last spring, down toward the woods and the sea. it is fitting that i should go back, always back, never forward again.
i passed the hut where solem and i had lived together, and then the lapps--the two old people and olga, this strange cross between a human being and a dwarf birch. a stove stood against the peat wall, and a paraffin lamp hung from the roof of their stone-age dwelling. olga was kind and helpful, but she looked tiny and pathetic, like a ruffled hen; it pained me to watch her flit about the room, tiny and crooked, as she looked for a pair of reindeer cheeses for me.
then i reached my own hut of last winter where i had passed so many lonely months. i did not enter it.
or rather, i did enter it, for i had to spend the night there. but i shall skip this, so for the sake of brevity, i call it not entering. this morning i wrote something playful about madame, the mouse i left here last spring; but tonight i am taking it out again because i am no longer in the mood, and because there is no point in it. perhaps it would have amused you to read it, my friend; but there is no point in amusing you now. i must deject you now and make you listen to me; there is not much more to hear.
am i moralizing? i am explaining. no, i am not moralizing; i am explaining. if it is moralizing to see the truth and tell it to you, then i am moralizing. can i help that? intuitively i see into what is distant; you do not, for this is something you cannot learn from your little schoolbooks. do not let this rouse your hatred for me. i shall be merry again with you later, when my strings are tuned to merriment. i have no power over them. now they are tuned to a chorale....
at dawn, in the bright moonlight, i leave the hut and push on quickly in order to reach the village as soon as possible. but i must have started too early or walked too fast, for at this rate i shall reach the village at high noon. what am i chasing after? perhaps it is feeling the nearness of the sea that drives me forward. and as i stand on the last high ridge, with the glitter and roar of the sea far beneath, a sweetness darts through me like a greeting from another world. "thalatta!" i cry; and i wipe my eyeglasses tremblingly. the roar from below is sleepless and fierce, a tone of jungle passion, a savage litany. i descend the ridge as though in a trance and reach the first house.
there was no one about, and a few children's faces at a window suddenly disappeared. everything here was small and poor, though only the barn was of peat; the house was a timbered fisherman's home. as i entered the house, i saw that though it was as poor within as without, the floor was clean and covered with pine twigs. there were many children here. the mother was busy cooking something over the fire.
i was offered a chair, and sitting down, began to chat with a couple of small boys. as i was in no hurry and asked for nothing, the woman said:
"i expect you want a boat?"
"a boat?" i said in my turn, for i had not come by boat on my last visit; i had walked instead over fjelds and valleys many miles from the sea. "yes, why not?" i said. "but where does it go?"
"i thought you wanted a boat to go to the trading center," she replied, "because that's where the steamer stops. we've rowed over lots of people this year."
great changes here; the motor traffic in stordalen must have completely altered all the other traffic since my last visit ten months ago.
"where can i stop for a few days?" i asked.
"at the trading center, the other side of the islands. or there's eilert and olaus; they're both on this side. you could go there; they've got big houses."
she showed me the two places on this side of the water, close to the shore, and i proceeded thither.
a large house, with and upper story of planks built on later, displayed a new signboard on the wall: room and board. the barn, as usual, was a peat hut.
as i did not know which was eilert and which olaus, and had stopped to consider which road to take, a man came hurrying toward me. ah, well, the world is a small place; we meet friends and acquaintances everywhere. here am i, meeting an old acquaintance, the thief of last winter, the pork thief. what luck, what a satisfaction!
this was eilert. he took in paying guests now.
"well, well," he said, "what a nice surprise! you are most welcome under my humble roof, and such it is!"
my own response was rather less jaunty, and i stood still collecting my thoughts. when i had asked a few questions, he explained that since the motor traffic had started in stordalen, many visitors came through this way, and sometimes they wanted to stop over at his house before being rowed across to the steamer. they always came down in the evenings, and it might be fine, or it might not, and at night the fjord was often wild. he had therefore had to arrange to house them, because after all, you can't expect people to spend the night outdoors.
"so you've turned into a hotelkeeper," i said.
"lucky i've met you," i said. "why, i might have gone on down the road to his place!"
we walked on together, with eilert talking and explaining all the way, and assuring me over and over again that olaus was a good-for-nothing for copying him as he did.
if i had known what was awaiting me, i should certainly have passed by eilert's house. but i did not know. i was innocent, though i may not have appeared so. it cannot be helped.
"it's too bad i've got somebody in the best room," said eilert. "they're gentlefolk from the city. they came down here through stordalen, and they had to walk because the cars have stopped for the season. they've been in my house for quite some days, and i think they'll be staying on a while yet. i think they're out now, but of course it means i can't let you have my best room."
i looked up, and saw a face in the window. a shiver ran through me--no, of course not a shiver, far from it, but certainly this was a fresh surprise. what a coincidence! as we were about to enter the door, there was the actor, too--standing there looking at me: the actor from the tore peak resort. it was his knees, his coat, and his stick. so i was right--i had recognized her face at an upper window. yes, indeed, the world is small.
the actor and i greeted each other and began to talk. how nice to see me again! and how was paul, the good fellow--still soaking himself in liquor, he supposed? funny effect it has sometimes; paul seemed to think the whole inn was an aquarium and we visitors the goldfish! "ha, ha, ha, goldfish; i wish we were, i must say!--well, eilert, are we getting some fresh haddock for supper? good!--really, we like it here very much; we've already been here several days; we want to stay and get a good rest."
as we stood there, a rather stout girl came down from the loft and addressed the actor:
"the missis wants you to come right upstairs."
"oh? very well, at once.... well, see you later. you'll be stopping here, too, i expect?"
he hurried up the stairs.
eilert and i followed to my room.
as a matter of fact, i went out again with eilert at once. he had a great deal to tell me and explain to me, and i was not unwilling to listen to him then. really, eilert was not too bad, a fine fellow with four ragged, magnificent youngsters by his first wife, who had died two years before, and another child by his second wife. he must have forgotten, as he told me this, the yarn about the sick wife and the ailing children that he had spun for me last winter. the girl who had come down the stairs with the message from the "missis" was no servant, but eilert's young wife. and she, too, was all right--strong and good, handy about the stables, and pregnant again.
it all looks good to me, eilert: your wife and everything you tell me about your family.
no one will understand my strange contentment, then; i had been full of an obscure happiness from the moment i came to this house. probably a mere coincidence, but that did not detract from my satisfactory state of mind; i was pleased with everything, and all things added to my cheerful frame of mind. there were some pigs by the barn, very affectionate pigs, because they were used to the children playing with them and kissing them and riding on their backs. and there was one of the goats, up on the roof of course, standing so far out along the edge that it was a wonder he didn't grow dizzy. seagulls flew criss-cross over the fields, screaming their own language to one another, and being friends or enemies to the best of their ability. down by the mouth of the river, just beneath the sunset, began the great road that winds up through the woods and the valley. there is something of the friendliness of a living being about such a forest road.
eilert was going out in his boat to fish haddock, and i went with him. actually he should have been getting some meat for us; but he had promised the gentry from the city some fish, and fish was one of the gifts of god. besides, if he lacked meat, he could always slaughter one of the pigs.
there was a slight wind; but then we wanted some wind, eilert said, as long as there was not too much of it.
"not reliable tonight though," he said, looking up into the sky; "the bigger the wind, the stronger the current."
at first i was very brave, and sat on the thwart thinking of eilert's french words: travali, prekevary, sutinary, mankémang, and many others. they've had a long way to travel, coming here by ancient routes via bergen, and now they're common property.
and then suddenly i lost all interest in french words, and felt extremely ill. it was much too windy, and we got no haddock.
"pity she's come up so quick," said eilert; "let's try inshore for a while."
but we got nothing there either, and as the wind increased and the sea rose, "we'd better go home," said eilert.
the sea had been just right before, remarkably so, but now there was entirely too much of it. why on earth did i feel so bad? an inner exhaustion, some emotional excitement, would have explained it. but i had experienced no emotional excitement.
we rowed in the foam and feathery jets of spray. "she's rising fast!" cried eilert, rowing with all his might.
i felt so wretched that eilert told me to ship my oars; he would manage by himself. but for all my wretchedness, i remembered that they could see me from the shore, and i would not put down my oars. eilert's wife might see me and laugh at me.
what a revolting business, this seasickness that forced me to put my head over the gunwale and make a pig of myself! i had a moment's relief, and then it began all over again. charming! i felt as though i were in labor; the wrong way up, of course, through my throat, but it was a delivery nonetheless. it moved up, then stopped, came on again and stopped, came on and stopped once more. it was a lump of iron--iron, did i say? no, steel; i had never felt anything like it before; it was not something i was born with. all my internal mechanism was stopped by it. then i took a running start far down inside me and began, strangely, to howl with all my strength; but a howl, however successful, cannot break down a lump of steel. the pains continued. my mouth filled with bile. soon, thank heaven, my chest would burst. o--oh--oh.... then we rowed inside the islands that served as a breakwater, and i was saved.
quite suddenly i was well again, and began to play the clown, imitating my own behavior in order to deceive the people ashore. and i assured eilert, too, that this was the first time i had ever been seasick, so that he should understand it was nothing to gossip about. after all, he had not heard about the great seas i had sailed without the slightest discomfort; once i had been four-and-twenty days on the ocean, with most of the passengers in bed, and even the captain sick in cascades; but not me!
"yes, i get seasick sometimes, too," says eilert.
next morning they had gone.
yes, indeed, they left at four in the morning, at dawn; i heard them perfectly well, for my room was near the stairs. the knight of the plump thighs came first, clumping heavily down the stairs. she hushed him, and her voice sounded angry.
eilert had just risen too, and they stood outside for some minutes, negotiating with him for the boat--yes, at once; they had changed their minds and wanted to leave, immediately. then they went down to the boat, eilert with them. i could see them through the window, chilled by the cold of early morning and short-tempered with each other. there had been a frost during the night; ice lay on the water in the buckets, and the ground was harsh to walk on. poor things--no food, no coffee; a windy morning, with the sea still running rather high. there they go with their knapsacks on their backs; she is still wearing her red hat.
"do you know where your husband is?" i asked her.
"yes--funny, aren't they?" she replied. "i never saw them till after they'd left--gone down to the fjord. where do you suppose they're going? haddock fishing?"
"maybe," was all i said. but i thought to myself: "they're leaving, all right. they had their knapsacks on their backs."
"funny couple," regine resumed. "nothing to eat, no coffee, not a thing! and the missis not wanting anything to eat last night, neither!"
i merely shook my head and went out. regine called to me that coffee was nearly ready, so if i'd like a cup--
of course the only thing i could do in the face of such foolishness was to shake my head and go away. one must take the sensible view. how was it possible to understand such behavior? nevertheless i, the undersigned, should have gone on to olaus yesterday, instead of going fishing. that would have been still more sensible. what business had i at this house? very likely she found it embarrassing to be called the "missis," and this was why she could neither eat last night nor stay here today. so she had beaten a retreat, with her friend and her knapsack.
well, it was not much to go away with, but perhaps that doesn't matter. as long as one has a reason to go away.
later in the forenoon eilert returned home. he was alone, but he came up the path carrying one of the knapsacks--the larger one. he was in a furious temper, and kept saying they'd better not try it on him--no, they'd just better not.
of course it was the bill again.
"she'll probably have a good deal of this sort of trouble," i thought to myself, "but no doubt she'll get used to it, and take it as nonchalantly as it should be taken. there are worse things."
but the fact remains that it was i that upset them, i that had driven them away without their clothes; perhaps they had really expected some money to be sent here--who knows?
i got hold of eilert. how big was the bill? what, was that all? "good heavens! here you are, here's your money; now row across to them at once with their clothes!"
but it all proved in vain, for the strangers had gone; they had arrived just in time for the boat, and were aboard it at that very moment.
well, there was no help for it.
"here's their address," says eilert. "we can send the clothes next thursday; that's the next trip the boat goes south again."
i took down the address, but i was most ungracious to eilert. why couldn't he have kept the other knapsack--why this particular one?
eilert replied that it was true the gentleman had offered him the other one, but he could see from the outside that it was not so good as this one. and i should remember that the money the missis had paid him hadn't covered more than the bill for one of them. so it was only reasonable that he should take the fullest knapsack. as a matter of fact, he had behaved very well, and that was the truth. because when she gave him the larger knapsack, and wrote the address, she had scolded, but he had kept quiet, and said not another word. and anyway, nobody had better try it on him--they'd better not, or he'd know the reason why!
eilert shook a long-armed fist at the sky.
when he had eaten, drunk his coffee, and rested for a while, he was not so lively and talkative as on the previous day. he had been brooding and speculating ever since last summer, when the motor traffic started, and did i think it would be a good idea for him to hire three grown men, too, and build a much bigger house than olaus's?
so he had caught it, too--the great, modern norwegian disease!
once more i was run into a party of english, the last for this year.
they arrived by steamer in the morning and stopped at the trading station for a few hours, meanwhile sending up a detachment through the valley to order a car to meet them. stordalen, stordalen, they said. so they had apparently not yet seen stordalen--an omission they must repair at once.
and what a sensation they made!
they came across by rowboat from the trading station; we could hear them a long way off, an old man's voice drowning out all the others. eilert dropped everything he had in hand, and ran down to the landing place in order to be the first on the spot. from olaus's house, too, a man and a few half-grown boys went down, and from all the houses round swarmed curious and helpful crowds. there were so many spectators at the landing place that the old man with the loud voice drew himself up to his full height in the boat and majestically shouted his english at us, as though his language must of course be ours as well:
"where's the car? bring the car down!"
olaus, who was sharp, guessed what he meant and at once sent his two boys up the valley to meet the car and hurry it on, for the englishmen had arrived.
they disembarked, they were in a great hurry, they could not understand why the car had not come to meet them: "what was the meaning of this?" there were four of them. "stordalen!" they said. as they came up past eilert's house, they looked at their watches and swore because so many minutes were being wasted. where the devil was the car? the populace followed at some distance, gazing with reverence on these dressed-up fools.
i remember a couple of them: an old man--the one with the loud voice--who wore a pleated kilt on each thigh and a jacket of green canvas with braid and buckles and straps and innumerable pockets all over it. what a man, what a power! his beard, streaming out from under his nose like the northern lights, was greenish-white, and he swore like a madman. another of the party was tall and bent, a flagpole of sorts, astonishing, stupendous, with sloping shoulders, a tiny cap perched above extravagantly arched eyebrows; he was an upended roman battering ram, a man on stilts. i measured him with my eyes, and still there was something left over. yet he was bent and broken, old before his time, quite bald; but his mouth was tight as a tiger's, and he had a madness in his head that kept him on the move.
"stordalen!" he cried.
england will soon have to open old people's homes for her sons. she desexes her people with sport and obsessive ideas: were not other countries keeping her in perpetual unrest, she would in a couple of generations be converted to pederasty....
then the horn of the car was heard tooting in the woods, and everyone raced to meet it.
of course olaus's two boys had done an honest day's work in meeting the car so far up the road, and urging the driver to hurry; were they not to get any reward? true, they were allowed to sit in the back seat for their return journey and thus enjoyed the drive of a lifetime; but money! they had acquired enough brazenness in the course of the summer not to hesitate, and approached the loud-voiced old man, holding out their palms and clamoring: "money!" but that did not suit the old man, who entered the car forthwith, urging his companions to hurry. the driver, no doubt thinking of his own tips, felt he would serve his passengers best by driving off with them at once. so off he went. a toot of the horn, and a rapid fanfare--tara-ra-boom-de-ay!
the spectators turned homeward, talking about the illustrious visitors. foreign lands--ah, no, this country will not bear comparison with them! "did you see how tall the younger lord was?" "and did you see the other one, the one with the skirts and the northern lights?"
but some of the homeward-turning bumpkins, such as the olaus family, had more serious matters on their minds. olaus for the first time understood what he had read in the paper so many times, that the norwegian elementary school is a worthless institution because it does not teach english to the children of the lower orders. here were his boys, losing a handsome tip merely because they could not swear back intelligibly at the gentleman with the northern lights. the boys themselves had also something to think about: "that driver, that scoundrel, that southerner! but just wait!" they had heard that bits of broken bottle were very good for tires....
i return to her knapsack and her clothes, and the reason why i do so is that eilert is so little to be trusted. i want to count her clothes to make sure none of them disappear; it was a mistake not to have done so at once.
it may seem as though i kept returning to these clothes and thinking about them; but why should i do that? at any rate it is now evident that i was right in suspecting eilert, for i heard him going upstairs, and when i came in, he was turning out the bag and going through the clothes.
"what are you doing?" i said.
at first he tried to brazen it out.
"never you mind," he replied. but my knowing something about him was so much to my advantage that he soon drew in his horns. how i wronged him, he complained, and exploited him:
"you haven't bought these clothes," he said. "i could have got more for them if i'd sold them." he had been paid, but he still wanted more, like the stomach, which goes on digesting after death. that was eilert. yet he was not too bad; he had never been any better, and he certainly had grown no worse with his new livelihood.
may no one ever grow worse with a new livelihood!
so i moved the knapsack and the clothes into my own room in order to take better care of them. it was a slow job to tidy everything up for the second time, but it had to be done. later that evening i would resume my journey, taking the knapsack with me. i had done with the place, and the nights were moonlit again.
enough of these clothes!
once again i am at an age when i walk in the moonlight. thirty years ago i walked in the moonlight, too, walked on crackling, snowy roads, on bare, frozen ground, round unlocked barns, on the hunt for love. how well i remember it! but it is no longer the same moonlight. i could even read by it the letter she gave me. but there are no such letters any more.
everything is changed. the tale is told, and tonight i walk abroad on an errand of the head, not of the heart: i shall go across to the trading center and dispatch a knapsack by the steamer; after that i shall wander on. and that requires nothing but a little ordinary training in walking, and the light of the moon to see by. but in those old days, those young days, we studied the almanac in the autumn to find out if there would be a moon on twelfth night, for we could use it then.
everything is changed; i am changed. the tale lies within the teller.
they say that old age has other pleasures which youth has not: deeper pleasures, more lasting pleasures. that is a lie. yes, you have read right: that is a lie. only old age itself says this, in a self-interest that flaunts its very rags. the old man has forgotten when he stood on the summit, forgotten his own self, his own alias, red and white, blowing a golden horn. now he stands no longer--no, he sits--it is less of a strain to sit. but now there comes to him, slow and halting, fat and stupid, the honor of old age. what can a sitting man do with honor? a man on his feet can use it; to a sitting man it is only a possession. but honor is meant to be used, not to be sat with.
let sitting men wear warm stockings.
what a coincidence: another barn on my road, just as in the days of the golden horn! it offers me plenty of straw and shelter for the night; but where is the girl who gave me the letter? how warm her breath was, coming between lips a little parted! she will come again, of course; let us wait, we have plenty of time, another twenty years--oh, yes, she will come....
i must be on my guard against such traps. i have entered upon the honorable years; i am weak and quite capable of believing that a barn is a gift from above: thou well-deserving old man, here is a barn for thee!
no, thank you, i'm only just in my seventies.
and so in my errand of the head i pass by the barn.
toward morning i find shelter under a projecting crag. it is fitting that i should live under crags hereafter, and i lie down in a huddle, small and invisible. anything else you please, as long as you don't flaunt your selfishness and your rags!
i am comfortable now, lying with my head on another person's knapsack full of used clothes; i am doing this solely because it is just the right size. but sleep will not come; there are only thoughts and dreams and lines of poetry and sentimentality. the sack smells human, and i fling it away, laying my head on my arm. my arm smells of wood--not even wood.
but the slip of paper with the address--have i got the address? and i scratch a match to read it through and know it by heart tomorrow. just a line in pencil, nothing; but perhaps there is a softness in the letters, a womanliness--i don't know.
it doesn't matter.
i manage to reach the trading center at midday, when everyone is up and about, and the post office open. they give me a large sheet of wrapping paper and string and sealing wax; i wrap the parcel and seal it and write on the outside. there!
oh--i forgot the slip of paper with the address--to put it inside, i mean. stupid! but otherwise i have done what i should. as i continue on my way, i feel strangely void and deserted; no doubt because the knapsack was quite heavy after all, and now i am well rid of it. "the last pleasure!" i think suddenly. and as i walk on i think irrelevantly: "the last country, the last island, the last pleasure...."
i didn't know at first. the winter stood before me, my summer behind me--no task, no yearning, no ambition. as it made no difference where i stayed, i remembered a town i knew, and thought i might as well go there--why not? a man cannot forever sit by the sea, and it is not necessary to misunderstand him if he decides to leave it. so he leaves his solitude--others have done so before him--and a mild curiosity drives him to see the ships and the horses and the tiny frostbitten gardens of a certain town. when he arrives there, he begins to wonder in his idleness if he does not know someone in this town, in this terrifyingly large town. the moonlight is bright now, and it amuses him to give himself a certain address to visit evening after evening, and to take up his post there as though something depended on it. he is not expected anywhere else, so he has the time. then one evening someone finds him reading under a lamppost, stops suddenly and stares, takes a few steps toward him, and bends forward searchingly.
"isn't it--? oh, no, excuse me, i thought--"
"yes, it is. good evening, miss torsen."
"why, good evening. i thought it looked like you. good evening. yes, thank you, very well. and thanks for the knapsack; i understood all at once--i quite understand--"
"do you live here? what a strange coincidence!"
"yes, i live here; those are my windows. you wouldn't like to come up, would you? no, perhaps you wouldn't."
"but i know where there are some benches down by the shore. unless you're cold?" i suggested.
"no, i'm not cold. yes, thank you, i'd like to."
we went down to a bench, looking like a father and daughter out walking. there was nothing striking about us, and we sat the whole evening undisturbed. later we sat undisturbed on other evenings all through a cold autumn month.
then she told me first the short chapter of her journey home, some of it only hinted, suggested, and some of it in full; sometimes with her head deeply bowed, sometimes, when i asked a question, replying by a brief word or a shake of the head. i write it down from memory; it was important to her, and it became important for others as well.
besides--in a hundred years it will all be forgotten. why do we struggle? in a hundred years someone will read about it in memoirs and letters and think: "how she wriggled, how she fussed--dear me!" there are others about whom nothing at all will be written or read; life will close over them like a grave. either way....
what sorrows she had--dear, dear, what sorrows! the day she had been unable to pay the bill, she thought herself the center of the universe; everybody stared at her, and she was at her wits' end. then she heard a man's voice outside saying: "haven't you watered blakka yet?" that was his preoccupation. so she was not the center of the universe after all.
then she and her companion had left the house, and set out on their tour. the center? not at all. day after day they walked across fields, and through valleys, had meals in houses by the way, and water from the brooks. if they met other travelers, they greeted them, or they did not greet them; no one was less a center of attention than they, and no one more. her companion walked in vacant thoughtlessness, whistling as he went.
at one place they stopped for food.
"will you pay for mine for the time being?" he said.
she hesitated and then said briefly that she could not pay "for the time being" all the way.
"of course not, by no means," said he. "just for the moment. perhaps we can get a loan further down the valley."
"i don't borrow."
"ingeborg!" said he, pretending playfully to whimper.
"what is it?"
"nothing. can't i say 'ingeborg' to my own wife?"
"pish! we were man and wife last night. it says so in the visitors' book."
she was silent at this. yes, last night they had been man and wife; that was to save getting two rooms, and travel economically. but she had been very foolish to agree to it.
"'miss torsen,' then?" he whimpered.
and to put an end to the game, she paid for both of them and took her knapsack on her back.
they walked again. at the next stop she paid for them both without discussion--for the evening meal, for bed and breakfast. it grew to be a habit. they walked on once more. they reached the end of the valley by the sea, and here she revolted again.
"go away--go on by yourself; i don't want you in my room any more!"
the old argument no longer held good. when he repeated that they saved money by it, she replied that she for her part required no more than one room, and was quite able to pay for it. he joked again, whimpered, "ingeborg!" and left her. he was beaten, and his back was bent.
she ate alone that evening.
"isn't your husband coming in?" asked the woman of the house.
"perhaps he doesn't want anything," she replied.
there he stood, away by the tiny barn pretending to be interested in the roof, in the style of building, and walked round looking at it, pursing his lips and whistling. but she could see perfectly well from the window that his face was blue and dejected. when she had eaten, she walked down to the shore, calling as she passed him:
"go in and eat!"
but he had not sunk quite so low; he would not go in to eat, and slept towards the papers in the seed-tray.
“you have great strength of character. you will marry a red-haired man and have three children. beware of a blonde woman.” look out! look out! a motor-car driven by a fat chauffeur comes rushing down the hill. inside there a blonde woman, pouting, leaning forward—rushing through your life—beware! beware!
“ladies and gentlemen, i am an auctioneer by profession, and if what i tell you is not the truth i am liable to have my licence taken away from me and a heavy imprisonment.” he holds the licence across his chest; the sweat pours down his face into his paper collar; his eyes look glazed. when he takes off his hat there is a deep pucker of angry flesh on his forehead. nobody buys a watch.
look out again! a huge barouche comes swinging down the hill with two old, old babies inside. she holds up a lace parasol; he sucks the knob of his cane, and the fat old bodies roll together as the cradle rocks, and the steaming horse leaves a trail of manure as it ambles down the hill.
under a tree, professor leonard, in cap and gown, stands beside his banner. he is here “for one day,” from the london, paris and brussels exhibition, to tell your fortune from your face. and he stands, smiling encouragement, like a clumsy dentist. when the big men, romping and swearing a moment before, hand across their sixpence, and stand before him, they are suddenly serious, dumb, timid, almost blushing as the professor’s quick hand notches the printed card. they are like little children caught playing in a forbidden garden by the owner, stepping from behind a tree.
the top of the hill is reached. how hot it is! how fine it is! the public-house is open, and the crowd presses in. the mother sits on the pavement edge with her baby, and the father brings her out a glass of dark, brownish stuff, and then savagely elbows his way in again. a reek of beer floats from the public-house, and a loud clatter and rattle of voices.
the wind has dropped, and the sun burns more fiercely than ever. outside the two swing-doors there is a thick mass of children like flies at the mouth of a sweet-jar.
and up, up the hill come the people, with ticklers and golliwogs, and roses and feathers. up, up they thrust into the light and heat, shouting, laughing, squealing, as though they were being pushed by something, far below, and by the sun, far ahead of them—drawn up into the full, bright, dazzling radiance to... what?
an ideal family
that evening for the first time in his life, as he pressed through the swing door and descended the three broad steps to the pavement, old mr. neave felt he was too old for the spring. spring—warm, eager, restless—was there, waiting for him in the golden light, ready in front of everybody to run up, to blow in his white beard, to drag sweetly on his arm. and he couldn’t meet her, no; he couldn’t square up once more and stride off, jaunty as a young man. he was tired and, although the late sun was still shining, curiously cold, with a numbed feeling all over. quite suddenly he hadn’t the energy, he hadn’t the heart to stand this gaiety and bright movement any longer; it confused him. he wanted to stand still, to wave it away with his stick, to say, “be off with you!” suddenly it was a terrible effort to greet as usual—tipping his wide-awake with his stick—all the people whom he knew, the friends, acquaintances, shopkeepers, postmen, drivers. but the gay glance that went with the gesture, the kindly twinkle that seemed to say, “i’m a match and more for any of you”—that old mr. neave could not manage at all. he stumped along, lifting his knees high as if he were walking through air that had somehow grown heavy and solid like water. and the homeward-looking crowd hurried by, the trams clanked, the light carts clattered, the big swinging cabs bowled along with that reckless, defiant indifference that one knows only in dreams....
it had been a day like other days at the office. nothing special had happened. harold hadn’t come back from lunch until close on four. where had he been? what had he been up to? he wasn’t going to let his father know. old mr. neave had happened to be in the vestibule, saying good-bye to a caller, when harold sauntered in, perfectly turned out as usual, cool, suave, smiling that peculiar little half-smile that women found so fascinating.
ah, harold was too handsome, too handsome by far; that had been the trouble all along. no man had a right to such eyes, such lashes, and such lips; it was uncanny. as for his mother, his sisters, and the servants, it was not too much to say they made a young god of him; they worshipped harold, they forgave him everything; and he had needed some forgiving ever since the time when he was thirteen and he had stolen his mother’s purse, taken the money, and hidden the purse in the cook’s bedroom. old mr. neave struck sharply with his stick upon the pavement edge. but it wasn’t only his family who spoiled harold, he reflected, it was everybody; he had only to look and to smile, and down they went before him. so perhaps it wasn’t to be wondered at that he expected the office to carry on the tradition. h’m, h’m! but it couldn’t be done. no business—not even a successful, established, big paying concern—could be played with. a man had either to put his whole heart and soul into it, or it went all to pieces before his eyes....
and then charlotte and the girls were always at him to make the whole thing over to harold, to retire, and to spend his time enjoying himself. enjoying himself! old mr. neave stopped dead under a group of ancient cabbage palms outside the government buildings! enjoying himself! the wind of evening shook the dark leaves to a thin airy cackle. sitting at home, twiddling his thumbs, conscious all the while that his life’s work was slipping away, dissolving, disappearing through harold’s fine fingers, while harold smiled....
“why will you be so unreasonable, father? there’s absolutely no need for you to go to the office. it only makes it very awkward for us when people persist in saying how tired you’re looking. here’s this huge house and garden. surely you could be happy in—in—appreciating it for a change. or you could take up some hobby.”
and lola the baby had chimed in loftily, “all men ought to have hobbies. it makes life impossible if they haven’t.”
well, well! he couldn’t help a grim smile as painfully he began to climb the hill that led into harcourt avenue. where would lola and her sisters and charlotte be if he’d gone in for hobbies, he’d like to know? hobbies couldn’t pay for the town house and the seaside bungalow, and their horses, and their golf, and the sixty-guinea gramophone in the music-room for them to dance to. not that he grudged them these things. no, they were smart, good-looking girls, and charlotte was a remarkable woman; it was natural for them to be in the swim. as a matter of fact, no other house in the town was as popular as theirs; no other family entertained so much. and how many times old mr. neave, pushing the cigar box across the smoking-room table, had listened to praises of his wife, his girls, of himself even.
“you’re an ideal family, sir, an ideal family. it’s like something one reads about or sees on the stage.”
“that’s all right, my boy,” old mr. neave would reply. “try one of those; i think you’ll like them. and if you care to smoke in the garden, you’ll find the girls on the lawn, i dare say.”
that was why the girls had never married, so people said. they could have married anybody. but they had too good a time at home. they were too happy together, the girls and charlotte. h’m, h’m! well, well. perhaps so....
by this time he had walked the length of fashionable harcourt avenue; he had reached the corner house, their house. the carriage gates were pushed back; there were fresh marks of wheels on the drive. and then he faced the big white-painted house, with its wide-open windows, its tulle curtains floating outwards, its blue jars of hyacinths on the broad sills. on either side of the carriage porch their hydrangeas—famous in the town—were coming into flower; the pinkish, bluish masses of flower lay like light among the spreading leaves. and somehow, it seemed to old mr. neave that the house and the flowers, and even the fresh marks on the drive, were saying, “there is young life here. there are girls—”
the hall, as always, was dusky with wraps, parasols, gloves, piled on the oak chests. from the music-room sounded the piano, quick, loud and impatient. through the drawing-room door that was ajar voices floated.
“and were there ices?” came from charlotte. then the creak, creak of her rocker.
“ices!” cried ethel. “my dear mother, you never saw such ices. only two kinds. and one a common little strawberry shop ice, in a sopping wet frill.”
“the food altogether was too appalling,” came from marion.
“still, it’s rather early for ices,” said charlotte easily.
“but why, if one has them at all....” began ethel.
“oh, quite so, darling,” crooned charlotte.
suddenly the music-room door opened and lola dashed out. she started, she nearly screamed, at the sight of old mr. neave.
“gracious, father! what a fright you gave me! have you just come home? why isn’t charles here to help you off with your coat?”
her cheeks were crimson from playing, her eyes glittered, the hair fell over her forehead. and she breathed as though she had come running through the dark and was frightened. old mr. neave stared at his youngest daughter; he felt he had never seen her before. so that was lola, was it? but she seemed to have forgotten her father; it was not for him that she was waiting there. now she put the tip of her crumpled handkerchief between her teeth and tugged at it angrily. the telephone rang. a-ah! lola gave a cry like a sob and dashed past him. the door of the telephone-room slammed, and at the same moment charlotte called, “is that you, father?”
“you’re tired again,” said charlotte reproachfully, and she stopped the rocker and offered her warm plum-like cheek. bright-haired ethel pecked his beard, marion’s lips brushed his ear.
“did you walk back, father?” asked charlotte.
“yes, i walked home,” said old mr. neave, and he sank into one of the immense drawing-room chairs.
“but why didn’t you take a cab?” said ethel. “there are hundreds of cabs about at that time.”
“my dear ethel,” cried marion, “if father prefers to tire himself out, i really don’t see what business of ours it is to interfere.”
“children, children?” coaxed charlotte.
but marion wouldn’t be stopped. “no, mother, you spoil father, and it’s not right. you ought to be stricter with him. he’s very naughty.” she laughed her hard, bright laugh and patted her hair in a mirror. strange! when she was a little girl she had such a soft, hesitating voice; she had even stuttered, and now, whatever she said—even if it was only “jam, please, father”—it rang out as though she were on the stage.
“did harold leave the office before you, dear?” asked charlotte, beginning to rock again.
“i’m not sure,” said old mr. neave. “i’m not sure. i didn’t see him after four o’clock.”
“he said—” began charlotte.
but at that moment ethel, who was twitching over the leaves of some paper or other, ran to her mother and sank down beside her chair.
“there, you see,” she cried. “that’s what i mean, mummy. yellow, with touches of silver. don’t you agree?”
“give it to me, love,” said charlotte. she fumbled for her tortoise-shell spectacles and put them on, gave the page a little dab with her plump small fingers, and pursed up her lips. “very sweet!” she crooned vaguely; she looked at ethel over her spectacles. “but i shouldn’t have the train.”
“not the train!” wailed ethel tragically. “but the train’s the whole point.”
“here, mother, let me decide.” marion snatched the paper playfully from charlotte. “i agree with mother,” she cried triumphantly. “the train overweights it.”
old mr. neave, forgotten, sank into the broad lap of his chair, and, dozing, heard them as though he dreamed. there was no doubt about it, he was tired out; he had lost his hold. even charlotte and the girls were too much for him to-night. they were too... too.... but all his drowsing brain could think of was—too rich for him. and somewhere at the back of everything he was watching a little withered ancient man climbing up endless flights of stairs. who was he?
“i shan’t dress to-night,” he muttered.
“what do you say, father?”
“eh, what, what?” old mr. neave woke with a start and stared across at them. “i shan’t dress to-night,” he repeated.
“but, father, we’ve got lucile coming, and henry davenport, and mrs. teddie walker.”
“it will look so very out of the picture.”
“don’t you feel well, dear?”
“you needn’t make any effort. what is charles for?”
“but if you’re really not up to it,” charlotte wavered.
“very well! very well!” old mr. neave got up and went to join that little old climbing fellow just as far as his dressing-room....
there young charles was waiting for him. carefully, as though everything depended on it, he was tucking a towel round the hot-water can. young charles had been a favourite of his ever since as a little red-faced boy he had come into the house to look after the fires. old mr. neave lowered himself into the cane lounge by the window, stretched out his legs, and made his little evening joke, “dress him up, charles!” and charles, breathing intensely and frowning, bent forward to take the pin out of his tie.
h’m, h’m! well, well! it was pleasant by the open window, very pleasant—a fine mild evening. they were cutting the grass on the tennis court below; he heard the soft churr of the mower. soon the girls would begin their tennis parties again. and at the thought he seemed to hear marion’s voice ring out, “good for you, partner.... oh, played, partner.... oh, very nice indeed.” then charlotte calling from the veranda, “where is harold?” and ethel, “he’s certainly not here, mother.” and charlotte’s vague, “he said—”
old mr. neave sighed, got up, and putting one hand under his beard, he took the comb from young charles, and carefully combed the white beard over. charles gave him a folded handkerchief, his watch and seals, and spectacle case.
“that will do, my lad.” the door shut, he sank back, he was alone....
and now that little ancient fellow was climbing down endless flights that led to a glittering, gay dining-room. what legs he had! they were like a spider’s—thin, withered.
“you’re an ideal family, sir, an ideal family.”
but if that were true, why didn’t charlotte or the girls stop him? why was he all alone, climbing up and down? where was harold? ah, it was no good expecting anything from harold. down, down went the little old spider, and then, to his horror, old mr. neave saw him slip past the dining-room and make for the porch, the dark drive, the carriage gates, the office. stop him, stop him, somebody!
... a dark porch, half hidden by a passion-vine, that drooped sorrowful, mournful, as though it understood. small, warm arms were round his neck. a face, little and pale, lifted to his, and a voice breathed, “good-bye, my treasure.”
my treasure! “good-bye, my treasure!” which of them had spoken? why had they said good-bye? there had been some terrible mistake. she was his wife, that little pale girl, and all the rest of his life had been a dream.
then the door opened, and young charles, standing in the light, put his hands by his side and shouted like a young soldier, “dinner is on the table, sir!”
“i’m coming, i’m coming,” said old mr. neave.
the lady’s maid
eleven o’clock. a knock at the door.
... i hope i haven’t disturbed you, madam. you weren’t asleep—were you? but i’ve just given my lady her tea, and there was such a nice cup over, i thought, perhaps....
... yes, madam, it was all left to me. oh, she did look sweet. i did her hair, soft-like, round her forehead, all in dainty curls, and just to one side of her neck i put a bunch of most beautiful purple pansies. those pansies made a picture of her, madam! i shall never forget them. i thought to-night, when i looked at my lady, “now, if only the pansies was there no one could tell the difference.”
... only the last year, madam. only after she’d got a little—well—feeble as you might say. of course, she was never dangerous; she was the sweetest old lady. but how it took her was—she thought she’d lost something. she couldn’t keep still, she couldn’t settle. all day long she’d be up and down, up and down; you’d meet her everywhere,—on the stairs, in the porch, making for the kitchen. and she’d look up at you, and she’d say—just like a child, “i’ve lost it, i’ve lost it.” “come along,” i’d say, “come along, and i’ll lay out your patience for you.” but she’d catch me by the hand—i was a favourite of hers—and whisper, “find it for me, ellen. find it for me.” sad, wasn’t it?
... no, she never recovered, madam. she had a stroke at the end. last words she ever said was—very slow, “look in—the—look—in—” and then she was gone.
... but one day i managed to get a pair of scissors and—would you believe it, madam? i cut off all my hair; snipped it off all in bits, like the little monkey i was. grandfather was furious! he caught hold of the tongs—i shall never forget it—grabbed me by the hand and shut my fingers in them. “that’ll teach you!” he said. it was a fearful burn. i’ve got the mark of it to-day.
... no, madam, grandfather never got over it. he couldn’t bear the sight of me after. couldn’t eat his dinner, even, if i was there. so my aunt took me. she was a cripple, an upholstress. tiny! she had to stand on the sofas when she wanted to cut out the backs. and it was helping her i met my lady....
... not so very, madam. i was thirteen, turned. and i don’t remember ever feeling—well—a child, as you might say. you see there was my uniform, and one thing and another. my lady put me into collars and cuffs from the first. oh yes—once i did! that was—funny! it was like this. my lady had her two little nieces staying with her—we were at sheldon at the time—and there was a fair on the common.
“now, ellen,” she said, “i want you to take the two young ladies for a ride on the donkeys.” off we went; solemn little loves they were; each had a hand. but when we came to the donkeys they were too shy to go on. so we stood and watched instead. beautiful those donkeys were! they were the first i’d seen out of a cart—for pleasure as you might say. they were a lovely silver-grey, with little red saddles and blue bridles and bells jing-a-jingling on their ears. and quite big girls—older than me, even—were riding them, ever so gay. not at all common, i don’t mean, madam, just enjoying themselves. and i don’t know what it was, but the way the little feet went, and the eyes—so gentle—and the soft ears—made me want to go on a donkey more than anything in the world!
... of course, i couldn’t. i had my young ladies. and what would i have looked like perched up there in my uniform? but all the rest of the day it was donkeys—donkeys on the brain with me. i felt i should have burst if i didn’t tell some one; and who was there to tell? but when i went to bed—i was sleeping in mrs. james’s bedroom, our cook that was, at the time—as soon as the lights was out, there they were, my donkeys, jingling along, with their neat little feet and sad eyes.... well, madam, would you believe it, i waited for a long time and pretended to be asleep, and then suddenly i sat up and called out as loud as i could, “i do want to go on a donkey. i do want a donkey-ride!” you see, i had to say it, and i thought they wouldn’t laugh at me if they knew i was only dreaming. artful—wasn’t it? just what a silly child would think....
... no, madam, never now. of course, i did think of it at one time. but it wasn’t to be. he had a little flower-shop just down the road and across from where we was living. funny—wasn’t it? and me such a one for flowers. we were having a lot of company at the time, and i was in and out of the shop more often than not, as the saying is. and harry and i (his name was harry) got to quarrelling about how things ought to be arranged—and that began it. flowers! you wouldn’t believe it, madam, the flowers he used to bring me. he’d stop at nothing. it was lilies-of-the-valley more than once, and i’m not exaggerating! well, of course, we were going to be married and live over the shop, and it was all going to be just so, and i was to have the window to arrange.... oh, how i’ve done that window of a saturday! not really, of course, madam, just dreaming, as you might say. i’ve done it for christmas—motto in holly, and all—and i’ve had my easter lilies with a gorgeous star all daffodils in the middle. i’ve hung—well, that’s enough of that. the day came he was to call for me to choose the furniture. shall i ever forget it? it was a tuesday. my lady wasn’t quite herself that afternoon. not that she’d said anything, of course; she never does or will. but i knew by the way that she kept wrapping herself up and asking me if it was cold—and her little nose looked... pinched. i didn’t like leaving her; i knew i’d be worrying all the time. at last i asked her if she’d rather i put it off. “oh no, ellen,” she said, “you mustn’t mind about me. you mustn’t disappoint your young man.” and so cheerful, you know, madam, never thinking about herself. it made me feel worse than ever. i began to wonder... then she dropped her handkerchief and began to stoop down to pick it up herself—a thing she never did. “whatever are you doing!” i cried, running to stop her. “well,” she said, smiling, you know, madam, “i shall have to begin to practise.” oh, it was all i could do not to burst out crying. i went over to the dressing-table and made believe to rub up the silver, and i couldn’t keep myself in, and i asked her if she’d rather i... didn’t get married. “no, ellen,” she said—that was her voice, madam, like i’m giving you—“no, ellen, not for the wide world!” but while she said it, madam—i was looking in her glass; of course, she didn’t know i could see her—she put her little hand on her heart just like her dear mother used to, and lifted her eyes... oh, madam!
when harry came i had his letters all ready, and the ring and a ducky little brooch he’d given me—a silver bird it was, with a chain in its beak, and on the end of the chain a heart with a dagger. quite the thing! i opened the door to him. i never gave him time for a word. “there you are,” i said. “take them all back,” i said, “it’s all over. i’m not going to marry you,” i said, “i can’t leave my lady.” white! he turned as white as a woman. i had to slam the door, and there i stood, all of a tremble, till i knew he had gone. when i opened the door—believe me or not, madam—that man was gone! i ran out into the road just as i was, in my apron and my house-shoes, and there i stayed in the middle of the road... staring. people must have laughed if they saw me....
... goodness gracious!—what’s that? it’s the clock striking! and here i’ve been keeping you awake. oh, madam, you ought to have stopped me.... can i tuck in your feet? i always tuck in my lady’s feet, every night, just the same. and she says, “good night, ellen. sleep sound and wake early!” i don’t know what i should do if she didn’t say that, now.
london: g. bell & sons, limited, portugal street, kingsway, w.c. cambridge: deighton, bell & co. new york: the macmillan co. bombay: a.h. wheeler & co
the life of napoleon i
including new materials from the british official records
by john holland rose, litt.d. late scholar of christ's college, cambridge
"let my son often read and reflect on history: this is the only true philosophy."--napoleon's last instructions for the king of rome.
post 8vo edition, illustrated first published, december 1901. second edition, revised, march 1902. third edition, revised, january 1903. fourth edition, revised, september 1907. reprinted, january 1910.
crown 8vo edition first published, september 1904. reprinted, october 1907; july 1910.
an apology seems to be called for from anyone who gives to the world a new life of napoleon i. my excuse must be that for many years i have sought to revise the traditional story of his career in the light of facts gleaned from the british archives and of the many valuable materials that have recently been published by continental historians. to explain my manner of dealing with these sources would require an elaborate critical introduction; but, as the limits of my space absolutely preclude any such attempt, i can only briefly refer to the most important topics.
to deal with the published sources first, i would name as of chief importance the works of mm. aulard, chuquet, houssaye, sorel, and vandal in france; of herren beer, delbrück, fournier, lehmann, oncken, and wertheimer in germany and austria; and of baron lumbroso in italy. i have also profited largely by the scholarly monographs or collections of documents due to the labours of the "société d'histoire contemporaine," the general staff of the french army, of mm. bouvier, caudrillier, capitaine "j.g.," lévy, madelin, sagnac, sciout, zivy, and others in france; and of herren bailleu, demelitsch, hansing, klinkowstrom, luckwaldt, ulmann, and others in germany. some of the recently published french memoirs dealing with those times are not devoid of value, though this class of literature is to be used with caution. the new letters of napoleon published by m. léon lecestre and m. léonce de brotonne have also opened up fresh vistas into the life of the great man; and the time seems to have come when we may safely revise our judgments on many of its episodes.
but i should not have ventured on this great undertaking, had i not been able to contribute something new to napoleonic literature. during a study of this period for an earlier work published in the "cambridge historical series," i ascertained the great value of the british records for the years 1795-1815. it is surely discreditable to our historical research that, apart from the fruitful labours of the navy records society, of messrs. oscar browning and hereford george, and of mr. bowman of toronto, scarcely any english work has appeared that is based on the official records of this period. yet they are of great interest and value. our diplomatic agents then had the knack of getting at state secrets in most foreign capitals, even when we were at war with their governments; and our war office and admiralty records have also yielded me some interesting "finds." m. lévy, in the preface to his "napoléon intime" (1893), has well remarked that "the documentary history of the wars of the empire has not yet been written. to write it accurately, it will be more important thoroughly to know foreign archives than those of france." those of russia, austria, and prussia have now for the most part been examined; and i think that i may claim to have searched all the important parts of our foreign office archives for the years in question, as well as for part of the st. helena period. i have striven to embody the results of this search in the present volumes as far as was compatible with limits of space and with the narrative form at which, in my judgment, history ought always to aim.
on the whole, british policy comes out the better the more fully it is known. though often feeble and vacillating, it finally attained to firmness and dignity; and ministers closed the cycle of war with acts of magnanimity towards the french people which are studiously ignored by those who bid us shed tears over the martyrdom of st. helena. nevertheless, the splendour of the finale must not blind us to the flaccid eccentricities that made british statesmanship the laughing stock of europe in 1801-3, 1806-7, and 1809. indeed, it is questionable whether the renewal of war between england and napoleon in 1803 was due more to his innate forcefulness or to the contempt which he felt for the addington cabinet. when one also remembers our extraordinary blunders in the war of the third coalition, it seems a miracle that the british empire survived that life and death struggle against a man of superhuman genius who was determined to effect its overthrow. i have called special attention to the extent and pertinacity of napoleon's schemes for the foundation of a french colonial empire in india, egypt, south africa, and australia; and there can be no doubt that the events of the years 1803-13 determined, not only the destinies of europe and napoleon, but the general trend of the world's colonization.
as it has been necessary to condense the story of napoleon's life in some parts, i have chosen to treat with special brevity the years 1809-11, which may be called the constans aetas of his career, in order to have more space for the decisive events that followed; but even in these less eventful years i have striven to show how his continental system was setting at work mighty economic forces that made for his overthrow, so that after the débâcle of 1812 it came to be a struggle of napoleon and france contra mundum.
while not neglecting the personal details of the great man's life, i have dwelt mainly on his public career. apart from his brilliant conversations, his private life has few features of abiding interest, perhaps because he early tired of the shallowness of josephine and the corsican angularity of his brothers and sisters. but the cause also lay in his own disposition. he once said to m. gallois: "je n'aime pas beaucoup les femmes, ni le jeu--enfin rien: je suis tout à fait un être politique." in dealing with him as a warrior and statesman, and in sparing my readers details as to his bolting his food, sleeping at concerts, and indulging in amours where for him there was no glamour of romance, i am laying stress on what interested him most--in a word, i am taking him at his best.
preface to the third edition
it only remains to add that i much regret the omission of mr. oman's name from ii. 12-13 of page viii of the preface, an omission rendered all the more conspicuous by the appearance of the first volume of his "history of the peninsular war" in the spring of this year.
note on the republican calendar
i. parentage and early years
ii. the french revolution and corsica
vi. the fights for mantua
vii. leoben to campo formio
xi. marengo: lunéville
xii. the new institutions of france
xiii. the consulate for life
xvi. napoleon's interventions
xvii. the renewal of war
xviii. europe and the bonapartes
xix. the royalist plot
xx. the dawn of the empire
xxi. the boulogne flotilla
appendix: reports hitherto unpublished on (a) the sale of louisiana; (b) the irish division in napoleon's service
illustrations, maps, and plans
map to illustrate the campaigns in north italy
plan to illustrate the victory of arcola
the neighbourhood of rivoli
plan of the siege of acre, from a contemporary sketch
the battle of marengo, to illustrate kellermann's charge
appendix i: list of the chief appointments and dignities bestowed by napoleon
appendix ii: the battle of waterloo
maps and plans
note on the republican calendar
the republican calendar consisted of twelve months of thirty days each, each month being divided into three "decades" of ten days. five days (in leap years six) were added at the end of the year to bring it into coincidence with the solar year.
the months are as follows:
add five (in leap years six) "sansculottides" or "jours complémentaires."
in 1796 (leap year) the numbers in the table of months, so far as concerns all dates between feb. 28 and sept. 22, will have to be reduced by one, owing to the intercalation of feb. 29, which is not compensated for until the end of the republican year.
the matter is further complicated by the fact that the republicans reckoned an viii as a leap year, though it is not one in the gregorian calendar. hence that year ended on sept. 22, and an ix and succeeding years began on sept. 23. consequently in the above table of months the numbers of all days from vendémiaire 1, an ix (sept. 23, 1800), to nivôse 10, an xiv (dec. 31, 1805), inclusive, will have to be increased by one, except only in the next leap year between ventôse 9, an xii, and vendémiaire 1, an xiii (feb. 28-sept, 23, 1804), when the two revolutionary aberrations happen to neutralize each other.
the life of napoleon i
parentage and early years
"i was born when my country was perishing. thirty thousand french vomited upon our coasts, drowning the throne of liberty in waves of blood, such was the sight which struck my eyes." this passionate utterance, penned by napoleon buonaparte at the beginning of the french revolution, describes the state of corsica in his natal year. the words are instinct with the vehemence of the youth and the extravagant sentiment of the age: they strike the keynote of his career. his life was one of strain and stress from his cradle to his grave.
in his temperament as in the circumstances of his time the young buonaparte was destined for an extraordinary career. into a tottering civilization he burst with all the masterful force of an alaric. but he was an alaric of the south, uniting the untamed strength of his island kindred with the mental powers of his italian ancestry. in his personality there is a complex blending of force and grace, of animal passion and mental clearness, of northern common sense with the promptings of an oriental imagination; and this union in his nature of seeming opposites explains many of the mysteries of his life. fortunately for lovers of romance, genius cannot be wholly analyzed, even by the most adroit historical philosophizer or the most exacting champion of heredity. but in so far as the sources of napoleon's power can be measured, they may be traced to the unexampled needs of mankind in the revolutionary epoch and to his own exceptional endowments. evidently, then, the characteristics of his family claim some attention from all who would understand the man and the influence which he was to wield over modern europe.
it has been the fortune of his house to be the subject of dispute from first to last. some writers have endeavoured to trace its descent back to the cæsars of rome, others to the byzantine emperors; one genealogical explorer has tracked the family to majorca, and, altering its name to bonpart, has discovered its progenitor in the man of the iron mask; while the duchesse d'abrantès, voyaging eastwards in quest of its ancestors, has confidently claimed for the family a greek origin. painstaking research has dispelled these romancings of historical trouveurs, and has connected this enigmatic stock with a florentine named "william, who in the year 1261 took the surname of bonaparte or buonaparte. the name seems to have been assumed when, amidst the unceasing strifes between guelfs and ghibellines that rent the civic life of florence, william's party, the ghibellines, for a brief space gained the ascendancy. but perpetuity was not to be found in florentine politics; and in a short time he was a fugitive at a tuscan village, sarzana, beyond the reach of the victorious guelfs. here the family seems to have lived for well nigh three centuries, maintaining its ghibelline and aristocratic principles with surprising tenacity. the age was not remarkable for the virtue of constancy, or any other virtue. politics and private life were alike demoralized by unceasing intrigues; and amidst strifes of pope and emperor, duchies and republics, cities and autocrats, there was formed that type of italian character which is delineated in the pages of macchiavelli. from the depths of debasement of that cynical age the buonapartes were saved by their poverty, and by the isolation of their life at sarzana. yet the embassies discharged at intervals by the more talented members of the family showed that the gifts for intrigue were only dormant; and they were certainly transmitted in their intensity to the greatest scion of the race.
the vendetta was the chief law of corsican society up to comparatively recent times; and its effects are still visible in the life of the stern islanders. in his charming romance, "colomba," m. prosper mérimée has depicted the typical corsican, even of the towns, as preoccupied, gloomy, suspicious, ever on the alert, hovering about his dwelling, like a falcon over his nest, seemingly in preparation for attack or defence. laughter, the song, the dance, were rarely heard in the streets; for the women, after acting as the drudges of the household, were kept jealously at home, while their lords smoked and watched. if a game at hazard were ventured upon, it ran its course in silence, which not seldom was broken by the shot or the stab--first warning that there had been underhand play. the deed always preceded the word.
amidst that grim corsican existence the buonapartes passed their lives during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. occupied as advocates and lawyers with such details of the law as were of any practical importance, they must have been involved in family feuds and the oft-recurring disputes between corsica and the suzerain power, genoa. as became dignitaries in the municipality of ajaccio, several of the buonapartes espoused the genoese side; and the genoese senate in a document of the year 1652 styled one of them, jérome, "egregius hieronimus di buonaparte, procurator nobilium." these distinctions they seem to have little coveted. very few families belonged to the corsican noblesse, and their fiefs were unimportant. in corsica, as in the forest cantons of switzerland and the highlands of scotland, class distinctions were by no means so coveted as in lands that had been thoroughly feudalized; and the buonapartes, content with their civic dignities at ajaccio and the attachment of their partisans on their country estates, seem rarely to have used the prefix which implied nobility. their life was not unlike that of many an old scottish laird, who, though possibly bourgeois in origin, yet by courtesy ranked as chieftain among his tenants, and was ennobled by the parlance of the countryside, perhaps all the more readily because he refused to wear the honours that came from over the border.
a kindly providence veiled the future from the young couple. troubles fell swiftly upon them both in private and in public life. their first two children died in infancy. the third, joseph, was born in 1768, when the corsican patriots were making their last successful efforts against their new french oppressors: the fourth, the famous napoleon, saw the light on august 15th, 1769, when the liberties of corsica were being finally extinguished. nine other children were born before the outbreak of the french revolution reawakened civil strifes, amidst which the then fatherless family was tossed to and fro and finally whirled away to france.
seeing that charles buonaparte had been an ardent adherent of paoli, his sudden change of front has exposed him to keen censure. he certainly had not the grit of which heroes are made. his seems to have been an ill-balanced nature, soon buoyed up by enthusiasms, and as speedily depressed by their evaporation; endowed with enough of learning and culture to be a voltairean and write second-rate verses; and with a talent for intrigue which sufficed to embarrass his never very affluent fortunes. napoleon certainly derived no world-compelling qualities from his father: for these he was indebted to the wilder strain which ran in his mother's blood. the father doubtless saw in the french connection a chance of worldly advancement and of liberation from pecuniary difficulties; for the new rulers now sought to gain over the patrician families of the island. many of them had resented the dictatorship of paoli; and they now gladly accepted the connection with france, which promised to enrich their country and to open up a brilliant career in the french army, where commissions were limited to the scions of nobility.
much may be said in excuse of charles buonaparte's decision, and no one can deny that corsica has ultimately gained much by her connection with france. but his change of front was open to the charge that it was prompted by self-interest rather than by philosophic foresight. at any rate, his second son throughout his boyhood nursed a deep resentment against his father for his desertion of the patriots' cause. the youth's sympathies were with the peasants, whose allegiance was not to be bought by baubles, whose constancy and bravery long held out against the french in a hopeless guerilla warfare. his hot corsican blood boiled at the stories of oppression and insult which he heard from his humbler compatriots. when, at eleven years of age, he saw in the military college at brienne the portrait of choiseul, the french minister who had urged on the conquest of corsica, his passion burst forth in a torrent of imprecations against the traitor; and, even after the death of his father in 1785, he exclaimed that he could never forgive him for not following paoli into exile.
what trifles seem, at times, to alter the current of human affairs! had his father acted thus, the young napoleon would in all probability have entered the military or naval service of great britain; he might have shared paoli's enthusiasm for the land of his adoption, and have followed the corsican hero in his enterprises against the french revolution, thenceforth figuring in history merely as a greater marlborough, crushing the military efforts of democratic france, and luring england into a career of continental conquest. monarchy and aristocracy would have gone unchallenged, except within the "natural limits" of france; and the other nations, never shaken to their inmost depths, would have dragged on their old inert fragmentary existence.
the decision of charles buonaparte altered the destiny of europe. he determined that his eldest boy, joseph, should enter the church, and that napoleon should be a soldier. his perception of the characters of his boys was correct. an anecdote, for which the elder brother is responsible, throws a flood of light on their temperaments. the master of their school arranged a mimic combat for his pupils--romans against carthaginians. joseph, as the elder was ranged under the banner of rome, while napoleon was told off among the carthaginians; but, piqued at being chosen for the losing side, the child fretted, begged, and stormed until the less bellicose joseph agreed to change places with his exacting junior. the incident is prophetic of much in the later history of the family.
napoleon's determination had been noticed by his teachers. they had failed to bend his will, at least on important points. in lesser details his italian adroitness seems to have been of service; for the officer who inspected the school reported of him: "constitution, health excellent: character submissive, sweet, honest, grateful: conduct very regular: has always distinguished himself by his application to mathematics: knows history and geography passably: very weak in accomplishments. he will be an excellent seaman: is worthy to enter the school at paris." to the military school at paris he was accordingly sent in due course, entering there in october, 1784. the change from the semi-monastic life at brienne to the splendid edifice which fronts the champ de mars had less effect than might have been expected in a youth of fifteen years. not yet did he become french in sympathy. his love of corsica and hatred of the french monarchy steeled him against the luxuries of his new surroundings. perhaps it was an added sting that he was educated at the expense of the monarchy which had conquered his kith and kin. he nevertheless applied himself with energy to his favourite studies, especially mathematics. defective in languages he still was, and ever remained; for his critical acumen in literature ever fastened on the matter rather than on style. to the end of his days he could never write italian, much less french, with accuracy; and his tutor at paris not inaptly described his boyish composition as resembling molten granite. the same qualities of directness and impetuosity were also fatal to his efforts at mastering the movements of the dance. in spite of lessons at paris and private lessons which he afterwards took at valence, he was never a dancer: his bent was obviously for the exact sciences rather than the arts, for the geometrical rather than the rhythmical: he thought, as he moved, in straight lines, never in curves.
this spring-time of his life is of interest and importance in many ways: it reveals many amiable qualities, which had hitherto been blighted by the real or fancied scorn of the wealthy cadets. at valence, while shrinking from his brother officers, he sought society more congenial to his simple tastes and restrained demeanour. in a few of the best bourgeois families of valence he found happiness. there, too, blossomed the tenderest, purest idyll of his life. at the country house of a cultured lady who had befriended him in his solitude, he saw his first love, caroline de colombier. it was a passing fancy; but to her all the passion of his southern nature welled forth. she seems to have returned his love; for in the stormy sunset of his life at st. helena he recalled some delicious walks at dawn when caroline and he had--eaten cherries together. one lingers fondly over these scenes of his otherwise stern career, for they reveal his capacity for social joys and for deep and tender affection, had his lot been otherwise cast. how different might have been his life, had france never conquered corsica, and had the revolution never burst forth! but corsica was still his dominant passion. when he was called away from valence to repress a riot at lyons, his feelings, distracted for a time by caroline, swerved back towards his island home; and in september, 1786, he had the joy of revisiting the scenes of his childhood. warmly though he greeted his mother, brothers and sisters, after an absence of nearly eight years, his chief delight was in the rocky shores, the verdant dales and mountain heights of corsica. the odour of the forests, the setting of the sun in the sea "as in the bosom of the infinite," the quiet proud independence of the mountaineers themselves, all enchanted him. his delight reveals almost wertherian powers of "sensibility." even the family troubles could not damp his ardour. his father had embarked on questionable speculations, which now threatened the buonapartes with bankruptcy, unless the french government proved to be complacent and generous. with the hope of pressing one of the family claims on the royal exchequer, the second son procured an extension of furlough and sped to paris. there at the close of 1787 he spent several weeks, hopefully endeavouring to extract money from the bankrupt government. it was a season of disillusionment in more senses than one; for there he saw for himself the seamy side of parisian life, and drifted for a brief space about the giddy vortex of the palais royal. what a contrast to the limpid life of corsica was that turbid frothy existence--already swirling towards its mighty plunge!
after a furlough of twenty-one months he rejoined his regiment, now at auxonne. there his health suffered considerably, not only from the miasma of the marshes of the river saône, but also from family anxieties and arduous literary toils. to these last it is now needful to refer. indeed, the external events of his early life are of value only as they reveal the many-sidedness of his nature and the growth of his mental powers.
there was every reason why he should early be attracted by this fantastic thinker. in that notable work, "le contrat social" (1762), rousseau called attention to the antique energy shown by the corsicans in defence of their liberties, and in a startlingly prophetic phrase he exclaimed that the little island would one day astonish europe. the source of this predilection of rousseau for corsica is patent. born and reared at geneva, he felt a switzer's love for a people which was< "neither rich nor poor but self-sufficing "; and in the simple life and fierce love of liberty of the hardy islanders he saw traces of that social contract which he postulated as the basis of society. according to him, the beginnings of all social and political institutions are to be found in some agreement or contract between men. thus arise the clan, the tribe, the nation. the nation may delegate many of its powers to a ruler; but if he abuse such powers, the contract between him and his people is at an end, and they may return to the primitive state, which is founded on an agreement of equals with equals. herein lay the attractiveness of rousseau for all who were discontented with their surroundings. he seemed infallibly to demonstrate the absurdity of tyranny and the need of returning to the primitive bliss of the social contract. it mattered not that the said contract was utterly unhistorical and that his argument teemed with fallacies. he inspired a whole generation with detestation of the present and with longings for the golden age. poets had sung of it, but rousseau seemed to bring it within the grasp of long-suffering mortals.
the first extant manuscript of napoleon, written at valence in april, 1786, shows that he sought in rousseau's armoury the logical weapons for demonstrating the "right" of the corsicans to rebel against the french. the young hero-worshipper begins by noting that it is the birthday of paoli. he plunges into a panegyric on the corsican patriots, when he is arrested by the thought that many censure them for rebelling at all. "the divine laws forbid revolt. but what have divine laws to do with a purely human affair? just think of the absurdity--divine laws universally forbidding the casting off of a usurping yoke! ... as for human laws, there cannot be any after the prince violates them." he then postulates two origins for government as alone possible. either the people has established laws and submitted itself to the prince, or the prince has established laws. in the first case, the prince is engaged by the very nature of his office to execute the covenants. in the second case, the laws tend, or do not tend, to the welfare of the people, which is the aim of all government: if they do not, the contract with the prince dissolves of itself, for the people then enters again into its primitive state. having thus proved the sovereignty of the people, buonaparte uses his doctrine to justify corsican revolt against france, and thus concludes his curious medley: "the corsicans, following all the laws of justice, have been able to shake off the yoke of the genoese, and may do the same with that of the french. amen."
five days later he again gives the reins to his melancholy. "always alone, though in the midst of men," he faces the thought of suicide. with an innate power of summarizing and balancing thoughts and sensations, he draws up arguments for and against this act. he is in the dawn of his days and in four months' time he will see "la patrie," which he has not seen since childhood. what joy! and yet--how men have fallen away from nature: how cringing are his compatriots to their conquerors: they are no longer the enemies of tyrants, of luxury, of vile courtiers: the french have corrupted their morals, and when "la patrie" no longer survives, a good patriot ought to die. life among the french is odious: their modes of life differ from his as much as the light of the moon differs from that of the sun.--a strange effusion this for a youth of seventeen living amidst the full glories of the spring in dauphiné. it was only a few weeks before the ripening of cherries. did that cherry-idyll with mdlle. de colombier lure him back to life? or did the hope of striking a blow for corsica stay his suicidal hand? probably the latter; for we find him shortly afterwards tilting against a protestant minister of geneva who had ventured to criticise one of the dogmas of rousseau's evangel.
the genevan philosopher had asserted that christianity, by enthroning in the hearts of christians the idea of a kingdom not of this world, broke the unity of civil society, because it detached the hearts of its converts from the state, as from all earthly things. to this the genevan minister had successfully replied by quoting christian teachings on the subject at issue. but buonaparte fiercely accuses the pastor of neither having understood, nor even read, "le contrat social": he hurls at his opponent texts of scripture which enjoin obedience to the laws: he accuses christianity of rendering men slaves to an anti-social tyranny, because its priests set up an authority in opposition to civil laws; and as for protestantism, it propagated discords between its followers, and thereby violated civic unity. christianity, he argues, is a foe to civil government, for it aims at making men happy in this life by inspiring them with hope of a future life; while the aim of civil government is "to lend assistance to the feeble against the strong, and by this means to allow everyone to enjoy a sweet tranquillity, the road of happiness." he therefore concludes that christianity and civil government are diametrically opposed.
his reading of rousseau having equipped him for the study of human society and government, he now, during his first sojourn at auxonne (june, 1788--september, 1789), proceeds to ransack the records of the ancient and modern world. despite ill-health, family troubles, and the outbreak of the french revolution, he grapples with this portentous task. the history, geography, religion, and social customs of the ancient persians, scythians, thracians, athenians, spartans, egyptians, and carthaginians--all furnished materials for his encyclopædic note-books. nothing came amiss to his summarizing genius. here it was that he gained that knowledge of the past which was to astonish his contemporaries. side by side with suggestions on regimental discipline and improvements in artillery, we find notes on the opening episodes of plato's "republic," and a systematic summary of english history from the earliest times down to the revolution of 1688. this last event inspired him with special interest, because the whigs and their philosophic champion, locke, maintained that james ii. had violated the original contract between prince and people. everywhere in his notes napoleon emphasizes the incidents which led to conflicts between dynasties or between rival principles. in fact, through all these voracious studies there appear signs of his determination to write a history of corsica; and, while inspiriting his kinsmen by recalling the glorious past, he sought to weaken the french monarchy by inditing a "dissertation sur l'autorité royale." his first sketch of this work runs as follows:
"23 october, 1788. auxonne.
"this work will begin with general ideas as to the origin and the enhanced prestige of the name of king. military rule is favourable to it: this work will afterwards enter into the details of the usurped authority enjoyed by the kings of the twelve kingdoms of europe.
this curt pronouncement is all that remains of the projected work. it sufficiently indicates, however, the aim of napoleon's studies. one and all they were designed to equip him for the great task of re-awakening the spirit of the corsicans and of sapping the base of the french monarchy.
but these reams of manuscript notes and crude literary efforts have an even wider source of interest. they show how narrow was his outlook on life. it all turned on the regeneration of corsica by methods which he himself prescribed. we are therefore able to understand why, when his own methods of salvation for corsica were rejected, he tore himself away and threw his undivided energies into the revolution.
yet the records of his early life show that in his character there was a strain of true sentiment and affection. in him nature carved out a character of rock-like firmness, but she adorned it with flowers of human sympathy and tendrils of family love. at his first parting from his brother joseph at autun, when the elder brother was weeping passionately, the little napoleon dropped a tear: but that, said the tutor, meant as much as the flood of tears from joseph. love of his relatives was a potent factor of his policy in later life; and slander has never been able wholly to blacken the character of a man who loved and honoured his mother, who asserted that her advice had often been of the highest service to him, and that her justice and firmness of spirit marked her out as a natural ruler of men. but when these admissions are freely granted, it still remains true that his character was naturally hard; that his sense of personal superiority made him, even as a child, exacting and domineering; and the sequel was to show that even the strongest passion of his youth, his determination to free corsica from france, could be abjured if occasion demanded, all the force of his nature being thenceforth concentrated on vaster adventures.
the french revolution and corsica
the first questions that confront us are obviously these. were the lofty aims and aspirations of the revolution attainable? and, if so, did the men of 1789 follow them by practical methods? to the former of these questions the present chapter will, in part at least, serve as an answer. on the latter part of the problem the events described in later chapters will throw some light: in them we shall see that the great popular upheaval let loose mighty forces that bore buonaparte on to fortune.
here we may notice that the revolution was not a simple and therefore solid movement. it was complex and contained the seeds of discord which lurk in many-sided and militant creeds. the theories of its intellectual champions were as diverse as the motives which spurred on their followers to the attack on the outworn abuses of the age.
discontent and faith were the ultimate motive powers of the revolution. faith prepared the revolution and discontent accomplished it. idealists who, in varied planes of thought, preached the doctrine of human perfectibility, succeeded in slowly permeating the dull toiling masses of france with hope. omitting here any notice of philosophic speculation as such, we may briefly notice the teachings of three writers whose influence on revolutionary politics was to be definite and practical. these were montesquieu, voltaire, and rousseau. the first was by no means a revolutionist, for he decided in favour of a mixed form of government, like that of england, which guaranteed the state against the dangers of autocracy, oligarchy, and mob-rule. only by a ricochet did he assail the french monarchy. but he re-awakened critical inquiry; and any inquiry was certain to sap the base of the ancien régime in france. montesquieu's teaching inspired the group of moderate reformers who in 1789 desired to re-fashion the institutions of france on the model of those of england. but popular sentiment speedily swept past these anglophils towards the more attractive aims set forth by voltaire.
this keen thinker subjected the privileged classes, especially the titled clergy, to a searching fire of philosophic bombs and barbed witticisms. never was there a more dazzling succession of literary triumphs over a tottering system. the satirized classes winced and laughed, and the intellect of france was conquered, for the revolution. thenceforth it was impossible that peasants who were nominally free should toil to satisfy the exacting needs of the state, and to support the brilliant bevy of nobles who flitted gaily round the monarch at versailles. the young king louis xvi., it is true, carried through several reforms, but he had not enough strength of will to abolish the absurd immunities from taxation which freed the nobles and titled clergy from the burdens of the state. thus, down to 1789, the middle classes and peasants bore nearly all the weight of taxation, while the peasants were also encumbered by feudal dues and tolls. these were the crying grievances which united in a solid phalanx both thinkers and practical men, and thereby gave an immense impetus to the levelling doctrines of rousseau.
two only of his political teachings concern us here, namely, social equality and the unquestioned supremacy of the state; for to these dogmas, when they seemed doomed to political bankruptcy, napoleon buonaparte was to act as residuary legatee. according to rousseau, society and government originated in a social contract, whereby all members of the community have equal rights. it matters not that the spirit of the contract may have evaporated amidst the miasma of luxury. that is a violation of civil society; and members are justified in reverting at once to the primitive ideal. if the existence of the body politic be endangered, force may be used: "whoever refuses to obey the general will shall be constrained to do so by the whole body; which means nothing else than that he shall be forced to be free." equally plausible and dangerous was his teaching as to the indivisibility of the general will. deriving every public power from his social contract, he finds it easy to prove that the sovereign power, vested in all the citizens, must be incorruptible, inalienable, unrepresentable, indivisible, and indestructible. englishmen may now find it difficult to understand the enthusiasm called forth by this quintessence of negations; but to frenchman recently escaped from the age of privilege and warring against the coalition of kings, the cry of the republic one and indivisible was a trumpet call to death or victory. any shifts, even that of a dictatorship, were to be borne, provided that social equality could be saved. as republican rome had saved her early liberties by intrusting unlimited powers to a temporary dictator, so, claimed rousseau, a young commonwealth must by a similar device consult nature's first law of self-preservation. the dictator saves liberty by temporarily abrogating it: by momentary gagging of the legislative power he renders it truly vocal.
the events of the french revolution form a tragic commentary on these theories. in the first stage of that great movement we see the followers of montesquieu, voltaire, and rousseau marching in an undivided host against the ramparts of privilege. the walls of the bastille fall down even at the blast of their trumpets. odious feudal privileges disappear in a single sitting of the national assembly; and the parlements, or supreme law courts of the provinces, are swept away. the old provinces themselves are abolished, and at the beginning of 1790 france gains social and political unity by her new system of departments, which grants full freedom of action in local affairs, though in all national concerns it binds france closely to the new popular government at paris. but discords soon begin to divide the reformers: hatred of clerical privilege and the desire to fill the empty coffers of the state dictate the first acts of spoliation. tithes are abolished: the lands of the church are confiscated to the service of the state; monastic orders are suppressed; and the government undertakes to pay the stipends of bishops and priests. furthermore, their subjection to the state is definitely secured by the civil constitution of the clergy (july, 1790) which invalidates their allegiance to the pope. most of the clergy refuse: these are termed non-jurors or orthodox priests, while their more complaisant colleagues are known as constitutional priests. hence arises a serious schism in the church, which distracts the religious life of the land, and separates the friends of liberty from the champions of the rigorous equality preached by rousseau.
the new constitution of 1791 was also a source of discord. in its jealousy of the royal authority, the national assembly seized very many of the executive functions of government. the results were disastrous. laws remained without force, taxes went uncollected, the army was distracted by mutinies, and the monarchy sank slowly into the gulf of bankruptcy and anarchy. thus, in the course of three years, the revolutionists goaded the clergy to desperation, they were about to overthrow the monarchy, every month was proving their local self-government to be unworkable, and they themselves split into factions that plunged france into war and drenched her soil by organized massacres.
we know very little about the impression made on the young buonaparte by the first events of the revolution. his note-book seems even to show that he regarded them as an inconvenient interference with his plans for corsica. but gradually the revolution excites his interest. in september, 1789, we find him on furlough in corsica sharing the hopes of the islanders that their representatives in the french national assembly will obtain the boon of independence. he exhorts his compatriots to favour the democratic cause, which promises a speedy deliverance from official abuses. he urges them to don the new tricolour cockade, symbol of parisian triumph over the old monarchy; to form a club; above all, to organize a national guard. the young officer knew that military power was passing from the royal army, now honeycombed with discontent, to the national guard. here surely was corsica's means of salvation. but the french governor of corsica intervenes. the club is closed, and the national guard is dispersed. thereupon buonaparte launches a vigorous protest against the tyranny of the governor and appeals to the national assembly of france for some guarantee of civil liberty. his name is at the head of this petition, a sufficiently daring step for a junior lieutenant on furlough. but his patriotism and audacity carry him still further. he journeys to bastia, the official capital of his island, and is concerned in an affray between the populace and the royal troops (november 5th, 1789). the french authorities, fortunately for him, are nearly powerless: he is merely requested to return to ajaccio; and there he organizes anew the civic force, and sets the dissident islanders an example of good discipline by mounting guard outside the house of a personal opponent.
then again, the concession of local self-government to the island, as one of the departments of france, revealed unexpected difficulties. bastia and ajaccio struggled hard for the honour of being the official capital. paoli favoured the claims of bastia, thereby annoying the champions of ajaccio, among whom the buonapartes were prominent. the schism was widened by the dictatorial tone of paoli, a demeanour which ill became the chief of a civic force. in fact, it soon became apparent that corsica was too small a sphere for natures so able and masterful as those of paoli and napoleon buonaparte.
after firing off this tirade buonaparte returned to his regiment at auxonne (february, 1791). it was high time; for his furlough, though prolonged on the plea of ill-health, had expired in the preceding october, and he was therefore liable to six months' imprisonment. but the young officer rightly gauged the weakness of the moribund monarchy; and the officers of his almost mutinous regiment were glad to get him back on any terms. everywhere in his journey through provence and dauphiné, buonaparte saw the triumph of revolutionary principles. he notes that the peasants are to a man for the revolution; so are the rank and file of the regiment. the officers are aristocrats, along with three-fourths of those who belong to "good society": so are all the women, for "liberty is fairer than they, and eclipses them." the revolution was evidently gaining completer hold over his mind and was somewhat blurring his insular sentiments, when a rebuff from paoli further weakened his ties to corsica. buonaparte had dedicated to him his work on corsica, and had sent him the manuscript for his approval. after keeping it an unconscionable time, the old man now coldly replied that he did not desire the honour of buonaparte's panegyric, though he thanked him heartily for it; that the consciousness of having done his duty sufficed for him in his old age; and, for the rest, history should not be written in youth. a further request from joseph buonaparte for the return of the slighted manuscript brought the answer that he, paoli, had no time to search his papers. after this, how could hero-worship subsist?
at midsummer he is transferred, as first lieutenant, to another regiment which happened to be quartered at valence; but his second sojourn there is remarkable only for signs of increasing devotion to the revolutionary cause. in the autumn of 1791 he is again in corsica on furlough, and remains there until the month of may following. he finds the island rent by strifes which it would be tedious to describe. suffice it to say that the breach between paoli and the vivie's health gradually recovered from the effects of the forcible feeding; the prison fare, supplemented by the weekly parcels, suited her digestion; the peace of the prison life and the regular work at interesting trades soothed her nerves. she enjoyed the respite from the worries of her complicated toilettes, the perplexity of what to wear and how to wear it; in short, she was finding a spell of prison life quite bearable, except for the cold and the attentions of the chaplain. she gathered from the fortnightly letter which her industry and good conduct allowed her to receive, and to answer, that unwearied efforts were being made by her friends outside to shorten her sentence. mrs. warren through bertie adams had found out the cases where jockeys and stable lads had lost their effects in the fires or explosions which had followed vivie's visits to their employers' premises, and had made good their losses. as to their employers, they had all been heavily insured, and recovered the value of their buildings; and as to the insurance companies they had all been so enriched by mr. lloyd george's legislation that the one-or-two hundred thousand pounds they had lost, through vivie's revenge for the seemingly-fruitless death of emily wilding davison, was a bagatelle not worth bothering about. but all attempts to get the home office to reconsider miss warren's case or to shorten her imprisonment (except by the abridgment that could be earned in the prison itself) were unavailing. so long as the cabinet held vivie under lock and key, the suffrage movement--they foolishly believed--was hamstrung.
mrs. warren, assured by praed and rossiter that vivie's release was a mere matter of a few days, had left for brussels on the 5th of august. if--as was then hoped--the french and belgian armies would suffice to keep the germans at bay on the frontier of belgium, she would prefer to resume her life there in the villa de beau-séjour. if however belgium was going to be invaded it was better she should secure her property as far as possible, transfer her funds, and make her way somehow to a safe part of france. vivie would join her as soon as she could leave the prison.
the lilacs in victoria road had been disposed of--through honoria--as soon as possible, after the sentence of three years' imprisonment had been pronounced on vivie; and the faithful suffragette maid had passed into honoria's employ at petworth, a fact that was not fully understood by colonel armstrong until he had become general armstrong and perfectly indifferent to the suffrage agitation which had by that time attained its end. so when vivie had come out of prison and had promised to write to all the wardresses and to meet them some day on non-professional ground; had found rossiter waiting for her in his motor and honoria in hers; had thanked them both for their never-to-be-forgotten kindness, and had insisted on walking away in her rather creased and rumpled clothes of the previous year with bertie adams; she sought the hospitality of praddy at hans place. the parlour-maid received her sumptuously, and praddy's eyes watered with senile tears.
but vivie would have no melancholy. "oh praddy! if you only knew. it's worth going to prison to know the joy of coming out of it! i'm so happy at thinking this is my last day in england for ever so long. when the war is over, i think i shall settle in switzerland with mother--or perhaps all three of us--you with us, i mean--in italy. we'll only come back here when the women have got the vote. now to-night you shall take me to the theatre--or rather i'll take you. i've thought it all out beforehand, and bertie adams has secured the seats. it's the chocolate soldier at the adelphi, the only war piece they had ready; there are two stalls for us and bertie and his wife are going to the dress circle. my cook's ticket is taken for brussels and i leave to-morrow by the ostende route."
"to-morrow" was the 12th of august, and dora was not yet in being to interpose every possible obstacle in the way of the civilian traveller. down to the battle of the marne in september, 1914, very little difficulty was made about crossing the channel, especially off the main dover-calais route.
so in the radiant noon of that august day vivie looked her last on the brown-white promontories, cliffs and grey castle of dover, scarcely troubling about any anticipations one way or the other, and certainly having no prevision she would not recross the channel for four years and four months, and not see dover again for five or six years.
british war vessels were off the port and inside it. but there was not much excitement or crowding on the ostende steamer or any of those sensational precautions against being torpedoed or mined, which soon afterwards oppressed the spirits of cross-channel passengers. vessels arriving from belgium were full of passengers of the superior refugee class, american and british tourists, or wealthy people who though they preferred living abroad had begun to think that the continent just now was not very healthy and england the securest refuge for those who wished to be comfortable.
vivie being a good sailor and economical by nature, never thought of securing a cabin for the four or five hours' sea-journey. she sat on the upper deck with her scanty luggage round her. a nice-looking young man who had a cabin the door of which he locked, was walking up and down on the level deck and scrutinizing her discreetly. and when at last they worked their way backwards into ostende--the harbour was full of vessels, chiefly mine-dredgers and torpedo boats--she noticed the obsequiousness of the steamer people and how he left the ship before any one else.
she followed soon afterwards, having little encumbrances in the way of luggage; but she observed that he just showed a glimpse of some paper and was allowed to walk straight through the douane with unexamined luggage, and so, on to the brussels train.
but she herself had little difficulty. she put her hand luggage--she had no other--into a first-class compartment, and having an hour and a half to wait walked out to look at ostende.
summer tourists were still there; the casino was full of people, the shops were doing an active trade; the restaurants were crowded with english, americans, belgians taking tea, chocolate, or liqueurs at little tables and creating a babel of talk. newspapers were being sold everywhere by ragamuffin boys who shouted their head-lines in french, flemish, and quite understandable english. a fort or two at liége had fallen, but it was of no consequence. general léman could hold out indefinitely, and the mere fact that german soldiers had entered the town of liége counted for nothing. belgium had virtually won the war by holding up the immense german army. france was overrunning alsace, russia was invading east prussia and also sending uncountable thousands of soldiers, via archangel, to england, whence they were being despatched to calais for the relief of belgium.
"it looks," thought vivie, after glancing at the indépendance belge, "as though belgium were going to be extremely interesting during the next few weeks; i may be privileged to witness--from a safe distance--another waterloo."
then she returned to the train which in her absence had been so crowded with soldiers and civilian passengers that she had great difficulty in finding her place and seating herself. the young man whom she had seen pacing the deck of the steamer approached her and said: "there is more room in my compartment; in fact i have selfishly got one all to myself. won't you share it?"
she thanked him and moved in there with her suit case and rugs. when the train had started and she had parried one or two polite enquiries as to place and ventilation, she said: "i think i ought to tell you who i am, in case you would not like to be seen speaking to me--i imagine you are in diplomacy, as i noticed you went through with a red passport.--i am vivien warren, just out of prison, and an outlaw, more or less."
"'the outlaws of to-day are the in-laws of to-morrow,' as the english barrister said when he married the boer general's daughter. i have thought i recognized you. i have heard you speak at lady maud's and also at lady feenix's suffrage parties. my name is hawk. i suppose you've been in prison for some suffrage offence? so has my aunt, for the matter of that."
vivie: "yes, but in her case they only sentenced her to the first division; whereas i have been doing nine months' hard."
hawk: "what was your crime?"
vivie: "i admit nothing, it is always wisest. but i was accused of burning down mr. ----'s racing stables--and other things..."
hawk: "that beast. well, i suppose it was very wrong. can't quite make up my mind about militancy, one way or the other. but here we are up against the biggest war in history, and such peccadilloes as yours sink into insignificance. by the bye, my aunt was amnestied and so i suppose were you?"
vivie: "yes, but not so handsomely. i was requested to go away from england for a time, so here i am, about to join my mother in brussels--or in a little country place near brussels."
hawk: "well, i've been secretary of legation there. i'm just going back to--to--well i'm just going back."
at bruges they were told that the train would not leave for ghent and brussels for another two hours--some mobilization delay; so hawk proposed they should go and see the memlings and then have some dinner.
"don't you think they're perfectly wonderful?"--àpropos of the pictures in the hospital of st. jean.
vivie: "it depends on what you mean by 'wonderful.' if you admire the fidelity of the reproduction in colour and texture of the flemish costumes of the fifteenth century, i agree with you. it is also interesting to see the revelations of their domestic architecture and furniture of that time, and the types of domestic dog, cow and horse. but if you admire them as being true pictures of life in palestine in the time of christ, or in the rhineland of the fifth century, then i think they--like most old masters--are perfectly rotten. and have you ever remarked another thing about all paintings prior to the seventeenth century: how plain, how ugly all the people are? you never see a single good-looking man or woman. do let's go and have that dinner you spoke of. i've got a prison appetite."
even at an early hour brussels seemed crowded and as the tram passed along the handsome boulevards the shops were being opened and tourists were on their way to waterloo in brakes. every one seemed to think in mid-august, 1914, that germany was destined to receive her coup-de-grâce on the field of waterloo. it would be so appropriate. and no one--at any rate of those who spoke their thoughts aloud--seemed to consider that brussels was menaced.
leaving her luggage at the tram terminus, vivie sped on foot through forest roads, where the dew still glistened, to the villa beau-séjour. mrs. warren was not yet dressed, but was rapturous in her greeting. her chauffeur had been called up, so the auto could not go out, but a farm cart would be sent for the luggage.
"i believe, mother, i'm going to enjoy myself enormously," said vivie as she sat in the verandah in the morning sunshine, making a delicious petit déjeuner out of fresh rolls, the butter of the farm, a few slices of sausage, and a big cup of frothing chocolate topped with whipped cream. the scene that spread before her was idyllic, from a bucolic point of view. the beech woods of tervueren shut out any horizon of town activity; black and white cows were being driven out to pasture, a flock of geese with necks raised vertically waggled sedately along their own chosen path, a little disturbed and querulous over the arrival of a stranger; turkey hens and their half-grown poults and a swelling, strutting turkey cock, a peacock that had already lost nearly all his tail and therefore declined combat with the turkey and was, moreover, an isolated bachelor; guinea-fowls scratching and running about alternately; and plump cocks and hens of mixed breed covered most of the ground in the adjacent farm yard and the turf of an apple orchard, where the fruit was already reddening under the august sun. pigeons circled against the sky with the distinct musical notes struck out by their wings, or cooed and cooed round the dove cots. the dairy women of the farm laughed and sang and called out to one another in flemish and wallon rough chaff about their men-folk who were called to the colours. there was nothing suggestive here of any coming tragedy.
this was the morning of the 13th of august. for three more days vivie lived deliriously, isolated from the world. she took new books to the shade of the forest, and a rug on which she could repose, and read there with avidity, read also all the newspapers her mother had brought over from england, tried to master the events which had so rapidly and irresistibly plunged europe into war. were the germans to blame, she asked herself? of course they were, technically, in invading belgium and in forcing this war on france. but were they not being surrounded by a hostile alliance? was not this hostility on the part of servia towards austria stimulated by russia in order to forestal the central powers by a russian occupation of constantinople? why should the russian empire be allowed to stretch for nine millions of square miles over half asia, much of persia, and now claim to control the balkan peninsula and asia minor? if england might claim a large section of persia as her sphere of influence, and egypt likewise and a fourth part of africa, much of arabia, and cyprus in the mediterranean, why might not germany and austria expect to have their little spheres of influence in the balkans, in asia minor, in mesopotamia? we had helped france to morocco and italy to tripoli; why should we bother about servia? it might be unkind, but then were we not unkind towards her father's country, ireland? were we very tender towards national independence in egypt, in persia?
yet this brutal invasion of france, this unprovoked attack on liège were ugly things. france had shown no disposition to egg servia on against austria, and sir edward grey in the last days of june--she now learnt for the first time, for she had seen no newspapers in prison, where it is part of the dehumanizing policy of the home office to prevent their entry, or the dissemination of any information about current events--sir edward grey had clearly shown great britain did not approve of servian intrigues in bosnia. well: let the best man win. germany was just as likely to give the vote to her women as was britain. the germans were first in music and in science. she for her part didn't wish to become a german subject, but once the war was over she would willingly naturalize herself belgian or swiss.
and the war must soon be over. europe as a whole could not allow this devastation of resources. america would intervene. already the germans realized their gigantic blunder in starting the attack. their men were said to be--she read--much less brave than people had expected. the mighty german armies had been held up for ten days by a puny belgian force and the forts of liège and namur. there would presently be an armistice and germany would have to make peace with perhaps the cession to france of metz as a solatium, while germany was given a little bit more of africa, and austria got nothing....
meantime the villa beau-séjour seemed after holloway prison a paradise upon earth. why quarrel with her fate? why not drop politics and take up philosophy? she felt herself capable of writing a universal history which would be far truer if more cynical than any previous attempt to show civilized man the route he had followed and the martyrdom he had undergone.
on the 17th of august she took the tram into brussels. it seemed however as if it would never get there, and when she reached the porte de namur she was too impatient to wait for the connection. she could not find any gendarme, but at a superior-looking flower-shop she obtained the address of the british legation.
these rumours were to the effect that the germans had captured all the forts of liège and their brave defender, general léman; that they were in namur and were advancing on louvain. "i wonder what we had better do?" pondered vivie.
in her bewilderment she took the bold step of calling at the hotel de ville, gave her name and nationality, and asked the advice of the municipal employé who saw her as to what course she and her mother had better pursue: leave tervueren and seek a lodging in brussels; or retreat as far as ghent or bruges or even holland? the clerk reassured her. the germans had certainly occupied the south-east of belgium, but dared not push as far to the west and north as brussels. they risked otherwise being nipped between the belgian army of antwerp and the british force marching on mons.... he directed her attention to the last communiqué of the ministry of war: "la situation n'a jamais été meilleure. bruxelles, à l'abri d'un coup de main, est défendue par vingt mille gardes civiques armés d'un excellent fusil," etc.
vivie returned therefore a trifle reassured. at the same time she and her mother spent some hours in packing up and posting valuable securities to london, via ostende, in packing for deposit in the strong rooms of a brussels bank mrs. warren's jewellery and plate. the tram service from tervueren had ceased to run. so they induced a neighbour to drive them into brussels in a chaise: a slow and wearisome journey under a broiling sun. arrived in brussels they found the town in consternation. placarded on the walls was a notice signed by the burgomaster--the celebrated adolphe max--informing the bruxellois that in spite of the resistances of the belgian army it was to be feared the enemy might soon be in occupation of brussels. in such an event he adjured the citizens to avoid all panic, to give no legitimate cause of offence to the germans, to renounce any idea of resorting to arms! the germans on their part were bound by the laws of war to respect private property, the lives of non-combatants, the honour of women, and the exercise of religion.
vivie and her mother found the banks closed and likewise the railway station. they now had but one thought: to get back as quickly as possible to villa beau-séjour, and fortunately for their dry-mouthed impatience their farmer friend was of the same mind. along the tervueren road they met numbers of peasant refugees in carts and on foot, driving cattle, geese or pigs towards the capital; urging on the tugging dogs with small carts and barrows loaded with personal effects, trade-goods, farm produce, or crying children. all of them had a distraught, haggard appearance and were constantly looking behind them. from the east, indeed, came the distant sounds of explosions and intermittent rifle firing. mrs. warren was blanched with fear, her cheeks a dull peach colour. she questioned the people in french and flemish, but they only answered vaguely in raucous voices: "les allemands!" "de duitscher."
one old woman, however, had flung herself down by the roadside, while her patient dog lay between the shafts of the little cart till she should be pleased to go on. she was more communicative and told mrs. warren a tale too horrible to be believed, about husband, son, son-in-law all killed, daughter violated and killed too, cottage in flames, livestock driven off. recovering from her exhaustion she rose and shook herself. "i've no business to be here. i should be with them. i was just packing this cart for the market when it happened. why did i go away? oh for shame! i'll go back--to them..." and forthwith she turned the dog round and trudged the same way they were going.
at last they came opposite the courtyard of the villa and saw the lawn and gravel sweep full of helmeted soldiers in green-grey uniform, their bodies hung with equipment--bags, great-coats, rolled-up blankets, trench spades, cartridge bandoliers. vivie jumped down quickly, said to her mother in a low firm voice: "leave everything to me. say as little as possible." then to the farmer: "nous vous remercions infiniment. vous aurez mille choses à faire chez vous, je n'en doute. nous réglerons notre compte tout-à l'heure.... pour le moment, adieu." she clutched the handbags of valuables, slung them somehow on her left arm, while with her other she piloted the nearly swooning mrs. warren into the court.
they were at once stopped by a non-commissioned officer who asked them in abrupt, scarcely understandable german what they wanted. vivie guessing his meaning said in english--she scarcely knew any german: "this is our house. we have been absent in brussels. we want to see the officer in command." the soldier knew no english, but likewise guessed at their meaning. he ordered them to wait where they were. presently he came out of the villa and said the herr oberst would see them. vivie led her mother into the gay little hall--how pleasant and cool it had looked in the early morning! it was now full of surly-looking soldiers. without hesitating she took a chair from one soldier and placed her mother in it. "you rest there a moment, dearest, while i go in and see the officer in command." the corporal she had first spoken with beckoned her into the pretty sitting-room at the back where they had had their early breakfast that morning.
here she saw seated at a table consulting plans of brussels and other papers a tall, handsome man of early middle age, who might indeed have passed for a young man, had he not looked very tired and care-worn and exhibited a bald patch at the back of his head, rendered the more apparent because the brown-gold curls round it were dank with perspiration. he rose to his feet, clicked his heels together and saluted. "an english young lady, i am told, rather ... a ... surprise ... on ... the ... outskirts ... of brussels..." (his english was excellent, if rather staccato and spaced.) "it ... is ... not ... usual ... for ... englishwomen ... to ... be owners ... of chateaux ... in belgium. but i ... hear ... it ... is ... your mother ... who is the owner ... from long time, and you are her daughter newly arrived from england? nicht wahr? sie verstehen nicht deutsch, gnädiges fraulein?"
"no," said vivie, "i don't speak much german, and fortunately you speak such perfect english that it is not necessary."
"i have stayed some time in england," was the reply; "i was once military attaché in london. both your voice and your face seem--what should one say? familiar to me. are you of london?"
"yes, i suppose i may say i am a londoner, though i believe i was born in brussels. but i don't want to beat about the bush: there is so much to be said and explained, and all this time i am very anxious about my mother. she is in the hall outside--feels a little faint i think with shock--might she--might i?"--
"but my dear miss--?"
"my dear miss warren, of course. we are enemies--pour le moment--but we germans are not monsters. ("what about those peasants' stories?" said vivie to herself.) your lady mother must come in here and take that fauteuil. then we can talk better at our ease."
vivie got up and brought her mother in.
"now you shall tell me everything--is it not so? better to be quite frank. à la guerre comme à la guerre. first, you are english?"
"yes. my mother is mrs. warren, i am her daughter, vivien warren. my mother has lived many years in belgium, though also in other places, in germany, austria and france. of late, however, she has lived entirely here. this place belongs to her."
"i? i have just been released from prison in london, holloway prison..."
"my dear young lady! you are surely joking--what do you say? you pull my leg? but no; i see! you have been suffragette. aha! i understand you are the miss warren, the miss warren who make the english government afraid, nicht wahr? you set fire to houses of parliament..."
vivie (interrupting): "no, no! only to some racing stables..."
oberst: "i understand. but you are rebel?"
vivie: "i hate the present british government--the most hypocritical, the most..."
oberst: "but we are in agreement, you and i! this is splendid. but now we must be praktisch. we are at war, though we hope here for a peaceful occupation of belgium. you will see how the flämisch--ah, you say the fleming?--the flemish part of belgium will receive us with such pleasure. it is only with the wälsch, the wallon part we disagree.... but there is so much for me to do--we must talk of all these things some other time. let us begin our business. i must first introduce myself. i am oberst gottlieb von giesselin of the saxon army. (he rose, clicked heels, bowed, and sat down.) i see you have three heavy bags you look at often. what is it?"
vivie (taking courage): "it is my mother's jewellery and some plate. she fears--"
leaving mrs. warren still seated, but a little less stertorous in breathing, a little reassured, vivie and oberst von giesselin then went over the villa, apportioning the rooms. the colonel and his orderly would be lodged in two of the bedrooms. vivie and her mother would share mrs. warren's large bedroom and retain the salon for their exclusive occupation. they would use the dining-room in common with their guest.
vivie looking out of the windows occasionally, as they passed from room to room, saw the remainder of the soldiery strolling off to be lodged at their nearest neighbour's, the farmer who had driven them in to brussels that morning. there were perhaps thirty, accompanying a young lieutenant. how would he find room for them, poor man? they were more fortunate in being asked only to lodge six or seven in addition to the colonel's orderly and soldier-clerk. before sunset, the villa beau-séjour was clear of soldiers, except the few that had gone to the barn and the outhouses. the morning room had been fitted up with a typewriter at which the military clerk sat tapping. the colonel's personal luggage had been placed in his bedroom. a soldier was even sweeping up all traces of the invasion of armed men and making everything tidy. it all seemed like a horrid dream that was going to end up happily after all. presently vivie would wake up completely and there would even be no oberst, no orderly; only the peaceful life of the farm that was going on yesterday. here a sound of angry voices interrupted her musings. the cows returning by themselves from the pasture were being intercepted by soldiers who were trying to secure them. vivie in her indignation ran out and ordered the soldiers off, in english. to her surprise they obeyed silently, but as they sauntered away to their quarters she was saddened at seeing them carrying the bodies of most of the turkeys and fowls and even the corpse of the poor tailless peacock. they had waited for sundown to rob the hen-roosts.
very much disillusioned she ran to the morning room and burst in on the colonel's dictation to his clerk. "excuse me, but if you don't keep your soldiers in better order you will have very little to eat whilst you are here. they are killing and carrying off all our poultry."
the colonel flushed a little at the peremptory way in which she spoke, but without replying went out and shouted a lot of orders in german. his orderly summoned soldiers from the barn and together they drove the cows into the cow-sheds. all the flemish servants having disappeared in a panic, the germans had to milk the cows that evening; and vivie, assisted by the orderly, cooked the evening meal in the kitchen. he was, like his colonel, a saxon, a pleasant-featured, domesticated man, who explained civilly in the thuringian dialect--though to vivie there could be no discrimination between varieties of high german--that the sachsen folk were "eines gütes leute" and that all would go smoothly in time.
nevertheless the next morning when she could take stock she found nearly all the poultry except the pigeons had disappeared; and most of the apples, ripe and unripe, had vanished from the orchard trees. the female servants of the farm, however, came back; and finding no violence was offered took up their work again. two days afterwards, von giesselin sent vivie into brussels in his motor, with his orderly to escort her, so that she might deposit her valuables at a bank. she found brussels, suburbs and city alike, swarming with grey-uniformed soldiers, most of whom looked tired and despondent. those who were on the march, thinking vivie must be the wife of some german officer of high rank, struck up a dismal chant from dry throats with a refrain of "gloria, viktoria, hoch! deutschland, hoch!" at the bank the belgian officials received her with deference. apart from being the daughter of the well-to-do mrs. warren, she was english, and seemed to impose respect even on the germans. they took over her valuables, made out a receipt, and cashed a fairly large cheque in ready money. vivie then ventured to ask the bank clerk who had seen to her business if he had any news. looking cautiously round, he said the rumours going through the town were that the queen of holland, enraged that her prince consort should have facilitated the crossing of limburg by german armies, had shot him dead with a revolver; that the crown prince of germany, despairing of a successful end of the war, had committed suicide at his father's feet; that the american consul general in brussels--to whom, by the bye, vivie ought to report herself and her mother, in order to come under his protection--had notified general sixt von arnim, commanding the army in brussels, that, unless he vacated the belgian capital immediately, england would bombard hamburg and the united states would declare war on the kaiser. alluring stories like these flitted through despairing brussels during the first two months of german occupation, though vivie, in her solitude at tervueren, seldom heard them.
after her business at the bank she walked about the town. no one took any notice of her or annoyed her in any way. the restaurants seemed crowded with belgians as well as germans, and the belgians did not seem to have lost their appetites. the palace hotel had become a german officers' club. on all the public buildings the german imperial flag hung alongside the belgian. only a few of the trams were running. yet you could still buy, without much difficulty at the kiosques, belgian and even french and british newspapers. from these she gathered that the german forces were in imminent peril between the belgian antwerp army on the north and the british army advancing from the south; and that in the plains of alsace the french had given the first public exhibition of the new "turpin" explosive. the results had been foudroyant ... and simple. complete regiments of german soldiers had been destroyed in one minute. it seemed curious, she thought, that with such an arm as this the french command did not at once come irresistibly to the rescue of brussels....
however, it was four o'clock, and there was her friend the enemy's automobile drawn up outside the bank, awaiting her. she got in, and the soldier chauffeur whirled her away to the villa beau-séjour, beyond tervueren.
on her return she found her mother prostrate with bad news. their nearest neighbour, farmer oudekens who had driven them into brussels the preceding day had been executed in his own orchard only an hour ago. it seemed that the lieutenant in charge of the soldiers billeted there had disappeared in the night, leaving his uniform and watch and chain behind him. the farmer's story was that in the night the lieutenant had appeared in his room with a revolver and had threatened to shoot him unless he produced a suit of civilian clothes. thus coerced he had given him his eldest son's sunday clothes left behind when the said son went off to join the belgian army. the lieutenant, grateful for the assistance, had given him as a present his watch and chain.
on the other hand the german non-commissioned officers insisted their lieutenant had been made away with in the night. the farmer's allegation that he had deserted (as in fact he had) only enhanced his crime. the finding of the court after a very summary trial was "guilty," and despite the frantic appeals of the wife, reinforced later on by mrs. warren, the farmer had been taken out and shot.
the evening meal consequently was one of strained relations. colonel von giesselin came to supper punctually and was very spruce in appearance. but he was gravely polite and uncommunicative. and after dessert the two ladies asked permission to retire. they lay long awake afterwards, debating in whispers what terror might be in store for them. mrs. warren cried a good deal and lamented futilely her indolent languor of a few days previously. why had she not, while there was yet time, cleared out of brussels, gone to holland, and thence regained england with vivie, and from england the south of france? vivie, more stoical, pointed out it was no use crying over lost opportunities. here they were, and they must sharpen their wits to get away at the first opportunity. perhaps the american consul might help them?
the next morning, however, their guest, who had insensibly turned host, told vivie the tram service to brussels, like the train service, was suspended indefinitely, and that he feared they must resign themselves to staying where they were. under his protection they had nothing to fear. he was sorry the soldiers had helped themselves so freely to the livestock; but everything had now settled down. henceforth they would be sure of something to eat, as he himself had got to be fed. and all he asked of them was their agreeable society.
two months went by of this strange life. two months, in which vivie only saw german newspapers--which she read with the aid of von giesselin. their contents filled her with despair. they made very little of the marne rebuff, much of the capture of antwerp and ostende, and the occupation of all belgium (as they put it). vivie noted that the german emperor's heart had bled for the punishment inflicted on louvain. (she wondered how that strange personality, her father, had fared in the destruction of monastic buildings.) but she had then no true idea of what had taken place, and the far-reaching harm this crime had done to the german reputation. she noted that the german press expressed disappointment that the cause of germany, the crusade against albion, had received no support from the irish nationalists, or from the "revolting" women, the suffragettes, who had been so cruelly maltreated by the administration of asquith and sir grey.
this point was discussed by the colonel, but vivie found herself speaking as a patriot. how could the germans expect british women to turn against their own country in its hour of danger?
"then you would not," said von giesselin, "consent to write some letters to your friends, if i said i could have them sent safely to their destination?--only letters," he added hastily, seeing her nostrils quiver and a look come into her eyes--"to ask your suffrage friends to bring pressure to bear on their government to bring this d-r-r-eadful war to a just peace. that is all we ask." but vivie said "with all her own private grudge against the present ministry she felt au fond she was british; she must range herself in time of war with her own people."
mrs. warren went much farther. she was not very voluble nowadays. the german occupation of her villa had given her a mental and physical shock from which she never recovered. she often sat quite silent and rather huddled at meal times and looked the old woman now. in such a conversation as this she roused herself and her voice took an aggressive tone. "my daughter write to her friends to ask them to obstruct the government at such a time as this? never! i'd disown her if she did, i'd repudiate her! she may have had her own turn-up with 'em. i was quite with her there. but that, so to speak, was only a domestic quarrel. we're british all through, and don't you forget it--sir--(she added deprecatingly): british all through and we're goin' to beat germany yet, you'll see. the british navy never has been licked nor won't be, this time."
colonel von giesselin did not insist. he seemed depressed himself at times, and far from elated at the victories announced in his own newspapers. he would in the dreary autumn evenings show them the photographs of his wife--a sweet-looking woman--and his two solid-looking, handsome children, and talk with rapture of his home life. why, indeed, was there this war! his heart like his emperor's bled for these unhappy belgians. but it was all due to the macchiavellian policy of "sir grey and asquiss." if germany had not felt herself surrounded and barred from all future expansion of trade and influence she would not have felt forced to attack france and invade belgium. why, see! all the time they were talking, barbarous russia, egged on by england, was ravaging east prussia!
then, in other moods, he would lament the war and the policy of prussia. how he had loved england in the days when he was military attaché there. he had once wanted to marry an englishwoman, a miss fraser, a so handsome daughter of a court physician.
"why, that must have been honoria, my former partner," said vivie, finding an intense joy in this link of memory. and she told much of her history to the sentimental colonel, who was conceiving for her a sincere friendship and camaraderie. they opened up other veins of memory, talked of lady feenix, of the musical parties at the parrys, of emily daymond's playing, of this, that and the other hostess, of such-and-such an actress or singer.
the colonel of course was often absent all day on military duties. he advised vivie strongly on such occasions not to go far from mrs. warren's little domain. "i am obliged to remind you, dear young lady, that you and your mother are my prisoners in a sense. many bad things are going on--things we cannot help in war--outside this quiet place..."
in november, however, there was a change of scene, which in many ways came to vivie and her mother with a sense of great relief. colonel von giesselin told them one morning he had been appointed secretary to the german governor of brussels, and must reside in the town not far from the rue de la loi. he proposed that the ladies should move into brussels likewise; in fact he delicately insisted on it. their pleasant relations could thus continue--perhaps--who knows?--to the end of this war, "to that peace which will make us friends once more?" it would in any case be most unsafe if, without his protection, they continued to reside at this secluded farm, on the edge of the great woods. in fact it could not be thought of, and another officer was coming here in his place with a considerable suite. eventually compensation would be paid to mrs. warren for any damage done to her property.
the two women readily agreed. in the curtailment of their movements and the absence of normal means of communication their life at villa beau-séjour was belying its name. their supply of money was coming to an end; attempts must be made to regularize that position by drawing on mrs. warren's german investments and the capital she still had in belgian stock--if that were negotiable at all.
where should they go? mrs. warren still had some lien on the hotel édouard-sept (the name, out of deference to the germans, had been changed to hotel impérial). with the influence of the government secretary behind her she might turn out some of its occupants and regain the use of the old "appartement." this would accommodate vivie too. and there was no reason why their friend should not place his own lodging and office at the same hotel, which was situated conveniently on the rue royale not far from the governor's residence in the rue de la loi.
so this plan was carried out. and in december, 1914, mrs. warren had some brief flicker of happiness once more, and even vivie felt the nightmare had lifted a little. it was life again. residence at the villa beau-séjour had almost seemed an entombment of the living. here, in the heart of brussels, at any rate, you got some news every day, even if much of it was false. the food supply was more certain, there were 700,000 people all about you. true, the streets were very badly lit at night and fuel was scarce and dear. but you were in contact with people.
in january, vivie tried to get into touch with the american legation, not only to send news of their condition to england but to ascertain whether permission might not be obtained for them to leave belgium for holland. but this last plea was said by the american representative to be unsustainable. for various reasons, the german government would not permit it, and he was afraid neither vivie nor her mother would get enough backing from the british authorities to strengthen the american demand. she must stop on in brussels till the war came to an end.
"but how are we to live?" asked vivie, with a catch in her throat. "our supply of belgian money is coming to an end. my mother has considerable funds invested in england. these she can't touch. she has other sums in german securities, but soon after the war they stopped sending her the interest on the plea that she was an 'enemy.' as to the money we have in belgium, the bank in brussels can tell me nothing. what are we to do?" the rather cold-mannered american diplomatist--it was one of the secretaries of legation and he knew all about mrs. warren's past, and regarded vivie as an outlaw--said he would try to communicate with her friends in england and see if through the american relief organization, funds could be transmitted for their maintenance. she gave him the addresses of rossiter, praed, and her mother's london bankers.
vivie now tried to settle down to a life of usefulness. to increase their resources she gave lessons in english to belgians and even to german officers. she offered herself to various groups of belgian ladies who had taken up such charities as the germans permitted. she also asked to be taken on as a red cross helper. but in all these directions she had many snubs to meet and little encouragement. scandal had been busy with her name--the unhappy reputation of her mother, the peculiar circumstances under which she had left england, the two or three months shut up at tervueren with colonel von giesselin, and the very protection he now accorded her and her mother at the hotel impérial. she felt herself looked upon almost as a pariah, except among the poor of brussels in the quartier des marolles. here she was only regarded as a kind englishwoman, unwearied in her efforts to alleviate suffering, mental and bodily.
and meantime, silence, a wall of silence as regarded england--england which she was beginning to look upon as the paradise from which she had been chased. not a word had come through from rossiter, from honoria, bertie adams, or any of her suffrage friends. i can supply briefly what she did not know.
rossiter at the very outbreak of war had offered his services as one deeply versed in anatomy and in physiology to the army medical service, and especially to a great person at the war office; but had been told quite cavalierly that they had no need of him. as he persisted, he had been asked--in the hope that it might get rid of him--to go over to the united states in company with a writer of comic stories, a retired actor and a music-hall singer, and lecture on the causes of the war in the hope of bringing america in. this he had declined to do, and being rich and happening to know personally general armstrong (honoria's husband) he had been allowed to accompany him to the vicinity of the front and there put his theories of grafting flesh and bone to the test; with the ultimate results that his work became of enormous beneficial importance and he was given rank in the r.a.m.c. honoria, racked with anxiety about her dear "army," and very sad as to vivie's disappearance, slaved at war work as much as her children's demands on her permitted; or even put her children on one side to help the sick and wounded. vivie's suffrage friends forgot she had ever existed and turned their attention to propaganda, to recruiting for the voluntary army which our ministers still hoped might suffice to win the war, to the making of munitions, or aeroplane parts, to land work and to any other work which might help their country in its need.
and bertie adams?
when he realized that his beloved and revered miss warren was shut off from escape in belgium, could not be heard of, could not be got at and rescued, he went nearly off his nut.... he reviewed during a succession of sleepless nights what course he might best pursue. his age was about thirty-two. he might of course enlist in the army. but though very patriotic, his allegiance lay first at the feet of vivie warren. if he entered the army, he might be sent anywhere but to the belgian frontier; and even if he got near belgium he could not dart off to rescue vivie without becoming a deserter. so he came speedily to the conclusion that the most promising career he could adopt, having regard to his position in life and lack of resources, was to volunteer for foreign service under the y.m.c.a., and express the strongest possible wish to be employed as near belgium as was practicable. so that by the end of september, 1914, bertie was serving out cocoa and biscuits, writing paper and cigarettes, hot coffee and sausages and cups of bovril to exhausted or resting soldiers in the huts of the y.m.c.a., near ypres. alternating with these services, he was, like other y.m.c.a. men in the same district and at the same time, acting as stretcher bearer to bring in the wounded, as amateur chaplain with the dying, as amateur surgeon with the wounded, as secretary to some distraught officer in high command whose clerks had all been killed; and in any other capacity if called upon. but always with the stedfast hope and purpose that he might somehow reach and rescue vivie warren.
in the early spring of 1915, vivie, anxious not to see her mother in utter penury, and despairing of any effective assistance from the americans (very much prejudiced against her for the reasons already mentioned), took her mother's german and belgian securities of a face value amounting to about £18,000 and sold them at her belgian bank for a hundred thousand francs (£4,000) in belgian or german bank notes. she consulted no one, except her mother. who was there to consult? she did not like to confide too much to colonel von giesselin, a little too prone in any case to "protect" them. but as she argued with mrs. warren, what else were they to do in their cruel situation? if the allies were eventually victorious, mrs. warren could return to england. there at least she had in safe investments £40,000, ample for the remainder of their lives. if germany lost the war, the german securities nominally worth two hundred thousand marks might become simply waste paper; even now they were only computed by the bank at a purchase value of about one fifth what they had stood at before the war. if germany were victorious or agreed to a compromise peace, her mother's shares in belgian companies might be unsaleable. better to secure now a lump sum of four thousand pounds in bank notes that would be legal currency, at any rate as long as the german occupation lasted. and as one never knew what might happen, it was safer still to have all this money (equivalent to a hundred thousand francs), in their own keeping. they could live even in war time, on such a sum as this for four, perhaps five years, as they would be very economical and vivie would try to earn all she could by teaching. it was useless to hope they would be able to return to villa beau-séjour so long as the german occupation lasted, or during that time receive a penny in compensation for the sequestration of the property.
the notes for the hundred thousand francs therefore were carefully concealed in mrs. warren's bedroom at the hotel impérial and vivie for a few months afterwards felt slightly easier in her mind as to the immediate future; for, as a further resource, there were also the jewels and plate at the bank.
they dared hope for nothing from villa beau-séjour. von giesselin, after more entreaty than vivie cared to make, had allowed them with a special pass and his orderly as escort to go in a military motor to the villa in the month of april in order that they might bring away the rest of their clothes and personal effects of an easily transportable nature. but the visit was a heart-breaking disappointment. their reception was surly; the place was little else than a barrack of disorderly soldiers and insolent officers. any search for clothes or books was a mockery. nothing was to be found in the chests of drawers that belonged to them; only stale food and unnameable horrors or military equipment articles. the garden was trampled out of recognition. there had been a beautiful vine in the greenhouse. it was still there, but the first foliage of spring hung withered and russet coloured. the soldiers, grinning when vivie noticed this, pointed to the base of the far spreading branches. it had been sawn through, and much of the glass of the greenhouse deliberately smashed.
on their way back, mrs. warren, who was constantly in tears, descried waiting by the side of the road the widow of their farmer-neighbour, madame oudekens. she asked the orderly that they might stop and greet her. she approached. mrs. warren got out of the car so that she might more privately talk to her in flemish. since her husband's execution, the woman said, she had had to become the mistress of the sergeant-major who resided with her as the only means, seemingly, of saving her one remaining young son from exile in germany and her daughters from unbearably brutal treatment; though she added, "as to their virtue, that has long since vanished; all i ask is that they be not half-killed whenever the soldiers get drunk. oh madame! if you could only say a word to that colonel with whom you are living?"
mrs. warren dared not translate this last sentence to vivie, for fear her daughter forced her at all costs to leave the hotel impérial. where, if she did, were they to go?
the winter of 1914 had witnessed an appalling degree of frightfulness in eastern belgium, the wallon or french-speaking part of the country more especially. the germans seemed to bear a special grudge against this region, regarding it as doggedly opposed to absorption into a greater germany; whereas they hoped the flemish half of the country would receive them as fellow teutons and even as deliverers from their former french oppressors. thousands of old men and youths, of women and children in the provinces south of the meuse had been shot in cold blood; village after village had been burnt. scenes of nearly equal horror had taken place between brussels and antwerp, especially around malines. von bissing's arrival as governor general was soon signalized by those dreaded red placards on the walls of brussels, announcing the verdicts of courts-martial, the condemnation to death of men and women who had contravened some military regulation.
yet in spite of this, life went on in brussels once more--by von bissing's stern command--as though the country were not under the heel of the invader. the theatres opened their doors; the cinemas had continuous performances; there was grand opera; there were exhibitions of toys, or pictures, and charitable bazaars. ten days after the fall of antwerp char-à-bancs packed with belgians drove out of brussels to visit the scenes of the battles and those shattered forts, so fatuously deemed impregnable, so feeble in their resistance to german artillery.
vivie, even had she wished to do so, could not have joined the sight-seers. as the subjects of an enemy power she and her mother had had early in january to register themselves at the kommandantur and were there warned that without a special passport they might not pass beyond the limits of brussels and its suburbs. except in the matter of the farewell visit to the farm at tervueren, vivie was reluctant to ask for any such favour from von giesselin, though she was curious to see the condition of louvain and to ascertain whether her father still inhabited the monastic house of his order--she had an idea that he was away in germany in connection with his schemes for raising the irish against the british government. von giesselin however was becoming sentimentally inclined towards her and she saw no more of him than was necessary to maintain polite relations. frau von giesselin, for various reasons of health or children, could not join him at brussels as so many german wives had done with other of the high functionaries (to the great embitterment of brussels society); and there were times when von giesselin's protestations of his loneliness alarmed her.
the king of saxony had paid a visit to brussels in the late autumn of 1914 and had invited this colonel of his army to a fastuous banquet given at the palace hotel. the king--whom the still defiant brussels press, especially that unkillable la libre belgique, reminded ironically of his domestic infelicity, by enquiring whether he had brought signor toselli to conduct his orchestra--was gratified that a subject of his should be performing the important duties of secretary to the brussels government, and his notice of von giesselin gave the latter considerable prestige, for a time; an influence which he certainly exercised as far as he was able in softening the edicts and the intolerable desire to annoy and exasperate on the part of the prussian governors of province and kingdom. he even interceded at times for unfortunate british or french subjects, stranded in brussels, and sometimes asked vivie about fellow-countrymen who sought this intervention.
this caused her complicated annoyances. seeing there was some hope in interesting her in their cases, these english governesses, tutors, clerks, tailors' assistants and cutters, music-hall singers, grooms appealed to vivie to support their petitions. they paid her or her mother a kind of base court, on the tacit assumption that she--vivie--had placed colonel von giesselin under special obligations. if in rare instances, out of sheer pity, she took up a case and von giesselin granted the petition or had it done in a higher quarter, his action was clearly a personal favour to her; and the very petitioners went away, with the ingratitude common in such cases, and spread the news of vivie's privileged position at the hotel impérial. it was not surprising therefore that in the small circles of influential british or american people in brussels she was viewed with suspicion or contempt. she supported this odious position at the hotel impérial as long as possible, in the hope that colonel von giesselin when he had realized the impossibility of using herself or her mother in any kind of intrigue against the british government would do what the american consul general professed himself unable or unwilling to do: obtain for them passports to proceed to holland.
von giesselin, from december, 1914, took up among other duties that of press censor and officer in charge of publicity. after the occupation of brussels and the fall of antwerp, the "patriotic" belgian press had withdrawn itself to france and england or had stopped publication. its newspapers had been invited to continue their functions as organs of news-distribution and public opinion, but of course under the german censorate and martial law. as one editor said to a polite german official: "if i were to continue the publication of my paper under such conditions, my staff and i would all be shot in a week."
but the large towns of belgium could not be left without a press. public opinion must be guided, and might very well be guided in a direction favourable to german policy. the german government had already introduced the german hour into belgian time, the german coinage, the german police system, and german music; but it had no intention, seemingly, of forcing the german speech on the old dominions of the house of burgundy. on the contrary, in their tenure of belgium or of north-east france, the germans seemed desirous of showing how well they wrote the french language, how ready they were under a german regime to give it a new literature. whether or not they enlisted a few recreants, or made use of alsatians or lorrainers to help them, it is never-the-less remarkable how free as a rule their written and printed french was from mistakes or german idioms; though their spoken french always remained alsatian. it suffered from that extraordinary misplacement and exchange in the upper and lower consonants which has distinguished the german people--that nation of great philologists--since the death of the roman empire. german officers still said "barton, die fous brie," instead of "pardon, je vous prie" (if they were polite), but they were quite able to contribute articles de fond to a pretended national belgian press. besides there was a sufficiency of belgian "sans-patries" ready to come to their assistance: belgian nationals of german-jewish or dutch-jewish descent, who in the present generation had become catholic christians as it ranged them with the best people. they were worthy and wealthy belgian citizens, but presumably would not have deeply regretted a change in the political destinies of belgium, provided international finance was not adversely affected. there were also a few belgian socialists--a few, but enough--who took posts under the german provisional government, on the plea that until you could be purely socialistic it did not matter under what flag you drew your salary.
von giesselin was most benevolently intentioned, in reality a kind-hearted man, a sentimentalist. not quite prepared to go to the stake himself in place of any other victim of prussian cruelty, but ready to make some effort to soften hardships and reduce sentences. (there were others like him--saxon, thuringian, hanoverian, württembergisch--or the german occupation of belgium might have ended in a vast sicilian vespers, a boiling-over of a maddened people reckless at last of whether they died or not, so long as they slew their oppressors.) he hoped through the pieces played at the theatres and through his censored, subsidized press to bring the belgians round to a reasonable frame of mind, to a toleration of existence under the german empire. but his efforts brought down on him the unsparing ridicule of the parisian-minded bruxellois. they were prompt to detect his attempts to modify the text of french operettas so that these, while delighting the lovers of light music, need not at the same time excite a military spirit or convey the least allusion of an impertinent or contemptuous kind towards the central powers. thus the couplets
"dans le service de l'autriche le militaire n'est pas riche"
were changed to
"dans le service de la suisse le militaire n'est pas riche."
these passionate lines of a political exile:
"a l'étranger un pacte impie vendait mon sang, liait ma foi, mais à present, o ma patrie je pourrai done mourir pour toi!"
were rendered harmless as
"a l'étranger, en réverie chaque jour je pleurais sur toi mais à present, o ma patrie je penserai sans cesse à toi!"
the pleasure he took in recasting this doggerel--calling in vivie to help him as presumably a good scholar in french--got on her nerves, and she was hard put to it to keep her temper.
sometimes he proposed that she should take a hand, even become a salaried subordinate; compose articles for his subsidized paper, "l'ami de l'ordre" (nicknamed "l'ami de l'ordure" by the belgians), "la belgique," "le bruxellois," "vers la paix." he would allow her a very free hand, so long as she did not attack the germans or their allies or put in any false news about military or naval successes of the foes of central europe. she might, for instance, dilate on the cruel manner in which the woman suffragists had been persecuted in england; give a description of forcible feeding or of police ferocity on black friday.
vivie declined any such propositions. "i have told you already, and often," she said, "i am deeply grateful for all you have done for my mother and me. we might have been in a far more uncomfortable position but for your kindness. but i cannot in any way associate myself with the german policy here. i cannot pretend for a moment to condone what you do in this country. if i were a belgian woman i should probably have been shot long ago for assassinating some prussian official--i can hardly see von bissing pass in his automobile, as it is, without wishing i had a bomb. but there it is. it is no business of mine. as i can't get away, as you won't let us go out of the country--switzerland, holland--and as i don't want to go mad by brooding, find something for me to do that will occupy my thoughts: and yet not implicate me with the germans. can't i go and help every day in your hospitals? if you'll continue your kindness to mother--and believe me"--she broke off--"i do appreciate what you have done for us. i shall never forget i have met one true german gentleman--if you'll continue to be as kind as before, you will simply give instructions that mother is in no way disturbed or annoyed. there are germans staying here who are odious beyond belief. if they meet my mother outside her room they ask her insulting questions--whether she can give them the addresses of--of--light women ... you know the sort of thing. i have always been outspoken with you. all i ask is that mother shall be allowed to stay in her own room while i am out, and have her meals served there. but the hotel people are beginning to make a fuss about the trouble, the lack of waiters. a word from you--and then if my mind was at ease about her i could go out and do some good with the poor people. they are getting very restive in the marolles quarter--the shocking bad bread, the lack of fuel--most of all i should like to help in the hospitals. my own countrywomen will not have me in theirs. they suspect me of being a spy in german pay. besides, your von bissing has ordered now that all belgian, british, and french wounded shall be taken to the german red cross. well: if you want to be kind, give me an introduction there. surely it would be bare humanity on your part to let an englishwoman be with some of those poor lads who are sorely wounded, dying perhaps"--she broke down--"the other day i followed two of the motor ambulances along the boulevard d'anspach. blood dripped from them as they passed, and i could hear some english boy trying to sing 'tipperary--'"
"my tear miss warren--i will try to do all that you want--you will not do anything i want, but never mind. i will show you that germans can be generous. i will speak about your mother. i am sorry that there are bad-mannered germans in the hotel. there are some--what-you-call 'bounders'--among us, as there are with you. it is to be regretted. as to our red cross hospitals, i know of a person who can make things easy for you. i will write a letter to my cousin--like me she is a saxon and comes from leipzig--minna von stachelberg. she is but a few months widow, widow of a saxon officer, graf von stachelberg who was killed at namur. oh! it was very sad; they were but six months married. afterwards she came here to work in our red cross--i think now she is in charge of a ward..."
so vivie found a few months' reprieve from acute sorrow and bitter humiliation. gräfin von stachelberg was as kind in her way as her cousin the colonel, but much less sentimental. in fact she was of that type of new german woman, taken all too little into account by our press at the time of the war. there were many like her of the upper middle class, the professorial class, the lesser nobility to be found not only in leipzig but in berlin, hamburg, frankfort, halle, bonn, münchen, hannover, bremen, jena, stuttgart, cologne--nice to look at, extremely modern in education and good manners, tasteful in dress, speaking english marvellously well, highly accomplished in music or with some other art, advocates of the enfranchisement of women. the war came just too soon. had heaven struck down that epilept emperor and a few of his ministers, had time been given for the new german woman to assert herself in politics, there would have been no invasion of belgium, no maltreatment of servia. germany would have ranged herself with the western powers and western culture.
minna von stachelberg read her cousin's note and received the worn and anxious-looking vivie like a sister ... like a comrade, she said, in the war for the vote ... "which we will resume, my dear, as soon as this dreadful man's war is over, only we won't fight with the same weapons."
but though kind, she was not gushing and she soon told vivie that in nursing she was a novice and had much to learn. she introduced her to the german and belgian surgeons, and then put her to a series of entirely menial tasks from which she was to work her way up by degrees. but if any english soldier were there and wanted sympathy, she should be called in to his ward ... from that interview vivie returned almost happy.
moreover the red placards of von bissing were of increasing frequency. as a rule vivie only heard what other people said of them, and that wasn't very much, for german spies were everywhere, inviting you to follow them to the dreaded kommandantur in the rue de la loi--a scene of as much in the way of horror and mental anguish as the conciergerie of paris in the days of the red terror. but some cheek-blanching rumour she had heard on a certain monday in october caused her to look next day on her way home at a fresh red placard which had been posted up in a public place. the daylight had almost faded, but there was a gas lamp which made the notice legible. it ran:
par jugement du 9 octobre, 1915, le tribunal de campagne a prononcé les condamnations suivantes pour trahison commise pendant l'état de guerre (pour avoir fait passer des recrues à l'ennemi):
1° philippe baucq, architecte à bruxelles;
2° louise thuliez, professeur à lille;
3° edith cavell, directrice d'un institut médical à bruxelles;
4° louis severin, pharmacien à bruxelles;
5° comtesse jeanne de belleville, à montignies.
à la peine de mort
vivie then went on to read with eyes that could hardly take in the words a list of other names of men and women condemned to long terms of hard labour for the same offence--assisting young belgians to leave the belgium that was under german occupation. and further, the information that of the five condemned to death, philip bauck and edith cavell had already been executed.
the monsters! oh that von bissing. how gladly she would die if she might first have the pleasure of killing him! that pompous old man of seventy-one with the blotched face, who had issued orders that wherever he passed in his magnificent motor he was to be saluted with eastern servility, who boasted of his "tender heart," so that he issued placards about this time punishing severely all who split the tongues of finches to make them sing better. edith cavell--she did not pause to consider the fate of patriotic belgian women--but edith cavell, directress of a nursing home in brussels, known far and wide for her goodness of heart. she had held aloof from vivie, but was that to be wondered at when there was so much to make her suspect--living, seemingly, under the protection of a german official? but the very german nurses and doctors at the red cross hospital had spoken of her having given free treatment in her home to germans who needed immediate operations, and for whom there was no room in the military hospitals--and for such a trivial offence as that--and to kill her before there could be any appeal for reconsideration or clemency. oh what a nation! she would tend their sick and wounded no more.
she hurried on up the ascent of the boulevard of the botanic garden on her way to the rue royale. she burst into von giesselin's office. he was not there. a clerk looking at her rather closely said that the herr oberst was packing, was going away. vivie scarcely took in the meaning of his german phrases. she waited there, her eyes ablaze, feeling she must tell her former friend and protector what she thought of his people before she renounced any further relations with him.
presently he entered, his usually rather florid face pale with intense sorrow or worry, his manner preoccupied. she burst out: "have you seen the red placard they have just put up?"
"what about?" he said wearily.
"the assassination by your government of edith cavell, a crime for which england--yes, and america--will never forgive you.... from this moment i--"
"but have you not heard what has happened to me? i am dismissed from my post as secretary, i am ordered to rejoin my regiment in lorraine--it is very sad about your miss cavell. i knew nothing of it till this morning when i received my own dismissal--and oh my dear miss, i fear we shall never meet again."
"why are they sending you away?" asked vivie drily, compelled to interest herself in his affairs since they so closely affected her own and her mother's.
"because of this," said von giesselin, nearly in tears, pulling from a small portfolio a press cutting. "do you remember a fortnight ago i told you some one, some belgian had written a beautiful poem and sent it to me for one of our newspapers? i showed it to you at the time and you said--you said 'it was well enough, but it did not seem to have much point.'" vivie did remember having glanced very perfunctorily at some effusion in typewriting which had seemed unobjectionable piffle. she hadn't cared two straws whether he accepted it or not, only did not want to be too markedly indifferent. now she took it up and still read it through uncomprehendingly, her thoughts absent with the fate of miss cavell. "well! what is all the fuss about? i still see nothing in it. it is just simply the ordinary sentimental flip-flap that a french versifier can turn out by the yard."
ma soeur, vous souvient-il qu'aux jours de notre enfance, en lisant les hauts fails de l'histoire de france, remplis d'admiration pour nos frères gaulois, des généraux fameux nous vantions les exploits?
en nos âmes d'enfants, les seuls noms des victoires prenaient un sens mystique evocateur de gloires; on ne rêvait qu'assauts et combats; a nos yeux un général vainqueur etait l'égal des dieux.
rien ne semblait ternir l'éclat de ces conquétes. les batailles prenaient des allures de fêtes et nous ne songions pas qu'aux hurrahs triomphants se mêlaient les sanglots des mères, des enfants.
ah! nous la connaissons, hélas, l'horrible guerre: le fléau qui punit les crimes de la terre, le mot qui fait trembler les mères à genoux et qui seme le deuil et la mort parmi nous!
he gave way to much emotion. vivie, though still dazed with the reverberating horror of edith cavell's execution, tried to regain her mind balance and thank him for the kindness he had shown them. but it was now necessary to see her mother who might also be undergoing a shock. as she walked up to their bedroom she reflected that the departure of von giesselin would have to be followed by their own exile to some other lodging. they would share in his disgrace.
the next morning in fact the belgian manager of the hotel with many regrets gave them a month's warning. the hotel would be required for some undefined need of the german government and he had been told no one could be lodged there who was not furnished with a permit from the kommandantur.
for three weeks vivie sought in vain for rooms. every suitable place was either full or else for reasons not given they were refused. she was reduced to eating humble pie, to writing once more to gräfin von stachelberg and imparting the dilemma in which they were placed. did this kind lady know where a lodging could be obtained? she herself could put up with any discomfort, but her mother was ill. if she could help them, vivie would humbly beg her pardon for her angry letter of three weeks ago and resume her hospital work. minna von stachelberg made haste to reply that there were some things better not discussed in writing: if vivie could come and see her at six one evening, when she had a slight remission from work--
vivie went. out of hearing, gräfin von stachelberg--who, however, to facilitate intercourse, begged vivie to call her "minna,"--"we may all be dead, my dear, before long of blood-poisoning, bombs from your aeroplanes, a rising against us in the marolles quarter--" said very plainly what she thought of edith cavell's execution. "it makes me think of talleyrand--was it not?--who said 'it is a blunder; worse than a crime' ... these terrible old generals, they know nothing of the world outside germany." as to her cousin, gottlieb von giesselin--"really dear, if in this time of horrors one dare laugh at anything, i feel--oh it is too funny, but also, too 'schokking,' as we suppose all english women say. yet of course i am sad about him, because he is a good, kind man, and i know his wife will be very very unhappy when she hears--and it means he will die, for certain. he must risk his life to--to--regain his position, and he will be shot before verdun in one of those dreadful assaults." then she told vivie where she might find rooms, where at any rate she could use her name as a reference. also: "stay away at present and look after your mother. when she is quite comfortably settled, come back and work with me--here--it is at any rate the only way in which you can see and help your countrymen."
one day in november when their notice at the hotel was nearly expired, vivie proposed an expedition to her mother. they would walk slowly--because mrs. warren now got easily out of breath--up to the jardin bontanique; vivie would leave her there in the palm house. it was warm; it was little frequented; there were seats and the belgians in charge knew mrs. warren of old time. vivie would then go on along the inner boulevards by tram and look at some rooms recommended by minna von stachelberg in the quartier st. gilles.
mrs. warren did as she was told. vivie left her seated in one of the long series of glass houses overlooking brussels from a terrace, wherein are assembled many glories of the tropics: palms, dracaenas, yuccas, aloes, tree-ferns, cycads, screw-pines, and bananas: promising to be back in an hour's time.
somehow as she sat there it seemed to mrs. warren it was going for her to be the last hour of fully conscious life--fully conscious and yet a curious mingling in it of the past and present. she had sat here in the middle of the 'seventies with vivie's father, the young irish seminarist, her lover for six months. he had a vague interest in botany, and during his convalescence after his typhoid fever, when she was still his nurse, not yet his mistress, she used to bring him here to rest and to enjoy the aspect of these ferns and palms. what a strange variety of men she had known. some she had loved, more or less; some she had exploited frankly. some--like george crofts and baxendale strangeways--she had feared, though in her manner she had tried to conceal her dread of their violence. well! she had taken a lot of money off the rich, but she had never plundered the poor. her greatest conquest--and that when she was a woman of forty--was the monarch of this very country which now lay crushed under the kaiser's heel. for a few months he had taken a whimsical liking to her handsome face, well-preserved figure, and amusing cockney talk. but he had employed her rather as the mistress of his menus plaisirs, as his recruiting agent. he had rewarded her handsomely. now it was all in the dust: her beautiful villa beau-séjour a befouled barrack for german soldiers. she herself a homeless woman, repudiated by the respectable british and americans more or less interned in this unhappy city.
not much more than a year ago she had been one of the most respected persons in brussels, with a large income derived from safe investments. now all she had for certain was something over three thousand pounds in bank notes that might turn out next month to be worthless paper. and was she certain even of them? had vivie before they left the hotel remembered to put some, at least, of this precious sum on her person? suppose, whilst they were out, looking for a fresh dwelling place, the hotel servants or the police raided her bedroom and found the little hoard of notes? this imagined danger made her want to cry. they were so friendless now, she in particular felt so completely deserted. had she deserved this punishment by fate? was there after all a god who minded much about the sex foolishnesses and punished you for irregularities--for having lovers in your youth, for selling your virtue and inducing other women to sell theirs? was she going to die soon and was there a hereafter?' she burst out crying in an abandonment of grief.
an elderly gardener who had been snipping and sweeping in the next house came up and vaguely recognized her as a well-known bruxelloise, a good-natured lady, a foreigner who, strange to say, spoke flemish. "ach," he said, looking out where he thought lay the source of her tears, at the dim view of beautiful brussels through the steamy glass, "onze arme, oude brüssel." mrs. warren wept unrestrainedly. "madame is ill?" he enquired. mrs. warren nodded--she felt indeed very ill and giddy. he left her and returned shortly with a small glass of schnapps. "if madame is faint--?" she sipped the cordial and presently felt better. then they talked of old times. madame had kept the hotel leopold ii in the rue royale? ah, now he placed her. a superb establishment, always well-spoken of. her self-respect returned a little. "yes," she said, "never a complaint! i looked after those girls like a mother, indeed i did. many a one married well from there." the gardener corroborated her statement, and added that her clientèle had been of the most chic. he had a private florist's business of his own and he had been privileged often to send bouquets to the pensionnaires of madame. but madame was not alone surely in these sad times. had he not seen her come here with a handsome english lady who was said to have been--to have been--fortunately--au mieux with one of the german officials?
"that was my daughter," mrs. warren informed him with pride.... "she is a lady who has taken a high degree at an english university. she has been an important person in the english feminist movement. when this dreadful war is over, i and my daughter will--"
at this juncture vivie entered. "mother, i hope you haven't missed me, haven't been unwell?" she said, looking rather questioningly at the little glass of schnapps, only half of which had been drunk.
"well yes, dear, i have. terrible low spirits and all swimmy-like. thought i was going to faint. but this man here has been so kind "--her tears flowed afresh--"we've bin talking of old times; he used to know me before--"
vivie: "quite so. but i think, dear, we had better be going back. i want to talk to you about the new rooms i've seen. are you equal to walking? if not perhaps this kind man would try to get us a cab...?"
but mrs. warren said it was no distance, only round the corner, and she could well walk. when they got back she would go and lie down. vivie, reading her mother's thoughts, pressed a five-franc note into the gardener's not reluctant palm, and they regained the rue royale.
but just as they were passing through the revolving door of the hotel impérial, a german who had been installed as manager came up with two soldiers and said explosively: "heraus! foutez-nous le camp! aout you go! don't show your face here again!"
"but," said vivie, "our notice doesn't expire till the end of this week...!"
"das macht nichts. the rooms are wanted and i won't have you on the premises. off you go, or these soldiers shall take you both round to the kommandantur."
"but our luggage? surely you will let me go up to our room and pack it--and take it away? we..."
"your luggage has been packed and is in the corridor. if you send round for it, it shall be delivered to your messenger. but you are not to stop on the premises another minute. you understand?" he almost shrieked.
for answer, the soldiers took them by the shoulders and whirled them through the revolving door on to the pavement, where a crowd began to collect, as it does in peace or war if you cough twice or sneeze three times in brussels. "englische hure! englische küpplerin," shouted the soldiers as they retreated and locked the revolving door. mrs. warren turned purple and swayed. vivie caught her round the waist with her strong arm.... thus was mrs. warren ejected from the once homely inn which she had converted by her energy, management and capital into the second most magnificent hostelry of brussels; thus was vivie expelled from the place of her birth....
he assisted her to carry the inert old woman across the street and a short distance along the opposite pavement. here, there was a pleasant, modest-looking tea-shop with the name of walcker over the front, and embedded in the plate glass were the words "tea rooms." these of course dated from long before the war, when the best chinese tea was only four francs the demi-kilo and the fashion for afternoon tea had become established in brussels. vivie and her mother had often entered walcker's shop in happier days for a cup of tea and delicious forms of home-made pastry. besides the cakes, which in pre-war times were of an excellence rarely equalled, they had been drawn to the pleasant-looking serving woman. she was so english in appearance, though she only spoke french and flemish. behind the shop was a cosy little room where the more intimate clients were served with tea; a room with a look-out into a little square of garden. thither mrs. warren was carried or supported. she regained consciousness slightly as she was placed on a chair, opened her eyes, and said "thank you, my dears." then her head fell over to one side and she was dead--seemingly....
the doctor when he came pronounced her dead, thought it was probably an effusion of blood on the brain but couldn't be certain till he had made an autopsy.
"what am i to do?" said vivie thinking aloud....
she went on to explain, whilst the doctors occupied themselves with their gruesome task, and vivie was being persuaded to take some nourishment, that her great grandfather had been a soldier servant who had married a belgian woman and settled down on the site of this very shop a hundred years ago. he and his wife had even then made a specialty of tea for english tourists. she, his great grand-daughter, had after her marriage to monsieur trouessart carried on the business under the old name--walker, made to look flemish as walcker.
vivie when left alone suddenly thought of the money question. she remembered then that before going out to look for rooms she had transferred half the notes from their hiding-place to an inner pocket. they were still there. but what about her luggage and her mother's, and the remainder of the money? in her distress she wrote to gräfin von stachelberg. minna came over from her hospital at half past six in the evening. by that time the doctor had given the necessary certificate of the cause of death, and an undertaker had come on the scene to make his preparations.
so there was vivie, one dismal, rainy november evening in 1915; homeless, her mother lying dead in a room of this tea-shop, and in her own pocket only a matter of thirty thousand francs to provide for her till the war was over. a thousand pounds in fluctuating value was all that was left of a nominal twenty thousand of the year before.
but the financial aspect of the case for the time being did not concern her. the death of her mother had been a stunning shock, and when she crossed over to the hotel--what irony, by the bye, to think she had been born there thirty-nine years ago, in the old inn that had preceded the twice rebuilt hotel!--when she crossed the street with minna, it had been with blazing, tearless eyes and the desire to take the hotel manager and his minions by the coat collar, fling them into the street, and assert her right to go up to her room. but now her violence was spent and she was a broken, weeping woman as she sat all night by the bedside of her dead mother, holding the cold hand, imprinting kisses on the dead face which was now that of a saintly person with nothing of the reprobate in its lineaments.
the burial for various reasons had to take place in the cemetery of st. josse-ten-noode, near the shuddery national shooting range where edith cavell and numerous belgian patriots had recently been executed. minna von stachelberg left her hospital, with some one else in charge, and insisted on accompanying vivie to the interment. this might have been purely "laïc"; not on account of any harsh dislike to the religious ceremony on vivie's part; only due to the fact that she knew no priest or pastor. but there appeared at the grave-side to make a very suitable and touching discourse and to utter one or two heartfelt prayers, a belgian baptist minister, a relation of mme. trouessart.
waterloo left many curious things behind it. not only a tea-shop or two; but a nonconformist nucleus, that intermarried, as sergeant walker or walcker had done, with belgian women and left descendants who in the third generation--and by inherent vigour, thrift, matrimony and conversion--had built up quite a numerous congregation, which even grew large enough and rich enough to maintain a mission of its own in congoland. kind mme. trouessart (née walcker), distressed and unusually moved at the sad circumstances of mrs. warren's death, had called in her uncle the baptist pastor (who also in some unexplained way seemed to hold a brief for the salvation army). he prayed silently by the death-bed which, under the circumstances, was more tactful than open intercession. he helped greatly over all the formalities of the funeral, and he took upon himself the arrangement of the ceremony, so that everything was done decorously, and certainly to the satisfaction of the belgians, who attended. such people would be large-minded in religion--you might be protestant, if you were not catholic, or you might be jewish; but a funeral without some outward sign of faith and hope would have puzzled and distressed them.
to vivie's great surprise, there was a considerable attendance at the ceremony. she had expected no more than the company of minna--an unprofessing but real christian, if ever there were one, and the equally christian if equally hedonist mme. trouessart. but there came in addition quite a number of shopkeepers from the rue royale, the rues de schaerbeek, du marais, de lione, and de l'association, with whom mrs. warren had dealt in years gone by. "c'etait une dame très convenable," said one purveyor, and the others agreed. "elle me paya écus sonnants," said another, "et toujours sans marchander." there was even present a more distinguished acquaintance of the past: a long-retired commissaire de police of the quartier in which mrs. warren's hotel was situated.
he appeared in the tightly-buttoned frock-coat of civil life, with a minute disc of some civic decoration in his button hole, and an incredibly tall chimney-pot hat. he came to render his respectueux hommages to the maîtresse-femme who had conducted her business within the four corners of the law, "sans avoir maille à partir avec la police des moeurs."
mrs. warren at least died with the reputation of one who promptly paid her bills; and the whole assistance, as it walked slowly back to brussels, recalled many a deed of kindness and jovial charity on the part of the dead englishwoman.
vivie, on sizing up her affairs, got monsieur walcker, the baptist pasteur, to convey a letter to the american consulate general. walcker was used to such missions as these, of which the german government was more or less cognizant. the germans, among their many contradictory features, had a great respect for religion, a great tolerance as to its forms. they not only appreciated the difference between jews and christians, catholics and lutherans, but between the church of england and the various free churches of britain and america. the many people whom they sentenced to death must all have their appropriate religious consolation before facing the firing party. catholics, lutherans and calvinists were all provided for; there was a church of england chaplain for the avowed anglicans; but what was to be done for the free churches and nonconformist sects of the anglo-saxons? they were not represented by any captive pastor; so in default this much respected monsieur walcker, the belgian baptist, was called in to minister to the nonconformist mind in its last agony. he therefore held a quasi-official position and was often entrusted with missions which would have been dealt with punitorily on the part of any one else. consequently he was able to deliver vivie's communication to the american consul-general with some probability of its being sent on. it contained no further appeal to american intervention than this: that the consul-general would try to convey to england the news of her mother's death to such-and-such solicitors, and to lewis maitland praed a.r.a. in hans place.
she went to the brussels bank a fortnight after her mother's death whilst still availing herself of the hospitality of madame trouessart: to withdraw the jewellery and plate which she had deposited there on her mother's account. but there she found herself confronted with the red tape of the latin which is more formidable, even, than that of the land of dora at the present day. these deposited articles were held on the order of mrs. warren; they could not be given up till her will was proved and letters of administration had been granted. so that small resource in funds was withheld, at any rate till some time after peace had been declared. however she had a thousand pounds (in notes) between her and penury, and the friendship of minna von stachelberg. she would resume her evening lessons in english--madame trouessart had found her several pupils--and she would lodge--as they kindly invited her to do--with the baptist pastor and his wife in the rue haute. and she would help minna at the hospital, and hope to be rewarded with the opportunity of bringing comfort and consolation to the wounded british prisoners.
thus, with no unbearable misery, she passed the year 1916. there were short commons in the way of food, and the cold was sometimes cruel. but madame walcker was a wonderful cook and could make soup from a sausage skewer, and heaped édredons on vivie's bed. vivie sighed a little over the blue placards which announced endless german victories by land and sea; and she gasped over the dreadful red placards with their lists of victims sentenced to death by the military courts. she ground her teeth over the announcement of gabrielle petit's condemnation, and behind the shut door of minna's small sitting-room--and she only shut the door not to compromise minna--she raved over the judicial murder of this belgian heroine, who was shot, as was edith cavell, for nothing more than assisting young belgians to escape from german-occupied belgium.
she witnessed the air-raids of the allies, when only comforting papers were dropped on brussels city, but bombs on the german aerodromes outside; and she also saw the germans turn their guns from the aeroplanes--which soared high out of their reach or skimmed below range--on to thickly-inhabited streets of the poorer quarters, to teach them to cheer the air-craft of the allies!
she beheld--or she was told of--many acts of rapine, considered cruelty and unreasoning ferocity on the part of german officials or soldiers; yet saw or heard of acts and episodes of unlooked-for kindness, forbearance and sympathy from the same hated people. von giesselin, after all, was a not uncommon type; and as to minna von stachelberg, she was a saint of the new religion, the service of man.
the bomb in portland place
mrs. rossiter said to herself in 1915 that she had scarcely known a happy day, or even hour, since the war began. in the first place michael had again shown violence of temper with ministers of state over the release from prison of "that" miss warren--"a convict doing a sentence of hard labour." and then, when he had got her released, and gone himself with their beautiful new motor--whatever could the chauffeur have thought?--to meet her at the prison gates, there he was, afterwards, worrying himself over the war: not content as she was, as most of her friends were, as the newspapers were, to leave it all to lord kitchener and mr. asquith, sir edward grey, and even mr. lloyd george--though the latter had made some rather foolish and exaggerated speeches about alcohol. michael, if he went on like this, would never get his knighthood!
then when michael had at last, thanks to general armstrong, found his right place and was accomplishing marvels--the papers said--as a "mender of the maimed"--here was she left alone in portland place with hardly any one to speak to, and all her acquaintances--she now realized they were scarcely her friends--too much occupied with war work to spend an afternoon in discussing nothing very important over a sumptuous tea, still served by a butler and footman.
presently, too, the butler left to join the professor in france and the footman enlisted, and the tea had to be served by a distraite parlour-maid, with her eye on a munitions factory--so that she might be "in it"--and her heart in the keeping of the footman, who, since he had gone into khaki, was irresistible.
mrs. rossiter of course said, in 1914, that she would take up war work. she subscribed most handsomely to the soldiers' and sailors' families' association, to the red cross, to the prince of wales's fund (one of the unsolved war-time mysteries ... what's become of it?), to the cigarette fund, the 1914 christmas plum pudding fund, the blue cross, the purple cross, the green cross funds; to the outstandingly good work at st. dunstan's and at petersham--(i am glad she gave a hundred pounds each to them); and to the french, belgian, russian, italian, serbian, portuguese and japanese flag days and to our own day; besides enriching a number of semi-fraudulent war charities which had alluring titles.
but if, from paying handsomely to all these praise-worthy endeavours to mitigate the horrors of war, she proceeded to render personal service, she became the despair of the paid organizers and business-like workers. she couldn't add and she couldn't subtract or divide with any certainty of a correct result; she couldn't spell the more difficult words or remember the right letters to put after distinguished persons' names when she addressed envelopes in her large, childish handwriting; she couldn't be trusted to make enquiries or to detect fraudulent appeals. she lost receipts and never grasped the importance of vouchers; she forgot to fill up counterfoils, or if reminded filled them up "from memory" so that they didn't tally; she signed her name, if there was any choice of blank spaces, in quite the wrong place.
so, invariably, tactful secretaries or assistant secretaries were told off to explain to her--ever so nicely--that "she was no business woman" (this, to the daughter of wholesale manufacturers, sounded rather flattering), and that though she was invaluable as a "name," as a patroness, or one of eighteen vice presidents, she was of no use whatever as a worker.
she had no country house to place at the disposal of the government as a convalescent home. michael after a few experiments forbade her offering any hospitality at no. 1 park crescent to invalid officers. such as were entrusted to her in the spring of 1915 soon found that she was--as they phrased it--"a pompous little, middle-class fool," wielding no authority. they larked in the laboratory with red cross nurses, broke specimens, and did very unkind and noisy things ... besides smoking in both the large and the small dining-rooms. so, after the summer of 1915, she lived very much alone, except that she had the adams children from marylebone to spend the day with her occasionally.
poor mrs. adams, though a valiant worker, was very downcast and unhappy. she confided to mrs. rossiter that although she dearly loved her bert--"and a better husband i defy you to find"--he never seemed all hers. "always so wrapped up in that miss warren or 'er cousin the barrister." and no sooner had war broken out than off he was to france, as a kind of missionary, she believed--the young men's christian something or other; "though before the war he didn't seem particular stuck on religion, and it was all she could do to get him sometimes to church on a sunday morning. oh yes: she got 'er money all right; and she couldn't say too much of mr. and mrs. rossiter's kindness. there was bert, not doin' a stroke of work for the professor, and yet his pay going on all the same. indeed she was putting money by, because bert was kep' out there, and all found."
however his two pretty children were some consolation to mrs. rossiter, whom they considered as a very grand lady and one that was lavishly kind.
mrs. rossiter tried sometimes in 1915 having working parties in her house or in the studio; and if she could attract workers gave them such elaborate lunches and plethoric teas that very little work was done, especially as she herself loved a long, aimless gossip about the royal family or whether lord kitchener had ever really been in love. or she tried, since she was a poor worker herself--her only jersey and muffler were really finished by her maid--reading aloud to the knitters or stitchers, preferably from the works of miss charlotte yonge or some similar novelist of a later date. but that was found to be too disturbing to their sense of the ludicrous. for she read very stiltedly, with a strange exotic accent for the love passages or the death scenes. as lady victoria freebooter said, she would have been priceless at a music-hall matinée which was raising funds for war charities, if only she could have been induced to read passages from miss yonge in that voice for a quarter of an hour. even the queen would have had to laugh.
but as that could not be brought off, it was decided that working parties at her house led to too much giddiness from suppressed giggles or torpor from too much food. so she relapsed once more into loneliness. unfortunately air-raids were now becoming events of occasional fright and anxiety in london, and this deterred cousin sophie from darlington, cousin matty from leeds, joseph's wife from northallerton or old, married schoolfellows from other northern or midland towns coming to partake of her fastuous hospitality. also, they all seemed to be busy, either over their absent husbands' business, or their sons', or because they were plunged in war work themselves. "and really, in these times, i couldn't stand linda for more than five minutes," one of them said.
as to the air-raids, she was not greatly alarmed at them. of course it was very uncomfortable having london so dark at night, but then she only went out in the afternoon, and never in the evening. and the germans seemed to be content and discriminating enough not to bomb what she called "the residential" parts of london. the nearest to portland place of their attentions was hampstead or bloomsbury. "we are protected, my dear, by the open spaces of regent's park. they wouldn't like to waste their bombs on poor me!"
however her maid didn't altogether like the off chance of the germans or our air-craft guns making a mistake and trespassing on the residential parts of london, so she persuaded her mistress to spend part of the winter of 1915-16 at bournemouth. here she was not happy and far lonelier even than in london. she did not like to send all that way for the adams children, she had a parlour suite all to herself at the hotel, and was timid about making acquaintances outside, since everybody now-a-days wanted you to subscribe to something, and it was so disagreeable having to say "no." she was not a great walker so she could not enjoy the talbot woods; the sea made her feel sad, remembering that michael was the other side and the submarines increasingly active: in short, air-raids or no air-raids, she returned home in march, and her maid, who had been with her ten years, gave her warning.
but then she had an inspiration! she engaged mrs. albert adams to take her place, and although the parlour-maid at this took offence and cut the painter of domestic service, went off to the munitions till sergeant frederick summers should get leave to come home and
a number of british soldiers gathered round the entrance of the waiting-room, curious to see the prisoners and hear what they had to say.
"ask 'em if they're glad to be out of it."
i put the question and there was a chorus of fervent "ja's" and "gott sei dank's."
they were all glad to be out of it. no more fighting for them, gott sei dank! war was no good, at least not for the common soldier.
"ask him what he thinks of hindenburg."
a cheerful youngster from east prussia answered: "der's' nicht besser als wir--he's no better than we are!"
"did you ever see him?"
"yes, he came into the trenches a week ago and gave us cakes and cigars."
"but that was jolly sporting of him, wasn't it?"
"he can keep his cigars--he doesn't have to lie in shell holes for days on end."
"war's no good," said a small man with a protruding forehead and keen eyes and wearing a red-cross on his arm. "ich danke meinem gott--i thank my god that i've never taken up a rifle during the whole war, and i've been in it since the beginning. no human being has lost his life through me, thank god."
"was für'n zweck hat es--what's the good of shooting each other like this? the heads ought to come and fight it out amongst themselves."
"it's good for politicians and profiteers--für die ist's gut."
"ask them what they think of the submarines."
a lieutenant of the prussian guard answered contemptuously that he didn't think much of them. he didn't believe stories of food-shortage in england, he didn't believe anything the papers said, they were all full of lies.
"ask them if they're satisfied with their treatment."
yes, they were all satisfied. the lieutenant pronounced it "blendend" (dazzling). they had not eaten so much and such good food for months and months. oh it was good to be out of the fighting. yes, their treatment was perfect--except for the thieving. why were british soldiers allowed to steal the buttons, caps, rings, and watches belonging to their prisoners?
a german private, a tall thin man with bushy eyebrows, who had not spoken hitherto, said he didn't mind losing a few buttons--but to rob a man of his marriage ring, that was very mean--eine gemeinheit--his marriage ring had been taken from him: he would have lost anything rather than that, for it always reminded him of home.
the boy from east prussia said he didn't care what they took from him as long as they didn't take his life. he was safe now and nothing else mattered. he spoke with a polish accent.
i asked him what town he came from.
"did you see anything of the russians in 1914?"
"jawohl"--he had seen plenty of russian troops. they behaved very well. "die sind besser als die deutschen--they're better than the germans...."
but the theatre orderly interrupted us and asked us to "send two or three across."
it was quite dark outside. the duckboards were lit up by rows of hurricane lamps. the bombardment was still going on.
when i got back to the waiting-room all the prisoners were gone and english wounded were taking their places. soon the benches round the stove were crowded with dark figures whose hands and faces were lit up by the glow.
a man with haggard features and a bandage round his head began to talk in a mournful voice:
he buried his face in his hands and made no further sound except an occasional sniff and a hasty drawing in of the breath through trembling lips.
"next man!" the conversation stopped while the next man went across, but having once begun to tell their experiences, the men would not stop altogether, and after a brief silence an elderly little man with a bandaged foot said:
"'pull yourself together, old chap--you're all right for to-day, anyhow.' i sat bolt upright and stared at him.
"'they're not going to shoot me?'
"'not to-day,' he answered. 'cheer up, all sorts of things might happen before to-morrow.'
"the joy i felt was so big that i can't tell you how big it was. but i soon felt miserable again. i couldn't understand what had happened. i didn't know whether i was going to die or live. the uncertainty became so terrible that i wished i'd been shot that morning--all would have been over then. they brought me a meal, but i couldn't eat. i asked them what was going to happen, but they didn't know. another night came, but i didn't get any sleep at all. i lay tossing about on my bed, now hoping, now despairing. i thought of home mostly, but once or twice i thought of the kids in the school where i taught--to die like this after the send-off they gave me! still, they wouldn't know, they'd think i was killed in an accident, and that was some consolation to me. and the next morning--i can't bear to think of it--nothing happened: that was just the terrible thing about it--nothing happened. the day passed and then another day. at times i longed to be taken out and shot, and once or twice i felt i didn't care about anything. i didn't care whether i died or not. a week passed and then another week. i don't know how i lived through it. then, one day, i was told to pack up and rejoin my unit. i don't know exactly what i did, but i think i must have gone hysterical. i remember some n.c.o. saying i ought to stay a bit because i wasn't well enough to go up the line. he said he'd speak to the officer and get me a few days' rest. but the thought of staying in that place made me shiver. i said i was absolutely all right and went back to my unit.
"but i never found out what had happened--you see, i was only a common soldier, so they didn't trouble to tell me--until i got a letter from the captain who was in charge of me when i was on that forty-three hour job. he said he'd heard i was in for a court martial for sleeping when on guard, so he wrote to our headquarters to tell them i'd worked forty-three hours on end and wasn't fit to do a guard after a spell like that. then they must have made a lot of inquiries--i expect there's a whole file of papers about me at headquarters. anyhow, that's how i got off--it's more than a month ago now. well, yesterday morning i was put on guard again. i tried to get out of it, but the officer said i was swinging the lead and he wouldn't listen to any excuses. i told him i'd had insomnia overnight and could hardly keep my eyes open. i said i'd do anything rather than a guard--a fatigue job or a patrol, no matter how dangerous, as long as it kept me on the move. the very thought of doing a guard made me tremble all over. he swore at me and said he'd heard these tales before and told me to shut up and get on with it. well, i had to stand in the trench in front of a steel plate with holes in it through which i had to peer. it was just about daybreak. there was a tree growing about fifty yards off. it had been knocked about pretty badly, but there were plenty of leaves left on it. i stared at it, trying hard to keep awake. but soon the trunk began to quiver, then it wobbled with a wavy motion like a snake. then the leafy part seemed to shoot out in all directions until there was nothing but a green blur, and i fell back against the trench wall and my rifle clattered down. i pulled myself together, absolutely mad with fear, because i kept on thinking of the last time i went on guard and the court martial and the death sentence. i ground my teeth and stared at the tree again. but the trunk began to wobble with snaky undulations and the green blur grew bigger and bigger in sudden jerks, while i tried frantically and desperately to keep it small. but it got the better of me and all at once it obscured everything with a rush and i dropped forward and knocked my forehead against the steel plate. i pulled myself together and prayed for a blighty or something that would get me out of this misery. i looked at my watch--o god, only five minutes had gone, one-twelfth of my time! i had a kind of panic then and i dashed my head wildly against the trench wall and i bit my lips--i almost enjoyed the pain. i looked through the hole. the tree was steady at first, but it soon began to wobble again. then i said to myself: 'i don't care, i'll risk it, i won't look out, i'll just keep awake. i don't suppose any fritzes will come along--i'll just peep through the holes from time to time so as to make sure.' i stamped on the duckboard and kicked the sides of the trench and jerked my rifle up and down just to keep myself awake. it was all right at first and i was beginning to think i would get over it somehow, but my feet soon felt as heavy as lead and my head began to swim until i fell forward once again. jesus christ--i didn't know what to do. i thought of looking at my watch, but i hadn't the courage at first. besides, i felt the seconds would slip by while i was hesitating and so i'd gain at least a little time. i counted the seconds--one, two, three ... four ... five ... six ... my head dropped forward and i nearly fell over. i looked at my watch--fourteen minutes had gone, nearly a quarter of an hour! that wasn't so bad. i felt a little relieved, but drowsiness came on again. i fought against it with all my strength, but with an agony no words can describe i realized that it was too strong for me. i pulled myself together with another despairing effort. i noticed that my clothing felt cold and clammy--i had been sweating all over...."
the theatre orderly burst into the waiting-room and shouted: "are you all deaf? i've been yelling out 'next man' the last five minutes, but you won't take no bloody notice. send us two or three. the colonel's in the theatre--he'll kick up a hell of a row if you don't get a move on."
we were scared and sent three men across. when they had gone, we asked to hear the end of the story.
there was silence for a while. it had grown dark outside. but the call from the theatre sounded again. gradually the waiting-room emptied itself until at last there were only two men left sitting in front of the fire. they both seemed depressed and gloomy. then one of them broke the silence and said:
"we was goin' over when a 'eavy one burst. i didn't 'alf cop a packet in me shoulder. it's the third time too, an' i've got the wind up about goin' up the line agin when i'm out o' dock. the third time's yer last, yer know. fritz'll send one over with me number on it, that's a bloody cert!"
"if yer number's up it's up," said the other, who had a big patch over his right ear. "if yer've got ter die yer've got ter die, an' it's no use worryin' about it."
i stood out in the open for a few minutes in order to breathe the fresh air. there was a roar and rumble of distant drum-fire. the trees behind the c.c.s. stood out blackly against the pallid flashes that lit up the entire horizon.
the mortuary attendant came walking along the duckboards.
as he passed by me he growled:
"there's a 'ell of a stunt on--there'll be umpteen slabs for the mortuary."
it was a warm, sunny afternoon. about a dozen of us were pitching a marquee in leisurely fashion, when suddenly there was a shout of "fritz up!"
"i bet 'e's took some photographs--'e'll be over to-night. i reckon we're bloody lucky to be at a c.c.s."
"d'yer think 'e wouldn't bomb a c.c.s.?"
"course 'e wouldn't--'e knows as well as what we do that there's some of 'is own wounded at c.c.s.'s."
"yer've got some bleed'n' 'opes--do anythink, 'e would. didn't yer see it in the papers? 'e bombed a french c.c.s. at verd'n an' knocked out umpteen wounded."
"i bet that's all bloody lies--yer can't believe nothin' what's in the papers."
"can't yer! if yer don't it's because yer don't want ter. i believe yer a bleed'n' fritz yerself, always stickin' up fer the bastard. everythink what's in the papers is true--the government wouldn't allow it if it wasn't! that's got yer, ain't it?"
"yer want ter look at it a bit more broad-minded. course 'e makes mistakes sometimes like anybody else--'ow do 'e know it's a c.c.s.--'e can't see no red crorss at night?"
"mistakes be blowed--'e knows what's what, you take my word for it ..."
we gathered idly round the disputants, glad of a distraction that would help to pass the time. a third person joined in the argument:
"if 'e bombs 'orspitals an' c.c.s.'s it's our own bloody fault. look at our c.c.s. 'ere. there's a ordnance park and a r.e. dump up the road. there's a railway in front an' a sidin' where troops is always detrainin'. then there's a gas dump over yonder. an' if we're bloody fools an' leave the lights on at night, 'ow can 'e tell what's what when everything's mixed up together? why the bloody 'ell don't they put c.c.s.'s away from dumps an' railways? why don't they stick 'em right in the fields somewhere? i bet we'll cop it one o' these nights, an' serve us right too."
german aeroplanes had passed overhead almost every clear windless night, but the buzz of propellers, that often went on for hours, and the dull boom of bombs exploding far away had never caused anything more than slight uneasiness and apprehension.
one night, after we had been at the c.c.s. for about a month, we heard the uproar of a distant air-raid. early the next morning a number of motor-ambulances arrived with their loads of wounded men. a camp, a mile or two from the station, had been bombed and fifty men had been killed and many more wounded. one of the "cases" brought into the theatre had been hit on the forehead. the bomb-fragment had not penetrated the skull, but had passed along its surface. the scalp hung over the forehead loosely like an enormous flap, the red, jagged edge nearly touching the eyebrows. since then i thought of this man every time there was an air-raid.
the event increased our uneasiness. after each "bombing-stunt" we thought: "we were lucky this time--it will be our turn next though." moreover, we began to realize our helplessness. we were compelled to remain in our tents during a raid and there was no possibility of taking shelter. we could have put on our steel helmets--they would at least have afforded some head protection, but hardly any of us had the courage to do anything that might be regarded by the others as a sign of fear.
the discussion about the bombing of hospitals had made us all think of air-raids. we had nearly finished our day's work when we noticed a few clouds on the horizon. we felt relieved. perhaps the sky would be overcast and we would have an undisturbed night.
"i can't stick night raids," said one of our number. "they don't put my wind up a bit, but they interfere with my sleep and make me feel tired in the mornings."
a man who had been in the war from the beginning answered:
we finished our work as the sun was setting. the clouds on the horizon had vanished. one by one the stars came out. it was "an ideal night for a raid."
soon after dark a man was brought into the station with a crushed knee. immediate operation was necessary. he was carried into the theatre and laid on to one of the tables. he received an anæsthetic and became unconscious. with his scalpel the surgeon made a deep cut in the knee-joint and searched the cavity with his finger. there was a sister standing by. also an orderly who had won the military medal for bravery in an air-raid some months before. suddenly there was an outburst of anti-aircraft firing and a tumultuous whistling of shells overhead. it lasted for several seconds and then with a deafening, reverberating thunder-clap that shook the entire theatre, the first bomb fell. before our ears had ceased drumming another bomb exploded and then another. the orderly, who had held his hands in front of his face, now gave way to fear. he darted madly to and fro and then scuttled beneath a table. the sister, who had remained quite calm, said in an amused voice: "pull yourself together, it's all over now." the orderly got up trembling, his face very white. the surgeon had not moved away. he had just grasped the edge of the table tightly and had bent his head forward, while his muscles seemed stiff with a violent but successful effort at self-control. the anæsthetist, too, had remained on his stool, but was leaning right over his patient. i had been conscious of a powerful impulse to duck down, but i grasped the table and gave way to the impulse so far as to lean slightly forward. this compromise saved me from any violent expression of fear. the sister was the only one of us who showed no sign of fear at all.
the surgeon went on with his work and extracted several fragments of bone from the injured limb. a few seconds passed and suddenly the electric light went out in accordance with the orders that decreed that all lights should be extinguished on the approach of hostile aeroplanes. the surgeon cursed loudly and the sister fetched an electric torch which she held over the knee. the operation continued, but it was not long before anti-aircraft fire broke out once more. then there was a weird bustling, rushing sound, followed by a roar that again shook the theatre and rattled the windows. six explosions followed in rapid succession. this time the orderly controlled himself, for he knew the sister was watching. nevertheless, his knees trembled violently. the sister held the torch steadily and the surgeon paused for a moment and went on with the operation as soon as all was quiet.
in a few minutes it was finished. the wound was dressed and bandaged and the patient carried away.
i stepped out into the clear night. the sky was thronged with glittering stars. everything seemed strangely peaceful. i walked round the station, trying to find out where the bombs had fallen, but nobody knew. i went to the marquee and found private trotter sitting there, breathless and white. the neighbouring c.c.s. a few hundred yards away had been hit. a sister and an orderly had been killed and several patients wounded.
"it didn't 'alf put me wind up," said trotter, excitedly. "when the first'n drops i lays down flat on the duckboards and one bursts just aside o' me an' smothers me with earth. then another'n bursts an' i 'ears a man 'oller out--krikey, 'e didn't 'alf scream. i gets up and another'n bursts, so i flops down agin, but it didn't come so near that time. i waits a bit an' then i gets up an' goes to see what they done. i couldn't see nothin' at first, but i sees some fellers runnin' about wi' lights. there was a noise in one o' the wards, so i goes in. a bomb must 'a' burst on the roof--there was a big 'ole in the canvas. the bed underneath was all twisted an' torn, but there wasn't nobody in it. there was some wounded lyin' in beds at the fur end of the ward, an' one of 'em was cryin' somethin' chronic. then someone brings a light an' i sees an orderly lyin' by the side o' the bed with a big 'ole in 'is face an' the blood pourin' out. i goes roun' to the other side--gorblimy--an' there i sees the sister lyin' on the floor with 'er 'ead blown clean off--i dunno where it was blown to, i couldn't see it nowhere. krikey, it wasn't 'alf a sight to see 'er body without a 'ead lyin' in a pool o' blood. it made me feel sick, so i ran orf an' came 'ere."
private trotter was trembling in every limb. he was the pluckiest man i ever knew and capable of any piece of foolhardy daring. but this time he was near a nervous breakdown.
the next morning was clear and sunny. the sky remained blue all day. not a cloud could be seen. "our turn next"--that was the thought in everybody's mind.
the evening was starlit once again. as we lay on the floor of the marquee, wrapped up in our blankets, we heard the sound of bombing and firing in the distance.
clear days and clear nights followed each other. sometimes a train would stop in front of the c.c.s., hissing and puffing, and throwing up a great shaft of light. we would curse it, fearing that it would attract german raiders.
if only the fine weather would come to an end! give us wind and rain so that we could lie in bed without being oppressed by anxiety! but the sun continued to shine and the stars to glitter.
the disaster that had befallen the adjoining c.c.s., which had been brilliantly lit up during the raid, had acted as a warning example to us. at nightfall the windows of the theatre were screened with blankets and no lights were allowed to show in the wards or on the duckboards.
if only the trains would halt somewhere else at night-time!
one day a number of flemish peasants began to collect hop-refuse in the surrounding fields. they made three great heaps of it and set fire to them. in the evening the heaps were burning brightly, but no one took any notice.
suddenly the broad white beam of a searchlight swung across the darkness. for a time it seemed to paw the sky in a hesitating fashion and then it remained fixed on one spot.
"there 'e is! there 'e is!" someone shouted in an excited voice.
in the white track was a brilliant silver object travelling along at a great speed. a number of anti-aircraft guns opened fire simultaneously, and all around the shining fugitive innumerable stars of pale, liquid gold flashed out and melted away again.
"i bet they're puttin' 'is bloody wind up! rotten bastard, bombin' a lot o' wounded! if i get 'old of a fritz up the line, i'll murder 'im. yer won't catch me takin' no more pris'ners, i tell yer."
a flashing star suddenly seemed to envelop the aeroplane.
"got 'im that time--bloody good shot--'e's comin' down, look, look, 'e's comin' down! look, 'e's all in flames!"
but the aeroplane sped on, growing smaller and smaller. then the white beam swung back and was extinguished, while the guns ceased firing.
"fine lot o' gunners we got--couldn't 'it a zep 'alf a yard orf! they ain't worth the grub they get!"
we returned to our marquee and sat down on our kits. my friend private black came in after us, smiling ruefully. i asked him what was the matter.
"i was playing the piano in the sergeants' mess when the first one dropped. we all jumped up together and rushed out. then the second one burst and i lost my head and didn't know where i was going. i darted to and fro, tripping over tent-ropes and dashing up against revetments. i never had the wind up so much in all my life. i couldn't get my breath, there was a kind of weight on my stomach and a tightness round my chest and throat, and my knees kept on giving way all the time. the third one burst and i fell down and crawled under some ropes and lay flat against some sand-bags, trembling all over and feeling as though i was going to choke. i waited for a long time, but nothing happened, so i got up and looked round. lucky escape for us! there's a terrific hole by the red cross and another one behind the bath-house. the third's in the next field. only two men hit. o'neil's got it in the elbow--he's all right for blighty. poor old hartog's badly hurt--a frightful gash in the thigh with the piece still in it. i hope he won't have to lose his leg. christ, i'm glad it's all over--i wouldn't like to go through that again."
there was silence for a while, but soon the silence was broken by the distant muttering of anti-aircraft fire.
"jesus christ almighty--'e's comin' again--o god, why can't 'e leave us alone."
we stood outside the marquee and anxiously watched the horizon. we heard a faint humming noise. it grew louder and louder until it became a deep, droning buzz that rose and fell in regular pulsation. then boom--boom--boom--three times the sullen roar of distant explosions sounded. then there came the familiar rushing, whistling noise of a descending bomb. we flung ourselves down in the wet grass. i felt every muscle in my body contract as though i were trying to make myself as small as a pin point in expectation of the terrible moment. there was a dull thud close by and i felt the earth vibrate. the bomb had fallen a few yards away, but had merely buried itself in the earth without exploding.
there was no anti-aircraft fire, but the droning noise continued loudly, rising and falling. private trotter, who was lying beside me, was drawing his breath in sharply between his lips. our fear of impending disaster was prolonged intolerably. the droning propeller seemed to be directly above us. i tried to analyse my feelings. if one finger is held close to the middle of the forehead a curious sensation of strain seems to gather in that spot. that was precisely the sensation i had at the back of my head and neck, only with far greater intensity. it was the concentrated, agonizing consciousness of the swift descent of a huge iron mass that will strike the base of the head and blow the whole body to pieces. in the region of the solar-plexus i had a feeling of oppression such as one often has before an examination, before jumping into an icy river, before opening a letter that may contain bad news. i also breathed more heavily than usual. i made no attempt to master these sensations. it occurred to me that fear is merely a physical reaction that cannot be avoided. if a man reacts so violently that he is overcome and rushes about as though he were demented, it is no more his fault than if he shivers with cold. a man can stop shivering by an effort of the will, but only to a certain extent. and no effort of the will can prevent him from feeling cold. in the same way, no effort of the will can prevent him from feeling fear, and only to a limited extent can the will control the outward manifestations of fear. nevertheless, some distraction may enable a man to forget his fear for a while, just as it may enable him to forget the cold. i was so intent upon self-analysis that i lost consciousness of everything except my mental concentration, even of those sensations i was trying to analyse, for the very act of analysis was destroying them. as they grew weaker, the effort of my will increased. it became so great that i grew conscious of great mental tension and at the same time i realized that my fear had vanished altogether. for a brief space i had a sensation of vacuity as though i could neither think nor feel. then my mental effort suddenly collapsed, i once more became aware of the droning overhead, and with a rush my former fears were upon me again. i pressed myself flat to earth. i heard the descent of a bomb. i trembled and tried to shrink to nothing. there was a deafening thunder-clap and the ground shook. a quantity of loose earth came down upon us. another bomb descended--every muscle in my body tightened and i stopped breathing altogether. but the explosion that followed was fainter than the last. then there was another, still further off. all my muscles gradually relaxed and a delicious feeling of relief pervaded my whole being. the buzzing noise became more and more feeble. i got up and walked back to the marquee, trembling and weak at the knees. the others followed.
an hour had hardly passed before distant anti-aircraft fire broke out again. anxiety began to renew its tortures. we heard the dull, sullen roar of bombs exploding at intervals. then fourteen burst in rapid succession as though a gigantic ball of solid iron had bounced fourteen times with thundering reverberations on a resonant surface. but the sound of firing died down and soon all was quiet. and then sleep came upon us and our troubles were over for a time.
the next morning was windless and clear. all day we kept looking at the sky, but not a cloud was to be seen.
the evening approached, darkness fell, and the stars shone. "lights out" was sounded and we extinguished our candles. none of us said a word, but everybody knew what everybody else was thinking of. and soon we heard the familiar buzz. at first it only came from one propeller, but others arrived and the sound multiplied and increased in volume, and at the same time it rose and fell in irregular gusts and regular pulsations. anti-aircraft firing burst out suddenly and for a few minutes there was a blending of whining, whistling, rushing sounds overhead punctuated by faint reports. the firing ceased, but the droning noises continued louder than ever. the german aeroplanes seemed to be above us like a swarm of angry wasps, and above us they seemed to remain, hovering and circling. we awaited the downward rush and the deafening thunder-clap that would destroy us all. one man was groaning loudly. another shivered. i could hear the chattering of many teeth. my neighbour trembled violently and cowered beneath his blankets. but his fear grew so strong that he could not bear it any longer. he got up and said in a strained voice, trying to appear calm, "i'm goin' to 'ave a look at 'em." he ran out of the marquee and disappeared. i found my powers of resistance ebbing. i was unable to control my imagination. i saw my comrades and myself blown to pieces. i saw the clerk in the office of the c.c.s. write out the death-intimations on a buff slip and filling in a form. i saw a telegraph boy taking the telegram to my home. he stopped on the way in order to talk to a friend. then he whistled and threw a stone at a dog. he sauntered through the garden gate and knocked at the front door. the door opened ... but i could not face the rest, and with a tremendous mental impulse i turned my mind away to other things. but my terrible thoughts lay in wait for me like tigers ready to rush upon me as soon as my will relaxed its efforts. i tried to compromise, and i imagined myself killed and invented all the details of a post-mortem examination and burial. i found some relief in these imaginings, but soon that implacable telegram claimed my attention once more and drew me on to what i dared not face. i sought distraction by muttering some verses of poetry to myself. they had no meaning to me, they were just empty sound and their rhythm had a hideous pulsation like that other pulsation overhead:
"he above the rest in shape and gesture proudly eminent stood like a tower...."
and so on, line after line. the dreariness of the verses grew so intense as to be almost intolerable. at the same time i was dimly conscious of the fact that at one time i thought this passage beautiful. but the beat of the blank verse carried me on. sometimes it seemed to blend with the buzzing of those angry wasps above and sometimes the two rhythms would vie with each other for speed, so that they hurried along each alternately ahead of the other. i came to a line where my memory failed me. i faltered for a moment, but the droning sound seemed to grow into an enormous roar, and i leapt back to the beginning:
"he above the rest...."
and then on and on a second time until my head throbbed with the double pulsation.
suddenly a man who had been lying on the far side of the marquee got up and said:
"i've had enough of this, i'm going to sleep in a ditch."
he went off. the wasps were still buzzing, but the interruption had broken the spell. i felt a sense of relief. i became conscious of intense weariness and felt ashamed of my fears. i cursed the german aeroplanes and thought, "let them do their worst, i don't care." i made up my mind to go to sleep and resolutely buried my face in my pillow. then it occurred to me that i would never be able to enjoy paradise lost again, and i was half-amused and agreeably distracted by the trivial thought.
but the wasps were still buzzing. another man began to groan loudly:
"gawd--this is bloody awful--why the bloody 'ell can't they leave us alone!"
thereupon his neighbour tried to create an impression by appearing calm and philosophical. he said in a strained, breaking voice:
"think of all the waste in life and treasure this frightful war involves. think of the moral degradation. think of the widows and orphans. think of the...." he was unequal to the effort and his voice trailed away and then seemed to catch in his throat. but he recovered and with a kind of gasp he squeezed out a few more words: "bill, forgive me for insulting you to-day--i didn't mean it, bill. forget it, bill, forget it! if you get killed without forgiving me, my conscience will always torture...."
"for christ's sake shut up, yer bleed'n' 'ypocrite," interrupted the gruff voice of "bill" somewhere out of the darkness. "yer always bleed'n' well preachin'--it's bad enough 'avin' fritz over us without you bloody well rubbin' it in. if yer don't shut yer mouth, i'll come over an' shut it for yer, 'struth i will."
the philosopher said no more, but another voice made itself heard, that of a good-natured, elderly bachelor, who said with melancholy resignation:
"it's jolly hard, all the same, to be knocked out like this. you're so helpless--no dug-outs, no shelters anywhere...."
"it's doubly hard when you're married," said another. "i haven't got the wind up about myself at all, but i can't help thinking about my wife.... they're going away now, thank the lord. you never know when they won't be coming back though--that's just the worst of it."
the noise of the propellers was indeed dying away.
another clear day and another clear night. we lay awake listening anxiously to the bursting of bombs and the muttering of anti-aircraft fire. but we went to sleep in the end and felt drowsy all the following day--a clear day. casualties came in from a camp that had been bombed overnight, and we saw shattered limbs, smashed heads, and lacerated flesh. several of our men were looking pale through lack of sleep and had dark rings round their eyes.
another clear day. would the fine weather never end? late in the afternoon, however, a few clouds collected on the horizon. in the evening the entire sky was overcast and not a star was to be seen. and as we went to bed we heard the rain swishing down upon the canvas roof. the unspeakable joy we all felt at the prospect of an untroubled night!
"bloody fine, this rain: we'll get some proper sleep now, thank god. i never had the wind up so much in all my life, and i've been out here since '15 and in some pretty hot places too."
"i reckon the longer yer out 'ere the windier yer get. i joined up in '14 like a bloody fool. at first i didn't care a damn for anything. then i was wounded on the somme an' sent across to blighty. i dreaded comin' back agin. i only 'ad a little wound in me 'and, an' i used ter plug it wi' dubbin' an' boot-polish ter keep it raw. it didn't 'alf 'urt, but it gave me a extra week or two in 'orspittle. i 'ad to go in the end though--the m.o. didn't 'alf give me a tellin' orf. jesus christ, didn't i 'ave the wind up when we went up the line! an' now i'm scared at the slightest sound, an' i sometimes wake up out o' me sleep shiverin' all over. when i was on leave a motor-car backfired in the street--it didn't 'alf make me jump; me mate 'oo was with me said i looked as white as a sheet. the longer yer out 'ere the worse yer get--it's yer nerves, yer know, they can't stand it. in the line it's always the new men what's the most reliable...."
"that's a bloody fact. when we first come out, i thought all the belgian civvies a lot o' bloody cowards takin' cover whenever fritz came over. we used to stand an' look at 'im. they wasn't cowards, it was us who was bloody fools. they knew summat about it, we didn't. all the same, i know one or two old reg'lars 'oo was in it from the first an' never 'ad the wind up any time--there's not many like that though, generally it's the old soldiers what's the worst o' the lot for wanglin' out o' risky jobs."
"by the way," i interrupted, "how did that orderly who works in the theatre get his military medal--he had the wind up more than any of us the other night?"
"i know whom you mean," answered a private of the r.a.m.c. "he got it that bombing-stunt a few months ago. it was bloody awful too--the worst thing i've ever been in. i was standing next to him when the first one exploded. he flopped down and lay flat on the ground, but i rushed away into the fields with a lot of others. when it was all over we went back and heard the wounded crying out in a way that was dreadful to hear. this fellow was still lying on the ground by the duckboards, trembling all over and paralysed with fear. we went to help the wounded, but he was in such a state that he could not come with us, so we left him behind. there was an inquiry afterwards and we got into a frightful row for running away. he got the m.m. for sticking to his post!"
the german push
"what madness there is in this arithmetic that counts men by the millions like grains of corn in a bushel.... a newspaper has just written about an encounter with the enemy: 'our losses were insignificant, one dead and five wounded.' it would be interesting to know for whom these losses are insignificant? for the one who was killed?... if he were to rise from his grave, would he think the loss 'insignificant'? if only he could think of everything from the very beginning, of his childhood, his family, his beloved wife, and how he went to the war and how, seized by the most conflicting thoughts and emotions, he felt afraid, and how it all ended in death and horror.... but they try to convince us that 'our losses are insignificant.' think of it, godless writer! go to your master the devil with your clever arithmetic.... how this man revolts me--may the devil take him!"
throughout the winter one question above all others was discussed by the few who took an interest in the war: "what were the germans going to do?" it was clear that they had been able to withdraw many divisions from their eastern front. would they be numerically equal or superior to the allies on the western front?
on the whole we were of opinion that, whatever happened, our positions would prove impregnable, although we observed with some astonishment that there were no extensive trench systems or fortified places behind our lines. i doubted whether the germans would even attempt to break through--i thought they would merely hold the western front and throw the allies out of macedonia, palestine, and mesopotamia.
the winter was over and the fine weather had set in. for several months we had been working in a wood-yard and saw-mills. our lives had become unspeakably monotonous, but the coming of warm days banished much of our dreariness. the hazy blue sky was an object of real delight. i often contrived to slip away from my work and lean idly against a wall in the mild sunshine. at times i was so filled with the sense of physical well-being, and so penetrated by the sensuous enjoyment of warmth and colour, that i even forgot the war.
at the bottom of the wood-yard was a little stream, and on the far bank clusters of oxlips were in bloom. here we would lie down during the midday interval and surrender to the charm of the spring weather. it seemed unnatural and almost uncanny that we should be happy, but there were moments when we felt something very much like happiness. moreover, it was rumoured that leave was going to start. how glorious it would be to spend a sunny may or june in england!
once a fortnight we paraded for our pay outside one of the bigger sheds of the yard. as a rule, i was filled with impatience and irritation at having to wait in a long queue and move forward step by step, but now it had become pleasant to tarry in the sunshine. one day, when we were lined up between two large huts, a deep yellow brimstone butterfly came floating idly past. it gave me inexpressible delight, a delight tempered by sadness and a longing for better times. i drew my pay and saluted perfunctorily, being unable and unwilling to think of anything but the beauty of the sky, the sun, and the wonderful insect.
i held my three ten-franc notes in my hand and thought: "i will enjoy this lovely day to the full. when we get back to camp i will do without the repulsive army fare, i will dine at the st. martin and buy a bottle of the best french wine, even if it costs me twenty francs. and then i'll walk to the little wood on the hill-slope and there i'll lie all the evening and dream or read a book."
the whistle sounded. it was time to go back to work. but i cursed the work and decided to take the small risk and remain idle for an hour or two. i went to an outlying part of the yard and sat down on a patch of long grass and leant back against a shed. the air was hot and several bees flew by. their buzzing reminded me of summer holidays spent in southern france before the war. i thought of vineyards and orchards, of skies intensely blue, of scorching sunshine, of the tumultuous chirping of cicadas and grasshoppers, and then of the tepid nights crowded with glittering stars and hushed except for the piping of tree-frogs.
before the war--before the war--i repeated the words to myself. they conveyed a sense of immeasurable remoteness, of something gone and lost for ever. but i wouldn't think about it. i would enjoy the present. but the calm waters of happiness had been ruffled and it was beyond my power to restore their tranquillity. i began to think of many things, of the war itself, of the possible offensive, and soon the fretful rebellious discontent, that obsessed all those of us who had not lost their souls, began to reassert itself.
but why not desert? why not escape to the south of france? why not enjoy a week, a fortnight, a month of freedom? i would be caught in the end--i would be punished. i would receive number 1 field punishment, and i would be tied to a wheel or post, but nevertheless it would be worth it! i imagined myself slipping out of camp at night and walking until dawn. then i would sleep in some wood or copse and then walk on again, calling at remote farms to buy bread and eggs and milk. i would reach the little village, the main street winding between white houses and flooded with brilliant moonlight. i would climb the wall and drop into the familiar garden and await the morning. then i would knock at the door and i would be welcomed by an old peasant woman, and she would ask: "tu viens en perme?" how could i answer that question? it worried me, i felt it was spoiling my dream. but i dreamt on and at the same time battled against increasing depression. even a few days of freedom would be a break, a change from routine. and would the little village be the same as when i saw it last? no, it would be different, it would be at war. i might escape from the army, but i could never escape from the war. my dream had vanished.
but i would make the best of things. i would enjoy the immediate present--was i not losing hours of sheer pleasure by harbouring these thoughts and ignoring the beauty of the day?
some distance ahead was a farm of the usual flemish type--a thatched roof, whitewashed walls, and green shutters. near by was a little pond with willows growing round it. in the field beyond, a cow was grazing peacefully. the sky seemed a deeper blue through the willow-branches. the tender green of the grass was wonderfully refreshing to the eyes. the cow had a beautiful coat of glossy brown that shone in the sunlight. i abandoned myself to the charm of the little idyll that was spread out before me and forgot the war once again.
and then all at once a gigantic, plume-shaped, sepia coloured mass rose towering out of the ground. there was a rending, deafening, double thunder-clap that seemed to split my head. for a moment i was dazed and my ears sang. then i looked up--the black mass was thinning and collapsing. the cow had disappeared.
i walked into the yard full of rage and bitterness. all the men had left the sheds and were flocking into the road. some were strolling along in leisurely fashion, some were walking with hurried steps, some were running, some were laughing and talking, some looked startled, some looked anxious, and some were very pale.
we crossed the road and the railway. then, traversing several fields, we came to a halt and waited. we waited for nearly an hour, but nothing happened and we gradually straggled back to the yard.
some of us walked to the spot where the shell had burst. there was a huge hole, edged by a ring of heaped-up earth, and loose mould and grassy sods lay scattered all round. here and there lay big lumps of bleeding flesh. the cow had been blown to bits. the larger pieces had already been collected by the farmer, who had covered them with a tarpaulin sheet from which a hoof protruded.
the next day, at about the same hour, the dark cloud again rose from the ground and the double explosion followed. we again abandoned the yard and waited in the field. but this time there were several further shell-bursts. no dull boom in the distance followed by a long-drawn whine, but only the earth and smoke thrown darkly up and then the deafening double detonation.
the next day more shells came over, and the next day also.
the big holes with their earthen rims began to dot the fields in many places. no damage of "military importance" had been done. not even a soldier had been killed, but only an inoffensive cow.
at night the sky was alive with the whirr of propellers, and shells whistled overhead and burst a long way off.
one sunday, toward the end of march, when we had a half-holiday, i walked up the hill that was crowned by a large monastery and sat down on the slope by a group of sallows. they were in full bloom. a swarm of bees and flies were buzzing round. peacock and tortoiseshell butterflies were flitting to and fro. the sunlight filtered down through the bluish haze. i rested and let an hour or two slip by. then i got up and crossed a little brook and strolled along a narrow path that wound its way through a copse. the ground was starred with wood-anemones, oxlips, violets, cuckoo-flowers, and in damp places with green-golden saxifrage. i came to a small cottage that had pots of flowers in every window. i sat down while a hospitable old woman made coffee and chattered volubly in flemish. another soldier arrived soon after. had i heard the news? the germans had broken through on the somme and had captured bapaume. i asked him if he had seen it in print. no, he had heard it from an a.s.c. driver. he hoped it wasn't true, but he feared it was.
i returned to camp full of suppressed excitement.
something was wrong. the shelling of the back-areas continued; air-raids became more and more frequent. these were ominous signs.
then the newspapers arrived. the somme front had collapsed. the fifth army was in full retreat. the germans had taken bapaume and peronne and were threatening amiens.
had i been living in germany during the war i would have felt a powerful tendency to defend the cause of the allies, to excuse their misdeeds, to overrate their ability, while being highly critical and censorious of every german shortcoming.
a nation at war is a mob whose very blatancy, injustice and cruelty drive one to hatred and opposition. the enemy mob seems less detestable because it is out of sight and one thinks almost involuntarily: "it cannot be as bad as our own."
i could not bear to hear a victory joyfully announced. the jubilation and the self-glorification of the crowd filled me with loathing, and i could only think of the intensified slaughter and misery that are the price of every victory. they who pay the price, they alone have the right to rejoice, but they do not rejoice. the german mob revealed its depravity when it hung out flags in the streets to celebrate the first german victories. and, when the first battle of cambrai was won, london jeered at the bereaved and mocked the dead by ringing the joy-bells.
every genuine patriot is called a traitor in his own country. but patriotism, however genuine, is a thing that must be surmounted. there is only one good that war can bring to a nation--defeat. a patriot, loving his own country, would therefore wish his country defeat in war. but he who has surmounted his patriotism and has attained complete impartiality would not selfishly claim the only benefit of war entirely for his own country, but would desire all to share it alike, and would therefore wish defeat for every warring nation.
if a horde of british and a horde of german soldiers engage in mutual butchery, and if the maimed, broken remnants of the british horde have just enough order left to drive back the remnants of the german horde, leaving innumerable dead and wounded and for ever darkening the lives of countless friends and wives--in other words, if the british army wins what our infamous press would call a "glorious victory"--then all that is evil in the life of the nation is encouraged and justified. it is then that the diplomatists who lied and schemed to bring on the monstrous event, that all the politicians who exploit and foster the nation's madness and misery to enhance their own reputations, that those who batten on the slaughter, and that those who glorify the carnage at a safe distance and fight the enemy with their lying tongues, are justified. they all are justified. but if, instead of victory, there is defeat, then they tremble lest they should be disgraced and lose their places, lest they should be victims of a disillusioned people's anger, lest they should forfeit their plunder, lest they should be called to account for the lies with which they fooled the masses. defeat is the defeat of evil, victory is the victory of evil.
a second batch of papers arrived. the german advance was continuing. the british reverse was becoming catastrophic. at first i felt a kind of grimness, and then i was thrilled by the thought that perhaps the end of the war might be near. we might not have a good peace, but peace of any kind was preferable to war. the mendacious press talked much about a "dishonourable peace," as though any peace could be as dishonourable as a prolonged war.
but the immediate reality became too overwhelming. grey multitudes were sweeping khaki multitudes before them. high-explosives, shrapnel, grenades, bombs, bullets were rending, piercing, and shattering the living flesh and muscle and bone. towns and villages were being turned into heaps of brick and wreckage. hordes of old men, women, and children were thronging the roads, and fleeing from approaching disaster.
we went to work as usual although we worked less than usual, for we now had something to talk about. would the germans reach the coast? if they did, then the northern armies would be cut off and destroyed. a general retreat from our front might be ordered at any moment. we stood in groups and discussed these problems hour by hour.
then the german advance came to an end. a french army had arrived and saved the situation. the shelling of the back areas had ceased. the danger was over for a time.
had the germans assembled all their strength for one supreme attempt at breaking through the western front? or was it only the beginning of a whole series of operations?
one morning, as we woke up, we heard the roar and rumble of a bombardment. we did not take much notice of it, for we had heard the sound so often.
we paraded, and marched off to work. the continuous roar gradually gave place to irregular, though frequent, outbursts of firing along the entire front.
the next day the sound seemed to have come nearer. rumours began to circulate--it was said that armentières had fallen, that the portuguese had been annihilated at merville, that the british had counter-attacked and taken lille.
rations, newspapers and letters were delayed. large bodies of troops passed through the village. we got no definite or official news, and nobody had any clear notion of what was happening.
but the sound of firing grew louder and louder and our anxiety deepened. there could no longer be any doubt about it--the germans were advancing on our front.
the sickening certainty transcended all other considerations. a few miles from us thousands were being slaughtered. i ceased to ponder the problems of failure and success. i forgot the politicians and was conscious of only one despairing wish, that the terrible thing might come to an end. victory and defeat seemed irrelevant considerations. if only the end would come quickly--nothing else really mattered.
i often wondered what was in the minds of the other men. many of them looked anxious, but on the whole they were normal in their behaviour. they grumbled and quarrelled much as usual and talked rather more than usual--but so did i, in spite of my intense mental agitation.
the sound of firing grew louder.
we marched to an extensive r.e. park and saw-mill near a railway siding. we had to dismantle the machinery and load everything of any value on to a train. for several hours five of us dragged a huge cylinder and piston along the ground. we toiled and perspired. we made a ramp of heavy wooden beams in front of the train and then we slowly pushed the iron mass into a truck. we went back and, raising a big fly-wheel on its edge and supporting it with a wooden beam under each axle, we rolled it painfully along, swaying from side to side.
then there came the long-drawn familiar whine, and the black smoke arose behind some trees a hundred yards away and the thunder-clap followed. a jagged piece of steel came whizzing by and lodged in a stack of timber behind us.
we pushed the wheel up the ramp and returned to fetch heavy coils of wire, bundles of picks and shovels, sacks and barrels of nails. our backs and shoulders ached, our hands and finger-tips were sore.
another shell came whining over. it burst by a little cottage. its thunder made our ears sing. the fragments of flying metal made us duck or scatter behind the stacks.
we worked until we almost dropped with sheer fatigue. iron rods and bars for reinforcing pill-boxes, bags of cement, boxes of tools, parts of machinery, all went on to the train. then we entered a big shed, where a number of tar-barrels stood in a row. we rolled them out and placed them by the timber stacks. we laid a pick beside each barrel so that it could be broached, the tar set alight, and the entire park destroyed at a moment's notice.
it was dark when we stopped work. we reached camp after an hour's wearisome marching. we waited in a long queue outside the cook-house. the cooks served out the greasy stew as quickly as they could, but we were so tired and ill-tempered that we shouted abuse at them without reason and without being provoked, and banged our plates and tins. the war, the advance, the slaughter were forgotten. we were conscious of nothing but weariness, stiffness, and petty irritation.
in the evening i did not wait in the dinner queue, but went to the st. martin. it was kept by an old woman and her two daughters. they were tortured by anxiety:
"les allemands vont venir ici--de shermans come heer?" they asked. but i knew no more than they did. i told them, against my own conviction, that the german advance would be held up, but they remained anxious. the uproar of the cannonade was louder than ever. all the windows of the building shook and rattled. the old woman muttered: "'tis niet goet, 'tis niet goet," and the elder daughter echoed: "oh, 'tiss no bon, 'tiss no bon."
two british officers entered. they looked round and saw that private soldiers were sitting at the tables. but the st. martin was the biggest estaminet in the village and provided the best wines and coffees, so they stood in the doorway, undecided what to do. they asked one of the girls if there was a restaurant for officers in the neighbourhood. she answered: "no--no restaurant for officeerss--you come heer--privates, zey no hurt you--privates, officeerss, all same."
encouraged by these assurances, one of the newcomers said to the other:
"come on, let's sit down here and have a coffee--we needn't stop long."
all the smaller tables were occupied, but there was one long table that stretched across the room and only a few men were sitting at the far end of it. the officers sat down at the near end and ordered coffee. they seemed a little embarrassed at first, but they soon began to talk freely to each other:
"i wonder if there's a war on in these parts--i hear the huns have made a bit of a push."
"curse the blighters--they'll mess up my leave, it's due in a week's time."
"jolly good coffee, this! here, marie, bring us another two cups--der coop der caffay--that's right, isn't it?"
"dat's right," said the girl, "you speak goot french--vous avez tout a fait l'accent parisien."
suddenly her sister came running into the room, sobbing loudly:
"english soldier come round from commandant--he tell us shermans come--ve got to go 'vay at once, ve got to leave everysing--ve go 'vay and english troops steal everysing and shellss come and smash everysing and ve looss everysing."
the civilians of the village had received orders to leave immediately. through the window we could see groups of people standing in the street and talking together. they were greatly agitated.
the old woman sniffed and wiped her eyes. the elder daughter was packing a few things in a bundle. one of the officers asked: "what about our coffee?" but she took no notice. her sister had gone out in search of further information.
she soon returned. yes, they would all have to leave at once, but, if they liked to take the risk, they could come back to-morrow with a wagon, if they could get one, and fetch their belongings.
they were comforted. they knew where they would be able to get a wagon. they would cart their stock and their household property away on the morrow. they would start another estaminet somewhere. they would suffer loss and inconvenience, but they would not be ruined--their valuable stock of wines would save them from that.
the bundle was made up and they prepared to leave. we paid our bill and went out into the street. numbers of soldiers were straggling past. they looked wretched and exhausted. their boots and puttees were caked with mud. they had neither rifles nor packs. three men were lying up against a garden wall. we asked them for news. they could not tell us much, except that the germans were still advancing.
"we was at dickebusch when 'e started slingin' stuff over--gorblimy, 'e don't 'alf wallop yer--umpteen of our mates got bleed'n' well biffed. we cleared out afore it got too 'ot."
several famished "battle-stragglers" had entered our camp in order to beg for food. they sat round the cook-house and ate in gloomy silence.
the next morning, about breakfast time, the first shell burst near the camp--a short rapid squeal followed by a sharp report. the second shell burst a few minutes after, throwing up earth and smoke. a steel fragment came sailing over in a wide parabola and struck the foot of a man standing in the breakfast queue. he limped to the first-aid hut, looking very pale. when he got there, he had some difficulty in finding his wound, it was so slight.
we paraded and marched off. several shells burst in the neighbouring fields. we reached the ration dump and began to load the train. a civilian arrived with the newspapers. our n.c.o.'s were powerless to stop the general stampede that surged towards the paper-vendor.
the germans had advanced on a wide front ... armentières had fallen. the news was several days old and much might have happened since.
we went back to our work and discussed events. we were bullied and threatened with arrest, but we talked in groups while we carried cases of rations. would we be involved in the advance? we might even be captured--that would at least be an experience and a change.
in the evening a few of us went to the st. martin to see if the old woman and her daughter had been able to fetch their property away. we observed that the windows, where tinned fruit, chocolate, cakes, soap, postcards, and other articles used to be exhibited, had been cleared completely. we entered and found one of the girls in tears:
"all gone--all gone--i show you--you come into de cellar--all de wine gone--bottles all, all broken. english soldiers come in de night and take everysing 'vay--ve nussing left--it's de soldiers in de camp over zair in de field--zey plenty drunk dis morning--ve lose everysing--ve poor now."
besides the windows, the till and the shelves had been cleared, and empty drawers and boxes had been thrown on to the floor. we went down into the cellar. all the cases had been opened and the stone floor was littered with empty and broken bottles. the girl began to sob again when she saw the ruin that had been inflicted:
"all gone, all gone--ve poor now."
"why don't you complain to the town major?" one of us suggested.
"complain?--vat's de use complain?--de town major, he nice man, he kind to us, but he no find de soldiers dat come, and if he find zem he punish zem but ve get nussing. vat's de use punish zem if ve get nussing? all gone, ve poor now--oh, dis var, dis var--dis de second time ve refugeess--ve lose eversing 1914, ve come here from zandvoorde and ve start again--ve do business vis soldiers, soldiers plenty money, ve do goot business, and now ve refugeess again and ve novair to go. if de shermans come, ve do business vis de shermans--but de shells come first and ve all killed--ah, dis var, dis var! vat's de use fighting? all for nussing! var over, me plenty dance!"
we ascended the cellar stairs. the mother was in the main room, wiping her eyes. we said good-bye to her and her daughter, feeling ashamed of our uniforms, and walked out into the street.
a mass of french cavalry were galloping past. it was growing dark. the cannonade had become deafening. over the town a few miles off there was a crimson glare in the sky.
a horde of civilians was thronging the main street of the village. old men and women were carrying all that was left to them of their property on their backs. others were pushing wheelbarrows heaped up with clothes and household utensils. girls were carrying heavy bundles under their arms and dragging tired, tearful children along. white-faced, sorrowful mothers were carrying peevish babies. great wagons, loaded with furniture and bedding, and whole families sitting on top, were drawn by lank and bony horses. a little cart, with a pallid, aged woman cowering inside, was drawn painfully along by a white-haired man. they passed by us in the gathering gloom, and there seemed to be no end to these straggling multitudes of ruined, homeless people who were wandering westwards to escape the disaster that threatened to engulf us all.
the eastern sky flickered with vivid gun-flashes and scintillated with brilliant shell-bursts. the night was full of rustling noises and sullen thunder-claps, while a more distant roaring and rumbling seemed to break against some invisible shore like the breakers of a stormy sea.
we retired to our huts and tents. soon after lights-out the police corporal came round and shouted:
"parade at 4.45 to-morrow morning in marching order."
the tumult increased as though the surge were coming nearer and nearer. shells of small calibre passed overhead with a prolonged whistle and burst with a hardly audible report. the thunder of bigger explosions shook the huts and caused the ground to tremble.
as i woke the next morning the din of the cannonade broke in upon my senses with a sudden impact. rumbling, thundering, bellowing, rushing, whistling, and whining, the tumult seemed all around and above us. sudden flashes lit up the whole camp so that for fractions of seconds every hut and tent was brilliantly illuminated. multitudes of dazzling stars appeared and disappeared.
we drew our breakfast and packed up our belongings. all was confusion in the hut.
we paraded, the roll was called, and as the day began to dawn we marched off.
we passed down the main road in long, swaying columns of fours. we left the woodyard behind us and hoped it would be destroyed--how we hated the place for the dreary months we had spent there! the westward stream of refugees had ceased, but an eastward stream of french infantry and field artillery thronged the roads. the artillerymen were mostly tall and powerfully built. the infantry were nearly all elderly men of poor physique. they looked desperately miserable. we exchanged greetings:
"it's a good war!"
"c'est une bonne guerre!"
and then we broke into song:
"oh, oh, oh, oh, oh it's a lovely war!"
the french did not sing, but we, who were escaping destruction, passed from one song to another:
"i don't want to fight the germans, i don't want to go to war, i'd sooner be in london, dear old dirty london."
"far, far from ypers, i'd like to be, where german snipers can't get at me."
"when this bloody war is over, o how happy i shall be, when i get my civvy clothes on, no more soldiering for me."
and all the other songs familiar to every soldier in the british army.
we marched all day along straight roads running in between flat fields and past ugly little villages. as we grew tired and footsore our rollicking spirit abated and the singing died down.
towards nightfall we halted in a large meadow with a pond in one corner. several lorries loaded with tents were waiting for us. we unloaded them, pitched the tents, crept into them, and went to bed.
the rumble of the cannonade sounded faintly in the far distance.
"i reckon it's a bloody shame to let the other tommies and the frenchies...."
the voice seemed to die away into a drawl as weariness overcame me. i continued to hear the sound of words for a little while, but they conveyed no meaning. and then sleep descended and brought entire oblivion.
home on leave
"i have several times expressed the thought that in our day the feeling of patriotism is an unnatural, irrational, and harmful feeling, and a cause of a great part of the ills from which mankind is suffering; and that, consequently, this feeling should not be cultivated, as is now being done, but should, on the contrary, be suppressed and eradicated by all means available to rational men."
a change had come over us all. instead of long spells of dreary silence interrupted by outbursts of irritability, by grumbling and by violent quarrels over nothing, there was animated conversations and sometimes even gaiety. our talk was all about one subject--not about peace, for we had abandoned all hope of peace and hardly ever thought of it--but about leave. we had been waiting for seventeen months when, without warning, a leave allotment was assigned to our unit. about half a dozen men were going every day and no one knew whose turn would come next. we were full of intense excitement and glad expectation, but also of anxiety in case something should happen to stop our leave altogether.
i made up my mind to enjoy myself thoroughly. i would see parents and friends and forget all about the army and the war. i would be gay and frivolous and go to theatres, music-halls and cafés. and one day i would spend in the british museum and lose myself in books--that would be just like old times! of course, our leave would not last for ever and the return journey would be terrible. no doubt the fortnight would pass very quickly, but i determined to enjoy every single hour with deliberation and understanding, and to squeeze every drop of pleasure out of it. how many hours were there in a fortnight? more than three hundred! many would be wasted in sleep, but still, there would be many left and by dwelling upon each one, the fortnight would seem an age.
but at last we were on the leave boat. there was another long delay, and then, with a feeling of immense relief, we heard the engines throb and the paddle-wheels begin to turn. i looked overboard and saw white foam hissing along the surface of water rapidly widening between us and the quay.
seventeen months of exile and slavery had come to an end and before us lay a wonderful fortnight of freedom and happiness. and at the end of the fortnight? there was no need to think of that now.
the sea was blue and smooth and a cool breeze was blowing. we saw the cliffs of england grow larger and larger. soon we were able to distinguish the town of dover, the houses clustered round the harbour, and the castle up on the cliff. it was there that i had begun my career as a soldier more than two years before. how much had happened since then! i felt that i had become a different being altogether.
the boat entered the harbour and ran alongside the quay. a train was waiting for us. we poured out of the ship in two streams that spread out fan-wise and flowed into the carriages.
it was good to sit by the window in a comfortable compartment and lean back against soft cushions.
glad anticipation and barely suppressed excitement were visible on everybody's face.
the train sped through familiar country: meadows, pastures, cornfields, orchards and woodlands. people waved their handkerchiefs at us from cottage windows.
it was growing dark as the first rows of drab suburban houses began to glide past.
so this was london. i stared out of the window and tried to grasp the tremendous, wonderful fact with all the power of my mind. somehow or other it did not seem real, but i felt i could make it real by an effort of the will.
streets and houses and moving people soon crowded the whole view. the people filled me with intense curiosity. i longed to talk to them and find out what they felt and thought about the war.
we entered victoria station. i opened the door of the compartment with hasty, trembling hands. i did not wait to change my french money, but hurried out into a street and got on to a 'bus.
london, with its subdued lights, lay all around me. it had not changed since i saw it last, and yet i felt it ought to have changed. the reason was that i had changed. and then i began to fear that i had changed beyond the power of recovery. the oppressive sensation that i was in a dream forced itself upon me. i felt that there was only one reality in the whole world--the war. would i ever escape from the war? it would come to an end some day, and i would leave the army, but would not the war obsess me until the end of my life? would i ever be myself again?
but this was not the way to enjoy my leave! i began to feel disappointed at not being so happy as i had expected to be. why was i not full of rapture? why did not every object fill me with delight? but i ought to have known that habitual discontent and bitterness and revolt are not shaken off in a few hours or a few days, and that they persist even after their immediate cause has been removed.
i looked round at the other people sitting on the 'bus. i had visited foreign countries in former years, but never before had i felt that i was amongst complete strangers. there are moments when a dog, a horse, or a bird fills us with a sense of the uncanny--its mind is an insoluble mystery, with depths so dark and inscrutable that one feels something that approaches fear and horror. and so it was as i sat on the 'bus. the civilians around me seemed like animals of a different species. they were not human at all--or was it i who was not human?
i went to another seat in order to listen to a man and woman who were talking together. i felt that if they were to talk about the war, the uncanny spell would be broken, the dream would dissolve and i would be restored to my own fellow creatures. but they spoke about trivial domestic matters and about a flower show. if they had only mentioned the word "war" i would have felt relieved by its familiarity, but they did not mention it once.
and then, in great mental agony, i said to myself: "i will be happy, i will enjoy my leave." but a number of invisible cobwebs hung between myself and the world around me. i tried to brush them away, but they were so impalpable that the movement of my hand did not disturb them at all.
i gave up the attempt. i would wait until i got home. then i would talk and forget myself--only by forgetting myself would i enjoy the present. only those who forget themselves are happy. the obsession of self is the most oppressive of all burdens.
i descended from a 'bus and took a train. a girl sitting opposite me stared at my blue chevrons and whispered to her fellow passenger: "he's just come from the front." so i too was regarded as a strange kind of animal. i got out at my home-station. i showed my leave-warrant to the ticket collector. he was a benevolent looking old man. he smiled and wished me good luck. things began to seem a little less foreign. and then the thought of being home in a few minutes absorbed me entirely.
i hurried down the street. i knocked at the door, and it opened. the long yearned-for meeting took place at last.
i threw my pack, equipment and steel helmet contemptuously into a corner. i took an infantile delight in clean, furnished rooms, in the white table-cloth, the shining silver, the cut flowers, and the oil-paintings on the wall. and we talked until late into the night.
it was good to wake up the next morning and to know that the first day of my leave was still before me. i felt encouraged to face my new surroundings boldly. i would understand them and identify myself with them. if the sensation that i was dreaming came upon me again, i would welcome it and then i would destroy it once and for all. i would enjoy my leave at any cost. it would become my only reality, and when it was over it would be a reality which i would take back to the front. i would hoard it and always think of it out there, so that the war would seem like a dream, the end of which i could await with patience and resignation.
i went out to seek friends and acquaintances. i also hoped to meet some war enthusiasts. i would tell them something about the war. how would their theories be able to stand before my actual experiences!
i was soon disillusioned.
i dined with a wealthy kinsman. the slaughter of millions had brought him prosperity. he had never done any fighting except with his mouth, but it is precisely that kind of fighting that infuriates the spirit, engenders heroic ardour, and causes the nostrils to dilate. he was so bellicose that he even desired to do some real righting, not understanding the difference between the two. he thought of joining an infantry unit--the artillery were not good enough, he did not want to fire at an enemy he could not see, he wanted to use the bayonet and murder his fellow men in hand-to-hand encounters.
i began to understand why many men i had met were glad to come back from leave.
i tried to dissuade him, although i felt it would do him good to see something of the war and he would learn a much-needed lesson. and yet i did not want him killed or horribly mutilated, although i knew that he and those like him were alone responsible for the entire war, both at its origins and its continuance.
but he would not be persuaded. he said he was dying to go out and see the fun.
at the word "fun" i felt a sudden and violent contraction of all my muscles. i had an almost irresistible impulse to stand up and strike him across the face. but i was in a public restaurant and i controlled myself. he did not seem to notice anything.
the conversation drifted away from the war and became commonplace. i tried to relate a few of my experiences, but somehow or other they seemed unsuited to the occasion.
i had set out with the intention of destroying a mouldering, tottering edifice built up of illusions and ignorant prejudices, and i found myself face to face with towering, strong, unshakable walls, strong and unshakable precisely because it was built of illusions, lies, and prejudices.
i felt the burden of war descending upon me with all its crushing, annihilating weight. i fought a losing fight against the conviction that for the rest of my leave i would be able to talk of nothing else and think of nothing else but the war. if only i could talk to someone who would understand, that at least would bring relief!
i longed to see my two friends, although i felt some anxiety lest they might have changed, or rather lest they might not have changed with me.
it was in the evening of my first day that we met. at first the one embarrassed me a little by his apparent cold aloofness. but his caustic observations on the war soon made it clear that he had stood the test. i realized, from the hatred that lay behind them, that he had suffered as much as many a soldier in the trenches.
then the other said to me:
"this is a thing i have never told anyone yet, but i will tell it to you now. there are times when i almost wish i could see german troops marching victoriously through the streets of london. it is not my reason that is speaking now, but my bitterness, which has become stronger than my reason."
i understood him far too well to make any comment.
and then after a long silence, i said: "i wonder if anybody else thinks like that."
and he answered: "yes, there are many--more than you would believe."
but the first added: "we must remain neutral--that is our one and only duty. the more malevolent our neutrality the better, but it must be neutrality. remember that there are germans whose bitterness prompts them to wish that british troops were marching through the streets of berlin. i think their wish is juster than yours, but both wishes cannot be fulfilled, and it is therefore desirable that the next best thing should happen, namely, that both the allies and their enemies should be entirely deprived of victory."
i agreed, but added:
"yes, fundamentally one must remain neutral, but in relation to present circumstances one cannot remain neutral. it is our business to arraign england, our own country, and not germany. it is for every nation to discover its own faults. there are many germans of courage and honesty who will condemn their country for the crimes she has committed. but condemnation from outside is useless and is always discredited. in all probability the allies and the central powers are both equally bad, and to denounce the enemy only is mere yelping with the rest of the savage, vindictive pack."
"that is true, but what is the good of saying it, or thinking it! ignorance, prejudice, and intellectual dishonesty are far stronger than you are. the depravity of mankind is such that only failure and humiliation will carry conviction. mere words are only wasted. if any nation is completely defeated in this war, then its people will rise against its rulers, whether they are guilty or not, and they will fix all the responsibility of war upon them and upon themselves. there will be a frenzy of self-accusation--whether just or unjust it doesn't matter--and as for the victors, they will say: 'our enemies admit their guilt, so what further proof is needed?' where the real guilt is, that is an irrelevant and trivial question. success or failure will be the sole ultimate criterion. there is only one hope for the world--that failure will be so evenly distributed that there will be anxious heart-searchings in every country. failure alone makes ignorant people think. success is taken for granted. even after a single battle lost, the press is full of explanations and excuses, but after a battle won, there is only complacency and self-glorification, and questions as to the why and wherefore are considered out of place or even treasonable."
when we parted i was seized with a feeling of intense loneliness, but nevertheless i realized with satisfaction that i was not entirely alone. i also gave up the idea of enjoying my leave and conceived a deep aversion for all pleasures and amusements.
the next day i wandered into the british museum. the 600,000 volumes that surrounded me on the shelves of the reading-room had a depressing effect. i took out a few books, but was too distracted for serious study.
the sleepy dullness of the museum became unbearable and i walked out into the street.
i spent the evening with a member of the national liberal club, an intimate family friend, whose intellectual arrogance was one of the evil memories of my childhood, when many eager impulses and aspirations had been turned to bitterness by his lofty depreciation and his imperturbable assumption of superiority based on maturer years and experience. having at different times received material kindnesses at his hands, i knew i could not tell him what i really thought, and the prospect of meeting him filled me with uneasiness. moreover, in his presence i felt a kind of pride which i did not usually feel in the presence of others--a pride that forbade me to express any sentiment or to reveal my inner mind. and yet my inner mind was clamouring intolerably for revelation. i realized the advantage he would derive from his simple attitude and from his lack of mental integrity, which enabled him to ignore any considerations that did not conform to his preconceived notions, and i realized the disadvantage of my complex attitude, made up as it was of so many conflicting impulses, at war with each other and with the world around me.
my fears were justified.
at first the conversation was commonplace, and i related various experiences in a desultory fashion. those that were mildly amusing were most appreciated. but gradually we drifted towards more vital issues and then the long and futile argument began. the weapons of sarcasm and denunciation were denied to me by the laws of politeness and etiquette. i beat in vain against the solid walls of obstinate prejudice and superficiality. his statements were uttered with dogmatic emphasis. they expressed beliefs held with all the self-assurance born of ignorance. they were based on no independent reasoning or observation, but had been assimilated either directly from the daily press or from a circle of acquaintances whose entire political outlook was the creation of the press. it was only then that i realized the immense power of newspapers.
for most people "thinking" is just the discovery of convenient phrases or labels, such as "pessimist," or "socialist," or "pacifist" or "bolshevik." when any puzzling mental attitude comes before their notice, they pin one of their labels to it, and, having labelled it, they think they understand it. the press supplies them with these labels, and, consciously or unconsciously, they store them up in their minds and always have a few ready for immediate use.
so familiar and commonplace were the phrases which my opponent selected from his store in order to reply to my every utterance, that i could almost tell what he was going to say before he said it. moreover, the fact that he had travelled abroad and had associated with foreigners, instead of widening his view had only narrowed it. had he never travelled he might have been sufficiently modest to admit that he knew nothing of foreign countries and he might have suspended judgment about them; but the mere fact that he had travelled filled him with a deep conviction that he knew all about the places he had visited, and this conviction, enunciated with pompous emphasis, supplanted the real knowledge and understanding derived from honest observation. like so many people who do not possess the faculty of experiencing, he continually appealed to his own experience and continually referred to his maturer years, as though old age of itself brought wisdom.
as for the war itself he took no deep interest in it, although he glanced at the war news every day. but to understand it, to analyse its causes, to grasp its significance, to realize its true nature, that he never attempted to do. his labels and his alleged experiences and his years were sufficient to cope with the entire question and answer it satisfactorily for himself. i almost envied him for his self-sufficiency. he would never suffer acutely from any mental strife or agitation due to any but immediate and personal causes. perhaps such a stable mentality that can without effort reject all inconvenient data is the most desirable of all and the most conducive to happiness. certain it is that the stability of society and the very existence of civilization itself depend upon the preponderance of that particular type.
i knew that the argument was hopeless. indeed, it was no argument. it was no exchange of ideas. it was no mutual attempt at discovering truths by an impartial comparison of two different attitudes.
at times there were signs of heat on both sides. my opponent spoke of "our democratic army" (familiar phrase!) and the overbearing manner in which he connected this dictum with a number of false, irrelevant or arbitrary generalizations made me feel a momentary pang of anger and i wished he could experience a term of military service. nevertheless, there was no actual display of bad temper or emotion and we parted with all the habitual formulae imposed by social decorum.
i knew i had come into contact with the truly representative man. his opinion and the opinions of those like him, they all made up popular opinion. all other opinion was abnormal and negligible. it was with despair that i realized the hopelessness of my own position and that of my friends.
the public did not understand the war and did not want to understand it. it was far away from them and they did not realize the amount of suffering caused by it. it also brought wealth to many who would therefore have regretted its sudden termination. this seems a hard thing to say, but nevertheless it is true. the so-called "working-classes" had developed an appetite for wealth and power that nothing could satisfy. this appetite was being fed continually, but the more it devoured the more voracious it became. nor did the shameless profiteering of the wealthy tend to allay it in any way. protests against the war never went beyond the passing of mere resolutions. those who had sufficient humanity and imagination to hate the war in its entirety and to suffer from it, although not necessarily taking any part in it, were too few and too scattered and isolated to take any effective action.
the extent to which a man can suffer is the precise measure of his merit, and thus it was that our patriots and war-enthusiasts being incapable, by reason of their grossness and vulgarity, of suffering in a spiritual sense, were immune from the misery caused by the war and yet it was they above all others upon whose support the continuance of the war depended.
this was the terrible fatality. the more a man suffered from the war the smaller was his control over it.
everywhere, those who deserved to suffer did not suffer and those who did not deserve to suffer suffered. and that was why the war went on. most people were so indifferent that it was impossible to talk to them without anger. i could think of nothing else but the war. i could not escape from its invisible presence. the streets and houses seemed the immaterial creations of some dream, and somewhere behind them the slaughter was going on, and amid the noise of the traffic the throbbing of the bombardment was plainly audible.
sometimes i felt an impulse to shout from the house-tops like a hebrew prophet and denounce this most wicked of generations. but the very futility of the idea filled me with mortification.
our enlightened twentieth century has no use for prophets. christ himself would have been arrested as a pacifist or a lunatic if he had spoken his mind in the streets of london. and the clergy would have applauded the imprisonment of a dangerous "pro-german." the scribes and pharisees were more numerous and more powerful than ever before.
particularly the scribes.
there never was in all the world an infamy as great as the infamy of our war-time press. a horde of unscrupulous liars and hirelings spat hatred and malice from safe and comfortable positions. they played the hero when no danger threatened. they defied an enemy who could not reach them. they boasted of the deeds they had not done. they gloried in the victories they did not win. they mouthed frantic protestations of injured innocence when they should have felt the burden of guilty shame. they were mawkishly sentimental when they should have felt keen grief and horror. they denounced murder and they urged others to commit murder. they spewed their venomous slime into every spring of healing water. at a time when clear thinking and balanced judgments were needed more desperately than ever before, they squirted into the air thick clouds of lies, and half-truths, and misleading phrases, and judgments distorted by hatred and warped by malice. and as for those who were either lured on to perpetrate the great iniquity by grandiose and seductive falsehoods or were dragged from their homes and families and sent unwilling to the slaughter, these miserable slaves the press of all countries urged on, one against the other, brutally deaf to their misery, representing them as glad and cheerful when they had reached the extreme of human suffering, magnifying them into heroes of epic proportions (before they donned their dingy garb of war they were "lice" that had to be "combed out"), endowing them with absurdly impossible virtues--when they were just ordinary human beings in misfortune with no ambition except to live in peace and comfort--and at the same time bestowing lofty patronage upon them and calling them "tommies" and sending them cigarettes, chocolates and advice, as though they were children to be petted, with no will or intelligence of their own.
the press, the cinema, the atrocity placards, and propagandist leaflets, they all practised the same deliberate and colossal deceit and kindled hatred against the enemy. and so successful was this diabolical conspiracy that hatred became second nature to vast masses of people. to think evil of the enemy was an article of national faith, and to question this faith, or still more to repudiate it, that was heresy of the most heinous kind. religion died long ago, but the cult of nationalism that replaced it was infinitely more pernicious in its intolerance and cruelty than religion at its very worst.
individually men are often good, but collectively men are always bad. the national mob had never been so powerful, nor had it ever been so servile, and that was why its passions were those of the coward and not of the brave man; that was why chivalry and generosity and fair-mindedness were execrated, and only hatred and boastfulness and vindictive malice were allowed to live.
entman's little eyes shone with affection. "i can only wish you good luck."
"thanks. i'll need it."
"and one more thing i was wondering."
"why do you suppose the tenth android killed the one in the village?"
"another case of taking one reason for want of a better one. i think it was his way of delivering the creature to us for research. he couldn't know for sure that we already had his 'brothers.'"
"you're right--you must be," entman agreed.
"small consolation. i'd like a few facts to go on for a change instead of having to depend on logic all the time," taber growled.
"what are you referring to?"
"the data. i'm assuming, if that's what's important, that the tenth creature has a way of getting the stuff back up there."
"i can help a little on that," entman said. "i can assure you that from what i've found in those brains, the data could, most likely, be sent mentally."
"you're sure of that?"
"i've found a certain part of those brains developed in a peculiar way--"
taber smiled. "you're sure of that?"
"well ... that's my theory. it would appear logical that--"
taber leaned forward suddenly and extended his glass, the grin on his face showing some genuine humor. "let's have another drink, doctor. then i'll go. i love the factual way this scotch of yours hits my stomach."
frank corson entered the office of wilson maynard, superintendent of park hill hospital. maynard looked out over the tops of his old-fashioned pince-nez glasses and said, "oh, doctor corson. you phoned for a chat."
it was the rather pompous superintendent's way of saying he was happy to give frank corson a little time. he considered all the doctors and nurses at park hill his "boys and girls," and he did the "father" bit very well.
maynard peered even harder. "you don't look well, frank. pale. you've been working too hard."
"nothing important, doctor maynard."
"sit down. will you have a cigarette?"
"no, thank you. i just wanted to ask you about a transfer."
"a transfer!" this was amazing. "aren't you happy at park hill?"
"i've been very happy."
"then i'd planned to enter private practice. but something personal has come up and i think a change is for the best."
"i'm certainly sorry to hear that."
"one of the men i graduated with went to a hospital in a small minnesota town. we've corresponded and he's given me a pretty clear picture--a nice town, a need for doctors and physicians--"
"but we need them here in the east, too."
"i realize that, and i'm making the move with some regret. but, frankly, new york city no longer appeals to me. i think perhaps a small hospital is more suited to my temperament."
"thank you, sir."
after frank corson left, superintendent maynard sorted a memo out of the pile on his desk. the memo concerned frank corson. superintendent maynard reread it and thought how well things usually worked out. now it wouldn't be necessary to have that talk with corson about sloppy work. obviously there had been something on the young intern's mind for weeks now. too bad. but let the minnesota hospital, wherever it was, worry about the trouble and perhaps put corson on the right track again.
he was their baby now.
maynard took corson's card from the files and wrote across it: transfer approved with regret.
brent taber stood in the shelter of a doorway on the lower east side of manhattan and watched an entrance across the street. he had been there for over an hour.
another hour passed and taber shifted from one aching foot to the other as a man in a blue suit emerged from the entrance and moved off down the street.
when the man had turned a corner, taber crossed over and looked up at the brownstone. it was a perfect place to hide--one of the many rooming houses in the city where, if you paid your rent and kept your peace, no one cared who you were or where you came from.
not even, taber reflected, if you had been born in a laboratory and had come from someplace among the stars.
he climbed the steps of the brownstone and tried the knob. the door opened. he went inside and found himself in a drab, dark hall furnished with an umbrella stand, a worn carpet, and a table spread with mail.
there was a bell on the table. he tapped it and, after a lazy length of time, a shapeless woman came through a door on the right and regarded him with no great show of cordiality.
"nothing vacant, mister. everything i've got is rented."
"i wasn't looking for a room. i'm just doing a little checking."
"my license is okay," the woman said belligerently. "the place is clean and orderly."
"that's not what i'm checking about. there's been some counterfeit money passed in this neighborhood and we're trying to trace it down."
the woman had a pronounced mustache that quivered at this news. "counterfeit! my roomers are honest."
"i'm sure they are. but some people carry counterfeit money without knowing it. do they all pay in cash?"
"only two of them."
"men or women?"
"one girl--katy wynn."
"where does she work?"
"down in wall street."
"not much chance we're interested. this money has been turning up around times square."
"the other's a man--quiet, no trouble, pays his rent right on the dot every week. john dennis his name is and he doesn't look like no counterfeiter."
"six--on the second floor. but he isn't in now. he just went out."
"okay. maybe i'll be back. as i said, we don't suspect anybody. we're just checking for sources."
taber turned toward the door. the woman vanished back into her own quarters as taber snapped the lock. he stood in the vestibule for a minute or two, studying some cards he took from his pocket, and when she did not reappear, he opened the door, went back in, and climbed the stairs.
the door to number six was not locked. taber went inside. the window was small and gave on an areaway. he could see nothing until he turned on the light. even then, he could see nothing of interest--the room was ordinary in every sense.
but as brent taber checked it out, some unusual aspects became apparent. there were two pieces of luggage in the closet. one, an oversized suitcase, stood on end.
and jammed neatly down behind it was the body of les king. his throat had been cut.
brent taber stared down into the closet for what seemed like an interminable time. his eyes were bleak and his mouth was grim and stiff as he passed a slow hand along his jaw.
he took a long, backward step and closed his eyes for a moment as though hoping the whole improbable mess would go away. but it was still there when he opened them again.
he turned, went downstairs, and took the receiver off the phone on the wall by the front door.
the shapeless landlady came out again. she scowled at taber. "what are you doing here?"
he regarded her with a kind of affectionate weariness. "have you got a dime, lady?"
gaping, she pawed into her apron pocket and handed him a coin.
"thanks much." he dialed. "is captain abrams there?"
there was a wait, during which brent taber asked the oddly bemused landlady: "are you afraid of the dead?"
but before she could decide whether she was or not, taber turned to the phone. "captain?.... that's right, brent taber ... no, right, here in manhattan. there's been a little trouble. you'd better come over personally."
he turned to the landlady. "what's the address here, sister?"
and later, with the landlady back in her lair, brent taber sat down on the stairs to wait; sat there with surprise at the feeling of relief that filled his mind. he had no feeling of triumph about it; no sense of a job well done. but there was no great guilt at having failed, either.
mostly, he thought, it was the simplification that had come about. there had been so many confusing and bewildering complications in the affair; improbability piled on the impossible; the ridiculous coupled with the incredible.
but now, with one stroke of a knife, it had been simplified and brought into terms everyone could understand; into terms captain abrams of the new york police department would grasp in an instant.
a killer was on the loose.
one of senator crane's priceless gifts was a sense of timing. much of his success had sprung from the instinctive knowledge of when to act. he had a sense of the dramatic which never deserted him. as a result, he had been known to turn in an instant from one subject to another--to dodge defeats and score triumphs with bewildering agility.
his preoccupation on this particular day was with a home-state issue--the location of a government plant. after he obtained the floor, he counted the house and noted that only a bare quorum was present. gradually, the members of the senate of the united states would drift to their seats. so crane began reading letters which tended to support his state's claim to the new plant and the benefits that would accrue therefrom.
crane droned on. the vice-president of the united states looked down on the top of senator crane's massive head and became fruitfully preoccupied with thoughts of his own.
then, quite suddenly, the line of crane's exposition changed. the vice-president wasn't quite sure at what precise point this had come about. he wasn't aware of the change until some very strange words penetrated:
" ... so, therefore, it has become starkly apparent that the american people have been denied the information which would have made them aware of their own deadly danger. invasion from space is now imminent."
the vice-president tensed. had the stupid idiot gone mad? or had he, the vice-president, been in a fog when vital, top-secret information had been made public?
he banged the gavel down hard, for want of a better gesture, and was grateful when a tall, dignified man with a look of deepest concern on his face rose from behind his desk out on the floor.
"will the senator yield to his distinguished colleague from pennsylvania?"
crane turned, scowling. "i will yield to no man on matters of grave import." with that he turned and continued with his revelations. "the people of this nation have been deprived of the knowledge that the invasion from space has already begun. a vanguard of hideous, half-human creatures have even now achieved a beach-head on our planet. even now, the evil hordes from beyond the stars ..."
the vice-president looked around in a daze. had someone forgotten to brief him? had that project come to a head overnight? the last he'd heard there had been much doubt as to--
" ... the injustice perpetrated on the american people in this matter has been monstrous. and this is not because of any lack of knowledge on the part of the government. it has been because of the petty natures of the men to whom this secret has been entrusted. jealousies have dictated policy where selfless public service was of the most vital importance ..."
and the vice-president was wondering why he hadn't had the good sense to refuse the nomination.
" ... these invaders from another planet are not strangers to the men in power. it is on record that they are inhuman monsters capable of killing without mercy--yet they are quite ordinary in appearance. they walk the streets, unsuspected, among us. it is on record right here in washington that these creatures are not human but, rather, soulless androids, manufactured to destroy us, by a race so far ahead of us in scientific knowledge that we are like children by comparison ..."
"will the senator yield to the senator from alabama?"
"i will not. i refuse to be gagged in the process of acquainting the american people with facts upon which their very survival depends."
the floor was crowded now. the press and the visitors' galleries were packed as senator crane's words continued to boom forth.
and in the press gallery a reporter from the sioux city clarion looked at a representative of the london times, and said, "good god! he's gone off his rocker!"
the englishman, aloof but definitely enthralled, touched his mustache delicately and answered, "quite."
frank corson rang the bell and waited at the door of rhoda kane's apartment. the door opened. she wore a pale blue brunch coat. her hair glowed in the light of midmorning, but her face was pale and a little drawn.
her eyes were slightly red, as though she might have been crying.
"i really didn't expect to find you. i was going to write a note and slip it under the door."
"i didn't feel well today so i didn't go to work."
"may i come in?"
inside, a shadow of concern moved like a quick cloud across her beautiful face. "you don't look well, frank."
"i'm quite all right, really. haven't been sleeping too well, but there's been a lot on my mind."
"i've been hoping you'd phone."
"i wanted to but there didn't seem to be anything to say. nothing except that i'm sorry i let you down so miserably."
"frank! you didn't. you really didn't. it was just that--oh, it's not important any more."
"no. it's not important now."
"would you like a drink?"
"thanks, no. i've come to say good-bye."
behind the new glitter of her eyes there was stark misery. "frank--frank--what went wrong with us?"
the appeal was a labored whisper.
"i don't know, rhoda. i should know but i don't. i should have known what was wrong so i could have done something about it. it just went sour, i guess."
she turned and walked to the window. he wondered if there were tears in her eyes.
"good-bye, frank. i'm sorry."
the door hadn't quite closed. now, as frank corson turned, he found it open. a man stood there--a man in a blue suit with empty eyes.
frank stared at the man for long seconds. his eyes went toward the window. rhoda had turned. she was watching the man in the doorway, looking past frank at the creature from somewhere in space who was neither man nor machine. but how--? frank corson asked himself the question. good god! how had this thing come about?
"not--not him," he finally exploded.
rhoda was walking forward. the look of fevered excitement was in her eyes. "please leave, frank." she did not look at him as she spoke. she kept her eyes on the man in the blue suit.
"please leave, frank."
but it was too late. the door had closed. the man was looking at frank. "sit down," he said.
frank corson sat down. he saw the man and he saw rhoda, but they seemed unimportant. something had happened to his mind and he was busy struggling with it. that was all that was important.
the strange lethargy that came like a cloud over his mind was beyond understanding.
captain abrams looked into the closet and back at brent taber. his lips were back a little off his teeth. with abrams, this indicated anger.
"all right. what does washington do about this one? does washington tell us to be good little boys and go hand out parking tickets?"
"it wasn't like that," taber said.
"it doesn't much matter how it was. the thing is--how is it going to be now?"
"you got a murder, friend. plain and simple. what do the new york police do when they get a murder?"
abrams spoke bitterly. "sometimes they let a panel truck drive in and haul the body away and that's that."
"let's save the sarcasm until later. i called you in. it's your case. what do you want me to do?"
"talk a little, maybe. the other one--now this one. the same killer?"
"i think so."
"what does he look like?"
"medium height. one-eighty. around forty. and dangerous."
"dangerous, he says," abrams muttered. "any idea where we might go to have a little talk with him?"
"no, can't say that i have."
"try the streets of manhattan--is that it?"
"i guess that's about it." taber paused. "wait a minute. if he's looking for a spot to hide in he wouldn't come back here and he certainly wouldn't try king's room. there's just a wide-open chance he might have another location. wait a minute while i look up an address."
an hour after he'd finished delivering his speech on the floor of the senate, crane held a press conference in one of washington's most important hotels. the place was crowded. he stood on a platform, looked out over a sea of heads, and pointed at an upraised hand for the first question.
"senator, have you gotten any reaction from the people of your state on the revelations contained in your speech?"
"there has been very little time, but telegrams have been pouring in."
"what is the reaction?"
"frankly, i haven't had time to read them. however, i think there is little doubt as to the mood of my people. they will be indignant and angry at washington bungling."
he pointed to another hand.
"senator, granting the details you outlined are accurate, have you any knowledge as to--"
"young man. every detail i outlined was completely accurate." senator crane withered the reporter with a hostile look and pointed elsewhere.
"senator, did you consult with the people responsible for handling the situation before making your speech?"
"i tried. i was willing to co-operate in every way, but my patience ran out. also, i was alarmed at the bungling and inefficiency i saw. for that reason i went straight to the people with my story."
"senator, i have a wire from the governor of your state. it just arrived in response to my query as to his attitude on this affair. the governor says, quote, no comment, unquote. would you care to comment on his statement?"
senator crane thought he heard a faint ripple of mirth drift across the room. but, of course, he had to be mistaken. "i think the governor replied wisely. i expect to return home and confer with him as soon as possible."
"senator, can you explain why, out of all the able, sincere officials in washington, d.c., elected or otherwise, you were the only one with enough wisdom and courage to put this matter before the people?"
"young man, i am not going to pass judgment on anyone in washington or elsewhere. each of us, i'm sure, does his duty as he sees it."
again it seemed to senator crane that he heard a ripple of mirth--louder this time. it had to be something to do with the acoustics. except that he was suddenly aware of smiles, too. the next question had to do with possible consultation with russia on the matter of the coming space invasion.
senator crane agreed that such consultation should be made and then retired hastily into seclusion. a touch of panic hit him. he felt like a man who was far out in the water without a boat, with the closest land a few hundred feet straight down. good god! had he miscalculated? of course not. he had only to await the verdict of the nation's top newspapers before proceeding with the publicity program that might well make him presidential timber.
john dennis, for the first time since rhoda had known him, seemed nervous. he kept licking his lips and shifting his eyes from rhoda to frank corson.
frank corson sat quietly, keeping his thoughts to himself. rhoda crossed to the liquor cabinet and poured a double scotch. she went to the sofa and sat down a little uncertainly.
"i guess you two haven't met. john, this is frank corson."
john dennis paid no attention. he walked to the sofa, sat down, and took a sheaf of notes from his jacket pocket.
"i've known mr. dennis for quite some time," frank commented wryly.
john dennis' tone was neither hostile nor friendly. they were the words of a person whose mind was on other things. they watched him as his eyes scanned the notes.
he appeared to be memorizing them.
the air became somewhat electric, the silence so deep it seemed to scream. rhoda looked across at frank corson. frank's expression was empty, as though he'd suffered some traumatic emotional blow and was struggling to recover.
they watched as he went back to work, leafing through the notes, one at a time. as he came close to the end, he lifted his head and shook it violently, as though from sudden pain. he scowled at the empty glass he'd handed back to rhoda.
"do you want another?" she inquired.
"give me another."
she poured a second scotch and handed it to him. he drank it like so much water.
the last sheet of notations was covered. then john dennis sat motionless for a minute, his frown and uncertainty returning. "it's hard to project the details," he said. "all this detail. difficult."
he dropped the last sheet and got up and poured himself another scotch. "they will make an army now," he said. the scotch went down smoothly. he went to the window and looked out. "this planet is different. the sun there is blue and the air is very thin. their bodies are nothing, but their heads are very big. now they will create an army and take this planet."
frank corson was shaking his head slowly like a groggy fighter. rhoda sat huddled on the sofa, her mind such a mixture of tumbling emotions that it seemed to be trying to tear itself out of her head. john dennis came back and stood in the middle of the room. he swayed drunkenly. "so many things i don't understand. i see people i know--or i should know. i--" he turned his eyes--eyes no longer empty--on rhoda.
"i want to make love!"
frank corson got up from his chair and hurled himself on dennis.
senator crane sat at his desk. there were a pile of newspapers in front of him. the first one carried a front page story with the headline:
senator crane warns of space invasion
shades of orson wells' martian scare stalks capitol corridors.
crane tossed the paper aside listlessly and picked up the second one:
senators voice concern for sanity of colleague
crane in stunning tirade warns of science-fiction disaster.
the third paper featured an internationally syndicated columnist, famous for his biting wit:
senator crane today launched a one-man campaign to make america space-conscious. if there was any madison avenue thinking behind the launching it was certainly lower madison avenue.
in order to make his point--exactly what this was confused a vast roomful of newspapermen--the senator invented a race of creatures called androids. these androids, it seems, look exactly like tom smith down the block except that they'd just as soon cut your throat as not.
we fear the senator must have been watching the wrong television shows--knives yet, ugh!--possibly jim bowie, because there wasn't a ray gun nor a disintegrator in his whole bag of exhibits.
all in all, it would appear that the project was pointed toward making the people senator crane-conscious rather than aiming their attention at the deadly heavens.
senator crane put that paper aside and looked at the next. this one, more so than all the rest, was completely factual:
senator crane deluged with wires from home
constituents claim washington ridicule heaped on senator reflects against state.
crane dropped the paper and got up from the desk. that son-of-a-bitch taber was to blame for this. shaping up a goddamn hoax and feeding it out piecemeal. by god--!
he went to the desk and dialed, and when the answer came he said, "halliday? senator crane here. i want to have a little talk with you about that damned tape. it's pretty obvious now that taber planted it in a deliberate attempt to ... what's that? an appointment! why, goddamn it, who the hell do you think you are?.... fifteen minutes next wednesday? you're talking to a united states senator--"
crane dialed another number. a pleasant female voice said, "matthew porter's office."
"this is senator crane. put porter on."
"just a moment."
crane waited. he waited for what seemed like ages, but a glance at his watch told him it had been less than five minutes. he disconnected and dialed again.
"this is crane. we got cut off. i want to talk to porter."
"i'm sorry but mr. porter has gone for the day."
"well, where can i reach him? it's important."
"i'm sorry. mr. porter left no number."
"when will he be back?"
"he didn't say."
crane slammed the phone down. "the bastards!" he snarled. "the lousy, crummy bastards. running like a pack of scared rats. bureaucrats! damned, cowardly, self-appointed opportunists!"
he stopped cursing and sat for a while.
when he got up and left the office he looked and felt old but he had faced a truth. it would not be necessary to campaign next year.
it wouldn't be of any use.
john dennis showed human surprise as frank corson lunged at him. he had either been lax in using the controlling power he'd been given, or else frank corson had an exceptional resistance.
dennis released rhoda, swayed drunkenly under frank corson's clumsy football-type tackle, and swung his arm like a pivoting beam. the blow was a lucky one. his fist smashed low on corson's jaw, numbing the nerves of his neck on the left side.
corson went down and, as he lay helpless, dennis kicked him twice--once in the side and once, viciously effectively, in the head. corson rolled over and lay still.
dennis looked down at him in a drunken daze. "they will make an army and bring it here."
rhoda, standing in the center of an emotional maelstrom, watched the struggle from the prison of her own horror. at that moment she was physically, mentally and spiritually ill; a human being caught in the midst of forces beyond her knowledge and control.
dennis laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. "i want to make love."
the drunkenness ebbed slightly and his eyes emptied. they looked into rhoda's. she shivered. he took the neck of her brunch coat in his fist and jerked downward. she had just come from the shower when she'd first opened the door for frank corson, and the vicious denuding gesture left her completely naked.
dennis went clumsily to his knees, his arms around her, and he pulled her to the floor. she sobbed, but the tears were gone now and they were dry, wracking sobs.
she fumbled with his jacket and pulled it off while he knelt there in anticipation of he knew not what; wondering, wanting, knowing only an urge he could not understand but which had become a compulsion.
she took off his necktie and unbuttoned his shirt. frank corson stirred but did not regain consciousness. "please," rhoda said, "let me help him."
in answer, dennis put his arms around her and drew her to him. "we will make love."
"yes--yes, we will make love--"
the ring of the doorbell was like thunder in the room. dennis tensed, his eyes widened, and he got to his feet and stood swaying. looking up at him, rhoda saw a trapped animal, but the excitement was still there and she wanted to take him in her arms and hold him and protect him from the world.
but he had forgotten her. a cunning sneer took the place of the slavering animal look and he ran to the kitchen to reappear moments later with a butcher knife in his hand.
the bell rang again. dennis snarled at the door and, in some kind of sheer ecstatic bravado, emitted a tarzan roar.
instantly a weight hit the door from the outside. it shuddered but did not give. dennis crouched, gripping his knife. frank corson staggered to his feet and hurled himself groggily at the android. dennis roared again, pushed away and arced the knife at his throat.
rhoda screamed and lunged at dennis' legs. "no! no! stop it! please!"
dennis teetered under her weight and the knife slanted downward across frank's chest. it ripped a red gash as the door shuddered a third time.
dennis turned in that direction and crouched. the door splintered and flew open. dennis lunged, like a line-bucking football player. he hit both brent taber and captain abrams simultaneously, sprawling them both and sending abrams' gun spinning out of his hand.
he leaped over them and dashed down the hall where the elevator man waited uncertainly, not sure whether to dispute the right of way or not. his indecision was fatal. dennis wrapped an arm around his neck, pulled his head back and cut his throat with one slash of the knife.
captain abrams' head had hit a doorjamb opposite the entrance to rhoda's apartment. he stirred and tried to come erect but he was unable to make it.
brent taber clawed the gun off the floor and came to one knee. he got off one shot as the elevator door was closing and saw the android spin away from the controls as the impact of the slug smashed the bone of his shoulder.
taber lunged to his feet and went for the stairs.
there was no one in the lobby when he arrived there--no dead bodies, either. but on the sidewalk, in front of the building, a woman lay dead in a pool of blood.
in a sick rage, taber looked in both directions and saw the android dive through a group of people half a block away. he tipped them over like tenpins and ran on. taber gripped the gun tight and started in pursuit.
he could not fire because there was enough sidewalk traffic to make it dangerous. on ahead, the android's path was blocked by a man. he sought to get clear but the android passed him close enough to jam the knife into his neck and send him screaming to the sidewalk.
a uniformed patrolman appeared on the other side of the street, further down. he took the situation in and understood taber's frantic gesture. a car screamed to a halt as the patrolman raced across the street, drawing his gun.
the android, seeing his escape cut off, veered into an areaway. the patrolman got there first and plunged in after him.
taber, gasps tearing at his lungs, arrived thirty seconds later. during that time, he'd expected the sound of shots from the patrolman's gun. but there was silence.
he braked on his heels, skidded into the areaway, and saw the android advancing on the patrolman. the latter stood motionless, the gun hanging useless at his side.
"drop! drop!" taber yelled. he cursed as he tried to angle in the narrow areaway in order to get a clear shot.
the android advanced with his knife raised. in desperation, taber fired at the lethal fist that held the weapon. and he was lucky. the hand snapped open under the ripping impact of the bullet and the knife rang sharply against the wall as it ricocheted to the ground.
he hesitated. there was only one slug left in the revolver. if the three didn't spot the android, he planned to wait for closer contact and put the sixth slug into the forehead.
the android shuddered. the fire and frenzy went out of him. he tried to lift a leg and was surprised when it didn't move. he looked down at it. completely bemused, he peered down at his crimson chest. he looked up at taber without anger, only with surprise. a distinct expression of wistful regret crossed his face as he sank to the ground.
the tenth android was dead.
the patrolman came shakily to his feet. his face was as pale as death. "i--i don't know what happened. buck fever. pure buck fever, and i've been on the force for ten years."
"don't worry about it," taber said.
"don't worry. all of a sudden i freeze under pressure and he says, 'don't worry.'"
"i meant it. this is no ordinary man. it wasn't buck fever at all. i couldn't have faced him myself if i hadn't rattled him with that lucky shot."
the patrolman wanted to believe. he most pathetically wanted to believe. "honest?"
"it's the god's honest truth. no man could have stood in front of that killer and pulled a trigger. he's a master hypnotist. you're all right. we won't say a word about what happened in here. and you'll have no trouble in the future."
the patrolman shook his head. "still, i gotta do something about it."
"talk to your psychiatrist," taber said. "in the meantime, keep that crowd out there from spilling in here."
taber pushed out through the choked entrance to the areaway and went back up the street. it was alive with activity now and he passed unnoticed. no one recognized him as the man who had given chase in the bloody business that would make headlines that evening in every new york newspaper.
and yet the radio and tv news commentators gave it no special attention. it went in along with other items of the day's news as a more or less routine big-city happening.
one national-hookup headliner stated: "in new york city today, a man identified as john dennis, address unknown, went berserk in a fashionable upper east side apartment. dennis, wielding a knife, killed a man and a woman, and seriously wounded another man before he was cut down by police bullets.
"a jet airliner, down in the north atlantic today, imperiled the lives of seventy-six ..."
frank corson lay propped on two pillows in a private room of the park hill hospital. rhoda kane sat in a chair beside the bed. she was pale and very beautiful. the fire was now gone from her body and the fever from her eyes.
"they say he wasn't human. they say he was an android." she shuddered, looked down quickly, then slowly raised her head.
"i'll--i'll never understand. i get sick thinking about it. i'll just never understand."
"he was human and yet not human. he had extraordinary powers that we don't begin to understand, so that what happened to you is no disgrace."
"it's a terrible disgrace."
"it happened to me, too. when he told me to sit down i had to do it. i was helpless."
"but you fought! you overcame it."
frank corson smiled wryly. "no, i didn't. it was just that he'd had little time to work on me. it was a single mental blow, so to speak, that laid me out. like one punch in the ring. gradually, i came out of it."
"i think i tried to fight."
"of course, you did. the disgrace was mine. i acted like a child. i should have realized that something extraordinary had happened. but i nursed my miserable little ego like a three-year-old."
"how could you know? my cruelty to you--"
"don't talk like that! i knew about the ninth android, and i met the tenth one in front of your apartment that second morning. i should have associated. brent taber did, otherwise we might both be dead."
"it's all over now. it doesn't make any difference."
"no, it doesn't make any difference."
she looked at him in silence for several moments. "you've changed, frank."
"yes, i guess i have. i guess we all grow up eventually. we all face reality and live with it."
"frank--i think i'm going to cry."
he could not turn his eyes in her direction. he looked straight ahead but his voice was soft. "go ahead, rhoda. i understand."
they were silent for a time, then rhoda began to cry quietly into her handkerchief. after a while even that sound was stilled.
he turned to look at her. she was standing beside the bed. he almost reached out and took her hand, but drew his own back at the last minute.
"how soon will you be leaving?" she asked.
"the wound was superficial. i really didn't need to be hospitalized. i'm being released tomorrow morning. i'll probably leave immediately."
"you'll make a fine doctor, frank."
"thank you, i'll try."
she turned and fled.
and judging by the deep sadness in his soul, he knew he had hit bottom.
brent taber's phone rang.
"hello, taber. halliday here."
"how are you, halliday."
"tops, old man. ragged by the stress of it all, of course, but tops."
taber waited. halliday waited. seeing that he would get no help, he said, "by the way, that little ... misunderstanding we had, the senator crane thing, i'm sure you realized that our talk was ... well, the words were put into my mouth. i felt the same way about the oaf as you did. but sometimes, in the line of duty, old man ... well, i know you were reading between my lines all the time."
"i'm pretty good at that."
"i knew we understood each other."
"is that what you called about?"
"yes, but i've got a little tip for you. they want to see you upstairs. i happen to know they liked the way things turned out. just between you and me, the humiliation of crane made certain high officials pretty happy. i was queried and i gave you all the credit."
"before or after the good senator fell on his face?"
halliday laughed. "okay, pal. you're entitled to your little dig. but you know this--i'm with you and i always will be."
the phone rang again. automatically, brent picked up the receiver.
"brent? porter on this end. how is it with you, old man?"
"ducky. just ducky."
porter laughed. "just called to say, 'good job well done.'"
"want to give you a little tip, too. they want you upstairs. a commendation. not generally known, though. and you deserve it. you'll be called up tomorrow."
"you never know the day or the hour."
the laugh came again. "you're humor is priceless, old man."
"another thing--i got pretty hot when i got wind of how the ground was being cut out from under you. i made it my business to do something about it. i hate to see a good man pushed around. of course i okayed the orders cutting you down--a matter of routine--i had to follow through. but then i got busy. a thing like that won't happen again."
"thanks, porter. it warms a man to know he's got a friend--a friend like you."
"just between us, old man, i'm one of your admirers." porter laughed and sprayed charm through the phone like perfume from an atomizer. "but if you quote me, i'll deny it."
"oh, i wouldn't think of quoting you, old man," taber replied in a kindly voice and put down the phone.
he sat back and closed his eyes. three people dead. one person maimed. blood in the streets.
good job well done.
he opened a drawer of his desk and reached for the scotch bottle.
at the newark airport he would not trust his suitcase to a porter because the leather loop holding one side of the handle was very thin and he was afraid it would break.
once he had been ashamed of the shabbiness of the bag and had planned to buy a new one, but now there was an affinity between them, a kind of warmth.
were they companions in misery?
he asked the question with a quick smile and then realized he was not miserable. a little bleak of mind, perhaps, with minnesota and what lay ahead affording no glow of anticipation in his mind. but that would pass. no, he had relegated the hurt to a mental pigeonhole; maybe he would bring it out and look at it once in a while, after enough time had passed.
but he was not miserable.
he went to the counter, checked in, and they told him his plane would take off on time. he glanced at his watch. thirty-two minutes.
he went back to the bench and found rhoda kane sitting beside his suitcase.
she wore a plain, black suit with a ridiculous little black hat and she was so beautiful he was angry with her. he hated her. this good-bye wasn't necessary. why had she come?
her face was pale and drawn; her smile was as abstract as the mystery on the lips of the mona lisa. she laid a hand on the suitcase.
"we had our first quarrel over it, remember? we went to puerto rico for that week and i wanted to use mine but you said, 'goddamn it, if you're ashamed of my suitcase you're ashamed of me, so the hell with it.'"
he sat down beside her, lit a cigarette, and then dropped it on the floor and stepped on it. they both looked straight ahead.
"take me with you, frank."
"i know, but take me with you."
"there will be no money. i'll live in a stuffy room somewhere."
"what difference does that make? take me."
"i don't have any job. i quit. i was halfway through a piece of copy--very important copy--and i got up and walked into mr. frankel's office. i said, 'mr. frankel, it's been very nice working for you. i appreciate all you've done but i'm leaving now. the pencils are all sharpened on my desk and the next girl can have the new leather-bound address book in the lower right hand drawer that i bought but never used! that was a silly thing to say, wasn't it?"
"i suppose so."
"and the way i phrased it. i actually said i'd bought the lower right hand drawer and hadn't used it--take me with you, frank."
"rhoda, i was so wrong in--"
"i was wrong, frank. i was trying to mold you into my way of life. i wanted you, but only as a part of my own eager little world. i had money so i furnished my apartment. i put this here and that there, and hung a toothbrush over the sink as necessarily functional, and then i decided i needed a man in the same way and so i picked you.
"but i found out that the man in the bed was the most important part of it and without him there wasn't anything. without him i didn't want any of the other. now ... i want to be a wife. a wife is a person who goes where her husband goes and lives where he lives and shares what he has. you don't barter and trade--this for that--give up this part to get that. you give up everything and yet it isn't like that at all because you're really getting everything."
he took out another cigarette.
"oh, frank, it's all mixed up and i'm going to cry, i think."
"it's not mixed up at all," he said quietly. he turned to look at her, half frowning, half smiling. "now why in the hell couldn't you have given me a little notice? twenty minutes to plane time and i've got to get another reservation."
"i'm sorry, frank."
"maybe there isn't a seat."
"wouldn't that be terrible?"
"then we'll have to wait over."
"why don't you go and see?"
five minutes later they were walking down the west tunnel to gate twenty-six.
frank corson grinned. "come on, woman, i'm going to take you across state lines for immoral purposes."
"how wonderful," she breathed.
brent taber was human and his triumph had been a thing of satisfaction to him--but only momentarily. now it had a slightly sour taste.
not that he was unhappy. he was content and almost relaxed as he sat in doctor entman's patio and worked on a scotch and soda.
"a nice night," entman said.
"beautiful. those stars are about ready to fall into our laps."
"menace out there? it seems unthinkable."
"the human animal is a strange creature. he's so capable of refusing to believe what he doesn't want to believe."
"maybe he's smarter than we think. maybe there's no point in looking at a pending disaster from every angle. the what-will-be-will-be attitude isn't necessarily like that of the ostrich which sticks its head in the sand."
"do the people inside really believe?" entman asked.
"it's pretty difficult to tell. sometimes i wonder what my own real feelings are."
"i wasn't completely briefed on how it ended," entman said delicately.
"i think the phony specifications got through."
"if they did--if things are really as they appear--"
taber smiled in the darkness. "are you beginning to doubt, doctor?"
"oh, be quiet," entman said with friendly petulance. "i was going to say that i was rather proud of those details. if our hostiles out there follow my specifications, they'll create androids with much smaller lungs and non-porous skin that will give them no end of trouble when they start chasing frightened householders down the streets of the world."
taber chuckled. "i remember a story about the japanese navy. they were supposed to have built some ships to specifications stolen in england. when launched, they slid out into the bay and tipped over."
entman sighed. "i wish i could get some of the data those creatures used in the construction of the androids."
"you'd like to make one of your own?"
"it would solve the servant problem. terrible here in washington."
"labor unions would holler bloody murder."
"you can't stop progress."
suddenly entman got to his feet. he walked to the edge of the patio and looked upward. taber saw his face in the light streaming from the living room--he seemed frightened.
"brent! it's such a helpless feeling. what do we do?"
brent taber got up and went over and stood beside entman. he, too, looked up into the velvet night; the beautiful, quiet, impersonal night.
the sinister night.
"we watch the stars," brent said. "and we wait."
other significant monarch books
ms8 the cold war by deane and david heller (a monarch select book) 50¢
ms7 forget about calories by leland h. o'brian (a monarch select book) 35¢
ms6 the naked rise of communism by frank l. kluckhohn (a monarch select book) 75¢
ms5 planned parenthood by henry de forrest, m.d. (a monarch select book) 50¢ a study of safe and practical approaches to birth control.
ms4 the rise and fall of the japanese empire by gary gordon 50¢
ms3a america: listen! by frank l. kluckhohn (revised ed.) 75¢
ms2 the berlin crisis by deane and david heller 50¢
k67 doris day by tedd thomey 35¢
k66 robert f. kennedy: assistant president by gary gordon (a monarch select book) 35¢
k65 s o s: the world's great sea disasters by keith jameson 50¢
k64 eisenhower by george johnson (a monarch select book) 35¢
k61 eleanor roosevelt by george johnson 35¢
k60 princess grace kelly by robert newman 35¢
k59 pope john xxiii: pastoral prince by randall garrett 50¢
k57 richard nixon by george johnson 35¢
k56 sir winston churchill by edgar black 50¢
k54 jacqueline kennedy by deane and david heller 35¢ the fascinating story of america's glamorous first lady.
mb528 medical problems of women by martin james, m.d. (a monarch select book) 50¢
mb512 folk and modern medicine by don james 50¢
mb509 the book of miracles by zsolt aradi 50¢
ma328 admiral "bull" halsey by jack pearl (a monarch select book) 35¢
ma321 tarawa by tom bailey 50¢
ma319 u. s. marines in action by t. r. fehrenbach 50¢
ma312 the kennedy cabinet by deane and david heller 35¢
available at all newsstands and bookstores
if you are unable to secure these books at your local dealer, you may obtain copies by sending the retail price plus 5¢ for handling each title to monarch books, inc., mail order department, capital building, division street, derby, connecticut.
a terrifying tale of horror in the skies
the flying eyes
by j. hunter holly
author of encounter and the green planet
linc hosler was sitting in a packed football stadium when the flying eyes appeared and cast their hypnotic power over half the crowd. thousands of people suddenly began marching zombie-like into the woods where they vanished into a black pit.
linc used every resource of the space research lab and the national guard to destroy the eyes. but nothing could stop them, for they proved immune to bullets and bombs.
in desperation, linc captured an eye and found a way to communicate with it through his mind. he learned that radiation was fuel for the creatures' lives. and then they issued their terrible ultimatum: explode a series of atom bombs to supply them with radiation or they would turn the world's population into mindless robots.
it gave the world two harrowing choices--self-destruction via fallout from the bombs or annihilation via the sinister flying eyes....
a monarch science-fiction classic available at all newsstands and bookstores 35¢
if you are unable to secure this book at your local dealer, you may obtain a copy by sending 35¢ plus 5¢ for handling to monarch books, inc., mail order department, capital building, derby, connecticut.
a destroyer from another planet--bent on mastery of the world
by j. hunter holly author of the green planet
it came plummeting out of the sky--a soundless, streaking, purple glow, moving faster and faster until it ripped at the trees, crashed through them and struck sickeningly against a hill. momentarily it flared brightly, then went out.
it was not long after that the murders began--strange, inexplicable deaths, all the victims found with their heads crushed as if their skulls had exploded outward.
the trail of victims lead from arkansas to tennessee, to kentucky, illinois and michigan--sixteen unrelated people who had only one thing in common: all of their brains were withered, as if sucked dry of their contents ...
and somewhere wandered an evil stranger from another planet, his personality expanding, his brain power increasing, preparing for the inevitable encounter that could make him master of the world!
a science fiction thriller from
monarch books, inc.
available at all newsstands and bookstores 35¢
if you are unable to secure this book at your local dealer, you may obtain a copy by sending 35¢ plus 5¢ for handling to monarch books, inc., mail order division, capital building, derby, connecticut.
the power of evil
"you might call it a fight," elizabeth said, "but they never actually laid a hand on each other."
dr. carew stared at her in puzzlement as she went on. "they threw every hard thing in the room at each other, without ever touching anything. it was like some ghastly, murderous game. a clock flew through the air like a cannonball, straight at joseph's head, and some unseen force seemed to stop it. for a second it hung there and trembled in the air--with nothing under it; then it turned and flew like lightning at quincy; he barely dodged it.
"finally a vase did find its mark and quincy fell to the floor. joseph stepped over him and came toward me. i ran, slamming the door in his face, locking him in. he laughed evilly and called after me, 'why waste time running away, elizabeth? i'll come to get you, and you won't be able to resist me now!'"
this is one of the unforgettable scenes from monarch books' new fiction thriller--
by evangeline walton
a spine-tingling tale of a group of tormented men and women forced to live in a house saturated with evil.
on sale at all newsstands and bookstores 35¢
if you are unable to secure this book at your local dealer, you may obtain a copy by sending 35¢ plus 5¢ for handling to monarch books, inc., mail order department, capital building, derby, connecticut.
revenge in an alien world
when gail loring chose bill drake to be her husband--in name only--for the duration of the flight to mars, she didn't know that she had just signed his death warrant.
jealous dr. spartan, leader of the expedition, swore to get revenge and force gail to share his maniacal plan for power.
bound together in space, five men and a woman strained against the powerful tug of twisted emotions and secret ambitions.
but all plans were forgotten when they landed on the red planet and encountered the martians--half animal, half vegetable, with acid for blood and radar for sight.
when the martians launched an assault against the space ship, linking their electrical energy in an awesome display of power, spartan realized that this was the perfect moment for personal revenge--and touched off his own diabolical plan of destruction against his fellow crewmen ...
this is the exciting plot of the new monarch books science-fiction thriller--
the red planet
by russ winterbotham
a tense novel of violence and intrigue--a million miles in space.
on sale at all newsstands and bookstores 35¢
if you are unable to secure this book at your local dealer, you may obtain a copy by sending 35¢ plus 5¢ for handling to monarch books, inc., mail order department, capital building, derby, connecticut.
it spread a new electrical virus that turned men into ruthless monsters
the space egg
by russ winterbotham
flying forty-two miles above kansas, something phenomenal had happened to test pilot fayburn. a space egg had smashed through the cockpit plexi-glass and then pierced his pressurized suit.
blood on the pilot's seat indicated that he had been injured, but there was no wound. the loss of pressure in the cockpit and in his suit should have killed him instantly--yet here he was, alive and unharmed, but definitely a changed man.
always a mild, considerate person he had, in a matter of minutes, become a madman. what had brought about the change? was he still human or was he now out of this world?
only time would tell as he daringly laid siege to an important air base and began using his frightening power to force men and women to serve his evil purpose.
a monarch science-fiction classic
available at all newsstands and bookstores 35¢
if you are unable to secure this book at your local dealer, you may obtain a copy by sending 35¢ plus 5¢ for handling to monarch books, inc., mail order department, capital building, derby, connecticut.
ten from infinity
ten men walked earth--ten men in different cities in the united states. each one was the exact replica of the other--from the tips of his fingers down to the beating of his twin hearts.
where they came from, they were called androids--synthetic men, conditioned by their masters to complete their deadly purpose on earth as advance agents for an invasion from space.
the only man who knew of their existence was brent taber, secret agent, specially commissioned to find out their plans and avert the world's destruction.
the big problem was to figure out a way to appeal to the mindless, soulless creatures who knew no emotion--pleasure or pain. but every move he had made so far had ended in failure and time was running out--for him and everyone on the face of the earth ...
published by monarch books, inc.
beginning a thrilling new serial of interplanetary life and travel by edward e. smith, ph.d.
author of "skylark of space" and "skylark three"
spacehounds of ipc
a good many of us, who are now certain beyond a doubt that space travel will forever remain in the realm of the impossible, probably would, if a rocket that were shot to the moon, for instance, did arrive, and perhaps return to give proof of its safe arrival on our satellite, accept the phenomenon in a perfectly blasé, twentieth century manner. dr. smith, that phenomenal writer of classic scientific fiction, seems to have become so thoroughly convinced of the advent of interplanetary travel that it is difficult for the reader to feel, after finishing "spacehounds of ipc," that travel in the great spaces is not already an established fact. dr. smith, as a professional chemist, is kept fairly busy. as a writer, he is satisfied with nothing less than perfection. for that reason, a masterpiece from his pen has become almost an annual event. we know you will like "spacehounds" even better than the "skylark" series.
illustrated by wesso
the ipv arcturus sets out for mars
a burly young man made his way through the throng about the entrance, nodded unconcernedly to the gatekeeper, and joined the stream of passengers flowing through the triple doors of the double air-lock and down a corridor to the center of the vessel. however, instead of entering one of the elevators which were whisking the passengers up to their staterooms in the upper half of the enormous football, he in some way caused an opening to appear in an apparently blank steel wall and stepped through it into the control room.
"hi, breck!" the burly one called, as he strode up to the instrument-desk of the chief pilot and tossed his bag carelessly into a corner. "behold your computer in the flesh! what's all this howl and fuss about poor computation?"
"hello, steve!" the chief pilot smiled as he shook hands cordially. "glad to see you again--but don't try to kid the old man. i'm simple enough to believe almost anything, but some things just aren't being done. we have been yelling, and yelling hard, for trained computers ever since they started riding us about every one centimeter change in acceleration, but i know that you're no more an i-p computer than i am a digger indian. they don't shoot sparrows with coast-defense guns!"
"thanks for the compliment, breck, but i'm your computer for this trip, anyway. newton, the good old egg, knows what you fellows are up against and is going to do something about it, if he has to lick all the rest of the directors to do it. he knew that i was loose for a couple of weeks and asked me to come along this trip to see what i could see. i'm to check the observatory data--they don't know i'm aboard--take the peaks and valleys off your acceleration curve, if possible, and report to newton just what i find out and what i think should be done about it. how early am i?" while the newcomer was talking, he had stripped the covers from a precise scale model of the solar system and from a large and complicated calculating machine and had set to work without a wasted motion or instant--scaling off upon the model the positions of the various check-stations and setting up long and involved integrals and equations upon the calculator.
the older man studied the broad back of the younger, bent over his computations, and a tender, almost fatherly smile came over his careworn face as he replied:
"early? you? just like you always were--plus fifteen seconds on the deadline. the final dope is due right now." he plugged the automatic recorder and speaker into a circuit marked "observatory," waited until a tiny light above the plug flashed green, and spoke.
"ipv arcturus; breckenridge, chief pilot; trip number forty-three twenty-nine. ready for final supplementary route and flight data, tellus to mars."
"meteoric swarms still too numerous for safe travel along the scheduled route," came promptly from the speaker. "you must stay further away from the plane of the ecliptic. the ether will be clear for you along route e2-p6-w41-k3-r19-s7-m14. you will hold a constant acceleration of 981.27 centimeters between initial and final check stations. your take-off will be practically unobstructed, but you will have to use the utmost caution in landing upon mars, because in order to avoid a weightless detour and a loss of thirty-one minutes, you must pass very close to both the martian satellites. to do so safely you must pass the last meteorological station, m14, on schedule time plus or minus five seconds, at scheduled velocity plus or minus ten meters, with exactly the given negative acceleration of 981.27 centimeters, and exactly upon the pilot ray m14 will have set for you."
"all x." breckenridge studied his triplex chronometer intently, then unplugged and glanced around the control room, in various parts of which half a dozen assistants were loafing at their stations.
"control and power check-out--hipe!" he barked. "driving converters and projectors!"
the first assistant scanned his meters narrowly as he swung a multi-point switch in a flashing arc. "converter efficiency 100, projector reactivity 100; on each of numbers one to forty-five inclusive. all x."
two more gleaming switches leaped from point to point. "converter efficiency 100, projector reactivity 100, dirigibility 100, on each of numbers one to thirty-two, inclusive, of upper band; and numbers one to thirty-two, inclusive, of lower band. all x."
"35,000. drivers in equilibrium at ten degrees plus. all x."
"upper lights and lookout plates!"
the second assistant was galvanized into activity, and upon a screen before him there appeared a view as though he were looking directly upward from the prow of the great vessel. the air above them was full of aircraft of all shapes and sizes, and occasionally the image of one of that flying horde flared into violet splendor upon the screen as it was caught in the mighty, roving beam of one of the twelve ultra-light projectors under test.
"upper lights and lookout plates--all x," the second assistant reported, and other assistants came to attention as the check-out went on.
"lower lights and lookout plates!"
"all x," was the report, after each of the twelve ultra-lights of the stern had swung around in its supporting brackets, illuminating every recess of the dark depths of the bottom well of the berth and throwing the picture upon another screen in lurid violet relief.
"lateral and vertical detectors!"
"laterals xp2710--all x. verticals aj4290--all x."
"15,270 kilofranks--all x."
"700,000 kilofrank-hours--all x."
having thus checked and tested every function of his department, breckenridge plugged into "captain," and when the green light went on:
"chief pilot check-out--all x," he reported briefly.
"all x," acknowledged the speaker, and the chief pilot unplugged. fifteen minutes remained, during which time one department head after another would report to the captain of the liner that everything in his charge was ready for the stupendous flight.
"all x, steve?" breckenridge turned to the computer. "how do you check acceleration and power with the observatory?"
"not so good, old bean," the younger man frowned in thought. "they figure like astronomers, not navigators. they've made no allowances for anything, not even the reversal--and i figure four thousands for that and for minor detours. then there's check station errors...."
"check-station errors! why, they're always right--that's what they're for!"
"don't fool yourself--they've got troubles of their own, the same as anybody else. in fact, from a study of the charts of the last few weeks, i'm pretty sure that e2 is at least four thousand kilometers this side of where he thinks he is, that w41 is ten or twelve thousand beyond his station, and that they've both got a lateral displacement that's simply fierce. i'm going to check up, and argue with them about it as we pass. then there's another thing--they figure to only two places, and we've got to have the third place almost solid if we expect to get a smooth curve. a hundredth of a centimeter of acceleration means a lot on a long trip when they're holding us as close as they are doing now. we'll ride this trip on 981.286 centimeters--with our scheduled mass, that means thirty six points of four seven kilofranks plus equilibrium power. all set to go," the computer stated, as he changed, by fractions of arc, the course-plotters of the automatic integrating goniometer.
"you're the doctor--but i'm glad it's you that'll have to explain to the observatory," and breckenridge set his exceedingly delicate excess power potentiometer exactly upon the indicated figure. "well, we've got a few minutes left for a chin-chin before we lift her off."
"what's all this commotion about? dish out the low-down."
"you're getting rotten computation, that's a sure thing, and i don't blame you pilots for yelling, but i don't believe that you've got the right answer. i can't help but think that the astronomers are lying down on the job. they are so sure that you pilots are to blame that it hasn't occurred to them to check up on themselves very carefully. however, we'll know pretty quick, and then we'll take steps."
"i'll say they will. i know just how the passengers will howl if we hold them weightless for half an hour, waiting for those two moons to get out of the way, and i know just what the manager will do if we check in minus thirty-one minutes. wow! he'll swell up and bust, sure. but don't worry, breck--if we don't check in all right, anybody can have my head that wants it, and i'm taking full responsibility, you know."
"you're welcome to it." breckenridge shrugged and turned the conversation into a lighter vein. "speaking of weightlessness, it's funny how many weight-fiends there are in the world, isn't it? you'd think the passengers would enjoy a little weightlessness occasionally--especially the fat ones--but they don't. but say, while i think of it, how come you were here and loose to make this check-up? i thought you were out with the other two of the big three, solving all the mysteries of the universe?"
"had to stay in this last trip--been doing some work on the ether, force-field theory, and other advanced stuff that i had to go to mars and venus to get. just got back last week. as for solving mysteries, laugh while you can, old hyena. you and a lot of other dim bulbs think that roeser's rays are the last word--that there's nothing left to discover--are going to get jarred loose from your hinges one of these days. when i came in nine months ago they were hot on the trail of something big, and i'll bet they bring it in...."
out upon the dock an insistent siren blared a crescendo and diminuendo blast of sound, and two minutes remained. in every stateroom and in every lounge and saloon speakers sounded a warning:
"for a short time, while we are pulling clear of the gravitational field of the earth, walking will be somewhat difficult, as everything on board will apparently increase in weight by about one-fifth of its present amount. please remain seated, or move about with caution. in about an hour weight will gradually return to normal. we start in one minute."
"hipe!" barked the chief pilot as a flaring purple light sprang into being upon his board, and the assistants came to attention at their stations. "seconds! four! three! two! one! lift!" he touched a button and a set of plunger switches drove home, releasing into the forty-five enormous driving projectors the equilibrium power--the fifteen-thousand-and-odd kilofranks of energy that exactly counterbalanced the pull of gravity upon the mass of the cruiser. simultaneously there was added from the potentiometer, already set to the exact figure given by the computer, the plus-equilibrium power--which would not be changed throughout the journey if the ideal acceleration curve were to be registered upon the recorders--and the immense mass of the cruiser of the void wafted vertically upward at a low and constant velocity. the bellowing, shrieking siren had cleared the air magically of the swarm of aircraft in her path, and quietly, calmly, majestically, the arcturus floated upward.
breckenridge, sixty seconds after the initial lift, actuated the system of magnetic relays which would gradually cut in the precisely measured "starting power," which it would be necessary to employ for sixty-nine minutes--for, without the acceleration given by this additional power, they would lose many precious hours of time in covering merely the few thousands of miles during which earth's attraction would operate powerfully against their progress.
faster and faster the great cruiser shot upward as more and more of the starting power was released, and heavier and heavier the passengers felt themselves become. soon the full calculated power was on and the acceleration became constant. weight no longer increased, but remained constant at a value of plus twenty three and six-tenths percent. for a few moments there had been uneasy stomachs among the passengers--perhaps a few of the first-trippers had been made ill--but it was not much worse than riding in a high-speed elevator, particularly since there was no change from positive to negative acceleration such as is experienced in express elevators.
the computer, his calculations complete, watched the pilot with interest, for, accustomed as he was to traversing the depths of space, there was a never-failing thrill to his scientific mind in the delicacy and precision of the work which breckenridge was doing--work which could be done only by a man who had had long training in the profession and who was possessed of instantaneous nervous reaction and of the highest degree of manual dexterity and control. under his right and left hands were the double-series potentiometers actuating the variable-speed drives of the flight-angle directors in the hour and declination ranges; before his eyes was the finely marked micrometer screen upon which the guiding goniometer threw its needle-point of light; powerful optical systems of prisms and lenses revealed to his sight the director-angles, down to fractional seconds of arc. it was the task of the chief pilot to hold the screened image of the cross-hairs of the two directors in such position relative to the ever-moving point of light as to hold the mighty vessel precisely upon its course, in spite of the complex system of forces acting upon it.
for almost an hour breckenridge sat motionless, his eyes flashing from micrometer screen to signal panel, his sensitive fingers moving the potentiometers through minute arcs because of what he saw upon the screen and in instantaneous response to the flashing, multi-colored lights and tinkling signals of his board. finally, far from earth, the moon's attraction and other perturbing forces comparatively slight, the signals no longer sounded and the point of light ceased its irregular motion, becoming almost stationary. the chief pilot brought both cross-hairs directly upon the brilliant point, which for some time they had been approaching more and more nearly, adjusted the photo-cells and amplifiers which would hold them immovably upon it, and at the calculated second of time, cut out the starting power by means of another set of automatically timed relays. when only the regular driving power was left, and the acceleration had been checked and found to be exactly the designated value of 981.286 centimeters, he stood up and heaved a profound sigh of relief.
"well, steve, that's over with--we're on our way. i'm always glad when this part of it is done."
"it's a ticklish job, no fooling--even for an expert," the mathematician agreed. "no wonder the astronomers think you birds are the ones who are gumming up their dope. well, it's about time to plug in on e2. here's where the fireworks start!" he closed the connections which transferred the central portion of the upper lookout screen to a small micrometer screen at breckenridge's desk and plugged it into the first check-station. instantly a point of red light, surrounded by a vivid orange circle, appeared upon the screen, low down and to the left of center, and the timing galvanometer showed a wide positive deflection.
"hashed again!" growled breckenridge. "i must be losing my grip, i guess. i put everything i had on that sight, and missed it ten divisions. i think i'll turn in my badge--i've cocked our perfect curve already, before we got to the first check-station!" his hands moved toward the controls, to correct their course and acceleration.
"as you were--hold everything! lay off those controls!" snapped the computer. "there's something screwy, just as i thought--and it isn't you, either. i'm no pilot, of course, but i do know good compensation when i see it, and if you weren't compensating that point i never saw it done. besides, with your skill and my figures i know darn well that we aren't off more than a tenth of one division. he's cuckoo! don't call him--let him start it, and refer him to me."
"all x--i'll be only too glad to pass the buck. but i still think, steve, that you're playing with dynamite. who ever heard of an astronomer being wrong?"
"you'd be surprised," grinned the physicist, "since this fuss has just started, nobody has tried to find out whether they were wrong or not...."
"ipv arcturus, attention!" came from the speaker curtly.
"ipv arcturus, breckenridge," from the chief pilot.
"you have been on my ray almost a minute. why are you not correcting course and acceleration?"
"doctor stevens is computing us and has full control of course and acceleration," replied breckenridge. "he will answer you."
"i am changing neither course nor acceleration because you are not in position," declared stevens, crisply, "please give me your present supposed location, and your latest precision goniometer bearings on the sun, the moon, mars, venus, and your tellurian reference limb, with exact time of observations, gyroscope zero-planes, and goniometer factors!"
"correct at once or i shall report you to the observatory," e2 answered loftily, paying no attention to the demand for proof of position.
"be sure you do that, guy--and while you're at it report that your station hasn't taken a precision bearing in a month. report that you've been muddling along on radio loop bearings, and that you don't know where you are, within seven thousand kilometers. and speaking of reporting--i know already that a lot of you astronomical guessers have only the faintest possible idea of where you really are, plus, minus, or lateral; and if you don't get yourselves straightened out before we get to w41, i'm going to make a report on my own account that will jar some of you birds loose from your upper teeth!" he unplugged with a vicious jerk, and turned to the pilot with a grin.
"guess that'll hold him for a while, won't it?"
"he'll report us, sure," remonstrated breckenridge. the older man was plainly ill at ease at this open defiance of the supposedly infallible check-stations.
"not that baby," returned the computer confidently. "i'll bet you a small farm against a plugged nickel that right now he's working his goniometer so hard that it's pivots are getting hot. he'll sneak back into position as soon as he can calculate his results, and pretend he's always been there."
"the others will be all right, then, probably, by the time we get to them?"
"gosh, no--you're unusually dumb today, breck. he won't tell anybody anything--he doesn't want to be the only goat, does he?"
"oh, i see. how could you dope this out, with only the recorder charts?"
"because i know the kind of stuff you pilots are--and those humps are altogether too big to be accounted for by anything i know about you. another thing--the next station, p6, i think is keeping himself all x. if so, when you corrected for e2, which was wrong, it'd throw you all off on p6, which was right, and so on--a bad hump at almost every check-station. see?"
"how do we check on chronometers?" asked p6 when stevens had been introduced. "by my time you seem to be about two and a half seconds plus?"
"all x--two points four seconds plus--we're riding on 981.286 centimeters, to allow for the reversal and for minor detours. bye."
"all this may have been coincidence, breck, but we'll find out pretty quick now," the computer remarked when the flying vessel was nearing the third check-station. "unless i'm all out of control we'll check in almost fourteen seconds minus on w41, and we may not even find him on the center block of the screen."
when he plugged in w41 was on the block, but was in the extreme upper right corner. they checked in thirteen and eight-tenths seconds minus on the station, and a fiery dialogue ensued when the computer questioned the accuracy of the location of the station and refused point-blank to correct his course. "not i, my friend, i have robbed you enough."
"and about time for the luck to turn, isn't it? well, i don't care! what shall we do?"
"what you will," answered the frenchman absently.
benham pulled his beard, then leant forward and put a question with an intoxicated leer. a laugh of feigned reproof burst from gaspard. benham seemed to urge him, and at last he said,
"oh, if you're bent on it, i can be your guide."
the two men left the house arm-in-arm, went down the street, and crossed digby square. it was late, and few people were about, but gaspard saw one acquaintance. the doorkeeper was strolling along on his way home, and gaspard bade him good-night in a cheery voice as they passed him. the doorkeeper stood and watched the pair for a minute as they left the square and turned down a narrow street which led to the poorer part of the town, and thence to the quays. he heard gaspard's high-pitched voice and shrill laughter, and, in answer, benham's thick tones and heavy shout of drunken mirth. once or twice these sounds repeated themselves, then they ceased; the footsteps of the frenchman and his companion died away in the distance. the doorkeeper went on his way, thinking with relief that mr. gaspard, for all his tall talk, was more at home with a bottle than with a knife or a bomb.
notwithstanding his dissipation, gaspard was afoot very early in the morning. it was hardly light, and the deep scratch of finger-nails on his face--it is so awkward when drunken fools wake at the wrong minute--attracted no attention from the few people he encountered. he did not give them long to look at him, for he hurried swiftly through the streets, towards the quays where the ships lay loading their cargoes. he seemed to have urgent business to transact down there, business that would brook no delay, and that was, if one might guess from his uneasy glances over his shoulder, of a private nature. with one hand he held tight hold of something in his trousers pocket, the other rested on his belt, hard by a little revolver. in his business it is necessary to be ready for everything.
meanwhile mr. benham, having no affairs to trouble him, and no more business to transact, stayed where he was.
at an early hour on sunday all kirton seemed astir. the streets were alive with thronging people, with banners, with inchoate and still amorphous processions, with vendors of meat, drink, and newspapers. according to the official arrangements, the proceedings were not to begin till one o'clock, and, in theory, the forenoon hours were left undisturbed; but, what with the people who were taking part in the demonstration, and those who were going to look on, and those who hoped to suck some profit to themselves out of the day's work, the ordinary duties and observances of a sunday were largely neglected, and mr. puttock, passing on his way to chapel at the head of his family, did not lack material for reprobation in the temporary superseding of religious obligations.
the governor and his family drove to the cathedral, according to their custom, eleanor scaife having pleaded in vain for leave to walk about the streets instead. lady eynesford declined to recognise the occasion, and eleanor had to content herself with stealthy glances to right and left till the church doors engulfed her. the only absentee was alicia derosne, and she was not walking about the streets, but sitting under the verandah, with a book unopened on her knees, and her eyes set in empty fixedness on the horizon. the luxuriant growth of a southern summer filled her nostrils with sweet scents, and the wind, blowing off the sea, tempered the heat to a fresh and balmy warmth; the waves sparkled in the sun, and the world was loud in boast of its own beauty; but poor alicia, like many a maid before, was wondering how long this wretched life was to last, and how any one was ever happy. faith bruised and trust misplaced blotted out for her the joy of living and the exultation of youth. if these things were true, why did the sun shine, and how could the world be merry? if these things were true, for her the sun shone no more, and the merriment was stilled for ever. so she thought, and, if she were not right, it needed a philosopher to tell her so; and then she would not have believed him, but caught her woe closer to her heart, and nursed it with fiercer tenderness against his shallow prating. perhaps he might have told her too, that it is cruel kindness unasked to set people on a pinnacle, and, when they cannot keep foothold on that slippery height, to scorn their fall. other things such an one might well have said, but more wisely left unsaid; for cool reason is a blister to heartache, and heartache is not best cured by blisters. never yet did a child stop crying for being told its pain was nought and would soon be gone. yet this prescription had been lady eynesford's--although she was no philosopher, to her knowledge--for alicia, and it had left the patient protesting that she felt no pain at all, and yet feeling it all the more.
"what do you accuse me of? why do you speak to me?" she had burst out. "what is it to me what he has done or not done? what do you mean, mary?"
before this torrent of questions lady eynesford tactfully retreated a little way. a warning against hasty love dwindled to an appeal whether so much friendliness, such constant meetings, either with daughter or with father, were desirable.
"i'm sure i'm sorry for the poor child," she said; "but in this world----"
"suppose it's all a slander!"
"my dear alicia, do they say such things about a man in his position unless there's something in them?"
"it's nothing to me," said alicia again.
"of course, you can do nothing abrupt; but you'll gradually withdraw from their acquaintance, won't you?"
alicia had escaped without a promise, pleading for time to think in the same breath that she denied any concern in the matter. she was by way of thinking now, and all that lady eynesford had said repeated itself in her mind as she looked out on the garden and the glimpses of the town beyond. she understood now dick's banishment, her sister-in-law's unresting hostility to the medlands, and the reason why she had been pressed to go to australia. she spared a minute to grief for daisy, but her own sorrow would not be denied, and engrossed her again. in the solitude she had sought, she cried to herself, "why didn't they tell me before? what's the use of telling me now?" then she would fly back to the hope that the thing was not true, that her friends had clutched too hastily at anything which would save her from what they dreaded, and, she confessed to herself, rightly dreaded. no, she would not believe it yet; and, if it were not true, why should she not be happy? why should she not, even though she did what dick had not dared to do, and what, when coxon asked her, she had laughed at for an absurdity?
there began to be more movement outside the gates. the first note of band-music was wafted to her ear, and the roll of wheels announced the return of the church-goers. she roused herself and went to meet them. they were agog with excitement, partly about the meeting, partly about the murder. while eleanor was trying to tell her of the state of popular feeling, the governor seized her arm and began to detail the story of the discovery.
"you remember the man?" he asked. "he was at our flower-show--had a sort of row with medland, you know. well, he's been found murdered (so the police think) in a low part of the town! the woman who keeps the house found him. he didn't come down in the morning, and, as she couldn't make him hear, she forced the door, and found him with his throat cut."
"awful!" shuddered lady eynesford. "he looked such a respectable man too."
"ah, i fancy he'd gone a bit to the bad lately--taken to drinking and so on."
"he was a friend of mr. kilshaw's, wasn't he?" asked alicia.
"a sort of hanger-on, i think. anyhow, there he was dead, and with his pockets empty."
"perhaps he killed himself," she suggested.
"they think not. they've arrested the woman, but she declares she knows nothing about it!"
"poor man!" said alicia; and, at another time, she might have thought a good deal about the horrible end of a man whom she had known as an acquaintance. but, as it was, she soon forgot him again, and, leaving the rest, returned to her solitary seat.
in the town, the news of the murder was but one ruffle more on the wave of excitement, and not a very marked one. few people knew benham's name, and when the first agitation following on the discovery of the body died away and the onlookers found there was no news to be had, they turned away to join the processions or to stare at them. the police were left to pursue their investigations in peace, and they soon reached a conclusion. the landlady of the house where benham died lived alone, save for the occasional presence of her son: he was away at work in an outlying district, and she had been the only person in the house that night. she let beds to single men, she said, and the night before two men had arrived, one the worse for drink. they had asked for adjoining rooms. as they went up-stairs, she had heard the one who had been drinking say to the other, "what are you bringing me here for? this isn't the place for what i want." his companion, the shorter of the two, whom she thought she would know again, had answered--"all in good time; you go and lie down, and i'll fetch what you want." soon after, the short one came down and asked if she had any brandy; she gave him a bottle half full and he went up-stairs again. she heard voices raised as if in dispute for a few minutes, and one of them--she could not say which--said something which sounded like "well, finish the drink first, and then i'll go." silence followed, at least she could not hear any more talking; and presently, it not being her business to spy on gentlemen, she went to bed, and knew nothing more till she woke at seven o'clock. going up-stairs, she found one door open and the room empty, not the room the two men had been in together, but the other. the second door was locked, and she did not knock; gentlemen often slept late. at half-past ten she ventured to knock, got no answer, knocked again and again, and finally, with the help of the man from next door, broke the lock and found the taller of the two men dead on the bed. she had at once summoned the police; and that, she concluded, was all she knew about the matter, and she was a respectable, hard-working woman, a widow who could produce her marriage certificate in case any person present desired to inspect it.
the superintendent listened to her protestations of virtue with an ironical smile, told her the police knew her house very well, frightened her wholesomely, took down her very vague description of the missing man, and kept her in custody; but he did not seriously doubt the truth of her story, and, if it were true, the man he wanted was evidently the sober man, the shorter man, who had introduced his friend to the house on a pretext, had called for drink, and vanished in the early morning, leaving a dead man behind him. who was this man? where did he come from? had he been missing since last night? on these inquiries the superintendent launched several intelligent men, and then was forced for the time to turn his attention to the business of the day.
to search a large town for a missing man takes time, and the searchers did not happen to fall in with company b of procession 3, which at one o'clock had mustered in digby square, prepared to march to the public park. had they done so, it might or might not have seemed to them worth noticing that company b of procession 3, which was composed of carpenters and joiners, had missed some one, namely the officer whom they called their "marshal," and who was to have ordered their ranks and marched at their head; and the name of their marshal was none other than françois gaspard. the superintendent himself was keeping watch over company b, but, in a professionally olympian scorn of processions, he was far from asking or caring to know who the marshal was, and indeed, if he had known, he would scarcely have drawn such a lightning-quick inference as that the missing marshal and the missing murderer were one and the same. so mr. gaspard's absence was passed over with a few curses on his laziness, or, from the more charitable, a surmise that there had been a misunderstanding, and company b, having appointed a new marshal, went on its way.
one demonstration of the public will is much like another in the shape it takes and the incidents it produces. this sunday's was, however, as friends and foes agreed, remarkable not only for the numbers who took part, but still more for the spirit which animated it, and when the premier and his colleagues made their appearance on the great platform there was no room to doubt that somehow, by his gifts or his faults, his policy or his demagogic arts, his love of humanity or his adroit wooing of popularity, medland held a position in the eyes of the common people of the capital which had seldom or never been equalled in the history of the colony. he had caused them to be called together in order to raise their enthusiasm, and to elicit from them a visible, unmistakable pledge of support. but, when he stood before them, bareheaded, in vain beckoning for silence, their cries and cheers told him that his task was rather to moderate than to stir up, and the first part of his speech was a somewhat laboured proof of the consistency of gatherings of that nature with the proper independence of representative assemblies. the people heard him through this argument in respectful silence, clapping their hands when, at the end of it, he paused before he passed to the second part of his speech. at the first sign of attack, at the first quietly drawn contrast between what the seceders had promised and what they were doing, his audience was a changed one. fierce murmurs of assent and groans became audible now, and when medland, caught by the contagion that spread to him from his listeners, gave rein to his feelings, and launched into a passionate declaration that, to his mind, the liberty claimed for members did not mean liberty to betray those who had trusted them, the murmurs and groans rose into one tumult of savage applause, and men raised both hands over their heads and shook them, as though they would have clenched every word that fell from him with a blow of the fist.
daisy medland sat just behind her father, exulting in his triumph, and, at every happy stroke, glancing at norburn, and by sharing her joy with him doubling his. when the premier had finished, and the last resolution had been carried, she ran to him, crying, "splendid! i never heard you so good. wasn't he splendid?" and looking so completely joyful that medland was sure she must quite have forgotten dick derosne. she took his arm, and they made their way together to a carriage which was in waiting. an escort of police surrounded it, to save the premier from his friends, and he, with daisy, norburn, and mr. floyd, the treasurer, got in without disturbance. the coachman drove off rapidly down the main avenue, distancing the enthusiasts who would have had the horses out of the shafts. they passed a long row of carriages, belonging to people who had not feared to come and look on from a distance, and at last, knowing the procession would go back another way, medland bade his driver stop under the trees, and lit a cigar.
"and i wonder if it will all make any difference!" said he, puffing delightedly. he had all an old political organiser's love for a big meeting, which does not exclude scepticism as to its value.
"oh, you gave it 'em finely," said the treasurer.
"i believe it'll frighten two or three anyhow," observed norburn.
"i know we shall win to-morrow," cried daisy, squeezing her father's arm.
"ah! here's a special sunday evening paper--how we encourage wickedness!" said the premier, seeing a newsvendor approaching. "let's see what they say of us!"
"i've seen it all for myself," remarked daisy, and she went on chattering to the other two, who were ready to talk over every incident of the meeting, as people who have been to meetings ever are. on they went, reminding one another of the bald man in the third row who cheered so lustily, of the fat woman who had somehow got into the front row and fanned herself all the time, of rude things shouted about messrs. puttock and coxon, and so forth. the premier, listening with one ear, opened his paper; but the first thing he saw was not about his procession. he started and looked closer, then gave a sudden, covert glance at his companions; they were busy in talk, and, with breathless haste, he devoured the meagre details of benham's wretched death. the end reached, he let the paper fall on his knees, lay back, and took a long pull at his cigar. he was shocked--yes, he supposed he was shocked. he had known the man, and it was shocking to think of his throat being cut; yes, he had known him, and he didn't like to think of that. but--the premier gave a long-drawn sigh of relief. that unknown murderer's hand had done great things for him. his daughter was safe now--anyhow, she was safe. she could never be subject to the degradation the dead man had once hinted at; and when he thought of what the man had threatened, pity for him died out of medland's heart. more--although kilshaw no doubt knew something--there was a chance that benham had kept his own counsel, and that his employer would be helpless without his aid. medland's sanguine mind caught eagerly at the chance, and in a moment turned it into a hope--almost a conviction. then the whole thing would go down to the grave with the unlucky man, and not even its spectre survive to trouble him. for if no one had certain knowledge, if there were never more than gossip, growing, as time passed, fainter and fainter from having no food to feed on, would not utter silence follow at last, so that the things that had been might be as if they had never been?
"well, what do they say about us?" asked the treasurer.
"oh, nothing much," he answered, thrusting the paper behind him with a careless air. he did not want to discuss what the paper had told him.
"what's happened to-day," said daisy, "ought to make all the difference, oughtn't it, father?"
"i hope it will," replied the premier; but, for once in his life, he was not thinking most about political affairs.
the law versus rule 3.
among the many tired but satisfied lovers of liberty who sought their houses that night, while an enthusiastic remnant was still parading the streets, illuminations yet shining from windows, and weary police treading their unending beats, was the doorkeeper, who had borne a banner in company a of procession 1. his friend the watchmaker came with him, to have a bit of supper and exchange congratulations and fulminations. hardly, however, had the doorkeeper pledged the cause in a first draught when his wife broke in on his oration by handing him a letter, which she said a boy in a blue jersey had left for him about ten o'clock in the morning, just after he had started to join his company. the envelope was cheap and coarse; there was no direction outside. the doorkeeper opened it. it was addressed to no named person and it bore no signature. it was very brief, being confined to these simple words--"you did not see me last night. remember rule 3."
the doorkeeper laid the letter down, with a hurried glance at his friend, whose face was buried in a mug. he knew the handwriting; he knew who it was that he had not seen; he remembered rule 3, the rule that said--"the only and inevitable penalty of treachery is death." he turned white and took a hasty gulp at his liquor.
"who brought this?" he asked.
"i told you," answered his wife; "a lad in a blue jersey; he looked as if he might be from the harbour." she put food before them, adding as she did so--"i suppose you've been too full of your politics to hear much about the murder?"
"the murder?" exclaimed the watchmaker. the doorkeeper crumpled up his letter and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat, while his wife read to them the story of the discovery. the watchmaker listened with interest.
"benham!" he remarked. "i never heard the name, did you?"
"you know him, ned," said the doorkeeper's wife; "him as mr. gaspard used to go about with."
by a sudden common impulse, the eyes of the two men met; the woman went off to brew them a pot of tea, and left them fearfully gazing at one another.
"what stuff!" said the watchmaker uneasily. "it was only his blow. what reason had he--?" he paused and added, "seen him to-day, ned?"
"no," answered ned, fingering his note.
"wasn't he in the procession?"
"i didn't see him."
"when did you see him last?"
the doorkeeper hesitated.
"night of our last committee," he whispered finally.
"oh, there's nothing in it," said the watchmaker reassuringly. he had not a letter in his pocket.
the doorkeeper opened his mouth to speak, but seeing his wife approaching, he shut it again and busied himself with his meal.
"what was the letter, ned?"
"oh, about the procession," he answered.
"then you got it too late. who was it from?"
"if you'd give us the tea," he broke out roughly, "and let the damned letter alone, it 'ud be a deal better."
"la, you needn't fly out at a woman so," said mrs. evans. "it ain't the way to treat his wife, is it, mister?"
"mister" gallantly reproved his friend, but pleaded that they were both weary, and weary legs made short tempers. giving them the tea, she left them to themselves; her work was not finished till three small children were safely in bed.
the sensation of having one's neck for the first time within measurable distance of a rope must needs be somewhat disquieting. the doorkeeper, in spite of his secret society doings, was a timid man, with a vastly respectful fear of the law. to talk about things, to vapour idly about them over the cups, is very different from being actually, even though remotely, mixed up in them. ned evans was a man of some education: he read the papers, accounts of crimes and reports of trials; he had heard of accessories after and before the fact. was he not an accessory after the fact? he fancied they did not hang such; but if they caught him, and all that about gaspard and the society came out, would they not call him an accessory before the fact? the noose seemed really rather near, and in his frightened fancy, as he lay sleepless beside his snoring wife, the rope dangled over his head. the poor wretch was between the devil and the deep sea--between stern law and cruel rule 3. he dared not toss about, his wife would ask him what ailed him; he lay as still as he could, bitterly cursing his folly for mingling in such affairs, bitterly cursing the frenchman who led him on into the trap and left him fast there. how could he save his neck? and he restlessly rent the band of his coarse night-shirt, that pressed on his throat with a horrible suggestion of what might be. where was that gaspard? had he fled over the sea? ah, if he could be sure of that, and sure that the dreaded man would not return! or was he lurking in some secret hole, ready to steal out and avenge a violation of rule 3? the doorkeeper had always feared the man; in the lurid light of this deed, gaspard's image grew into a monster of horror, threatening sudden and swift revenge for disobedience or treachery. no; he must stand firm. but what of the police? well, men sleep somehow, and at last he fell asleep, holding the band of the night-shirt away from his throat: if he fell asleep with that pressing on him, god knew what he might dream.
"it's very lucky," remarked the superintendent of police, who had a happy habit of looking at the bright side of things, to one of his subordinates, "that this benham seems to have had no relations and precious few friends."
"no widows coming crying about," observed the subordinate, with an assenting nod.
"nothing known of him except that he came to kirton a few months back, did nothing, seemed to have plenty of money, took his liquor, played a hand at cards, hurt nobody, seemingly knew nobody."
"why, i saw him with mr. puttock."
"yes; but mr. puttock knows nothing of him, except that he said he came from shepherdstown. that's why puttock was civil to him. the place is in his constituency."
"got any idea, sir?" the subordinate ventured to ask.
the superintendent was about to answer in the negative, when a detective entered the room.
"well, i've found one missing man for you," he said, in a satisfied tone.
"one missing man!" echoed his superior, scornfully. "in a place o' this size i'd always find you twenty."
the sergeant went on, unperturbed,
"françois gaspard, known as politician and agitator, didn't go home to his lodgings in kettle street last night, was to have acted as marshal in company b of procession 3 to-day, didn't turn up, hasn't turned up to-night, don't owe any rent, hasn't taken any clothes."
"oh!" said the superintendent morosely. "left an address?"
"left no address, sir."
"how did he go, and where?"
"not known, sir."
"good lord!" moaned the superintendent, "and what's your salary?"
the sergeant's good-humour was impregnable.
"give me time," he said, and the sentence was almost drowned in a loud knock at the door. an instant later kilshaw rushed in.
"what's this, dawson?" he cried to the superintendent; "what's this about the murder?"
"you haven't heard, sir?"
"i went out of town to avoid this infernal row to-day, and am only just back."
dawson smiled discreetly. he could understand that the proceedings of the day would not attract mr. kilshaw.
"but is it true," kilshaw went on eagerly, "that mr. benham has been murdered?"
"well, it looks like it, sir," and dawson gave a full account of the circumstances.
"and the motive?" asked kilshaw.
"robbery, i suppose. his pockets were empty, and according to our information he was generally flush of money; where he got it, i don't know."
"ah!" said kilshaw meditatively; "his pockets empty! and have you no clue?"
"not what you'd call a clue. did you know the gentleman, sir?"
kilshaw replied by saying that mr. puttock had introduced benham to him and the acquaintance had continued--it was a political acquaintance purely.
"you don't know anything about him before he came here?"
kilshaw suddenly perceived that he was being questioned, whereas his object had been to question.
"you say," he observed, "that you haven't got what you'd call a clue. what do you mean?"
"you can tell mr. kilshaw, if you like," said the superintendent to the sergeant, who repeated his information.
"gaspard! why that's the fellow the premier--" and mr. kilshaw stopped short. after a moment, he asked abruptly, "were there any papers on the body?"
"i suppose there's nothing really to connect this man gaspard with it?"
"oh, nothing at present, sir. did you say you'd known the deceased before he--?"
"if i'm called at the inquest, i shall tell all i know," said kilshaw, rising. "it's not much."
"happen to know if he had any relations, sir?"
"h'm. he was a widower, i believe."
"really," said mr. kilshaw, with a faint smile, "i don't know."
and he escaped from pertinacious mr. dawson with some alacrity. when he was outside, he stopped suddenly. "shall i tell 'em to apply to medland?" he asked himself, with a malicious chuckle. "no, i'll wait a bit yet," and he walked on, wondering whether by any chance mr. benham had been done to death to save the premier. this fanciful idea he soon dismissed with a laugh; it never entered his head, prejudiced as he was, to think that medland himself had any hand in the matter. after all, he was a man of common sense, and he quickly arrived at a conclusion which he expressed by exclaiming,
"the poor fool's been showing his money. who's got my five hundred now, i wonder?"
his wonderings would have been satisfied, had aladdin's carpet or other magical contrivance transported him to where the steamship pride of the south was ploughing her way through the waves, bound from kirton to san francisco, with liberty to touch at several south american ports. a thick-set, short man, shipped at the last moment as cook's mate, in substitution for a truant, was lying on his back, smoking a cigarette, looking up at the bright stars, and ever and again gently pressing his hand on a little lump inside his shirt. he seemed at peace with all the world, though he was ready to be at war, if need be, and his knife, burnished and clean, lay handy to his fingers. he turned on his side and composed himself to sleep, his chest rising and falling with regular, uninterrupted breathing. once he smiled: he was thinking of ned evans, the doorkeeper; then he gave himself a little shake, closed his eyes, and forgot all the troubles of this weary world. so sleep children, so--we are told--the just: so slept m. françois gaspard, on his way to seek fresh woods and pastures new.
all there was to tell.
the custom in new lindsey was that every monday during the session of parliament the executive council should meet at government house, and, under the presidency of the governor, formally ratify and adopt the arrangements as to the business of the coming week which its members had decided upon at their cabinet meetings. it is to be hoped that, in these days, when we all take an interest in our empire, everybody knows that the executive council is the outward, visible, and recognised form of that impalpable, unrecognised, all-powerful institution, the cabinet, consisting in fact, though not in theory, of the same persons, save that the governor is present when the meeting is of the council, and absent when it is of the cabinet--a difference of less moment than it sounds, seeing that, except in extreme cases, the governor has little to do but listen to what is going to be done. however, forms doubtless have their value, and at any rate they must be observed, so on this monday morning the executive council was to meet as usual, although nobody knew where the cabinet would be that time twenty-four hours. lady eynesford, who wanted her husband to drive her out, thought the meeting under the circumstances mere nonsense--which it very likely was--and said so, which betrayed inexperience, and alicia derosne asked what time it took place.
"eleven sharp," said the governor, and returned to the account of the murder.
time after time in the last few days alicia had told herself that she could bear it no longer. at one moment she believed nothing, the next, nothing was too terrible for her to believe; now she would fly to australia, or home, or anywhere out of new lindsey; now a straightforward challenge to medland alone would serve her turn. sometimes she felt as if she could put the whole thing on one side; five minutes later found her pinning her whole life on the issue of it. under her guarded face and calm demeanour, the storm of divided and conflicting instincts and passions raged, and long solitary rambles became a necessary outlet for what she dared show to none. she shrank from seeing medland, and yet longed to speak with him; she felt that to mention the topic to him was impossible, and yet, if they met, inevitable; that she would not have strength to face him, and yet could not let him go without clearing up the mystery. she told herself at one moment that she hardly knew him, at the next that between them nothing could be too secret for utterance.
what she hoped and feared befell her that morning. she went out for a walk in the park, and before long she met the premier, with his daughter and norburn. the two last were laughing and talking--their quarrel was quite forgotten now--and medland himself, she thought, looked as though his load of care were a little less heavy. the two men explained that they were on their way--a roundabout way, they confessed--to the council, and had seized the chance of some fresh air, while daisy was full of stories about yesterday's triumph, that left room only for a passing reference to yesterday's tragedy.
"i didn't like him at all," she said; "but still it's dreadful--a man one knew ever so slightly!"
alicia agreed, and the next instant she found herself practically alone with medland; for daisy ran off to pick a wild-flower that caught her eye in the wood, and norburn followed her. not knowing whether to be glad or sorry, she made no effort to escape, and was silent while medland began to speak of his prospects in that evening's division.
suddenly she paused in her walk and lifted her eyes to his.
"you look happier," she said.
medland's conscience smote him: he was looking happier because the man was dead.
"it's at the prospect of being a free man to-morrow," he answered, with a smile. "you know, cincinnatus was very happy."
"but you're not like that."
"no, i suppose not. say it's----"
after a pause she made another attempt.
"you've been very good to me--yes, very good."
he turned to her with a gesture of disclaimer. she thought he was going to speak, but he did not.
"whatever happens, i shall always remember that with--with deep gratitude."
"what is going to happen?" he asked, with an uneasy smile.
"oh, how can i?" she burst out. "how can i say it? how can i ask you?"
as she spoke she stopped, and he followed her example. they stood facing one another now, as he replied gravely,
"whatever you ask--let it be what it will--i will answer, truthfully." a pause before the last word perhaps betrayed a momentary struggle.
"what right have i? why should you?"
"the right my--my desire to have your regard gives you. how can i ask for that, unless i am ready to tell you all you can wish to know?"
"i have heard," she began falteringly, "i have been told by--by people who, i suppose, were right to tell me----"
in a moment he understood her. a slight twitch of his mouth betrayed his trouble, but he came to her rescue.
"i don't know how it reached you," he said. "perhaps i think you might have been--you need not have known it. but there is only one thing you can have heard, that it would distress you to speak of."
she said nothing, but fixed her eyes on his.
"i am right?" he asked. "it is about--my wife?"
she bowed her head. he stood silent for a moment, and she cried,
"it was only gossip--a woman's gossip; i did wrong to listen to it."
"gossip," he said, "is often true. this is true," and he set his lips.
the worst often finds or makes people calm. she had flushed at first, but the colour went again, and she said quietly,
"if you have time and don't mind, i should like to hear it all."
she had forgotten what this request must mean to him, or perhaps she thought the time for pretence had gone by. if so, he understood, for he answered,
"it's your right."
her eyes sank to the ground, but she did not quarrel with his words. she stood motionless while he told his story. he spoke with wilful brevity and dryness.
"i was a young man when i met her. she was married, and i went to the house. her husband----"
"did he ill-treat her?"
"no. in his way, i suppose he was fond of her. but--she didn't like his way. she was very beautiful, and i fell in love with her, and she with me. and we ran away."
"is--is that all? is there no----?"
"no excuse? no, i suppose, none. and i lived with her till she died four years ago. and--daisy is our daughter."
"and he--the husband?"
"he did not divorce her. i don't know why not, perhaps because she asked him to--anyhow he didn't. and he outlived her: so she died--as she had lived."
"and is he still alive?"
"no; he is dead now." he was about to go on, but checked himself. why add that horror? how the man died was nothing between her and him.
"have you no--nothing to say?" she burst out, almost angrily. "you just tell me that and stop!"
"what is there to say? i have told you all there is to tell. i loved her very much. i did what i could to make her happy, and i try to make up for it to daisy. but there is nothing more to say."
she was angry that he would not defend himself. she was ready--ah, so ready!--to listen to his pleading. but he would not say a word for himself. instead, he went on,
"she didn't want to come, but i made her. she repented, poor girl, all her life; she was never quite happy. it was all my doing. still, i think she was happier with me, in spite of it."
a movement of impatience escaped from alicia. seeing it he added,
"i beg your pardon. i didn't want you to think hardly of her."
"i don't want to think of her at all. was she--was she like daisy?"
"yes; but prettier."
"i don't know what you expect me to say," she exclaimed. "i know--i suppose some men don't think much of--of a thing like that. to me it is horrible. you simply followed your-- ah, i can't speak of it!" and she seemed to put him from her with a gesture of disgust.
he walked beside her in silence, his face set in the bitter smile it always wore when fate dealt hardly with him.
"i think i'll go straight home," she said, stopping suddenly. "you can join the others."
"yes, that will be best. i'm not due at the council just yet."
"i suppose i ought to thank you for telling me the truth. i--" her false composure suddenly gave way. with a sob she stretched out her hands towards him, crying, "why didn't you tell me sooner?" and before he could answer her she turned and walked swiftly away, leaving him standing still on the pathway.
she was hardly inside the gates of government house when she saw eleanor scaife, who hurried to meet her.
"only think, alicia!" she cried. "dick is on his way home, and with such good news. we've just had a cable from him."
"yes. he's engaged! he met the grangers on their tour round the world--you know them, the great cotton people?--at sydney, and he's engaged to the youngest girl, violet--you remember her? it all happened in a fortnight. mary and lord eynesford are delighted. it's just perfect. she's very pretty, and tremendously well off. i do declare, i never thought dick would end so well! what a happy thought it was sending him away! aren't you delighted?"
"it sounds very nice, doesn't it? i don't think i knew her more than just to speak to."
"dick'll be here in four days. i've been looking for you to tell you for the last hour. where have you been?"
"in the park."
"alone, as usual, you hermit?"
"well, i met the medlands and mr. norburn, and talked to them for a little while."
"alicia! but it's no use talking to you. come and find mary."
"no, eleanor, i'm tired, and--and hot. i'll go to my room."
"oh, you must come and see her first."
"she'll be hurt, alicia. she'll think you don't care. come, dear."
"tell her--tell her i'm coming directly. eleanor, you must let me go," and breaking away she fled into the house.
eleanor went alone to seek lady eynesford. somehow alicia's words had quenched her high spirits for the moment.
"poor child! i do hope she hasn't been foolish," she mused. "surely after what mary told her--! oh dear, i'm afraid it isn't all as happy as it is about dick!"
and then she indulged in some very cynical meditations on the advantages of being a person of shallow emotions and changeful fancies, until she was roused by the sight of medland and norburn walking up to the house, to attend the executive council. from the window she closely watched the premier as he approached; her mood wavered to and fro, but at last she summed up her impressions by remarking,
"well, i suppose one might."
the story of a photograph.
mr. coxon may be forgiven for being, on this same important monday, in a state of some nervous excitement. he had a severe attack of what are vulgarly called "the fidgets," and sir john, who was spending the morning at the club (for his court was not sitting), glanced at him over his eye-glasses with an irritated look. the ex-attorney-general would not sit still, but flitted continually from window to table, and back from table to window, taking up and putting down journal after journal. much depended, in mr. coxon's view, on the event of that day, for sir john spoke openly of his approaching retirement, and an appointment sometimes thought worthy of a premier's acceptance might be in coxon's grasp before many weeks were past, if only medland and his noxious idea of getting a first-class man out from england could be swept together into limbo.
"what's the betting about to-night?" asked the chief justice, as in one of his restless turns the brooding politician passed near.
"we reckon to beat him by five," answered coxon.
"unless any of your men turn tail, that is? i hear fenton's very wobbly--says he daren't show his face in the north-east ward if he throws medland over."
"oh, he's all right."
"been promised something?"
"you might allow some of us to have consciences, chief justice," said coxon, with an attempt at geniality.
"oh, some of you, yes. but i'll pick my men, please," remarked sir john, with a pleasant smile. "perry's got a conscience, and kilshaw--well, kilshaw's got a gadfly that does instead, and of course, coxon, i add you to the list."
"much obliged for your testimonial," said coxon sourly.
"i add any man i'm talking to, to the list," continued the chief justice. "i expect him to do the same by me. but, honestly, i add you even in your absence. you're not a man who puts party ties above everything."
mr. coxon darted a suspicious glance at the head of his profession, but the chief justice's air was blandly innocent.
"my party's my party," he remarked, "just so long as it carries out my principles. i don't say either party does it perfectly."
"i dare say not; but of course you're right to act with the one that does most for you."
again the chief justice had hit on a somewhat ambiguous expression. coxon detected a grin on the face of captain heseltine, who was sitting near, but he could not hold sir john's grave face guilty of the captain's grin.
"i see," remarked the captain, perhaps in order to cover the retreat of his grin, "that they've discharged the woman who was arrested last night for the murder."
"really no evidence against her," said the chief justice. "but, heseltine, wasn't this man benham the fellow medland had a sort of shindy with at that flower-show?"
"yes, he was. kilshaw seemed to know all about him."
"he was talking to miss medland."
"and the premier had her away from him in no time. queer start, sir john?"
"oh, well, he seems to have been a loose fellow, and i suppose was murdered for the money he had on him. but i mustn't talk about it. i may have to try it."
"gad! you'll be committing contempt of yourself," suggested the captain.
"like that snake that swallows itself, eh?"
"what snake?" asked the captain, with interest.
"the snake in the story," answered the chief justice; and he added in an undertone--"why can't that fellow sit still?"
mr. coxon had wandered to the window again, and was thrumming on the panes. he turned on hearing some one enter. it was sir robert perry.
"well," he began, "i bring news of the event of the day."
"about to-night?" asked coxon eagerly.
"to-night! that's not the event of the day. ministers are a deal commoner than murders. no, last night."
coxon turned away disappointed.
"the murder!" exclaimed the captain.
"don't talk to me about it, perry," the chief justice requested, opening a paper in front of his face. he did not, however, withdraw out of earshot.
"they've got a sort of a clue. a wretched hobbledehoy of a fellow, something in the bookseller's shop at the corner of kettle street, has come with a rigmarole about a society that he and a few more belonged to, including this françois gaspard, who is missing. he protests that the thing was legal, and all that--only a radical inner ring--but he says that at the last meeting this fellow was dropping hints about putting somebody out of the way. dyer--that's the lad's name--swears the rest of them disowned him and said they'd have nothing to do with it, and hoped he'd given up the idea."
"i suppose he's in a blue funk?" asked the captain.
"he is no doubt alarmed," said sir robert. "he gave the police the names of the rest of their precious society, and, oddly enough, ned evans, of the house--you know him, coxon?--was one."
"heard such an awful lot of debates, poor chap," observed captain heseltine.
"well, they went to evans' and collared him. for a time he stuck out that he knew nothing about it, but they threatened him with heaven knows what, and at last he confessed to having seen this gaspard in company with the murdered man in digby square a little before twelve on the night."
"by jove! that's awkward!" said the captain.
coxon showed more interest now, and remarked,
"why, gaspard was one of medland's organisers. i saw him with both medland and norburn on saturday."
"i don't suppose they were planning to murder this benham. indeed, i don't see that the thing can have been political at all. what did it matter whether benham lived or died?"
"i don't see that it did, except to benham," assented the captain. "but what's become of gaspard?"
"ah, that they don't know. he's supposed to have taken ship, and they've cabled to search all ships that left the port that morning."
"he'll find the man in blue--or the local equivalent--on the wharf," said the captain. "rather a jar that, sir robert, when you're in from a voyage. what are they doing now?"
"well, the superintendent said they were going to have a thorough search through the dead man's lodgings, to see if they could find out anything about him which would throw light on the motive. the police don't think much of the political theory of the crime."
"dashed nonsense, i should think," said the captain, and he sauntered off to play billiards.
"that young man," said the chief justice, "is really not a fool, though he does his best to look like one."
"that queer conduct seems to me rather common in young men at home. i noticed it when i was over."
"is it meant to imply independent means?"
"i dare say that idea may be dormant under it somewhere. my wife says the girls like it."
"then your wife, perry, is a traitor to her sex to make such confessions. besides, they didn't in my time."
"come, you know, you're a forlorn bachelor. what can you know about it?"
"bachelors, perry, are the men who know. which gathers most knowledge from a vivisection, the attentive student or the writhing frog?"
"the operator, most of all."
"and that's the woman. therefore, oakapple, you're wrong and my wife's right."
"the deuce!" said the chief justice. "i wonder how i ever got any briefs."
in the afternoon, when these idlers had one and all set out for the legislative assembly, some to work, others still to idle, mr. kilshaw felt interest enough in the fate of his late henchman to drop in at the police office on his way to the same destination. he was well known, and no one objected to his walking in and making for the door of the superintendent's room. an officer to whom he spoke told him that ned evans was in custody, and that it was rumoured that some startling discoveries had been made at benham's lodgings.
"indeed, sir," said the man, "i believe the superintendent wished to see you."
"ah, i dare say," said kilshaw. "tell him i'm here."
when he was ushered into the inner room, the superintendent confirmed the officer's surmise.
"i was going to send a message to ask you to step round, sir," he remarked.
"here i am, but don't be long. i don't want to miss the premier's speech."
"mr. medland speaking to-day?"
"of course. it's a great day with us at the house."
"i think it looks like being a great day all round. well, mr. kilshaw, you told me you knew the deceased."
"yes, i knew benham."
"benyon," corrected the superintendent.
"yes, that was his real name," assented kilshaw.
"at his lodgings there was found a packet. that's the wrapper," and he handed a piece of brown paper to kilshaw.
"in case," kilshaw read, "of my death or disappearance, please deliver this parcel to mr. kilshaw, legislative assembly, kirton."
"i'm sorry to say, sir," said the superintendent, "that the detective sergeant conducting the search took upon him to open this packet in the presence of one or two persons. it ought to have been opened by no one but----"
"pardon me, but myself," said the superintendent, with a slight smile. "owing to the inexcusable blunder, i'm afraid something about what it contains may leak out prematurely. those pests, the reporters, are everywhere; you can't keep 'em out."
"well, what does it contain?" asked kilshaw. he was annoyed at this unsought publicity, but he saw at once that he must show no sign of vexation.
"that, for one thing," and the superintendent handed kilshaw a photograph of two persons, a young woman and a young man. "look at the back," he added.
kilshaw looked, and read--"my wife and m."
"that's the deceased's handwriting?"
"and you know the persons?"
"i've no doubt about them. it's the premier--and--and mrs. medland."
"exactly. now read this," and he gave him the copy of a certificate of marriage between george benyon and margaret aspland.
"quite so," nodded kilshaw.
kilshaw took the slip of newspaper, old and yellow. it contained a few lines, briefly recording that mrs. benyon had left her home secretly by night, in her husband's absence, and could not be found.
kilshaw nodded again.
"it doesn't surprise me," he said. "i knew all this. i was in mr. benyon's confidence."
"perhaps you can tell us how he lived?" hazarded the superintendent, with a shrewd look.
mr. kilshaw looked doubtful.
"the inquest is fixed for to-morrow. the more we know now, the less it will be necessary to protract it."
"i have been helping him lately," admitted kilshaw; and he added, "look here, superintendent, i don't want that more talked about than necessary."
"you needn't say a word to me now unless you like, sir; but i only want to make things as comfortable as i can. you see, the coroner is bound to look into it a bit. had you given him money lately?"
kilshaw leant forward and answered, almost in a whisper,
"five hundred on friday night," and in spite of himself he avoided the superintendent's shrewd eye. but that officer's business was not to pass moral judgments. law is one thing, morality another.
"then the thing's as plain as a pikestaff. this gaspard got to know about the money, and murdered him to get it. we needn't look further for a motive."
"i suppose all this will have to come out? i wonder if gaspard knew who benham was?"
"it's not necessary to suppose that, unless we believe all evans says. certainly, if we trust evans, gaspard hinted designs on some one before he could have known benyon had this money. could he have known he was going to have it?"
"benyon may have told him i had promised to help him."
"well, sir, we must see about that. we shall want you at the inquest, sir."
"i suppose you will, confound you! and i should think you'd want a greater man than i am, too."
the superintendent looked grave.
"i am going up to try and see the premier at the house to-day," he said. "i think we shall have to trouble him. you see, he knew gaspard as well as the deceased."
"i'll give you a lift. you can keep out of the way till he's at leisure."
at this moment one of the police entered, and handed the superintendent a copy of the evening mail.
"it's as you feared, sir," he remarked as he went out.
the superintendent opened the paper, looked at it for an instant, and then indicated a passage with his forefinger.
"it is rumoured," read mr. kilshaw, "that certain very startling facts have come to light regarding the identity of the deceased man benham, and that the name of a very prominent politician, now holding an exalted office, is likely to be introduced into the case. as the matter will be public property to-morrow, we may be allowed to state that trustworthy reports point to the fact of the premier being in a position to give some important information as to the past life of the deceased. it is said that a photograph of two persons, one of whom is mr. medland, has been discovered among the papers at mr. benham's (or we should say benyon's) lodgings. further developments of this strange affair will be awaited with interest."
"i wish," commented the superintendent grimly, "that my men could keep a secret as well as their man can sniff one out."
but mr. kilshaw was too excited to listen.
"by jove," he cried, "the news'll be at the house by now! come along, man, come along!"
and, as they went, they read the rest; for the paper had it all--even a copy of that marriage certificate.
an orator's rival.
the house was crowded, and every gallery full. lady eynesford and eleanor scaife, attended by captain heseltine, occupied their appointed seats; the members of the legislative council overflowed from their proper pen and mingled with humbler folk in the public galleries; reporters wrote furiously, and an endless line of boys bearing their slips came and went. the great hour had arrived: the battle-field was reached at last. sir robert perry sat and smiled; puttock played with the hair chain that wandered across his broad waistcoat; coxon restlessly bit his nails; norburn's face was pale with excitement, and he twisted his hands in his lap; the determined partisans cheered or groaned; the waverers looked important and felt unhappy; all eyes were steadily fixed on the premier, and all ears intent on his words.
for the moment he had forgotten everything but the fight he was fighting. no thought of the wretched benham, who lay dead, no thought of his daughter, who watched him as he spoke, no thought of alicia derosne, who stayed away that she might not see him, crossed his brain now, or turned his ideas from the task before him. it was no ordinary speech, and no ordinary occasion. he spoke only to five men out of all his audience--the rest were his, or were beyond the power of his charm; on those five important-looking, unhappy-feeling men he bent every effort of his will, and played every device of his mind and his tongue. now and then he distantly threatened them, oftener he made as though to convince their cool judgment; again he would invoke the sentiment of old alliance in them, or stir their pity for the men whose cause he pleaded. once he flashed out in bitter mockery at coxon, then jested in mild irony at puttock and his "rich man's revolution." returning to his text, he minutely dissected his own measure, insisting on its promise, extenuating its fancied danger, claiming for it the merits of a courageous and well-conceived scheme. through all the changes that he rang, he was heard with close attention, broken only by demonstrations of approval or of dissent. at last one of his periods extorted a cheer from a waverer. it acted on him as a spur to fresh exertions. he raised his voice till it filled the chamber, and began his last and most elaborate appeal.
suddenly a change came over his hearers. the breathless silence of engrossed attention gave place to a subdued stir; whispers were heard here and there. men were handing a newspaper about, accompanying its transfer with meaning looks. he was not surprised, for members made no scruple of reading their papers or writing their letters in the house, but he was vexed to see that he had not gripped them closer. he went on, but that ever-circulating paper had half his attention now. he noticed kilshaw come in with it and press it on sir robert's notice. sir robert at first refused, but when kilshaw urged, he read and glanced up at him, so medland thought, with a look of sadness. coxon had got a paper now, and left biting his nails to pore over it; he passed it to puttock, and the fat man bulged his cheeks in seeming wonder. even his waverer, the one who had cheered, was deep in it. only norburn was unconscious of it. and, when they had read, they all looked at him again, not as they had looked before, but, it seemed to him, with a curious wonder, half mocking, half pitying, as one looks at a man who does not know the thing that touches him most nearly. he glanced up at the galleries: there too was the ubiquitous sheet; the chief justice and the president of the legislative council were cheek by jowl over it, and it fell lightly from lady eynesford's slim fingers, to be caught at eagerly by eleanor scaife.
"what is it?" he whispered impatiently to norburn; but his absorbed disciple only bewilderedly murmured "what?" and the premier could not pause to tell him.
now followed what sir robert maintained was the greatest feat of oratory he had ever witnessed. gathering his wandering wits together, medland plunged again whole-heartedly into his speech, and slowly, gradually, almost, it seemed, step by step and man by man, he won back the thoughts of his audience. he wrestled with that strange paper rival and overthrew it. man after man dropped it; its course was stayed; it fell underfoot or fluttered idly down the gangways. the nods ceased, the whispers were hushed, the stir fell and rose no more. once again he had them, and, inspired by that knowledge, the surest spur of eloquence, there rang from his lips the last burning words, the picture of the vision that ruled his life, the hope for the days that he might not see.
"believe!" he cried, in passionate entreaty, "believe, and your sons shall surely see!"
he sank in his seat, and the last echo of his resonant voice died away. first came silence, and then a thunder of applause. men stood up and waved what they had in their hands, hats or handkerchiefs or papers; women sat with their eyes still on him, or, with a gasp, leant back and closed their lids. he sat with his head sunk on his breast, till the tumult died away. no one rose. the speaker looked round once and again. could it be that no one----? slowly he began to rise. the movement caught sir robert's attention: he signed to puttock, who sprang heavily to his feet. puttock was no favourite as a speaker, and generally his rising was a signal for the house to thin. he began his speech with his stolid deliberation. not a man stirred. they waited for something still.
"and now," whispered medland to the treasurer, who sat by him, "let's see what it was in that infernal paper."
the treasurer handed him what he asked.
"you ought to see it," he whispered back.
mr. puttock's voice droned on, and his sheaf of notes rustled in his hand. no one looked at him or listened to him. their eyes were still on medland. the premier read--it seemed so slowly--put the paper down, and gazed first up at the ceiling; then he glanced round, and found all the attentive eyes on him: he smiled--it was just a visible smile, no more--and his head fell again on his breast, while his hand idly twisted a button on his coat.
the show was over, or had never come, and the deferred rush to the doors began. they almost tumbled over one another now in their haste to reach where their tongues could play freely. kilshaw and perry, the treasurer and the waverers, all slipped out, and norburn, knowing nothing but simply wearied of puttock, followed them. scarce twenty were left in the house, and the galleries had poured half their contents into the great room which served for a lobby outside. there the talk ran swift and eager. the very name of "benyon" was enough for many, who remembered that it had always been said to be the maiden name of medland's wife. could any one doubt who the other person in that strangely revealed photograph was, or fail to guess the relation between the man they had been listening to and the man who was dead? a few had known benyon, more gaspard, all medland--the three figures of this drama; many remembered the fourth, the central character, who had not tarried for the end of it: the man was rare who did not spend a thought on the bright girl, whose face was so familiar in these walls, and who must be dragged into it. where was she? asked one. she was gone. norburn, with rapid instinct, as soon as he had read, had run to her and forced her to go home. he was back from escorting her now, and walked up and down with hands behind him, speaking to no one among all the busily babbling throng.
the waverers stood in a little group by themselves, talking earnestly in undertones, while men wondered whether the paper would undo what the speech had done, and whether the premier's words had won a victory, only for his deeds to leap to light and rob it from him again.
inside, the debate lagged on, surely the dullest, emptiest, most neglected debate that had ever decided the fate of a government. the men who had been set down to speak came in and spoke and went out again; a house was kept, but with little to spare. sir robert went in and took his place, opposite medland, who never stirred through all the hours. presently sir robert wrote a note, twisted it, and flung it to the premier. "a splendid performance of yours, mes compliments," it said, and, when medland looked across to acknowledge it, sir robert smiled kindly, and nodded his silver head, and the premier answered him with a glad gleam in his deep-set eyes. these two men, who were always fighting, knew one another, and liked one another for what they knew. and this little episode done, sir robert rose and pricked and pinked the premier's points, making sharp fun of his heroics, and weightily criticising his proposals. now the house did fill a little, for after all the debate was important, and the hour of the division drew near; and when the question was put and the bell rang, nearly half the house trooped out with virtuous air to join the other half, persistently gossiping in the lobby, and, with them, decide the fateful question.
one more strange thing was to happen at that sitting.
it was not strange that the government were beaten by three votes, that only one of those wavering men voted with his old party at last, but it was strange that when this result was announced, and medland's followers settled sturdily in their seats to endure the celebration of the triumph, the celebration did not come. there was hardly a cheer, and medland himself, whom the result seemed hardly to have roused, woke with a start to the unwonted silence. it struck to his heart: it seemed like a tribute of respect to a dead enemy. but he rose and briefly said that on the next day an announcement of the government's intentions would be made by himself--he paused here a moment--or one of his colleagues. he sat down again. the sitting was at an end, and the house adjourned. members began to go out, but, as the premier rose, they drew back and left a path for him down the middle of the house. as he went, one or two thrust out their hands to him, and one honest fellow shouted in his rough voice--he was a labouring-man member--"you're not done yet, jimmy!"
the shout touched him, he lifted his head, looked round with a smile, and, just raising again the hat he had put on as he neared the door, took norburn's arm and passed out of the house.
when sir robert followed, he found the chief justice waiting for him, and they walked off together. for a long while neither spoke, but at last sir robert said peevishly,
"i wish this confounded thing hadn't happened. it spoils our win."
the chief justice nodded, and whistled a bar or two of some sad ditty.
"i'm glad she's dead, poor soul, perry," he said.
"there's the girl," said sir robert.
"ay, there's the girl."
they did not speak again till they were just parting, when the chief justice broke out,
"why the deuce couldn't the fellow take his beastly photograph with him?"
"it's very absurd," answered sir robert, "but i feel just the same about it."
"i'm hanged if you're not a gentleman, perry," said the chief justice, and he hastened away, blowing his nose.
three against the world.
though the house had risen early that evening, the central club sat very late. the smoking-room was crowded, and tongues wagged briskly. every man had a hare to hunt; no one lacked irrefragable arguments to prove what must happen; no one knew exactly what was going to happen. the elder men gathered round puttock and jewell, and listened to a demonstration that the premier's public life was at an end; the younger rallied coxon, whose premature stateliness sometimes invited this treatment, dubbing him "kingmaker coxon," and hilariously repudiating the idea that he did not enjoy the title. captain heseltine dropped in about eleven; cross-questioning drew from him the news that communications had passed, informal communications, he insisted, from the governor to sir robert, as well as to the premier.
"in fact," he said, "poor old flemyng's cutting up and down all over the place. glad it's his night on duty."
presently mr. flemyng himself appeared, clamorous for cigars and drink, but mighty discreet and vexatiously reticent. yes, he had taken a letter to medland; yes, and another to perry; no, he had no idea what the missives were about. he believed medland was to see the governor to-morrow, but it was beyond him to conjecture the precise object of the interview. was it resignation or dissolution? really, he knew no more than that waiter--and so forth; very likely his ignorance was real, but he diffused an atmosphere of suppressed knowledge which whetted the curiosity of his audience to the sharpest edge.
a messenger entered and delivered a note to puttock and another to coxon. the two compared their notes for a moment, and went out together. the arguments rose furiously again, some maintaining that medland must disappear altogether, others vehemently denying it, a third party preferring to await the disclosures at the inquest before committing themselves to an opinion. an hour passed; the noise in the streets began to abate, and the clock of the roman catholic cathedral hard by struck twelve. captain heseltine yawned, stretched, and rose to his feet.
"come along, flemyng," he said. "the show's over for to-night."
he seemed to express the general feeling, but men were reluctant to acknowledge so disappointing a conclusion, and the preparations for departure were slow and lingering. they had not fairly begun before mr. kilshaw's entrance abruptly checked them. instantly he became the centre of a crowd.
"now, kilshaw," they cried, "you know all about it. oh, come now! of course you do! secret? nonsense! out with it!" and one or two of his intimates added imploringly, "don't be an ass, kilshaw."
kilshaw flung himself into a chair.
"they resign," he said.
"yes. perry's to be sent for. medland, i'm told, insists on going. for my own part, i think he's right."
"of course," said somebody sapiently, "he doesn't want to dissolve with this affair hanging over him."
"it comes to the same thing," observed kilshaw. "perry will dissolve; the governor has promised to do it, if he likes."
"yes," nodded kilshaw. "you see--" he paused and added, "our present position isn't very independent."
everybody understood what he hinted. sir robert did not care to depend on the will of coxon and his seceders.
"and what about coxon and puttock?" was the next question.
"haven't i been indiscreet enough?"
"well, what are you going to do yourself?"
"my duty," answered mr. kilshaw, with a smile, and the throng, failing to extract any more from him, did at last set about the task of getting home to bed in good earnest.
they could rest sooner than the man who occupied so much of their interest. it had been a busy evening for the defeated minister; he had colleagues to see, letters to write, messages to send, conferences to hold. no doubt there was much to do, and yet norburn, who watched him closely, doubted whether he did not make work for himself, perhaps as a means of distraction, perhaps as a device for postponing an interview with his daughter. he had seen her for a minute when he came in, and told her he would tell her all there was to tell some time that night; but the moment for it was slow in coming. norburn had been struck with daisy's composure. she had seen the evening mail, and, without attempting to discuss the matter with him, she expressed her conviction that there could be nothing distressing behind the mysterious paragraph. norburn did not know what to say to her. he felt that in a case of this sort a girl's mind was a closed book to him. he had himself, on the way back from the house, heard a brief account of the whole matter from the premier's lips; it seemed to him, in the light of his ideas and theories, a matter of very little moment. he was of course aware how widely the judgment of many would differ from his, and when his mind was directed to the political aspect of the situation, he acknowledged the gravity of the disclosure. but honestly he could not pretend to think it a thing which should alter or lessen the esteem or love in which medland's friends held him. and even if the original act were seriously worthy of blame, the lapse of years made present severity as unreasonable as it would be unkind. in vain medland reminded him that, let the act be as old and long past as it would, the consequences remained.
"what!" norburn cried, "would any one think the worse of daisy? the more fools they!" and he laughed cheerfully, adding, "i only wish she'd let me show her i think none the worse of her. why, it's preposterous, sir!"
"preposterous or not," answered medland, "half the people in the place will let her know the difference. i may agree with you--god knows how i should like to be able to!--but there's no blinking the fact. well, i must tell her."
he recollected telling the same story to the other woman he loved, and he shrank in sudden dread, lest his daughter should say what alicia had said, "to me it is--horrible!" the words echoed in his brain. "ah, i can't speak of it," she had cried, and the gesture of her hand as she repelled him lived before his eyes again. surely daisy would not do that to him!
"i should be like lear--without a grievance," he said to himself, with a wry smile. "the very height of tragedy!"
it was near midnight before he put away his work. norburn had left him alone two hours before, and he rose now, laid down his pipe, and went to look for his daughter in her little sitting-room. his heart was very heavy; he must make her understand now why a man who made love to her should be hastily sent away by his friends, what her father had condemned her to, what manner of man he was; he must seem to destroy or impair the perfect sweetness of memory wherein she held her mother.
he opened the door softly. she was sitting in a large armchair, over a little bit of bright fire; save for gleams suddenly coming and going, as a coal blazed and died down again, the room was in darkness. he walked up to her and knelt by the chair, his head almost on a level with hers.
"well, daisy, what are you doing?"
she put out a hand and laid it on his with a gentle pressure.
"i'm thinking," she said. "do you want a light?"
"no, i like it dark best--best for what i have to say."
suddenly she threw her arms round his neck, drawing him to her and kissing his face.
"i'd do the same if you'd killed him yourself," she whispered in the extravagance of her love, and kissed him again.
"but, daisy, you don't know."
"yes, i do. he told me. he's been here."
"jack norburn. he said you would hate telling me, so he did. you mustn't mind, dear, you mustn't mind. oh, you didn't think it would make any difference to me, dear, did you? what do i care? mrs. puttock may care, and lady eynesford, and all the rest, but what do i care if i have you and him?"
"me and him, daisy?"
"yes," she answered, smiling boldly. "he's asked me to marry him--just to show he didn't mind--and i think i will, father. we three against the world! what need we care? father, we'll beat sir robert!" and she seized his two hands and laughed.
in vain medland tried to tell her what he had come to say. mighty as his relief and joy were, he still felt a burden lay on him. she would not hear.
"don't you see i'm happy?" she cried. "it can't be your duty to make me unhappy. jack doesn't mind, i don't mind!" her voice sank a little and she added, "it can't hurt mother now. oh, don't be unhappy about it, dear--don't, don't!"
they were standing now, and his arm was about her. looking up at him, she went on,
"they shan't beat us! they shan't say they beat us. we three, father!"
he stooped and kissed her. there is love that lies beyond the realm of giving or taking, of harm or good, of wrong, or even of forgiveness. with all his faults, this love he had won from his daughter, and it stood him in stead that night. he drew himself up to his height, and the air of despondency fell from him. the girl's brave love braced him to meet the world again.
"no, by jove, we're not beat yet, daisy!" he said, and she kissed him again and laughed softly as she made him sit, and herself sat upon his knee.
the truth too late.
"the lady," he said, "is mrs. benyon. the other figure is that of myself. i had not seen the deceased for many years."
"you were not on terms with him?" asked the coroner, who, in common with half the listeners, had known the lady as mrs. medland.
"no," said mr. medland; "i lost sight of him."
"you did not hear from--from any one about him?"
he gave the dates when he had last seen benyon in old days. asked whether he had communicated with him between that date and the dead man's reappearance, he answered,
"once, about four years ago. i wrote to tell him of that lady's death," and he pointed again to the picture, and went on to tell the details of benyon's subsequent application to him for a post under government.
"you refused it?" he was asked.
"yes, i refused it. i spoke to him once again, when we met on a social occasion. we had a sort of dispute then. i never saw him again to speak to."
"it was all done," said mr. duncombe, describing the scene, "in a repressed way that was very effective--to a house that knew the circumstances most effective. and the other fellow--kilshaw--he gave some sport too. the coroner (they told me he was one of medland's men, and i noticed he spared medland all he could) was inclined to be a bit down on kilshaw. kilshaw was cool and handy in his answers, but, lord love you! his game came out pretty plain. a monkey! you don't give a man a monkey unless there's value received! so people saw, and mr. kilshaw looked a bit uncomfortable when he caught medland's eye. he looked at him like that," and mr. duncombe assumed the finest wronged-hero glance in his repertory.
"oh, come, old chap, i bet he didn't," observed captain heseltine. "we've seen him, you know."
duncombe laughed good-humouredly.
"at any rate he made kilshaw look a little green, and some of the people behind called out 'shame!' and got themselves sat upon. then they had medland up again and twisted him a bit about his acquaintance with gaspard; but the coroner didn't seem to think there was anything in it, and they found murder against gaspard, and rang down the curtain. and when we got outside there was a bit of a rumpus. they hooted kilshaw and cheered medland, and yelled like mad when a dashed pretty girl drove up in a pony-cart and carried him off. altogether it wasn't half bad."
"glad you enjoyed yourself," observed captain heseltine. "if it amuses strangers to see our leading celebrities mixed up in a murder and other distressing affairs, it's the least we can do to see that they get it."
the captain's facetiousness fell on unappreciative ears. most of mr. duncombe's audience were too alive to the serious side of the matter to enjoy it. to them it was another and a very striking scene in the fight which had long gone on between medland and kilshaw, and had taken a fresh and fiercer impetus from the well-remembered day when medland had spoken his words about kilshaw and his race-horses. nobody doubted that kilshaw had kept this man benyon, or benham, as a secret weapon, and that the murder had only made the disclosure come earlier. kilshaw's reputation suffered somewhat in the minds of the scrupulous, but his partisans would hear of no condemnation. they said, as he had said, that in dealing with a man like medland it would have been folly not to use the weapons fate, or the foe himself by his own misdeeds, offered. as for the disapprobation of the kirton mob, they held that in high scorn.
"they'd cheer burglary, if medland did it," said one.
"well, he wants to, pretty nearly," added a capitalist.
"but the country will take a very different view. puttock'll rub it into all his people: they'll not vote for him. what do you say, coxon?"
"i think we shall beat him badly," said that gentleman, as he rose and went out.
captain heseltine soon followed, and was surprised to see coxon's figure just ahead of him as he entered the gates of government house.
"hang the fellow! what does he want here?" asked the captain.
mr. coxon asked for lady eynesford. when he entered, she rose with a newspaper in her hand.
"what a shocking, shameful thing this is!" she said. "what a blessing it is that the government was beaten!"
coxon acquiesced in both these opinions.
"i never thought well of him," continued the lady. "now everybody sees him in his true colours. and it's you we have chiefly to thank for our deliverance."
coxon murmured a modest depreciation of his services, and said,
"i hope miss derosne is well?"
something in his tones brought to his hostess one of those swift fits of repentance that were apt to wait for her whenever she allowed herself to treat this visitor with friendliness. he was so very prompt in responding!
"she is not very well," she answered, rather coldly.
"i--i hope i shall have the pleasure of seeing her?"
mr. coxon's wishes were fulfilled to the moment. the door opened and alicia came in. on seeing him she stopped.
"come in, alicia," said lady eynesford. "here's mr. coxon come to be congratulated."
coxon stood up with a propitiatory smile.
"how do you do, mr. coxon?" said alicia, giving him a limp hand. "shall i ring for tea, mary?"
"they'll bring it. you haven't wished him joy."
"oh, are you in the new ministry?"
"i have that honour, miss derosne. i hope you are on our side?"
"i don't quite know which side you are on--now," observed alicia, in slow but distinct tones.
coxon grew red.
"i--i have joined sir robert perry's ministry," he answered.
"of course he has, alicia," interposed lady eynesford hastily.
alicia seated herself on the sofa, remarking as she did so,
"well, you do change a good deal, don't you?"
"really, miss derosne," he stammered, "i don't understand you."
"oh, i only mean that you were first with sir robert, then with mr. medland, and now with sir robert again! and presently with mr. medland again, i suppose?"
"she doesn't appreciate the political reasons," began lady eynesford, with troubled brow and smiling lips; but coxon, frowning angrily, broke in,
"not the last, i promise you, anyhow, miss derosne."
"what, you think he's finally beaten then?"
"that's not the question. beaten or not, he is discredited, and no respectable man would act with him."
"we needn't discuss--" began lady eynesford again, but this time alicia was the interrupter. she spoke in a cold, hard way, very unlike her own.
"if he won, you would all be at his feet."
coxon was justified in being angry at her almost savage scorn of him; regardless of anything except his wrong, he struck back the sharpest blow he could.
"i know some people are very ready to be at his feet," he said, with a sneering smile.
his shaft hit the mark. alicia flushed and sat speechless. a glance at lady eynesford's face told him the scene had lasted too long: he rose and took his leave, paying alicia the homage of a bow, but not seeking her hand. she took no notice of his salute, and lady eynesford only gasped "good-bye."
the two sat silent for some moments after he had gone; then lady eynesford remarked,
"were you mad, alicia? see what you laid yourself open to! oh, of course a gentleman wouldn't have said it, but you yourself didn't treat him as if he was a gentleman. really, i can make a great deal of allowance for him. your manner was inexcusable."
alicia did not attempt to defend herself.
"you are out of temper," continued her sister-in-law, "and you choose to hit the first person within reach; if you can do that you care nothing for my dignity or your own self-respect. you parade your--your interest in this man----"
"i shall never speak to him again."
"i'm glad to hear it, and, if you come into my drawing-room, i will thank you to behave yourself properly and be civil to my guests," and lady eynesford walked out of the room.
a footstep roused her; she sat up, hurriedly smoothing her hair and clutching at a book that lay on the table by her. the intruder was her brother, and fortunately he was too intent on the tidings he brought to notice her confusion.
"great news, al!" he cried. "they've offered me ireland. we shall start home in a month."
"home in a month?" she echoed.
"yes. splendid, isn't it?"
"you're pleased, willie?"
the governor was very pleased. he liked the promotion, he liked going home; and finally, pleasant as his stay in new lindsey had been on the whole, there were features in the present position which made him not sorry to depart.
"i shall just see the elections through, and perry well started--at least, i suppose it'll be perry--and then we'll be off. shan't you be glad to see the old home again, al?"
"it's so sudden," she said. "i shall be sorry to leave here."
"oh, so shall i--very sorry to leave some of the people too. still, it's a good thing. where's eleanor? i must tell her. i say, dick gets here to-morrow."
"oh, i'm so glad."
the governor hurried out again, and alicia returned to the sofa. the knot of her troubles had been rudely cut. perhaps this summary ending was best. she herself would not, she knew, have had the strength to tear herself away from that place, but if fate tore her--perhaps well and good. nothing but unhappiness waited there for her; it seemed to her that nothing but unhappiness waited anywhere now; but at least, over at home, she would not have to fear the discovery of her secret, the secret she herself kept so badly, nor to endure the torture of gossip, hints, and clumsy pity. no one, over at home, would think of medland; they might just know his name, might perhaps have heard him rumoured for a dangerous man and a vexatious opponent of good sir robert. certainly they would never think of him as the cause of bruising of heart to a young lady in fashionable society. so he would pass out of her life; she would leave him to his busy, strenuous, happy-unhappy life, so full of triumphs and defeats, of ups and downs, of the love of many and the hate of many. perhaps she, like the rest, would read his name in the times now and then, unless indeed he were utterly vanquished. no, he was not finally beaten. of that she was sure. his name would be read often in cold print, but the glow of the life he lived would be henceforth unknown to her. she would go back to the old world and the old circle of it. what would happen after that she was too listless to think. it was summed up in negations; and these again melted into one great want, the absence of the man to whom her imagination and her heart blindly and obstinately clung.
lady eynesford had left her newspaper, and alicia found her hand upon it. taking it up, she read medland's evidence at the inquest. a sudden revulsion of feeling seized her. was this the man she was dreaming about, a man who calmly, coolly, as though caring nothing, told that story in the face of all the world? was she never to get rid of the spell he had cast on her before she knew what he really was? for a man like this she had sacrificed her self-respect, bandied insults with a vulgar upstart, and brought on her head a reproach more fitting for an ill-mannered child. she threw the paper from her and rose to her feet. she would think no more of him; he might be what he would; he was no fit subject for her thoughts, and he and the place where he lived and all this wretched country deserved nothing better than to be forgotten, resolutely, utterly, soon.
"i am very sorry, mary," she was saying, ten minutes later; "i deserved all you said. i don't know what foolishness possessed me. see, i have written and apologised to mr. coxon."
and lady eynesford kissed her and thanked heaven that they would soon have done with mr. coxon and--all the rest.
the unclean thing.
a few days later, mr. dick derosne was walking in the park at noon. he had been down to the club and found no one there. everybody except himself was at work: the politicians were scattered all over the colony, conducting their election campaign. medland himself had gone to his constituency: his seat was very unsafe there, and he was determined to keep it if he could, although, as a precaution, he was also a candidate for the north-east ward of kirton, where his success was beyond doubt. his friends and his foes had followed him out of town, and the few who were left were busy in the capital itself. such men as these when at the club would talk of nothing but the crisis, and, after he had heard all there was to hear about the benyon affair, the crisis began to bore dick. after all, it mattered very little to him; he would be out of it all in a month, and the medlands were not, when he came to think of it, people of great importance. why, the grangers had never heard of them! decidedly, he had had enough and to spare of the medlands.
nevertheless, he was to have a little more of them, for at this instant he saw daisy medland approaching him. escape was impossible, and dick had the grace to shrink from appearing to avoid her.
"the deuce!" he thought, "this is awkward. i hope she won't--" he raised his hat with elaborate politeness.
daisy stopped and greeted him with much effusion and without any embarrassment. dick thought that odd.
"i was afraid," she said, "we were not going to see you again before you disappeared finally with the governor."
their deceased god and later, after he had revived, celebrated with exultation his birth to a new life. or else they joined in the passion of mithra, condemned to create the world in suffering. this common grief and joy were often expressed with savage violence, by bloody mutilations, long wails of despair, and extravagant acclamations. the manifestations of the extreme fanaticism of those barbarian races that had not been touched by greek skepticism and the very ardor of their faith inflamed the souls of the multitudes attracted by the exotic gods.
the oriental religions touched every chord of sensibility and satisfied the thirst for religious emotion that the austere roman creed had been unable to quench. {31} but at the same time they satisfied the intellect more fully, and this is my second point.
in very early times greece--later imitated by rome--became resolutely rationalistic: her greatest originality lies here. her philosophy was purely laical; thought was unrestrained by any sacred tradition; it even pretended to pass judgment upon these traditions and condemned or approved of them. being sometimes hostile, sometimes indifferent and some times conciliatory, it always remained independent of faith. but while greece thus freed herself from the fetters of a superannuated mythology, and openly and boldly constructed those systems of metaphysics by means of which she claimed to solve the enigmas of the universe, her religion lost its vitality and dried up because it lacked the strengthening nourishment of reflection. it became a thing devoid of sense, whose raison d'être was no longer understood; it embodied dead ideas and an obsolete conception of the world. in greece as well as at rome it was reduced to a collection of unintelligible rites, scrupulously and mechanically reproduced without addition or omission because they had been practised by the ancestors of long ago, and formulas hallowed by the mos maiorum, that were no longer understood or sincerely cherished. never did a people of advanced culture have a more infantile religion.
this state of affairs proved detrimental to the progress of science. researches were conducted according to preconceived ideas and were perverted through strange prejudices. astrology and magic were the monstrous fruit of a hybrid union. but all this certainly gave religion a power it had never possessed either in greece or rome.
but, you will say, since in the classic age philosophy also claimed to lead to morality through instruction and to acquaint man with the supreme good, why did it yield to oriental religions that were in reality neither original nor innovating? quite right, and if a powerful rationalist school, possessed of a good critical method, had led the minds, we may believe that it would have checked the invasion of the barbarian mysteries or at least limited their field of action. however, as has frequently been pointed out, even in ancient greece the philosophic critics had very little hold on {34} popular religion obstinately faithful to its inherited superstitious forms. but how many second century minds shared lucian's skepticism in regard to the dogmatic systems! the various sects were fighting each other for ever so long without convincing one another of their alleged error. the satirist of samosata enjoyed opposing their exclusive pretensions while he himself reclined on the "soft pillow of doubt." but only intelligent minds could delight in doubt or surrender to it; the masses wanted certainties. there was nothing to revive confidence in the power of a decrepit and threadbare science. no great discovery transformed the conception of the universe. nature no longer betrayed her secrets, the earth remained unexplored and the past inscrutable. every branch of knowledge was forgotten. the world cursed with sterility, could but repeat itself; it had the poignant appreciation of its own decay and impotence. tired of fruitless researches, the mind surrendered to the necessity of believing. since the intellect was unable to formulate a consistent rule of life faith alone could supply it, and the multitudes gravitated toward the temples, where the truths taught to man in earlier days by the oriental gods were revealed. the stanch adherence of past generations to beliefs and rites of unlimited antiquity seemed to guarantee their truth and efficacy. this current was so strong that philosophy itself was swept toward mysticism and the neo-platonist school became a theurgy.
the oriental mysteries, then, could stir the soul by arousing admiration and terror, pity and enthusiasm in turn. they gave the intellect the illusion of learned depth and absolute certainty and finally--our third {35} point--they satisfied conscience as well as passion and reason. among the complex causes that guaranteed their domination, this was without doubt the most effective.
in every period of their history the romans, unlike the greeks in this respect, judged theories and institutions especially by their practical results. they always had a soldier's and business man's contempt for metaphysicians. it is a matter of frequent observation that the philosophy of the latin world neglected metaphysical speculations and concentrated its attention on morals, just as later the roman church left to the subtle hellenes the interminable controversies over the essence of the divine logos and the double nature of christ. questions that could rouse and divide her were those having a direct application to life, like the doctrine of grace.
all these puerile and monstrous beliefs that burdened {37} the religion of the latins had thrown it into disrepute. its morality no longer responded to the new conception of justice beginning to prevail. as a rule rome remedied the poverty of her theology and ritual by taking what she needed from the greeks. but here this resource failed her because the poetic, artistic and even intellectual religion of the greeks was hardly moral. and the fables of a mythology jeered at by the philosophers, parodied on the stage and put to verse by libertine poets were anything but edifying.
this attempted reform failed entirely. making religion an auxiliary to moral policing is not a means of establishing its empire over souls. formal reverence for the official gods is not incompatible with absolute and practical skepticism. the restoration attempted by augustus is nevertheless very characteristic because it is so consistent with the roman spirit which by temperament and tradition demanded that religion should support morality and the state.
it is a noteworthy fact that the rulers who most loudly proclaimed their autocratic pretentions, like {39} domitian and commodus, were also those that favored foreign creeds most openly.
we can readily understand that these beliefs and institutions were bound to establish the oriental religions and their priests on a strong basis. their influence must have been especially powerful at the time of the cæsars. the laxity of morals at the beginning of our era has been exaggerated but it was real. many unhealthy symptoms told of a profound moral anarchy weighing on a weakened and irresolute society. the farther we go toward the end of the empire the more its energy seems to fail and the character of men to weaken. the number of strong healthy minds incapable of a lasting aberration and without need of guidance or comfort was growing ever smaller. we note the spread of that feeling of exhaustion and debility which follows the aberrations of passion, and the same weakness that led to crime impelled men to seek absolution in the formal practices of asceticism. they applied to the oriental priests for spiritual remedies.
the worship of the roman gods was a civic duty, the worship of the foreign gods the expression of a personal belief. the latter were the objects of the thoughts, feelings and intimate aspirations of the individual, not merely of the traditional and, one might say, functional adoration of the citizen. the ancient municipal devotions were connected with a number of earthly interests that helped to support each other. they were one of various forms of family spirit and patriotism and guaranteed the prosperity of the community. the oriental mysteries, directing the will toward an ideal goal and exalting the inner spirit, were less mindful of economic utility, but they could produce that vibration of the moral being that caused emotions, stronger than any rational faculty, to gush forth from the depths of the soul. through a sudden illumination {45} they furnished the intuition of a spiritual life whose intensity made all material happiness appear insipid and contemptible. this stirring appeal of supernatural life made the propaganda irresistible. the same ardent enthusiasm guaranteed at the same time the uncontested domination of neo-platonism among the philosophers. antiquity expired and a new era was born.
the first oriental religion adopted by the romans was that of the goddess of phrygia, whom the people of pessinus and mount ida worshiped, and who received the name of magna mater deum idea in the occident. its history in italy covers six centuries, and we can trace each phase of the transformation that changed it in the course of time from a collection of very primitive nature beliefs into a system of spiritualized mysteries used by some as a weapon against christianity. we shall now endeavor to outline the successive phases of that slow metamorphosis.
this religion is the only one whose success in the latin world was caused originally by a mere chance circumstance. in 205 b. c, when hannibal, vanquished but still threatening, made his last stand in the mountains of bruttium, repeated torrents of stones frightened the roman people. when the books were officially consulted in regard to this prodigy they promised that the enemy would be driven from italy if the great mother of ida could be brought to rome. nobody but the sibyls themselves had the power of averting the evils prophesied by them. they had come to italy from asia minor, and in this critical situation their sacred poem recommended the practice of their native religion as a remedy. in token of his {47} friendship, king attalus presented the ambassadors of the senate with the black aerolite, supposed to be the abode of the goddess, that this ruler had shortly before transferred from pessinus to pergamum. according to the mandate of the oracle the stone was received at ostia by the best citizen of the land, an honor accorded to scipio nasica--and carried by the most esteemed matrons to the palatine, where, hailed by the cheers of the multitude and surrounded by fumes of incense, it was solemnly installed (nones of april, 204). this triumphal entry was later glorified by marvelous legends, and the poets told of edifying miracles that had occurred during cybele's voyage. in the same year scipio transferred the seat of war to africa, and hannibal, compelled to meet him there, was beaten at zama. the prediction of the sybils had come true and rome was rid of the long punic terror. the foreign goddess was honored in recognition of the service she had rendered. a temple was erected to her on the summit of the palatine, and every year a celebration enhanced by scenic plays, the ludi megalenses, commemorated the date of dedication of the sanctuary and the arrival of the goddess (april 4th-10th).
the religion of phrygia was perhaps even more violent than that of thrace. the climate of the anatolian uplands is one of extremes. its winters are rough, long and cold, the spring rains suddenly develop a vigorous vegetation that is scorched by the hot summer sun. the abrupt contrasts of a nature generous and sterile, radiant and bleak in turn, caused excesses of sadness and joy that were unknown in temperate and smiling regions, where the ground was never buried under snow nor scorched by the sun. the phrygians mourned the long agony and death of the vegetation, but when the verdure reappeared in march they surrendered to the excitement of a tumultuous joy. in asia savage rites that had been unknown in thrace or practiced in milder form expressed the vehemence of those opposing feelings. in the midst of their orgies, and after wild dances, some of the worshipers voluntarily wounded themselves and, becoming intoxicated with the view of the blood, with which they besprinkled their altars, they believed they were uniting themselves with their divinity. or else, arriving at a paroxysm of frenzy, they sacrificed their virility to the gods as certain russian dissenters still do to-day. these men became priests of cybele and were called galli. violent ecstasis was always an endemic disease in phrygia. as late as the antonines, montanist prophets that arose in that country attempted to introduce it into christianity.
such is the religion which the rough romans of the punic wars accepted and adopted. hidden under theological and cosmological doctrines it contained an ancient stock of very primitive and coarse religious ideas, such as the worship of trees, stones and animals. besides this superstitious fetichism it involved ceremonies that were both sensual and ribald, including all the wild and mystic rites of the bacchanalia which the public authorities were to prohibit a few years later.
but the phrygian religion kept alive in spite of police surveillance, in spite of precautions and prejudices; a breach had been made in the cracked wall of the old roman principles, through which the entire orient finally gained ingress.
the rites of her cult were even more sanguinary and savage than those of pessinus, and she had assumed or preserved a warlike character that gave her a resemblance to the italian bellona. the dictator sulla, to whom this invincible goddess of combats had appeared in a dream, was prompted by his superstition to introduce her worship into rome. the terrible ceremonies connected with it produced a deep impression. clad in black robes, her "fanatics," as they were called, would turn round and round to the sound of drums and trumpets, with their long, loose hair streaming, and when vertigo seized them and a state of anesthesia was attained, they would strike their arms and bodies great blows with swords and axes. the view of the running blood excited them, and they besprinkled the statue of the goddess and her votaries with it, or even drank it. finally a prophetic delirium would overcome them, and they foretold the future.
after the establishment of the empire the apprehensive distrust in which the worship of cybele and attis had been held gave way to marked favor and the original restrictions were withdrawn. thereafter roman citizens were chosen for archigalli, and the holidays of the phrygian deities were solemnly and officially celebrated in italy with even more pomp than had been displayed at pessinus.
this popular zeal was the result of various causes. ancient authors describe the impression produced upon the masses by those magnificent processions in which cybele passed along on her car, preceded by musicians playing captivating melodies, by priests wearing gorgeous costumes covered with amulets, and by the long line of votaries and members of the fraternities, all barefoot and wearing their insignia. all this, however, created only a fleeting and exterior impression upon the neophyte, but as soon as he entered the temple a deeper sensation took hold of him. he heard the pathetic story of the goddess seeking the body of her lover cut down in the prime of his life like the grass of the fields. he saw the bloody funeral services in which the cruel death of the young man was mourned, {59} and heard the joyful hymns of triumph, and the gay songs that greeted his return to life. by a skilfully arranged gradation of feelings the onlookers were uplifted to a state of rapturous ecstasy. feminine devotion in particular found encouragement and enjoyment in these ceremonies, and the great mother, the fecund and generous goddess, was always especially worshiped by the women.
another agent in favor of this imported religion was, as we have stated above, the fact of its official recognition. this placed it in a privileged position among oriental religions, at least at the beginning of the imperial régime. it enjoyed a toleration that was neither precarious nor limited; it was not subjected to arbitrary police measures nor to coercion on the part of magistrates; its fraternities were not continually threatened with dissolution, nor its priests with expulsion. it was publicly authorized and endowed, its holidays were marked in the calendars of the pontiffs, its associations of dendrophori were organs of municipal life in italy and in the provinces, and had a corporate entity.
we do not know the internal development of the {61} phrygian mysteries sufficiently to give details of the addition of each individual part. but we can prove that in the course of time certain religions were added to the one that had been practised in the temple of the palatine ever since the republic.
this powerful divinity penetrated into greece at an early period. among the mixed populations of the ægean seaports, in the piræus, at rhodes, delos and thasos, religious associations for his worship were {62} founded. in attica the presence of the cult can be traced back to the fourth century, and its monuments rival those of cybele in number and variety. in the latin occident, however, no trace of it can be found, because it had been absorbed by the worship of magna mater. in asia itself, attis and mèn were sometimes considered identical, and this involved the roman world in a complete confusion of those two persons, who in reality were very different. a marble statue discovered at ostia represents attis holding the lunar crescent, which was the characteristic emblem of mèn. his assimilation to the "tyrant" of the infernal regions transformed the shepherd of ida into a master of the underworld, an office that he combined with his former one as author of resurrection.
we shall now take up the difficult question of the influence of judaism upon the mysteries during the alexandrian period and at the beginning of the empire. many scholars have endeavored to define the influence exercised by the pagan beliefs on those of the jews; it has been shown how the israelitic monotheism became hellenized at alexandria and how the jewish propaganda attracted proselytes who revered the one god, without, however, observing all the prescriptions of the mosaic law. but no successful researches have been made to ascertain how far paganism was modified through an infiltration of biblical ideas. such a modification must necessarily have taken place to some extent. a great number of jewish colonies were scattered everywhere on the mediterranean, and these were long animated with such an ardent spirit of proselytism that they were bound to impose some of their conceptions on the pagans that surrounded them. the magical texts which are almost the only original literary documents of paganism we possess, clearly reveal this mixture of israelitic theology with that of other peoples. in them we frequently find names like iao (yahveh), sabaoth, or the names of angels side by side with those of egyptian or greek divinities. especially in asia {64} minor, where the israelites formed a considerable and influential element of the population, an intermingling of the old native traditions and the religion of the strangers from the other side of the taurus must have occurred.
everywhere in the empire the two religions lived in intimate communion. by ingratiating themselves with the phrygian priests, the priests of mithra obtained the support of an official institution and shared in the protection granted by the state. moreover, men alone could participate in the secret ceremonies of the persian liturgy, at least in the occident. other {66} mysteries, to which women could be admitted, had therefore to be added in order to complete them, and so the mysteries of cybele received the wives and daughters of the mithraists.
this union had even more important consequences for the old religion of pessinus than the partial infusion of judaic beliefs had had. its theology gained a deeper meaning and an elevation hitherto unknown, after it had adopted some of the conceptions of mazdaism.
the ideas on which the immolation was based were originally just as barbarous as the sacrifice itself. it is a matter of general belief among savage peoples that one acquires the qualities of an enemy slain in battle or of a beast killed in the chase by drinking or washing in the blood, or by eating some of the viscera of the body. the blood especially has often been considered as the seat of vital energy. by moistening his body with the blood of the slaughtered steer, the neophyte believed that he was transfusing the strength of the formidable beast into his own limbs.
we could also outline the transformation of other phrygian ceremonies, of which the spirit and sometimes the letter slowly changed under the influence of more advanced moral ideas. this is true of the sacred feasts attended by the initiates. one of the few liturgic formulas antiquity has left us refers to these phrygian banquets. one hymn says: "i have eaten from the tambourine, i have drunk from the cymbal, i have become a mystic of attis." the banquet, which is found in several oriental religions, was sometimes simply the {69} external sign indicating that the votaries of the same divinity formed one large family. admitted to the sacred table, the neophyte was received as the guest of the community and became a brother among brothers. the religious bond of the thiasus or sodalicium took the place of the natural relationship of the family, the gens or the clan, just as the foreign religion replaced the worship of the domestic hearth.
but all efforts to maintain a barbarian religion stricken with moral decadence were in vain. on the very spot on which the last taurobolia took place at the end of the fourth century, in the phrygianum, stands to-day the basilica of the vatican.
there is no oriental religion whose progressive evolution we could follow at rome so closely as the cult of cybele and attis, none that shows so plainly one of the reasons that caused their common decay and disappearance. they all dated back to a remote period of barbarism, and from that savage past they inherited a number of myths the odium of which could be masked but not eradicated by philosophical symbolism, and practices whose fundamental coarseness had survived from a period of rude nature worship, and could never be completely disguised by means of mystic interpretations. never was the lack of harmony greater between the moralizing tendencies of theologians and the cruel shamelessness of tradition. a god held up as the august lord of the universe was the pitiful and abject hero of an obscene love affair; the taurobolium, performed to satisfy man's most exalted aspirations for spiritual purification and immortality, looked like a {72} shower bath of blood and recalled cannibalistic orgies. the men of letters and senators attending those mysteries saw them performed by painted eunuchs, ill reputed for their infamous morals, who went through dizzy dances similar to those of the dancing dervishes and the aissaouas. we can imagine the repugnance these ceremonies caused in everybody whose judgment had not been destroyed by a fanatical devotion. of no other pagan superstition do the christian polemicists speak with such profound contempt, and there is undoubtedly a reason for their attitude. but they were in a more fortunate position than their pagan antagonists; their doctrine was not burdened with barbarous traditions dating back to times of savagery; and all the ignominies that stained the old phrygian religion must not prejudice us against it nor cause us to slight the long continued efforts that were made to refine it gradually and to mould it into a form that would fulfil the new demands of morality and enable it to follow the laborious march of roman society on the road of religious progress.
we know more about the religion of the early egyptians than about any other ancient religion. its development can be traced back three or four thousand years; we can read its sacred texts, mythical narratives, hymns, rituals, and the book of the dead in the original, and we can ascertain its various ideas as to the nature of the divine powers and of future life. a great number of monuments have preserved for our inspection the pictures of divinities and representations of liturgic scenes, while numerous inscriptions and papyri enlighten us in regard to the sacerdotal organization of the principal temples. it would seem that the enormous quantity of documents of all kinds that have been deciphered in the course of nearly an entire century should have dispelled every uncertainty about the creed of ancient egypt, and should have furnished exact information with regard to the sources and original character of the worship which the greeks and the romans borrowed from the subjects of the ptolemies.
and yet, this is not the case. while of the four great oriental religions which were transplanted into the occident, the religion of isis and serapis is the one whose relation to the ancient belief of the mother country we can establish with greatest accuracy, we {74} know very little of its first form and of its nature before the imperial period, when it was held in high esteem.
a purely egyptian worship would not have been acceptable to the greco-latin world. the main merit of the mixed creation of the political genius of the ptolemies consisted in the rejection or modification of everything repugnant or monstrous like the phallophories of abydos, and in the retention of none but {79} stirring or attractive elements. it was the most civilized of all barbarian religions; it retained enough of the exotic element to arouse the curiosity of the greeks, but not enough to offend their delicate sense of proportion, and its success was remarkable.
why was this egyptian worship the only one of all oriental religions to suffer repeated persecutions? there were two motives, one religious and one political.
in the first place, this cult was said to exercise a corrupting influence perversive of piety. its morals were loose, and the mystery surrounding it excited the worst suspicions. moreover, it appealed violently to the emotions and senses. all these factors offended the grave decency that a roman was wont to {82} maintain in the presence of the gods. the innovators had every defender of the mos maiorum for an adversary.
as we have stated, the chapels consecrated to isis were demolished in the year 48 b. c. after cæsar's death, the triumvirs decided in 43 b. c. to erect a temple in her honor out of the public funds, undoubtedly to gain the favor of the masses. this action would have implied official recognition, but the project appears never to have been executed. if antony had succeeded at actium, isis and serapis would have entered rome in triumph, but they were vanquished with cleopatra; and when augustus had become the master of the empire, he professed a deep aversion for the gods of his former enemies. moreover, he could not have suffered the intrusion of the egyptian clergy into the roman sacerdotal class, whose guardian, restorer and chief he was. in 28 b. c. an ordinance was issued forbidding the erecting of altars to the alexandrian divinities inside the sacred enclosure of the pomerium, and seven years later agrippa extended this prohibitive regulation to a radius of a thousand paces around the {83} city. tiberius acted on the same principle and in 19 a. d. instituted the bloodiest persecution against the priests of isis that they ever suffered, in consequence of a scandalous affair in which a matron, a noble and some priests of isis were implicated.
the resistance still offered by the central power could not last much longer. it was impossible to dam in this overflowing stream whose thundering waves struck the {84} shaking walls of the pomerium from every side. the prestige of alexandria seemed invincible. at that period the city was more beautiful, more learned, and better policed than rome. she was the model capital, a standard to which the latins strove to rise. they translated the works of the scholars of alexandria, imitated her authors, invited her artists and copied her institutions. it is plain that they had also to undergo the ascendancy of her religion. as a matter of fact, her fervent believers maintained her sanctuaries, despite the law, on the very capitol. under cæsar, alexandrian astronomers had reformed the calendar of the pontiffs, and alexandrian priests soon marked the dates of isis holidays upon it.
by what secret virtue did the egyptian religion exercise this irresistible influence over the roman world? what new elements did those priests, who made proselytes in every province, give the roman world? did the success of their preaching mean progress or retrogression from the standard of the ancient roman faith? these are complex and delicate questions that would require minute analysis and cautious treatment with a constant and exact observation of shades. i am compelled to limit myself to a rapid sketch, which, i {87} fear, will appear rather dry and arbitrary, like every generalization.
but we have said that egypt was full of contradictions, and when a more exacting morality demanded that the gods should make man virtuous, the alexandrian mysteries offered to satisfy that demand.
at all times the egyptian ritual attributed considerable importance to purity, or, to use a more adequate term, to cleanliness. before every ceremony the officiating priest had to submit to ablutions, sometimes to fumigations or anointing, and to abstain from certain foods and from incontinence for a certain time. originally no moral idea was connected with this purification. it was considered a means of exorcising malevolent demons or of putting the priest into a state in which the sacrifice performed by him could have the expected effect. it was similar to the diet, shower-baths and massage prescribed by physicians for physical health. the internal status of the officiating person was a matter of as much indifference to the celestial spirits as the actual worth of the deceased was to osiris, the judge of the underworld. all that was necessary to have him open the fields of aalu to the soul was to pronounce the liturgic formulas, and if the soul declared its innocence in the prescribed terms its word was readily accepted.
however, in this regard, as in their conception of the divinity, the egyptian mysteries followed the general progress of ideas more than they directed it. {93} philosophy transformed them, but found in them little inspiration.
how could a religion, of which neither the theology nor the ethics was really new, stir up at the same time so much hostility and fervor among the romans? to many minds of to-day theology and ethics constitute religion, but during the classical period it was different, and the priests of isis and serapis conquered souls mainly by other means. they seduced them by the powerful attraction of the ritual and retained them by the marvelous promises of their doctrine of immortality.
but while the ceremonial of the initiations and even the production of the liturgic drama were thus adapted to the religious habits of the greeks, the doctrinal contents of the alexandrian mysteries remained purely egyptian. the old belief that immortality could be secured by means of an identification of the deceased with osiris or serapis never died out.
the power and popularity of that belief in future life has left traces even in the french language, and in concluding this study, from which i have been compelled to exclude every picturesque detail, i would like to point out how a french word of to-day dimly perpetuates the memory of the old egyptian ideas.
the religions of syria never had the same solidarity in the occident as those from egypt or asia minor. from the coasts of phoenicia and the valleys of lebanon, from the borders of the euphrates and the oases of the desert, they came at various periods, like the successive waves of the incoming tide, and existed side by side in the roman world without uniting, in spite of their similarities. the isolation in which they remained and the persistent adherence of their believers to their particular rites were a consequence and reflection of the disunited condition of syria herself, where the different tribes and districts remained more distinct than anywhere else, even after they had been brought together under the domination of rome. they doggedly preserved their local gods and semitic dialects.
it would be impossible to outline each one of these religions in detail at this time and to reconstruct their history, because our meager information would not permit it, but we can indicate, in a general way, how they penetrated into the occidental countries at various periods, and we can try to define their common characteristics by showing what new elements the syrian paganism brought to the romans.
this picturesque description, based on a novel by {105} lucius of patras, is undoubtedly extreme. it is difficult to believe that the sacerdotal corps of the goddess of hierapolis should have consisted only of charlatans and thieves. but how can the presence in the occident of that begging and low nomadic clergy be explained?
during the imperial period, however, the slaves were no longer the only missionaries that came from syria, and atargatis was no longer the only divinity from that country to be worshiped in the occident. the propagation of the semitic worship progressed for the most part in a different manner under the empire.
from the middle upper window blossomed in the dusk a waving, snowy, fluttering, wonderful, divine emblem of forgiveness and promised joy.
by came a citizen, rotund, comfortable, home-hurrying, unknowing of the delights of waving silken scarfs on the borders of dimly-lit parks.
“will you oblige me with the time, sir?” asked the young man; and the citizen, shrewdly conjecturing his watch to be safe, dragged it out and announced:
“twenty-nine and a half minutes past eight, sir.”
and then, from habit, he glanced at the clock in the tower, and made further oration.
“by george! that clock’s half an hour fast! first time in ten years i’ve known it to be off. this watch of mine never varies a—”
but the citizen was talking to vacancy. he turned and saw his hearer, a fast receding black shadow, flying in the direction of a house with three lighted upper windows.
and in the morning came along two policemen on their way to the beats they owned. the park was deserted save for one dilapidated figure that sprawled, asleep, on a bench. they stopped and gazed upon it.
“it’s dopy mike,” said one. “he hits the pipe every night. park bum for twenty years. on his last legs, i guess.”
the other policeman stooped and looked at something crumpled and crisp in the hand of the sleeper.
“gee!” he remarked. “he’s doped out a fifty-dollar bill, anyway. wish i knew the brand of hop that he smokes.”
and then “rap, rap, rap!” went the club of realism against the shoe soles of prince michael, of the electorate of valleluna.
sisters of the golden circle
the rubberneck auto was about ready to start. the merry top-riders had been assigned to their seats by the gentlemanly conductor. the sidewalk was blockaded with sightseers who had gathered to stare at sightseers, justifying the natural law that every creature on earth is preyed upon by some other creature.
the megaphone man raised his instrument of torture; the inside of the great automobile began to thump and throb like the heart of a coffee drinker. the top-riders nervously clung to the seats; the old lady from valparaiso, indiana, shrieked to be put ashore. but, before a wheel turns, listen to a brief preamble through the cardiaphone, which shall point out to you an object of interest on life’s sightseeing tour.
swift and comprehensive is the recognition of white man for white man in african wilds; instant and sure is the spiritual greeting between mother and babe; unhesitatingly do master and dog commune across the slight gulf between animal and man; immeasurably quick and sapient are the brief messages between one and one’s beloved. but all these instances set forth only slow and groping interchange of sympathy and thought beside one other instance which the rubberneck coach shall disclose. you shall learn (if you have not learned already) what two beings of all earth’s living inhabitants most quickly look into each other’s hearts and souls when they meet face to face.
the gong whirred, and the glaring-at-gotham car moved majestically upon its instructive tour.
on the highest, rear seat was james williams, of cloverdale, missouri, and his bride.
capitalise it, friend typo—that last word—word of words in the epiphany of life and love. the scent of the flowers, the booty of the bee, the primal drip of spring waters, the overture of the lark, the twist of lemon peel on the cocktail of creation—such is the bride. holy is the wife; revered the mother; galliptious is the summer girl—but the bride is the certified check among the wedding presents that the gods send in when man is married to mortality.
the car glided up the golden way. on the bridge of the great cruiser the captain stood, trumpeting the sights of the big city to his passengers. wide-mouthed and open-eared, they heard the sights of the metropolis thundered forth to their eyes. confused, delirious with excitement and provincial longings, they tried to make ocular responses to the megaphonic ritual. in the solemn spires of spreading cathedrals they saw the home of the vanderbilts; in the busy bulk of the grand central depot they viewed, wonderingly, the frugal cot of russell sage. bidden to observe the highlands of the hudson, they gaped, unsuspecting, at the upturned mountains of a new-laid sewer. to many the elevated railroad was the rialto, on the stations of which uniformed men sat and made chop suey of your tickets. and to this day in the outlying districts many have it that chuck connors, with his hand on his heart, leads reform; and that but for the noble municipal efforts of one parkhurst, a district attorney, the notorious “bishop” potter gang would have destroyed law and order from the bowery to the harlem river.
but i beg you to observe mrs. james williams—hattie chalmers that was—once the belle of cloverdale. pale-blue is the bride’s, if she will; and this colour she had honoured. willingly had the moss rosebud loaned to her cheeks of its pink—and as for the violet!—her eyes will do very well as they are, thank you. a useless strip of white chaf—oh, no, he was guiding the auto car—of white chiffon—or perhaps it was grenadine or tulle—was tied beneath her chin, pretending to hold her bonnet in place. but you know as well as i do that the hatpins did the work.
and on mrs. james williams’s face was recorded a little library of the world’s best thoughts in three volumes. volume no. 1 contained the belief that james williams was about the right sort of thing. volume no. 2 was an essay on the world, declaring it to be a very excellent place. volume no. 3 disclosed the belief that in occupying the highest seat in a rubberneck auto they were travelling the pace that passes all understanding.
just in front of mrs. james williams sat a girl in a loose tan jacket and a straw hat adorned with grapes and roses. only in dreams and milliners’ shops do we, alas! gather grapes and roses at one swipe. this girl gazed with large blue eyes, credulous, when the megaphone man roared his doctrine that millionaires were things about which we should be concerned. between blasts she resorted to epictetian philosophy in the form of pepsin chewing gum.
at this girl’s right hand sat a young man about twenty-four. he was well-built, active, strong-jawed and good-natured. but if his description seems to follow that of james williams, divest it of anything cloverdalian. this man belonged to hard streets and sharp corners. he looked keenly about him, seeming to begrudge the asphalt under the feet of those upon whom he looked down from his perch.
while the megaphone barks at a famous hostelry, let me whisper you through the low-tuned cardiaphone to sit tight; for now things are about to happen, and the great city will close over them again as over a scrap of ticker tape floating down from the den of a broad street bear.
the girl in the tan jacket twisted around to view the pilgrims on the last seat. the other passengers she had absorbed; the seat behind her was her bluebeard’s chamber.
her eyes met those of mrs. james williams. between two ticks of a watch they exchanged their life’s experiences, histories, hopes and fancies. and all, mind you, with the eye, before two men could have decided whether to draw steel or borrow a match.
the bride leaned forward low. she and the girl spoke rapidly together, their tongues moving quickly like those of two serpents—a comparison that is not meant to go further. two smiles and a dozen nods closed the conference.
and now in the broad, quiet avenue in front of the rubberneck car a man in dark clothes stood with uplifted hand. from the sidewalk another hurried to join him.
the girl in the fruitful hat quickly seized her companion by the arm and whispered in his ear. that young man exhibited proof of ability to act promptly. crouching low, he slid over the edge of the car, hung lightly for an instant, and then disappeared. half a dozen of the top-riders observed his feat, wonderingly, but made no comment, deeming it prudent not to express surprise at what might be the conventional manner of alighting in this bewildering city. the truant passenger dodged a hansom and then floated past, like a leaf on a stream between a furniture van and a florist’s delivery wagon.
the girl in the tan jacket turned again, and looked in the eyes of mrs. james williams. then she faced about and sat still while the rubberneck auto stopped at the flash of the badge under the coat of the plainclothes man.
“what’s eatin’ you?” demanded the megaphonist, abandoning his professional discourse for pure english.
“keep her at anchor for a minute,” ordered the officer. “there’s a man on board we want—a philadelphia burglar called ‘pinky’ mcguire. there he is on the back seat. look out for the side, donovan.”
donovan went to the hind wheel and looked up at james williams.
“come down, old sport,” he said, pleasantly. “we’ve got you. back to sleepytown for yours. it ain’t a bad idea, hidin’ on a rubberneck, though. i’ll remember that.”
softly through the megaphone came the advice of the conductor:
“better step off, sir, and explain. the car must proceed on its tour.”
james williams belonged among the level heads. with necessary slowness he picked his way through the passengers down to the steps at the front of the car. his wife followed, but she first turned her eyes and saw the escaped tourist glide from behind the furniture van and slip behind a tree on the edge of the little park, not fifty feet away.
descended to the ground, james williams faced his captors with a smile. he was thinking what a good story he would have to tell in cloverdale about having been mistaken for a burglar. the rubberneck coach lingered, out of respect for its patrons. what could be a more interesting sight than this?
“my name is james williams, of cloverdale, missouri,” he said kindly, so that they would not be too greatly mortified. “i have letters here that will show—”
“you’ll come with us, please,” announced the plainclothes man. “‘pinky’ mcguire’s description fits you like flannel washed in hot suds. a detective saw you on the rubberneck up at central park and ’phoned down to take you in. do your explaining at the station-house.”
james williams’s wife—his bride of two weeks—looked him in the face with a strange, soft radiance in her eyes and a flush on her cheeks, looked him in the face and said:
“go with ’em quietly, ‘pinky,’ and maybe it’ll be in your favour.”
and then as the glaring-at-gotham car rolled away she turned and threw a kiss—his wife threw a kiss—at some one high up on the seats of the rubberneck.
“your girl gives you good advice, mcguire,” said donovan. “come on, now.”
and then madness descended upon and occupied james williams. he pushed his hat far upon the back of his head.
“my wife seems to think i am a burglar,” he said, recklessly. “i never heard of her being crazy; therefore i must be. and if i’m crazy, they can’t do anything to me for killing you two fools in my madness.”
whereupon he resisted arrest so cheerfully and industriously that cops had to be whistled for, and afterwards the reserves, to disperse a few thousand delighted spectators.
at the station-house the desk sergeant asked for his name.
“mcdoodle, the pink, or pinky the brute, i forget which,” was james williams’s answer. “but you can bet i’m a burglar; don’t leave that out. and you might add that it took five of ’em to pluck the pink. i’d especially like to have that in the records.”
in an hour came mrs. james williams, with uncle thomas, of madison avenue, in a respect-compelling motor car and proofs of the hero’s innocence—for all the world like the third act of a drama backed by an automobile mfg. co.
after the police had sternly reprimanded james williams for imitating a copyrighted burglar and given him as honourable a discharge as the department was capable of, mrs. williams rearrested him and swept him into an angle of the station-house. james williams regarded her with one eye. he always said that donovan closed the other while somebody was holding his good right hand. never before had he given her a word of reproach or of reproof.
“if you can explain,” he began rather stiffly, “why you—”
“dear,” she interrupted, “listen. it was an hour’s pain and trial to you. i did it for her—i mean the girl who spoke to me on the coach. i was so happy, jim—so happy with you that i didn’t dare to refuse that happiness to another. jim, they were married only this morning—those two; and i wanted him to get away. while they were struggling with you i saw him slip from behind his tree and hurry across the park. that’s all of it, dear—i had to do it.”
thus does one sister of the plain gold band know another who stands in the enchanted light that shines but once and briefly for each one. by rice and satin bows does mere man become aware of weddings. but bride knoweth bride at the glance of an eye. and between them swiftly passes comfort and meaning in a language that man and widows wot not of.
the romance of a busy broker
pitcher, confidential clerk in the office of harvey maxwell, broker, allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually expressionless countenance when his employer briskly entered at half past nine in company with his young lady stenographer. with a snappy “good-morning, pitcher,” maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were intending to leap over it, and then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting there for him.
the young lady had been maxwell’s stenographer for a year. she was beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic. she forewent the pomp of the alluring pompadour. she wore no chains, bracelets or lockets. she had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon. her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure with fidelity and discretion. in her neat black turban hat was the gold-green wing of a macaw. on this morning she was softly and shyly radiant. her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine peachblow, her expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence.
pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning. instead of going straight into the adjoining room, where her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer office. once she moved over by maxwell’s desk, near enough for him to be aware of her presence.
the machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy new york broker, moved by buzzing wheels and uncoiling springs.
“well—what is it? anything?” asked maxwell sharply. his opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. his keen grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half impatiently.
“nothing,” answered the stenographer, moving away with a little smile.
“mr. pitcher,” she said to the confidential clerk, “did mr. maxwell say anything yesterday about engaging another stenographer?”
“he did,” answered pitcher. “he told me to get another one. i notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. it’s 9.45 o’clock, and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet.”
“i will do the work as usual, then,” said the young lady, “until some one comes to fill the place.” and she went to her desk at once and hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing in its accustomed place.
he who has been denied the spectacle of a busy manhattan broker during a rush of business is handicapped for the profession of anthropology. the poet sings of the “crowded hour of glorious life.” the broker’s hour is not only crowded, but the minutes and seconds are hanging to all the straps and packing both front and rear platforms.
and this day was harvey maxwell’s busy day. the ticker began to reel out jerkily its fitful coils of tape, the desk telephone had a chronic attack of buzzing. men began to throng into the office and call at him over the railing, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly. messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. the clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm. even pitcher’s face relaxed into something resembling animation.
on the exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and snowstorms and glaciers and volcanoes, and those elemental disturbances were reproduced in miniature in the broker’s offices. maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a toe dancer. he jumped from ticker to ’phone, from desk to door with the trained agility of a harlequin.
in the midst of this growing and important stress the broker became suddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe of golden hair under a nodding canopy of velvet and ostrich tips, an imitation sealskin sacque and a string of beads as large as hickory nuts, ending near the floor with a silver heart. there was a self-possessed young lady connected with these accessories; and pitcher was there to construe her.
“lady from the stenographer’s agency to see about the position,” said pitcher.
maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape.
“what position?” he asked, with a frown.
“position of stenographer,” said pitcher. “you told me yesterday to call them up and have one sent over this morning.”
“you are losing your mind, pitcher,” said maxwell. “why should i have given you any such instructions? miss leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here. the place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it. there’s no place open here, madam. countermand that order with the agency, pitcher, and don’t bring any more of ’em in here.”
the silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself independently against the office furniture as it indignantly departed. pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the “old man” seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every day of the world.
the rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. on the floor they were pounding half a dozen stocks in which maxwell’s customers were heavy investors. orders to buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows. some of his own holdings were imperilled, and the man was working like some high-geared, delicate, strong machine—strung to full tension, going at full speed, accurate, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and act ready and prompt as clockwork. stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages, margins and securities—here was a world of finance, and there was no room in it for the human world or the world of nature.
when the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in the uproar.
maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and memoranda, with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead. his window was open, for the beloved janitress spring had turned on a little warmth through the waking registers of the earth.
and through the window came a wandering—perhaps a lost—odour—a delicate, sweet odour of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable. for this odour belonged to miss leslie; it was her own, and hers only.
the odour brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him. the world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck. and she was in the next room—twenty steps away.
“by george, i’ll do it now,” said maxwell, half aloud. “i’ll ask her now. i wonder i didn’t do it long ago.”
he dashed into the inner office with the haste of a short trying to cover. he charged upon the desk of the stenographer.
she looked up at him with a smile. a soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and frank. maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk. he still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear.
“miss leslie,” he began hurriedly, “i have but a moment to spare. i want to say something in that moment. will you be my wife? i haven’t had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but i really do love you. talk quick, please—those fellows are clubbing the stuffing out of union pacific.”
“oh, what are you talking about?” exclaimed the young lady. she rose to her feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed.
“don’t you understand?” said maxwell, restively. “i want you to marry me. i love you, miss leslie. i wanted to tell you, and i snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit. they’re calling me for the ’phone now. tell ’em to wait a minute, pitcher. won’t you, miss leslie?”
the stenographer acted very queerly. at first she seemed overcome with amazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker’s neck.
“i know now,” she said, softly. “it’s this old business that has driven everything else out of your head for the time. i was frightened at first. don’t you remember, harvey? we were married last evening at 8 o’clock in the little church around the corner.”
after twenty years
the policeman on the beat moved up the avenue impressively. the impressiveness was habitual and not for show, for spectators were few. the time was barely 10 o’clock at night, but chilly gusts of wind with a taste of rain in them had well nigh de-peopled the streets.
trying doors as he went, twirling his club with many intricate and artful movements, turning now and then to cast his watchful eye adown the pacific thoroughfare, the officer, with his stalwart form and slight swagger, made a fine picture of a guardian of the peace. the vicinity was one that kept early hours. now and then you might see the lights of a cigar store or of an all-night lunch counter; but the majority of the doors belonged to business places that had long since been closed.
when about midway of a certain block the policeman suddenly slowed his walk. in the doorway of a darkened hardware store a man leaned, with an unlighted cigar in his mouth. as the policeman walked up to him the man spoke up quickly.
“it’s all right, officer,” he said, reassuringly. “i’m just waiting for a friend. it’s an appointment made twenty years ago. sounds a little funny to you, doesn’t it? well, i’ll explain if you’d like to make certain it’s all straight. about that long ago there used to be a restaurant where this store stands—‘big joe’ brady’s restaurant.”
“until five years ago,” said the policeman. “it was torn down then.”
the man in the doorway struck a match and lit his cigar. the light showed a pale, square-jawed face with keen eyes, and a little white scar near his right eyebrow. his scarfpin was a large diamond, oddly set.
“twenty years ago to-night,” said the man, “i dined here at ‘big joe’ brady’s with jimmy wells, my best chum, and the finest chap in the world. he and i were raised here in new york, just like two brothers, together. i was eighteen and jimmy was twenty. the next morning i was to start for the west to make my fortune. you couldn’t have dragged jimmy out of new york; he thought it was the only place on earth. well, we agreed that night that we would meet here again exactly twenty years from that date and time, no matter what our conditions might be or from what distance we might have to come. we figured that in twenty years each of us ought to have our destiny worked out and our fortunes made, whatever they were going to be.”
“it sounds pretty interesting,” said the policeman. “rather a long time between meets, though, it seems to me. haven’t you heard from your friend since you left?”
the waiting man pulled out a handsome watch, the lids of it set with small diamonds.
“three minutes to ten,” he announced. “it was exactly ten o’clock when we parted here at the restaurant door.”
“did pretty well out west, didn’t you?” asked the policeman.
“you bet! i hope jimmy has done half as well. he was a kind of plodder, though, good fellow as he was. i’ve had to compete with some of the sharpest wits going to get my pile. a man gets in a groove in new york. it takes the west to put a razor-edge on him.”
the policeman twirled his club and took a step or two.
“i’ll be on my way. hope your friend comes around all right. going to call time on him sharp?”
“i should say not!” said the other. “i’ll give him half an hour at least. if jimmy is alive on earth he’ll be here by that time. so long, officer.”
“good-night, sir,” said the policeman, passing on along his beat, trying doors as he went.
there was now a fine, cold drizzle falling, and the wind had risen from its uncertain puffs into a steady blow. the few foot passengers astir in that quarter hurried dismally and silently along with coat collars turned high and pocketed hands. and in the door of the hardware store the man who had come a thousand miles to fill an appointment, uncertain almost to absurdity, with the friend of his youth, smoked his cigar and waited.
about twenty minutes he waited, and then a tall man in a long overcoat, with collar turned up to his ears, hurried across from the opposite side of the street. he went directly to the waiting man.
“is that you, bob?” he asked, doubtfully.
“is that you, jimmy wells?” cried the man in the door.
“bless my heart!” exclaimed the new arrival, grasping both the other’s hands with his own. “it’s bob, sure as fate. i was certain i’d find you here if you were still in existence. well, well, well!—twenty years is a long time. the old restaurant’s gone, bob; i wish it had lasted, so we could have had another dinner there. how has the west treated you, old man?”
“bully; it has given me everything i asked it for. you’ve changed lots, jimmy. i never thought you were so tall by two or three inches.”
“oh, i grew a bit after i was twenty.”
“doing well in new york, jimmy?”
“moderately. i have a position in one of the city departments. come on, bob; we’ll go around to a place i know of, and have a good long talk about old times.”
the two men started up the street, arm in arm. the man from the west, his egotism enlarged by success, was beginning to outline the history of his career. the other, submerged in his overcoat, listened with interest.
at the corner stood a drug store, brilliant with electric lights. when they came into this glare each of them turned simultaneously to gaze upon the other’s face.
the man from the west stopped suddenly and released his arm.
“you’re not jimmy wells,” he snapped. “twenty years is a long time, but not long enough to change a man’s nose from a roman to a pug.”
“it sometimes changes a good man into a bad one,” said the tall man. “you’ve been under arrest for ten minutes, ‘silky’ bob. chicago thinks you may have dropped over our way and wires us she wants to have a chat with you. going quietly, are you? that’s sensible. now, before we go on to the station here’s a note i was asked to hand you. you may read it here at the window. it’s from patrolman wells.”
the man from the west unfolded the little piece of paper handed him. his hand was steady when he began to read, but it trembled a little by the time he had finished. the note was rather short.
bob: i was at the appointed place on time. when you struck the match to light your cigar i saw it was the face of the man wanted in chicago. somehow i couldn’t do it myself, so i went around and got a plain clothes man to do the job.
lost on dress parade
mr. towers chandler was pressing his evening suit in his hall bedroom. one iron was heating on a small gas stove; the other was being pushed vigorously back and forth to make the desirable crease that would be seen later on extending in straight lines from mr. chandler’s patent leather shoes to the edge of his low-cut vest. so much of the hero’s toilet may be intrusted to our confidence. the remainder may be guessed by those whom genteel poverty has driven to ignoble expedient. our next view of him shall be as he descends the steps of his lodging-house immaculately and correctly clothed; calm, assured, handsome—in appearance the typical new york young clubman setting out, slightly bored, to inaugurate the pleasures of the evening.
chandler’s honorarium was $18 per week. he was employed in the office of an architect. he was twenty-two years old; he considered architecture to be truly an art; and he honestly believed—though he would not have dared to admit it in new york—that the flatiron building was inferior in design to the great cathedral in milan.
out of each week’s earnings chandler set aside $1. at the end of each ten weeks with the extra capital thus accumulated, he purchased one gentleman’s evening from the bargain counter of stingy old father time. he arrayed himself in the regalia of millionaires and presidents; he took himself to the quarter where life is brightest and showiest, and there dined with taste and luxury. with ten dollars a man may, for a few hours, play the wealthy idler to perfection. the sum is ample for a well-considered meal, a bottle bearing a respectable label, commensurate tips, a smoke, cab fare and the ordinary etceteras.
this one delectable evening culled from each dull seventy was to chandler a source of renascent bliss. to the society bud comes but one début; it stands alone sweet in her memory when her hair has whitened; but to chandler each ten weeks brought a joy as keen, as thrilling, as new as the first had been. to sit among bon vivants under palms in the swirl of concealed music, to look upon the habitués of such a paradise and to be looked upon by them—what is a girl’s first dance and short-sleeved tulle compared with this?
up broadway chandler moved with the vespertine dress parade. for this evening he was an exhibit as well as a gazer. for the next sixty-nine evenings he would be dining in cheviot and worsted at dubious table d’hôtes, at whirlwind lunch counters, on sandwiches and beer in his hall-bedroom. he was willing to do that, for he was a true son of the great city of razzle-dazzle, and to him one evening in the limelight made up for many dark ones.
chandler protracted his walk until the forties began to intersect the great and glittering primrose way, for the evening was yet young, and when one is of the beau monde only one day in seventy, one loves to protract the pleasure. eyes bright, sinister, curious, admiring, provocative, alluring were bent upon him, for his garb and air proclaimed him a devotee to the hour of solace and pleasure.
at a certain corner he came to a standstill, proposing to himself the question of turning back toward the showy and fashionable restaurant in which he usually dined on the evenings of his especial luxury. just then a girl scuddled lightly around the corner, slipped on a patch of icy snow and fell plump upon the sidewalk.
chandler assisted her to her feet with instant and solicitous courtesy. the girl hobbled to the wall of the building, leaned against it, and thanked him demurely.
“i think my ankle is strained,” she said. “it twisted when i fell.”
“does it pain you much?” inquired chandler.
“only when i rest my weight upon it. i think i will be able to walk in a minute or two.”
“if i can be of any further service,” suggested the young man, “i will call a cab, or—”
“thank you,” said the girl, softly but heartily. “i am sure you need not trouble yourself any further. it was so awkward of me. and my shoe heels are horridly common-sense; i can’t blame them at all.”
chandler looked at the girl and found her swiftly drawing his interest. she was pretty in a refined way; and her eye was both merry and kind. she was inexpensively clothed in a plain black dress that suggested a sort of uniform such as shop girls wear. her glossy dark-brown hair showed its coils beneath a cheap hat of black straw whose only ornament was a velvet ribbon and bow. she could have posed as a model for the self-respecting working girl of the best type.
a sudden idea came into the head of the young architect. he would ask this girl to dine with him. here was the element that his splendid but solitary periodic feasts had lacked. his brief season of elegant luxury would be doubly enjoyable if he could add to it a lady’s society. this girl was a lady, he was sure—her manner and speech settled that. and in spite of her extremely plain attire he felt that he would be pleased to sit at table with her.
these thoughts passed swiftly through his mind, and he decided to ask her. it was a breach of etiquette, of course, but oftentimes wage-earning girls waived formalities in matters of this kind. they were generally shrewd judges of men; and thought better of their own judgment than they did of useless conventions. his ten dollars, discreetly expended, would enable the two to dine very well indeed. the dinner would no doubt be a wonderful experience thrown into the dull routine of the girl’s life; and her lively appreciation of it would add to his own triumph and pleasure.
“i think,” he said to her, with frank gravity, “that your foot needs a longer rest than you suppose. now, i am going to suggest a way in which you can give it that and at the same time do me a favour. i was on my way to dine all by my lonely self when you came tumbling around the corner. you come with me and we’ll have a cozy dinner and a pleasant talk together, and by that time your game ankle will carry you home very nicely, i am sure.”
the girl looked quickly up into chandler’s clear, pleasant countenance. her eyes twinkled once very brightly, and then she smiled ingenuously.
“but we don’t know each other—it wouldn’t be right, would it?” she said, doubtfully.
“there is nothing wrong about it,” said the young man, candidly. “i’ll introduce myself—permit me—mr. towers chandler. after our dinner, which i will try to make as pleasant as possible, i will bid you good-evening, or attend you safely to your door, whichever you prefer.”
“but, dear me!” said the girl, with a glance at chandler’s faultless attire. “in this old dress and hat!”
“never mind that,” said chandler, cheerfully. “i’m sure you look more charming in them than any one we shall see in the most elaborate dinner toilette.”
“come then, miss marian,” said the young architect, gaily, but with perfect courtesy; “you will not have far to walk. there is a very respectable and good restaurant in the next block. you will have to lean on my arm—so—and walk slowly. it is lonely dining all by one’s self. i’m just a little bit glad that you slipped on the ice.”
when the two were established at a well-appointed table, with a promising waiter hovering in attendance, chandler began to experience the real joy that his regular outing always brought to him.
the restaurant was not so showy or pretentious as the one further down broadway, which he always preferred, but it was nearly so. the tables were well filled with prosperous-looking diners, there was a good orchestra, playing softly enough to make conversation a possible pleasure, and the cuisine and service were beyond criticism. his companion, even in her cheap hat and dress, held herself with an air that added distinction to the natural beauty of her face and figure. and it is certain that she looked at chandler, with his animated but self-possessed manner and his kindling and frank blue eyes, with something not far from admiration in her own charming face.
then it was that the madness of manhattan, the frenzy of fuss and feathers, the bacillus of brag, the provincial plague of pose seized upon towers chandler. he was on broadway, surrounded by pomp and style, and there were eyes to look at him. on the stage of that comedy he had assumed to play the one-night part of a butterfly of fashion and an idler of means and taste. he was dressed for the part, and all his good angels had not the power to prevent him from acting it.
so he began to prate to miss marian of clubs, of teas, of golf and riding and kennels and cotillions and tours abroad and threw out hints of a yacht lying at larchmont. he could see that she was vastly impressed by this vague talk, so he endorsed his pose by random insinuations concerning great wealth, and mentioned familiarly a few names that are handled reverently by the proletariat. it was chandler’s short little day, and he was wringing from it the best that could be had, as he saw it. and yet once or twice he saw the pure gold of this girl shine through the mist that his egotism had raised between him and all objects.
“this way of living that you speak of,” she said, “sounds so futile and purposeless. haven’t you any work to do in the world that might interest you more?”
“my dear miss marian,” he exclaimed—“work! think of dressing every day for dinner, of making half a dozen calls in an afternoon—with a policeman at every corner ready to jump into your auto and take you to the station, if you get up any greater speed than a donkey cart’s gait. we do-nothings are the hardest workers in the land.”
the dinner was concluded, the waiter generously fed, and the two walked out to the corner where they had met. miss marian walked very well now; her limp was scarcely noticeable.
“thank you for a nice time,” she said, frankly. “i must run home now. i liked the dinner very much, mr. chandler.”
he shook hands with her, smiling cordially, and said something about a game of bridge at his club. he watched her for a moment, walking rather rapidly eastward, and then he found a cab to drive him slowly homeward.
in his chilly bedroom chandler laid away his evening clothes for a sixty-nine days’ rest. he went about it thoughtfully.
“that was a stunning girl,” he said to himself. “she’s all right, too, i’d be sworn, even if she does have to work. perhaps if i’d told her the truth instead of all that razzle-dazzle we might—but, confound it! i had to play up to my clothes.”
thus spoke the brave who was born and reared in the wigwams of the tribe of the manhattans.
the girl, after leaving her entertainer, sped swiftly cross-town until she arrived at a handsome and sedate mansion two squares to the east, facing on that avenue which is the highway of mammon and the auxiliary gods. here she entered hurriedly and ascended to a room where a handsome young lady in an elaborate house dress was looking anxiously out the window.
“oh, you madcap!” exclaimed the elder girl, when the other entered. “when will you quit frightening us this way? it is two hours since you ran out in that rag of an old dress and marie’s hat. mamma has been so alarmed. she sent louis in the auto to try to find you. you are a bad, thoughtless puss.”
the elder girl touched a button, and a maid came in a moment.
“marie, tell mamma that miss marian has returned.”
“don’t scold, sister. i only ran down to mme. theo’s to tell her to use mauve insertion instead of pink. my costume and marie’s hat were just what i needed. every one thought i was a shopgirl, i am sure.”
“dinner is over, dear; you stayed so late.”
“i know. i slipped on the sidewalk and turned my ankle. i could not walk, so i hobbled into a restaurant and sat there until i was better. that is why i was so long.”
“we will have to marry some day,” she said dreamily—“both of us. we have so much money that we will not be allowed to disappoint the public. do you want me to tell you the kind of a man i could love, sis?”
“go on, you scatterbrain,” smiled the other.
it was neither the season nor the hour when the park had frequenters; and it is likely that the young lady, who was seated on one of the benches at the side of the walk, had merely obeyed a sudden impulse to sit for a while and enjoy a foretaste of coming spring.
she rested there, pensive and still. a certain melancholy that touched her countenance must have been of recent birth, for it had not yet altered the fine and youthful contours of her cheek, nor subdued the arch though resolute curve of her lips.
a tall young man came striding through the park along the path near which she sat. behind him tagged a boy carrying a suit-case. at sight of the young lady, the man’s face changed to red and back to pale again. he watched her countenance as he drew nearer, with hope and anxiety mingled on his own. he passed within a few yards of her, but he saw no evidence that she was aware of his presence or existence.
some fifty yards further on he suddenly stopped and sat on a bench at one side. the boy dropped the suit-case and stared at him with wondering, shrewd eyes. the young man took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. it was a good handkerchief, a good brow, and the young man was good to look at. he said to the boy:
“i want you to take a message to that young lady on that bench. tell her i am on my way to the station, to leave for san francisco, where i shall join that alaska moose-hunting expedition. tell her that, since she has commanded me neither to speak nor to write to her, i take this means of making one last appeal to her sense of justice, for the sake of what has been. tell her that to condemn and discard one who has not deserved such treatment, without giving him her reasons or a chance to explain is contrary to her nature as i believe it to be. tell her that i have thus, to a certain degree, disobeyed her injunctions, in the hope that she may yet be inclined to see justice done. go, and tell her that.”
the young man dropped a half-dollar into the boy’s hand. the boy looked at him for a moment with bright, canny eyes out of a dirty, intelligent face, and then set off at a run. he approached the lady on the bench a little doubtfully, but unembarrassed. he touched the brim of the old plaid bicycle cap perched on the back of his head. the lady looked at him coolly, without prejudice or favour.
“lady,” he said, “dat gent on de oder bench sent yer a song and dance by me. if yer don’t know de guy, and he’s tryin’ to do de johnny act, say de word, and i’ll call a cop in t’ree minutes. if yer does know him, and he’s on de square, w’y i’ll spiel yer de bunch of hot air he sent yer.”
the young lady betrayed a faint interest.
“a song and dance!” she said, in a deliberate sweet voice that seemed to clothe her words in a diaphanous garment of impalpable irony. “a new idea—in the troubadour line, i suppose. i—used to know the gentleman who sent you, so i think it will hardly be necessary to call the police. you may execute your song and dance, but do not sing too loudly. it is a little early yet for open-air vaudeville, and we might attract attention.”
“awe,” said the boy, with a shrug down the length of him, “yer know what i mean, lady. ’tain’t a turn, it’s wind. he told me to tell yer he’s got his collars and cuffs in dat grip for a scoot clean out to ’frisco. den he’s goin’ to shoot snow-birds in de klondike. he says yer told him not to send ’round no more pink notes nor come hangin’ over de garden gate, and he takes dis means of puttin’ yer wise. he says yer refereed him out like a has-been, and never give him no chance to kick at de decision. he says yer swiped him, and never said why.”
the slightly awakened interest in the young lady’s eyes did not abate. perhaps it was caused by either the originality or the audacity of the snow-bird hunter, in thus circumventing her express commands against the ordinary modes of communication. she fixed her eye on a statue standing disconsolate in the dishevelled park, and spoke into the transmitter:
“tell the gentleman that i need not repeat to him a description of my ideals. he knows what they have been and what they still are. so far as they touch on this case, absolute loyalty and truth are the ones paramount. tell him that i have studied my own heart as well as one can, and i know its weakness as well as i do its needs. that is why i decline to hear his pleas, whatever they may be. i did not condemn him through hearsay or doubtful evidence, and that is why i made no charge. but, since he persists in hearing what he already well knows, you may convey the matter.
“tell him that i entered the conservatory that evening from the rear, to cut a rose for my mother. tell him i saw him and miss ashburton beneath the pink oleander. the tableau was pretty, but the pose and juxtaposition were too eloquent and evident to require explanation. i left the conservatory, and, at the same time, the rose and my ideal. you may carry that song and dance to your impresario.”
“i’m shy on one word, lady. jux—jux—put me wise on dat, will yer?”
“juxtaposition—or you may call it propinquity—or, if you like, being rather too near for one maintaining the position of an ideal.”
the gravel spun from beneath the boy’s feet. he stood by the other bench. the man’s eyes interrogated him, hungrily. the boy’s were shining with the impersonal zeal of the translator.
the young man gave a low whistle and his eyes flashed with a sudden thought. his hand flew to the inside pocket of his coat, and drew out a handful of letters. selecting one, he handed it to the boy, following it with a silver dollar from his vest-pocket.
“give that letter to the lady,” he said, “and ask her to read it. tell her that it should explain the situation. tell her that, if she had mingled a little trust with her conception of the ideal, much heartache might have been avoided. tell her that the loyalty she prizes so much has never wavered. tell her i am waiting for an answer.”
the messenger stood before the lady.
“de gent says he’s had de ski-bunk put on him widout no cause. he says he’s no bum guy; and, lady, yer read dat letter, and i’ll bet yer he’s a white sport, all right.”
the young lady unfolded the letter; somewhat doubtfully, and read it.
dear dr. arnold: i want to thank you for your most kind and opportune aid to my daughter last friday evening, when she was overcome by an attack of her old heart-trouble in the conservatory at mrs. waldron’s reception. had you not been near to catch her as she fell and to render proper attention, we might have lost her. i would be glad if you would call and undertake the treatment of her case.
the young lady refolded the letter, and handed it to the boy.
“de gent wants an answer,” said the messenger. “wot’s de word?”
the lady’s eyes suddenly flashed on him, bright, smiling and wet.
“tell that guy on the other bench,” she said, with a happy, tremulous laugh, “that his girl wants him.”
the furnished room
restless, shifting, fugacious as time itself is a certain vast bulk of the population of the red brick district of the lower west side. homeless, they have a hundred homes. they flit from furnished room to furnished room, transients forever—transients in abode, transients in heart and mind. they sing “home, sweet home” in ragtime; they carry their lares et penates in a bandbox; their vine is entwined about a picture hat; a rubber plant is their fig tree.
hence the houses of this district, having had a thousand dwellers, should have a thousand tales to tell, mostly dull ones, no doubt; but it would be strange if there could not be found a ghost or two in the wake of all these vagrant guests.
one evening after dark a young man prowled among these crumbling red mansions, ringing their bells. at the twelfth he rested his lean hand-baggage upon the step and wiped the dust from his hatband and forehead. the bell sounded faint and far away in some remote, hollow depths.
to the door of this, the twelfth house whose bell he had rung, came a housekeeper who made him think of an unwholesome, surfeited worm that had eaten its nut to a hollow shell and now sought to fill the vacancy with edible lodgers.
he asked if there was a room to let.
“come in,” said the housekeeper. her voice came from her throat; her throat seemed lined with fur. “i have the third floor back, vacant since a week back. should you wish to look at it?”
the young man followed her up the stairs. a faint light from no particular source mitigated the shadows of the halls. they trod noiselessly upon a stair carpet that its own loom would have forsworn. it seemed to have become vegetable; to have degenerated in that rank, sunless air to lush lichen or spreading moss that grew in patches to the staircase and was viscid under the foot like organic matter. at each turn of the stairs were vacant niches in the wall. perhaps plants had once been set within them. if so they had died in that foul and tainted air. it may be that statues of the saints had stood there, but it was not difficult to conceive that imps and devils had dragged them forth in the darkness and down to the unholy depths of some furnished pit below.
“this is the room,” said the housekeeper, from her furry throat. “it’s a nice room. it ain’t often vacant. i had some most elegant people in it last summer—no trouble at all, and paid in advance to the minute. the water’s at the end of the hall. sprowls and mooney kept it three months. they done a vaudeville sketch. miss b’retta sprowls—you may have heard of her—oh, that was just the stage names—right there over the dresser is where the marriage certificate hung, framed. the gas is here, and you see there is plenty of closet room. it’s a room everybody likes. it never stays idle long.”
“do you have many theatrical people rooming here?” asked the young man.
“they comes and goes. a good proportion of my lodgers is connected with the theatres. yes, sir, this is the theatrical district. actor people never stays long anywhere. i get my share. yes, they comes and they goes.”
he engaged the room, paying for a week in advance. he was tired, he said, and would take possession at once. he counted out the money. the room had been made ready, she said, even to towels and water. as the housekeeper moved away he put, for the thousandth time, the question that he carried at the end of his tongue.
“a young girl—miss vashner—miss eloise vashner—do you remember such a one among your lodgers? she would be singing on the stage, most likely. a fair girl, of medium height and slender, with reddish, gold hair and a dark mole near her left eyebrow.”
“no, i don’t remember the name. them stage people has names they change as often as their rooms. they comes and they goes. no, i don’t call that one to mind.”
no. always no. five months of ceaseless interrogation and the inevitable negative. so much time spent by day in questioning managers, agents, schools and choruses; by night among the audiences of theatres from all-star casts down to music halls so low that he dreaded to find what he most hoped for. he who had loved her best had tried to find her. he was sure that since her disappearance from home this great, water-girt city held her somewhere, but it was like a monstrous quicksand, shifting its particles constantly, with no foundation, its upper granules of to-day buried to-morrow in ooze and slime.
the guest reclined, inert, upon a chair, while the room, confused in speech as though it were an apartment in babel, tried to discourse to him of its divers tenantry.
a polychromatic rug like some brilliant-flowered rectangular, tropical islet lay surrounded by a billowy sea of soiled matting. upon the gay-papered wall were those pictures that pursue the homeless one from house to house—the huguenot lovers, the first quarrel, the wedding breakfast, psyche at the fountain. the mantel’s chastely severe outline was ingloriously veiled behind some pert drapery drawn rakishly askew like the sashes of the amazonian ballet. upon it was some desolate flotsam cast aside by the room’s marooned when a lucky sail had borne them to a fresh port—a trifling vase or two, pictures of actresses, a medicine bottle, some stray cards out of a deck.
one by one, as the characters of a cryptograph become explicit, the little signs left by the furnished room’s procession of guests developed a significance. the threadbare space in the rug in front of the dresser told that lovely woman had marched in the throng. tiny finger prints on the wall spoke of little prisoners trying to feel their way to sun and air. a splattered stain, raying like the shadow of a bursting bomb, witnessed where a hurled glass or bottle had splintered with its contents against the wall. across the pier glass had been scrawled with a diamond in staggering letters the name “marie.” it seemed that the succession of dwellers in the furnished room had turned in fury—perhaps tempted beyond forbearance by its garish coldness—and wreaked upon it their passions. the furniture was chipped and bruised; the couch, distorted by bursting springs, seemed a horrible monster that had been slain during the stress of some grotesque convulsion. some more potent upheaval had cloven a great slice from the marble mantel. each plank in the floor owned its particular cant and shriek as from a separate and individual agony. it seemed incredible that all this malice and injury had been wrought upon the room by those who had called it for a time their home; and yet it may have been the cheated home instinct surviving blindly, the resentful rage at false household gods that had kindled their wrath. a hut that is our own we can sweep and adorn and cherish.
the young tenant in the chair allowed these thoughts to file, soft-shod, through his mind, while there drifted into the room furnished sounds and furnished scents. he heard in one room a tittering and incontinent, slack laughter; in others the monologue of a scold, the rattling of dice, a lullaby, and one crying dully; above him a banjo tinkled with spirit. doors banged somewhere; the elevated trains roared intermittently; a cat yowled miserably upon a back fence. and he breathed the breath of the house—a dank savour rather than a smell—a cold, musty effluvium as from underground vaults mingled with the reeking exhalations of linoleum and mildewed and rotten woodwork.
then, suddenly, as he rested there, the room was filled with the strong, sweet odour of mignonette. it came as upon a single buffet of wind with such sureness and fragrance and emphasis that it almost seemed a living visitant. and the man cried aloud: “what, dear?” as if he had been called, and sprang up and faced about. the rich odour clung to him and wrapped him around. he reached out his arms for it, all his senses for the time confused and commingled. how could one be peremptorily called by an odour? surely it must have been a sound. but, was it not the sound that had touched, that had caressed him?
“she has been in this room,” he cried, and he sprang to wrest from it a token, for he knew he would recognize the smallest thing that had belonged to her or that she had touched. this enveloping scent of mignonette, the odour that she had loved and made her own—whence came it?
the room had been but carelessly set in order. scattered upon the flimsy dresser scarf were half a dozen hairpins—those discreet, indistinguishable friends of womankind, feminine of gender, infinite of mood and uncommunicative of tense. these he ignored, conscious of their triumphant lack of identity. ransacking the drawers of the dresser he came upon a discarded, tiny, ragged handkerchief. he pressed it to his face. it was racy and insolent with heliotrope; he hurled it to the floor. in another drawer he found odd buttons, a theatre programme, a pawnbroker’s card, two lost marshmallows, a book on the divination of dreams. in the last was a woman’s black satin hair bow, which halted him, poised between ice and fire. but the black satin hair-bow also is femininity’s demure, impersonal, common ornament, and tells no tales.
and then he traversed the room like a hound on the scent, skimming the walls, considering the corners of the bulging matting on his hands and knees, rummaging mantel and tables, the curtains and hangings, the drunken cabinet in the corner, for a visible sign, unable to perceive that she was there beside, around, against, within, above him, clinging to him, wooing him, calling him so poignantly through the finer senses that even his grosser ones became cognisant of the call. once again he answered loudly: “yes, dear!” and turned, wild-eyed, to gaze on vacancy, for he could not yet discern form and colour and love and outstretched arms in the odour of mignonette. oh, god! whence that odour, and since when have odours had a voice to call? thus he groped.
he burrowed in crevices and corners, and found corks and cigarettes. these he passed in passive contempt. but once he found in a fold of the matting a half-smoked cigar, and this he ground beneath his heel with a green and trenchant oath. he sifted the room from end to end. he found dreary and ignoble small records of many a peripatetic tenant; but of her whom he sought, and who may have lodged there, and whose spirit seemed to hover there, he found no trace.
and then he thought of the housekeeper.
he ran from the haunted room downstairs and to a door that showed a crack of light. she came out to his knock. he smothered his excitement as best he could.
“will you tell me, madam,” he besought her, “who occupied the room i have before i came?”
“yes, sir. i can tell you again. ’twas sprowls and mooney, as i said. miss b’retta sprowls it was in the theatres, but missis mooney she was. my house is well known for respectability. the marriage certificate hung, framed, on a nail over—”
“what kind of a lady was miss sprowls—in looks, i mean?”
“why, black-haired, sir, short, and stout, with a comical face. they left a week ago tuesday.”
“and before they occupied it?”
“why, there was a single gentleman connected with the draying business. he left owing me a week. before him was missis crowder and her two children, that stayed four months; and back of them was old mr. doyle, whose sons paid for him. he kept the room six months. that goes back a year, sir, and further i do not remember.”
he thanked her and crept back to his room. the room was dead. the essence that had vivified it was gone. the perfume of mignonette had departed. in its place was the old, stale odour of mouldy house furniture, of atmosphere in storage.
the ebbing of his hope drained his faith. he sat staring at the yellow, singing gaslight. soon he walked to the bed and began to tear the sheets into strips. with the blade of his knife he drove them tightly into every crevice around windows and door. when all was snug and taut he turned out the light, turned the gas full on again and laid himself gratefully upon the bed.
it was mrs. mccool’s night to go with the can for beer. so she fetched it and sat with mrs. purdy in one of those subterranean retreats where house-keepers foregather and the worm dieth seldom.
“i rented out my third floor, back, this evening,” said mrs. purdy, across a fine circle of foam. “a young man took it. he went up to bed two hours ago.”
“now, did ye, mrs. purdy, ma’am?” said mrs. mccool, with intense admiration. “you do be a wonder for rentin’ rooms of that kind. and did ye tell him, then?” she concluded in a husky whisper, laden with mystery.
“rooms,” said mrs. purdy, in her furriest tones, “are furnished for to rent. i did not tell him, mrs. mccool.”
“’tis right ye are, ma’am; ’tis by renting rooms we kape alive. ye have the rale sense for business, ma’am. there be many people will rayjict the rentin’ of a room if they be tould a suicide has been after dyin’ in the bed of it.”
“as you say, we has our living to be making,” remarked mrs. purdy.
“yis, ma’am; ’tis true. ’tis just one wake ago this day i helped ye lay out the third floor, back. a pretty slip of a colleen she was to be killin’ herself wid the gas—a swate little face she had, mrs. purdy, ma’am.”
“she’d a-been called handsome, as you say,” said mrs. purdy, assenting but critical, “but for that mole she had a-growin’ by her left eyebrow. do fill up your glass again, mrs. mccool.”
the brief début of tildy
if you do not know bogle’s chop house and family restaurant it is your loss. for if you are one of the fortunate ones who dine expensively you should be interested to know how the other half consumes provisions. and if you belong to the half to whom waiters’ checks are things of moment, you should know bogle’s, for there you get your money’s worth—in quantity, at least.
bogle’s is situated in that highway of bourgeoisie, that boulevard of brown-jones-and-robinson, eighth avenue. there are two rows of tables in the room, six in each row. on each table is a caster-stand, containing cruets of condiments and seasons. from the pepper cruet you may shake a cloud of something tasteless and melancholy, like volcanic dust. from the salt cruet you may expect nothing. though a man should extract a sanguinary stream from the pallid turnip, yet will his prowess be balked when he comes to wrest salt from bogle’s cruets. also upon each table stands the counterfeit of that benign sauce made “from the recipe of a nobleman in india.”
at the cashier’s desk sits bogle, cold, sordid, slow, smouldering, and takes your money. behind a mountain of toothpicks he makes your change, files your check, and ejects at you, like a toad, a word about the weather. beyond a corroboration of his meteorological statement you would better not venture. you are not bogle’s friend; you are a fed, transient customer, and you and he may not meet again until the blowing of gabriel’s dinner horn. so take your change and go—to the devil if you like. there you have bogle’s sentiments.
the needs of bogle’s customers were supplied by two waitresses and a voice. one of the waitresses was named aileen. she was tall, beautiful, lively, gracious and learned in persiflage. her other name? there was no more necessity for another name at bogle’s than there was for finger-bowls.
the name of the other waitress was tildy. why do you suggest matilda? please listen this time—tildy—tildy. tildy was dumpy, plain-faced, and too anxious to please to please. repeat the last clause to yourself once or twice, and make the acquaintance of the duplicate infinite.
the voice at bogle’s was invisible. it came from the kitchen, and did not shine in the way of originality. it was a heathen voice, and contented itself with vain repetitions of exclamations emitted by the waitresses concerning food.
will it tire you to be told again that aileen was beautiful? had she donned a few hundred dollars’ worth of clothes and joined the easter parade, and had you seen her, you would have hastened to say so yourself.
the customers at bogle’s were her slaves. six tables full she could wait upon at once. they who were in a hurry restrained their impatience for the joy of merely gazing upon her swiftly moving, graceful figure. they who had finished eating ate more that they might continue in the light of her smiles. every man there—and they were mostly men—tried to make his impression upon her.
aileen could successfully exchange repartee against a dozen at once. and every smile that she sent forth lodged, like pellets from a scatter-gun, in as many hearts. and all this while she would be performing astounding feats with orders of pork and beans, pot roasts, ham-and, sausage-and-the-wheats, and any quantity of things on the iron and in the pan and straight up and on the side. with all this feasting and flirting and merry exchange of wit bogle’s came mighty near being a salon, with aileen for its madame récamier.
if the transients were entranced by the fascinating aileen, the regulars were her adorers. there was much rivalry among many of the steady customers. aileen could have had an engagement every evening. at least twice a week some one took her to a theatre or to a dance. one stout gentleman whom she and tildy had privately christened “the hog” presented her with a turquoise ring. another one known as “freshy,” who rode on the traction company’s repair wagon, was going to give her a poodle as soon as his brother got the hauling contract in the ninth. and the man who always ate spareribs and spinach and said he was a stock broker asked her to go to “parsifal” with him.
“i don’t know where this place is,” said aileen while talking it over with tildy, “but the wedding-ring’s got to be on before i put a stitch into a travelling dress—ain’t that right? well, i guess!”
in steaming, chattering, cabbage-scented bogle’s there was almost a heart tragedy. tildy with the blunt nose, the hay-coloured hair, the freckled skin, the bag-o’-meal figure, had never had an admirer. not a man followed her with his eyes when she went to and fro in the restaurant save now and then when they glared with the beast-hunger for food. none of them bantered her gaily to coquettish interchanges of wit. none of them loudly “jollied” her of mornings as they did aileen, accusing her, when the eggs were slow in coming, of late hours in the company of envied swains. no one had ever given her a turquoise ring or invited her upon a voyage to mysterious, distant “parsifal.”
tildy was a good waitress, and the men tolerated her. they who sat at her tables spoke to her briefly with quotations from the bill of fare; and then raised their voices in honeyed and otherwise-flavoured accents, eloquently addressed to the fair aileen. they writhed in their chairs to gaze around and over the impending form of tildy, that aileen’s pulchritude might season and make ambrosia of their bacon and eggs.
and tildy was content to be the unwooed drudge if aileen could receive the flattery and the homage. the blunt nose was loyal to the short grecian. she was aileen’s friend; and she was glad to see her rule hearts and wean the attention of men from smoking pot-pie and lemon meringue. but deep below our freckles and hay-coloured hair the unhandsomest of us dream of a prince or a princess, not vicarious, but coming to us alone.
there was a morning when aileen tripped in to work with a slightly bruised eye; and tildy’s solicitude was almost enough to heal any optic.
“fresh guy,” explained aileen, “last night as i was going home at twenty-third and sixth. sashayed up, so he did, and made a break. i turned him down, cold, and he made a sneak; but followed me down to eighteenth, and tried his hot air again. gee! but i slapped him a good one, side of the face. then he give me that eye. does it look real awful, til? i should hate that mr. nicholson should see it when he comes in for his tea and toast at ten.”
tildy listened to the adventure with breathless admiration. no man had ever tried to follow her. she was safe abroad at any hour of the twenty-four. what bliss it must have been to have had a man follow one and black one’s eye for love!
among the customers at bogle’s was a young man named seeders, who worked in a laundry office. mr. seeders was thin and had light hair, and appeared to have been recently rough-dried and starched. he was too diffident to aspire to aileen’s notice; so he usually sat at one of tildy’s tables, where he devoted himself to silence and boiled weakfish.
one day when mr. seeders came in to dinner he had been drinking beer. there were only two or three customers in the restaurant. when mr. seeders had finished his weakfish he got up, put his arm around tildy’s waist, kissed her loudly and impudently, walked out upon the street, snapped his fingers in the direction of the laundry, and hied himself to play pennies in the slot machines at the amusement arcade.
for a few moments tildy stood petrified. then she was aware of aileen shaking at her an arch forefinger, and saying:
“why, til, you naughty girl! ain’t you getting to be awful, miss slyboots! first thing i know you’ll be stealing some of my fellows. i must keep an eye on you, my lady.”
another thing dawned upon tildy’s recovering wits. in a moment she had advanced from a hopeless, lowly admirer to be an eve-sister of the potent aileen. she herself was now a man-charmer, a mark for cupid, a sabine who must be coy when the romans were at their banquet boards. man had found her waist achievable and her lips desirable. the sudden and amatory seeders had, as it were, performed for her a miraculous piece of one-day laundry work. he had taken the sackcloth of her uncomeliness, had washed, dried, starched and ironed it, and returned it to her sheer embroidered lawn—the robe of venus herself.
the freckles on tildy’s cheeks merged into a rosy flush. now both circe and psyche peeped from her brightened eyes. not even aileen herself had been publicly embraced and kissed in the restaurant.
tildy could not keep the delightful secret. when trade was slack she went and stood at bogle’s desk. her eyes were shining; she tried not to let her words sound proud and boastful.
“a gentleman insulted me to-day,” she said. “he hugged me around the waist and kissed me.”
“that so?” said bogle, cracking open his business armour. “after this week you get a dollar a week more.”
at the next regular meal when tildy set food before customers with whom she had acquaintance she said to each of them modestly, as one whose merit needed no bolstering:
“a gentleman insulted me to-day in the restaurant. he put his arm around my waist and kissed me.”
the diners accepted the revelation in various ways—some incredulously, some with congratulations; others turned upon her the stream of badinage that had hitherto been directed at aileen alone. and tildy’s heart swelled in her bosom, for she saw at last the towers of romance rise above the horizon of the grey plain in which she had for so long travelled.
for two days mr. seeders came not again. during that time tildy established herself firmly as a woman to be wooed. she bought ribbons, and arranged her hair like aileen’s, and tightened her waist two inches. she had a thrilling but delightful fear that mr. seeders would rush in suddenly and shoot her with a pistol. he must have loved her desperately; and impulsive lovers are always blindly jealous.
even aileen had not been shot at with a pistol. and then tildy rather hoped that he would not shoot at her, for she was always loyal to aileen; and she did not want to overshadow her friend.
at 4 o’clock on the afternoon of the third day mr. seeders came in. there were no customers at the tables. at the back end of the restaurant tildy was refilling the mustard pots and aileen was quartering pies. mr. seeders walked back to where they stood.
tildy looked up and saw him, gasped, and pressed the mustard spoon against her heart. a red hair-bow was in her hair; she wore venus’s eighth avenue badge, the blue bead necklace with the swinging silver symbolic heart.
mr. seeders was flushed and embarrassed. he plunged one hand into his hip pocket and the other into a fresh pumpkin pie.
“miss tildy,” said he, “i want to apologise for what i done the other evenin’. tell you the truth, i was pretty well tanked up or i wouldn’t of done it. i wouldn’t do no lady that a-way when i was sober. so i hope, miss tildy, you’ll accept my ’pology, and believe that i wouldn’t of done it if i’d known what i was doin’ and hadn’t of been drunk.”
with this handsome plea mr. seeders backed away, and departed, feeling that reparation had been made.
but behind the convenient screen tildy had thrown herself flat upon a table among the butter chips and the coffee cups, and was sobbing her heart out—out and back again to the grey plain wherein travel they with blunt noses and hay-coloured hair. from her knot she had torn the red hair-bow and cast it upon the floor. seeders she despised utterly; she had but taken his kiss as that of a pioneer and prophetic prince who might have set the clocks going and the pages to running in fairyland. but the kiss had been maudlin and unmeant; the court had not stirred at the false alarm; she must forevermore remain the sleeping beauty.
yet not all was lost. aileen’s arm was around her; and tildy’s red hand groped among the butter chips till it found the warm clasp of her friend’s.
“don’t you fret, til,” said aileen, who did not understand entirely. “that turnip-faced little clothespin of a seeders ain’t worth it. he ain’t anything of a gentleman or he wouldn’t ever of apologised.”
archive.org <http://www.archive.org/details/onceontime00miln> and edited by padraig o hiceadha.
this text was typed for project gutenberg by k hindall <kkh2atcornell.edu> from a pdf at archive.org <http://www.archive.org/details/onceontime00miln> and edited by padraig o hiceadha.
once on a time
grosset & dunlap
a. a. milne
this book was written in 1915, for the amusement of my wife and myself at a time when life was not very amusing; it was published at the end of 1917; was reviewed, if at all, as one of a parcel, by some brisk uncle from the tiny tots department; and died quietly, without seriously detracting from the interest which was being taken in the world war, then in progress.
it may be that the circumstances in which the book was written have made me unduly fond of it. when, as sometimes happens, i am introduced to a stranger who starts the conversation on the right lines by praising, however insincerely, my books, i always say, "but you have not read the best one." nine times out of ten it is so. the tenth takes a place in the family calendar; st. michael or st. agatha, as the case may be, a red-letter or black-letter saint, according to whether the book was bought or borrowed. but there are few such saints, and both my publisher and i have the feeling (so common to publishers and authors) that there ought to be more. so here comes the book again, in a new dress, with new decorations, yet much, as far as i am concerned, the same book, making the same appeal to me; but, let us hope, a new appeal, this time, to others.
but i am very sure of this: that no one can write a book which children will like, unless he write it for himself first. that being so, i shall say boldly that this is a story for grown-ups. how grown-up i did not realise until i received a letter from an unknown reader a few weeks after its first publication; a letter which said that he was delighted with my clever satires of the kaiser, mr. lloyd george and mr. asquith, but he could not be sure which of the characters were meant to be mr. winston churchill and mr. bonar law. would i tell him on the enclosed postcard? i replied that they were thinly disguised on the title-page as messrs. hodder & stoughton. in fact, it is not that sort of book.
but, as you see, i am still finding it difficult to explain just what sort of book it is. perhaps no explanation is necessary. read in it what you like; read it to whomever you like; be of what age you like; it can only fall into one of two classes. either you will enjoy it, or you won't.
it is that sort of book.
a. a. milne.
i.--the king of euralia has a visitor to breakfast
ii.--the chancellor of barodia has a long walk home
iii.--the king of euralia draws his sword
vi.--there are no wizards in barodia
vii.--the princess receives a letter and writes one
viii.--prince udo sleeps badly
ix.--they are afraid of udo
x.--charlotte patacake astonishes the critics
xi.--watercress seems to go with the ears
xii.--we decide to write to udo's father
xiii.--"pink" rhymes with "think"
xvi.--belvane enjoys herself
xvii.--the king of barodia drops the whisker habit
xviii.--the veteran of the forest entertains two very young people
xix.--udo behaves like a gentleman
xx.--coronel knows a good story when he hears it
xxi.--a serpent coming after udo
xxii.--the seventeen volumes go back again
a map of euralia showing the adjacent country of barodia and the far-distant araby
he was a man of simple tastes
"most extraordinary," said the king
he found the king nursing a bent whisker and in the very vilest of tempers
"try it on me," cried the countess
five times he had come back to give her his last instructions
armed to the teeth, amazon after amazon marched by
when the respective armies returned to camp they found their majesties asleep
the rabbit was gone, and there was a fairy in front of her
as evening fell they came to a woodman's cottage at the foot of a high hill
"coronel, here i am," said udo pathetically, and he stepped out
twenty-one minutes later henrietta crossbuns was acknowledging a bag of gold
princess hyacinth gave a shriek and faltered slowly backwards
"now we can talk," said hyacinth
he forgot his manners, and made a jump towards her
she glided gracefully behind the sundial in a pretty affectation of alarm
when anybody of superior station or age came into the room she rose and curtsied
and then she danced
"good morning," said belvane
the tent seemed to swim before his eyes, and he knew no more
she turned round and went off daintily down the hill
let me present to you my friend the duke coronel
as the towers of the castle came in sight, merriwig drew a deep breath of happiness
belvane leading the way with her finger to her lips
merriwig following with an exaggerated caution
he was a pleasant-looking person, with a round clean-shaven face
the king of euralia has a visitor to breakfast
king merriwig of euralia sat at breakfast on his castle walls. he lifted the gold cover from the gold dish in front of him, selected a trout and conveyed it carefully to his gold plate. he was a man of simple tastes, but when you have an aunt with the newly acquired gift of turning anything she touches to gold, you must let her practise sometimes. in another age it might have been fretwork.
"ah," said the king, "here you are, my dear." he searched for his napkin, but the princess had already kissed him lightly on the top of the head, and was sitting in her place opposite to him.
"good morning, father," she said; "i'm a little late, aren't i? i've been riding in the forest."
"any adventures?" asked the king casually.
"nothing, except it's a beautiful morning."
"ah, well, perhaps the country isn't what it was. now when i was a young man, you simply couldn't go into the forest without an adventure of some sort. the extraordinary things one encountered! witches, giants, dwarfs----. it was there that i first met your mother," he added thoughtfully.
"i wish i remembered my mother," said hyacinth.
the king coughed and looked at her a little nervously.
"seventeen years ago she died, hyacinth, when you were only six months old. i have been wondering lately whether i haven't been a little remiss in leaving you motherless so long."
the princess looked puzzled. "but it wasn't your fault, dear, that mother died."
"oh, no, no, i'm not saying that. as you know, a dragon carried her off and--well, there it was. but supposing"--he looked at her shyly--"i had married again."
the princess was startled.
"who?" she asked.
the king peered into his flagon. "well," he said, "there are people."
"if it had been somebody very nice," said the princess wistfully, "it might have been rather lovely."
the king gazed earnestly at the outside of his flagon.
"why 'might have been?'" he said.
the princess was still puzzled. "but i'm grown up," she said; "i don't want a mother so much now."
the king turned his flagon round and studied the other side of it.
"a mother's--er--tender hand," he said, "is--er--never----" and then the outrageous thing happened.
it was all because of a birthday present to the king of barodia, and the present was nothing less than a pair of seven-league boots. the king being a busy man, it was a week or more before he had an opportunity of trying those boots. meanwhile he used to talk about them at meals, and he would polish them up every night before he went to bed. when the great day came for the first trial of them to be made, he took a patronising farewell of his wife and family, ignored the many eager noses pressed against the upper windows of the palace, and sailed off. the motion, as perhaps you know, is a little disquieting at first, but one soon gets used to it. after that it is fascinating. he had gone some two thousand miles before he realised that there might be a difficulty about finding his way back. the difficulty proved at least as great as he had anticipated. for the rest of that day he toured backwards and forwards across the country; and it was by the merest accident that a very angry king shot in through an open pantry window in the early hours of the morning. he removed his boots and went softly to bed. . . .
it was, of course, a lesson to him. he decided that in the future he must proceed by a recognised route, sailing lightly from landmark to landmark. such a route his geographers prepared for him--an early morning constitutional, of three hundred miles or so, to be taken ten times before breakfast. he gave himself a week in which to recover his nerve and then started out on the first of them.
now the kingdom of euralia adjoined that of barodia, but whereas barodia was a flat country, euralia was a land of hills. it was natural then that the court geographers, in search of landmarks, should have looked towards euralia; and over euralia accordingly, about the time when cottage and castle alike were breakfasting, the king of barodia soared and dipped and soared and dipped again.
"a mother's tender hand," said the king of euralia, "is--er--never--good gracious! what's that?"
there was a sudden rush of air; something came for a moment between his majesty and the sun; and then all was quiet again.
"what was it?" asked hyacinth, slightly alarmed.
"most extraordinary," said the king. "it left in my mind an impression of ginger whiskers and large boots. do we know anybody like that?"
"the king of barodia," said hyacinth, "has red whiskers, but i don't know about his boots."
"but what could he have been doing up there? unless----"
there was another rush of wind in the opposite direction; once more the sun was obscured, and this time, plain for a moment for all to see, appeared the rapidly dwindling back view of the king of barodia on his way home to breakfast.
merriwig rose with dignity.
"you're quite right, hyacinth," he said sternly; "it was the king of barodia."
hyacinth looked troubled.
"he oughtn't to come over anybody's breakfast table quite so quickly as that. ought he, father?"
"a lamentable display of manners, my dear. i shall withdraw now and compose a stiff note to him. the amenities must be observed."
looking as severe as a naturally jovial face would permit him, and wondering a little if he had pronounced "amenities" right, he strode to the library.
the library was his majesty's favourite apartment. here in the mornings he would discuss affairs of state with his chancellor, or receive any distinguished visitors who were to come to his kingdom in search of adventure. here in the afternoon, with a copy of what to say to a wizard or some such book taken at random from the shelves, he would give himself up to meditation.
and it was the distinguished visitors of the morning who gave him most to think about in the afternoon. there were at this moment no fewer than seven different princes engaged upon seven different enterprises, to whom, in the event of a successful conclusion, he had promised the hand of hyacinth and half his kingdom. no wonder he felt that she needed the guiding hand of a mother.
the stiff note to barodia was not destined to be written. he was still hesitating between two different kinds of nib, when the door was flung open and the fateful name of the countess belvane was announced.
the countess belvane! what can i say which will bring home to you that wonderful, terrible, fascinating woman? mastered as she was by overweening ambition, utterly unscrupulous in her methods of achieving her purpose, none the less her adorable humanity betrayed itself in a passion for diary-keeping and a devotion to the simpler forms of lyrical verse. that she is the villain of the piece i know well; in his euralia past and present the eminent historian, roger scurvilegs, does not spare her; but that she had her great qualities i should be the last to deny.
she had been writing poetry that morning, and she wore green. she always wore green when the muse was upon her: a pleasing habit which, whether as a warning or an inspiration, modern poets might do well to imitate. she carried an enormous diary under her arm; and in her mind several alternative ways of putting down her reflections on her way to the palace.
"good morning, dear countess," said the king, rising only too gladly from his nibs; "an early visit."
"you don't mind, your majesty?" said the countess anxiously. "there was a point in our conversation yesterday about which i was not quite certain----"
"what were we talking about yesterday?"
"oh, your majesty," said the countess, "affairs of state," and she gave him that wicked, innocent, impudent, and entirely scandalous look which he never could resist, and you couldn't either for that matter.
"affairs of state, of course," smiled the king.
"why, i made a special note of it in my diary."
she laid down the enormous volume and turned lightly over the pages.
"here we are! 'thursday. his majesty did me the honour to consult me about the future of his daughter, the princess hyacinth. remained to tea and was very----' i can't quite make this word out."
"let me look," said the king, his rubicund face becoming yet more rubicund. "it looks like 'charming,'" he said casually.
"fancy!" said belvane. "fancy my writing that! i put down just what comes into my head at the time, you know." she made a gesture with her hand indicative of some one who puts down just what comes into her head at the time, and returned to her diary. "'remained to tea, and was very charming. mused afterwards on the mutability of life!'" she looked up at him with wide-open eyes. "i often muse when i'm alone," she said.
the king still hovered over the diary.
"have you any more entries like--like that last one? may i look?"
"oh, your majesty! i'm afraid it's quite private." she closed the book quickly.
"i just thought i saw some poetry," said the king.
"just a little ode to a favourite linnet. it wouldn't interest your majesty."
"i adore poetry," said the king, who had himself written a rhymed couplet which could be said either forwards or backwards, and in the latter position was useful for removing enchantments. according to the eminent historian, roger scurvilegs, it had some vogue in euralia and went like this:
"bo, boll, bill, bole.
but fortunately for women, infidels are more numerous than they ever were before, and the power of the church is dying of dry rot, or as col. ingersoll wittily says, of the combined influence of softening of the brain and ossification of the heart.
"st. gregory the great describes the virtue of a priest, who through motives of piety had discarded his wife... their wives, in immense numbers, were driven forth with hatred and with scorn... pope urban ii. gave license to the nobles to reduce to slavery the wives of priests who refused to abandon them."--lecky.
1. "hallam denies that respect for women is due to christianity. "--buckle.
2. "in england, wives are still occasionally led to the market by a halter around the neck to be sold by the husband to the highest bidder."--ibid.
"the sale of a wife with a halter around her neck is still a legal transaction in england. the sale must be made in the cattle market, as if she were a mare, all women being considered as mares by old english law, and indeed called 'mares' in certain counties where genuine old english law is still preserved."--borrow.
3. "contempt for woman, the result of clerical teaching, is shown in myriad forms."--gage.
4. "the legal subordination of one sex to another is wrong in itself, and is now one of the chief hindrances to human improvement."--john stuart mill.
5. "i have no relish for a community of goods resting on the doctrine, that what is mine is yours, but what is yours is not mine; and i should prefer to decline entering into such a compact with anyone, though i were myself the person to profit by it."--ibid.
it will take a long time for that sort of morality to filter into the skull of the church, and when it does the skull will burst.
6. "certain beliefs have been inculcated, certain crimes invented, in order to intimidate the masses. hence the church made free thought the worst of sins, and the spirit of inquiry the worst of blasphemies.... as late as the time of bunyan the chief doctrine inculcated from the pulpit was obedience to the temporal power.... all these influences fell with crushing weight on woman."--matilda joslyn gage in "hist. woman suffrage."
7. "taught that education for her was indelicate and irreligious, she has been kept in such gross ignorance as to fall a prey to superstition, and to glory in her own degradation... such was the prejudice against a liberal education for woman, that the first public examination of a girl in geometry (1829) created as bitter a storm of ridicule as has since assailed women who have entered the law, the pulpit, or the medical profession."--ibid.
1. "the five writers to whose genius we owe the first attempt at comprehensive views of history were bolingbroke, montesquieu, voltaire, hume, and gibbon. of these the second was but a cold believer in christianity, if, indeed, he believed in it at all; and the other four were avowed and notorious infidels."--buckle.
2 "here, then, we have the starting-point of progress--scepticism.... all, therefore, that men want is no hindrance from their political and religious rulers.... until common minds doubt respecting religion they can never receive any new scientific conclusion at variance with it--as joshua and copernicus."--ibid.
3. "the immortal work of gibbon, of which the sagacity is, if possible, equal to the learning, did find readers, but the illustrious author was so cruelly reviled by men who called themselves christians, that it seemed doubtful if, after such an example, subsequent writers would hazard their comfort and happiness by attempting to write philosophic history. middleton wrote in 1750.... as long as the theological spirit was alive nothing could be effected."--ibid.
"the greatest fact in the intellectual history of the eighteenth century is the decisive revolution that overtook the sustaining conviction of the church. the central conception, that the universe was called into existence only to further its creator's purpose toward man, became incredible (by the light of the new thought). what seems to careless observers a mere metaphysical dispute was in truth, and still is, the decisive quarter of the great battle between theology and a philosophy reconcilable with science."--morley.
the claim is so often and so boldly made that infidelity produces crime, and that christianity, or belief, or faith, makes people good, that the following statistics usually produce a rather chilly sensation in the believer when presented in the midst of an argument based upon the above mentioned claim. i have used it with effect. the person upon whom it is used will never offer that argument to you again. the following statistics were taken from the british parliamentary reports, made on the instance of sir john trelawney, in 1873:
england and wales.
sectarian and infidel population of the same.
religious persuasions of criminals of the same.
criminals to 100,000 population.
these statistics are taken from the report of the british parliament, which, for learning and intelligence, as a deliberative body, has not its superior, if it has its equal, in the world, and it is surely a sufficiently christian body to be accepted as authority in this matter, since a large number of its members are clergymen. these statistics hardly sustain the allegation that "infidelity is coupled with impurity."
we are willing to stand upon our record. but, lest it be claimed that this is a british peculiarity, allow me to defer to the patriotic sentiment of my readers by one other little set of tables which, while not complete, is equally as suggestive.
"in sixty-six different prisons, jails, reformatories, refuges, penitentiaries, and lock-ups there were, for the years given in reports, 41,335 men and boys, women and girls, of the following religious sects:
"these included the prisons of iowa, michigan, tennessee, new york, pennsylvania, connecticut, indiana, illinois, and canada."
present these two tables to those who assure you that crime follows in the wake of infidelity, and you will have time to take a comfortable nap before your christian friend returns to the attack or braces up after the shock sustained by his sentiments and inflicted by these two small but truly suggestive tables.
one cold fact like this will inoculate one of the faithful with more modesty than an hour of usual argument based upon the assumptions of the clergy and the ignorance of his hearers.
"moreover, as goethe has already shown, the celebrated mosaic moral precepts, the so-called ten commandments, were not upon the tables upon which moses wrote the laws of the covenant which god made with his people.
"it is therefore clear that for our present age and for the future a foundation must be sought and found for culture and morality, different from that which can be furnished to us by religion. it is not the fear of god that acts amelioratingly or ennoblingly upon manners, of which the middle ages furnish us with a striking proof; but the ennobling of the conception of the world in general which goes hand in hand with the advance of civilization. let us then give up making a show of the profession of hypocritical words of faith, the only purpose of which seems to be that they may be continually shown to be lies by the actions and deeds of their professors! the man of the future will feel far more happy and contented when he has not to contend at every step of his intellectual forward development with those tormenting contradictions between knowledge and faith which plague his youth, and occupy his mature age unnecessarily with the slow renunciation of the notions which he imbibed in his youth. what we sacrifice to god, we take away from mankind, and absorb a great part of his best intellectual powers in the pursuit of an unattainable goal. at any rate, the least that we can expect in this respect from the state and society of the future is a complete separation between ecclesiastical and worldly affairs, or an absolute emancipation of the state and the school from every ecclesiastical influence.
"education must be founded upon knowledge, not upon faith; and religion itself should be taught in the public schools only as religious history and as an objective or scientific exposition of the different religious systems prevailing among mankind. any one who, after such an education, still experiences the need of a definite law or rule of faith may then attach himself to any religious sect that may seem good to him, but cannot claim that the community should bear the cost of this special fancy!
"as regards christianity, or the paulinism which is falsely called christianity, it stands, by its dogmatic portion or contents, in such striking and irreconcilable, nay absolutely absurd contradiction with all the acquisitions and principles of modern science that its future tragical fate can only be a question of time. but even its ethical contents or its moral principles are in no way essentially distinguished above those of other peoples, and were equally well and in part better known to mankind even before its appearance. not only in this respect, but also in its supposed character as the world-religion, it is excelled by the much older and probably most widely diffused religious system in the world, the celebrated buddhism, which recognizes neither the idea of a personal god, nor that of a personal duration, and nevertheless teaches an extremely pure, amiable, and even ascetic morality. the doctrine of zoroaster or zarathrustra also, 1800 years b. c, taught the principles of humanity and toleration for those of different modes of thinking in a manner and purity which were unknown to the semitic religions and especially to christianity. christianity originated and spread, as is well-known, at a time of general decline of manners, and of very great moral and national corruption; and its extraordinary success must be partly explained by the prevalence of a sort of intellectual and moral disease which had overpowered the spirits of men after the fall of the ancient civilization and under the demoralizing influence of the gradual collapse of the great roman empire. but even at that time those who stood intellectually high and looked deeply into things recognized the whole danger of this new turn of mind, and it is very remarkable that the best and most benevolent of the roman emperors, such as marcus aurelius, julian, etc., were the most zealous persecutors of christianity, whilst it was tolerated by the bad ones, such as commodus, heliogabalus, etc. when it had gradually attained the superiority, one of its first sins against intellectual progress consisted in the destruction by christian fanaticism of the celebrated library of alexandria, which contained all the intellectual treasures of antiquity--an incalculable loss to science, which can never be replaced. it is usually asserted in praise of christianity that in the middle ages the christian monasteries were the preservers of science and literature, but even this is correct only in a very limited sense, since boundless ignorance and rudeness generally prevailed in the monasteries, and innumerable ecclesiastics could not even read. valuable literary treasures on parchment contained in the libraries of the monasteries were destroyed, the monks when they wanted money selling the books as parchment, or tearing out the leaves and writing psalms upon them. frequently they entirely effaced the ancient classics, to make room for their foolish legends and homilies; nay, the reading of the classics, such as aristotle for example, was directly forbidden by papal decrees.
"in new spain christian fanaticism immediately destroyed whatever of arts and civilization existed among the natives, and that this was not inconsiderable is shown by the numerous monuments now in ruins which place beyond a doubt the former existence of a tolerably high degree of culture. but in the place of this not a trace of christian civilization is now to be observed among the existing indians, and the resident catholic clergy keep the indians purposely in a state of the greatest ignorance and stupidity (see richthofen, die zustande der republic mexico, berlin, 1854).
"thus christianity has always acted consistently in accordance with the principles of one of the fathers of the church, tertullian, who says: 'desire of knowledge is no longer necessary since jesus christ, nor is investigation necessary since the gospel.' if the civilization of the european and especially of christian nations has notwithstanding made such enormous progress in the course of centuries, an unprejudiced consideration of history can only tell us that this has taken place not by means of christianity, but in spite of it. and this is a sufficient indication to what an extent this civilization must still be capable of development when once it shall be completely freed from the narrow bounds of old superstitious and religious embarrassments!"
"we must therefore endeavor to form convictions which are not to stand once and for all, as philosophers and theologians usually do, but such as may change and become improved with the advance of knowledge. whoever does not recognize this and gives himself up once for all to a belief which he regards as final truth, whether it be of a theological or philosophical kind, is of course incapable of accepting a conviction supported upon scientific grounds. unfortunately our whole education is founded upon an early systematic curbing and fettering of the intellect in the direction of dogmatic (philosophical or theological) doctrines of faith, and only a comparatively small number of strong minds succeed in after years in freeing themselves by their own powers from these fetters, whilst the majority remain captive in the accustomed bonds and form their judgment in accordance with the celebrated saying of bishop berkeley: 'few men think; but all will have opinions.'"--buchner, "man in the past, present, and future."
"and here it may be remarked, once for all, that no man who has subscribed to creeds and formulas, whether in theology or philosophy, can be an unbiased investigator of the truth or an unprejudiced judge of the opinions of others. his sworn preconceptions warping his discernment, adherence to his sect or party engenders intolerance to the honest convictions of other inquirer? beliefs we may and must have, but a belief to be changed with new and advancing knowledge impedes no progress, while a creed subscribed to as ultimate truth, and sworn to be defended, not only puts a bar to further research, but as a consequence throws the odium of distrust on all that may seem to oppose it.
"even when such odium cannot deter, it annoys and irritates; hence the frequent unwillingness of men of science to come prominently forward with the avowal of their beliefs.
"it is time this delicacy were thrown aside, and such theologians plainly told that the skepticism and infidelity--if skepticism and infidelity there be--lies all on their own side.
"there is no skepticism so offensive as that which doubts the facts of honest and careful observation; no infidelity so gross as that which disbelieves the deductions of competent and unbiased judgments."--david page, "man," etc., edinburgh, 1867.
since i have recorded this incident of my lecture in chicago, it is peculiarly fitting and pleasant to be able to give the following extract from the review of the first edition of this book printed in the chicago times. no great daily paper would have dared to print such a comment a few years ago. to-day it is stated as a matter quite beyond controversy:
"she takes considerable pains to show what one would think need scarcely be insisted upon in our day, that the morals of civilization--morals in general, indeed--are not at all based in or dependent upon religion, certainly not on christianity, since the so-called 'golden rule' the highest principle of morality, antedates christianity a thousand years."
address to the clergy and others.
up to the present time i have tried to reply personally to each one who has favored me with a letter of thanks, criticism, or praise of the little book, "men, women, and gods, and other lectures," just published, but i find that if i continue to do this i shall have but little time for anything else.
the very unexpected welcome which the book has received prompts me to take this plan and means of replying to many who have honored me by writing me personal letters. first, permit me to thank those who have written letters of praise and gratitude, and to say that, although i may be unable to reply in a private letter, i am not indifferent to these evidences of your interest, and am greatly helped in my work by your sympathy and encouragement. i have also received most courteous letters from various clergymen who, disagreeing with me, desire to convert me either by mail or personal (private) interviews.
it is wholly impossible for me to grant these requests, since my time and strength are demanded in other work, but i wish to say here what i have written to several of my clerical correspondents, and desire to say to them all.
although i cannot enter into private correspondence with, nor grant personal interviews to, such a number of your body, i am entirely willing to respond in a public way to any replies to my arguments which come under the following conditions:
now, whenever any one of these gentlemen who wish to convert me will show that the colonel is wrong in this brief paragraph; whenever they will, in print or in public, refute the arguments to which he refers, and to which they object, i shall not be slow to respond.
2. it must be argument, not personal abuse, and it must be conducted in a courteous manner and tone.
3. it must proceed upon the basis that i am as honest, as earnest, and as virtuous in my motives and intentions as they are in theirs.
now, surely these gentlemen cannot object to these simple requirements; and since some of them are men whose names are preceded by a title and followed by several capital letters (ranging from d.d. to o.s.f.----which last i, in my ignorance, guess at as meaning order of st. francis, but shall like to be corrected if i am wrong) they must believe that to answer the arguments themselves is both simple and easy.
if they do not so believe they surely have no right to occupy the positions which they do occupy. if they do so believe it will do much more good to answer them publicly, since they have been made publicly, and are already in the hands of several thousand people, who could not be reached by any amount of eloquence poured out on ray devoted head in the privacy of my own parlor (or writing-desk).
therefore, gentlemen, permit me to say to you all that which i have already written to several of you personally--that col. ingersoll's paragraph, quoted above, expresses my own views and those of a great many other people, and will continue so to do so long as your efforts to show that he is wrong are only whispered to me behind a fan, or in the strict seclusion of a letter marked "private and personal."
the arguments i have given against the prevailing christian dogmas and usages, which you uphold, are neither private nor personal, nor shall i allow them to take that phase. life is too short for me to spend hours day after day in sustaining, in private, a public argument which has never been (and, in my opinion, never will be), refuted. and it would do no good to the thousands whom you are pleased to say you fear will be led astray by my position. you have a magnificent opportunity to lead them back again by honest public letters, or lectures, or sermons, not by an afternoon's chat with me.
and, while i recognize the courtesy of your pressing requests (made, without exception, in the most gentlemanly terms) to permit you to meet me personally and refute my arguments, i feel compelled to say that, unless you are willing to show the courage of your convictions, and the quality of your defense, to the public, i fear they would have no weight with me, and i should have wasted your precious time as well as my own, which i should feel i had no right to do, nor to allow you to do, without this frank statement of the case.
now, do not suppose that i have the slightest objection to meeting the clergy personally and socially. upon the contrary, many of my friends are clergymen--even bishops--but candor compels me to state that up to the present time not one of them has (either privately or otherwise) been able to answer either of the first two lectures in that little book, and as to the third one, no one of them, in my opinion, will ever try to answer it.
time will show whether i am right in this.
in the mean time accept my thanks for your interest, and believe me,
helen h. gardener.
letter to the cleveland congress of freethinkers, october, 1885.
i send my greetings to the congress of freethinkers assembled at cleveland, and regret, more than i can express, that i am unable to be there and hear all the good things you will hear, and see all the earnest workers you will see.
the freethinkers of america ought to be a very proud and enthusiastic body, when they have in their presidential chair the ablest orator of modern times, and the broadest, bravest, and most comprehensive intellect that has ever been called "mr. president" in this land of bravery and presidents. washington was a patriot of whom we are all justly proud. he was liberal in his religion and progressive in his views of personal rights. and yet he had his limitations. to him liberty and personal rights were modified by the words, "free, white, adult, males." he got no farther. he who fought for freedom upheld slavery! and yet we are all proud and glad to pay honor and respect to the memory of washington.
abraham lincoln we place still higher on the roll of honor; for, added to his still more liberal religious views, in his conceptions of freedom and justice he had at least two fewer limitations than had the patriot of 1776. he struck both "free" and "white" from his mental black list, and gave once more an impulse to liberty that thrilled a nation and gave fresh dignity to the human race.
but what shall we say of our president--ingersoll? a man who in ten short years has carried mental liberty into every household in america--who is without limitations in religion, and modifies justice by no prefix. a man who, with unequaled oratory, champions freedom--not the "free, white, adult, male" freedom of washington. a man who has breasted a whirlwind of detraction and abuse for justice--not the "male, adult" justice of lincoln, but the freedom and justice, without limitation, for "man, woman, and child."
with such a leader, what should not be achieved? with such a champion, what cause could fail? if the people ever place such a man in the white house, the nations of this earth will know, for the first time, the real meaning of a free government under secular administration.
"a government of the people, for the people, by the people," will be more than simply a high-sounding phrase, which, read by the light of the past, was only a bitter mockery to a race in chains; and, read by the light of the present, is a choice bit of grim humor to half of a nation in petticoats. but so long as the taste of the voter is such that he prefers to place in the executive chair a type of man so eminently fitted for private life that when you want to find him you have to shake the chair to see if he is in it, just so long will there be no danger that the lightning will strike so as to deprive the freethinkers of one man in america who could fill the national executive chair full, and strain the back and sides a little getting in.
once more i send greetings to the convention, with the hope that you may have as grand a time as you ought to have, and that free thought will receive a new impulse from the harmony and enthusiasm of this meeting. sincerely,
helen h. gardener.
this etext was produced from astounding stories october 1931. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.
the red hell of jupiter
a complete novelette
by paul ernst
the red spot
commander stone, grizzled chief of the planetary exploration forces, acknowledged captain brand bowen's salute and beckoned him to take a seat.
brand, youngest officer of the division to wear the triple-v for distinguished service, sat down and stared curiously at his superior. he hadn't the remotest idea why he had been recalled from leave: but that it was on a matter of some importance he was sure. he hunched his big shoulders and awaited orders.
"captain bowen," said stone. "i want you to go to jupiter as soon as you can arrange to do so, fly low over the red area in the southern hemisphere, and come back here with some sort of report as to what's wrong with that infernal death spot."
he tapped his radio stylus thoughtfully against the edge of his desk.
"as you perhaps know, i detailed a ship to explore the red spot about a year ago. it never came back. i sent another ship, with two good men in it, to check up on the disappearance of the first. that ship, too, never came back. almost with the second of its arrival at the edge of the red area all radio communication with it was cut off. it was never heard from again. two weeks ago i sent journeyman there. now he has been swallowed up in a mysterious silence."
an exclamation burst from brand's lips. sub-commander journeyman! senior officer under stone, ablest man in the expeditionary forces, and brand's oldest friend!
stone nodded comprehension of the stricken look on brand's face. "i know how friendly you two were," he said soberly. "that's why i chose you to go and find out, if you can, what happened to him and the other two ships."
brand's chin sank to rest on the stiff high collar of his uniform.
"journeyman!" he mused. "why, he was like an older brother to me. and now ... he's gone."
there was silence in commander stone's sanctum for a time. then brand raised his head.
"did you have any radio reports at all from any of the three ships concerning the nature of the red spot?" he inquired.
"none that gave definite information," replied stone. "from each of the three ships we received reports right up to the instant when the red area was approached. from each of the three came a vague description of the peculiarity of the ground ahead of them: it seems to glitter with a queer metallic sheen. then, from each of the three, as they passed over the boundary--nothing! all radio communication ceased as abruptly as though they'd been stricken dead."
he stared at brand. "that's all i can tell you, little enough, god knows. something ominous and strange is contained in that red spot: but what its nature may be, we cannot even guess. i want you to go there and find out."
brand's determined jaw jutted out, and his lips thinned to a purposeful line. he stood to attention.
"i'll be leaving to-night, sir. or sooner if you like. i could go this afternoon: in an hour--"
"to-night is soon enough," said stone with a smile. "now, who do you want to accompany you?"
brand thought a moment. on so long a journey as a trip to jupiter there was only room in a space ship--what with supplies and all--for one other man. it behooved him to pick his companion carefully.
"i'd like dex harlow," he said at last. "he's been to jupiter before, working with me in plotting the northern hemisphere. he's a good man."
"he is," agreed stone, nodding approval of brand's choice. "i'll have him report to you at once."
he rose and held out his hand. "i'm relying on you, captain bowen," he said. "i won't give any direct orders: use your own discretion. but i would advise you not to try to land in the red area. simply fly low over it, and see what you can discern from the air. good-by, and good luck."
brand saluted, and went out, to go to his own quarters and make the few preparations necessary for his sudden emergency flight.
the work of exploring the planets that swung with earth around the sun was still a new branch of the service. less than ten years ago, it had been, when ansen devised his first crude atomic motor.
at once, with the introduction of this tremendous new motive power, men had begun to build space ships and explore the sky. and, as so often happens with a new invention, the thing had grown rather beyond itself.
everywhere amateur space flyers launched forth into the heavens to try their new celestial wings. everywhere young and old enthusiasts set ansen motors into clumsily insulated shells and started for mars or the moon or venus.
the resultant loss of life, as might have been foreseen, was appalling. eager but inexperienced explorers edged over onto the wrong side of mercury and were burned to cinders. they set forth in ships that were badly insulated, and froze in the absolute zero of space. they learned the atomic motor controls too hastily, ran out of supplies or lost their courses, and wandered far out into space--stiff corpses in coffins that were to be buried only in time's infinity.
to stop the foolish waste of life, the earth government stepped in. it was decreed that no space ship might be owned or built privately. it was further decreed that those who felt an urge to explore must join the regular service and do so under efficient supervision. and there was created the government bureau designated as the planetary exploration control board, which was headed by commander stone.
under this board the exploration of the planets was undertaken methodically and efficiently, with a minimum of lives sacrificed.
mercury was charted, tested for essential minerals, and found to be a valueless rock heap too near the sun to support life.
venus was visited and explored segment by segment; and friendly relations were established with the rather stupid but peaceable people found there.
mars was mapped. here the explorers had lingered a long time: and all over this planet's surface were found remnants of a vast and intricate civilization--from the canals that laced its surface, to great cities with mighty buildings still standing. but of life there was none. the atmosphere was too rare to support it; and the theory was that it had constantly thinned through thousands of years till the last martian had gasped and died in air too attenuated to support life even in creatures that must have grown greater and greater chested in eons of adaptation.
then jupiter had been reached: and here the methodical planet by planet work promised to be checked for a long time to come. jupiter, with its mighty surface area, was going to take some exploring! it would be years before it could be plotted even superficially.
brand had been to jupiter on four different trips; and, as he walked toward his quarters from stone's office, he reviewed what he had learned on those trips.
jupiter, as he knew it, was a vast globe of vague horror and sharp contrasts.
distant from the sun as it was, it received little solar heat. but, with so great a mass, it had cooled off much more slowly than any of the other planets known, and had immense internal heat. this meant that the air--which closely approximated earth's air in density--was cool a few hundred yards up from the surface of the planet, and dankly hot close to the ground. the result, as the cold air constantly sank into the warm, was a thick steamy blanket of fog that covered everything perpetually.
because of the recent cooling, life was not far advanced on jupiter. too short a time ago the sphere had been but a blazing mass. tropical marshes prevailed, crisscrossed by mighty rivers at warmer than blood heat. giant, hideous fernlike growths crowded one another in an everlasting jungle. and among the distorted trees, from the blanket of soft white fog that hid all from sight, could be heard constantly an ear-splitting chorus of screams and bellows and whistling snarls. it made the blood run cold just to listen--and to speculate on what gigantic but tiny-brained monsters made them.
now and then, when brand had been flying dangerously low over the surface, a wind had risen strong enough to dispel the fog banks for an instant; and he had caught a flash of jovian life. just a flash, for example, of a monstrous lizard-like thing too great to support its own bulk: or a creature all neck and tail, with ridges of scale on its armored hide and a small serpentine head weaving back and forth among the jungle growths.
occasionally he had landed--always staying close to the space ship, for jupiter's gravity made movement a slow and laborious process, and he didn't want to be caught too far from security. at such times he might hear a crashing and splashing and see a reptilian head loom gigantically at him through the fog. then he would discharge the deadly explosive gun which was earth's latest weapon, and the creature would crash to the ground. the chorus of hissings and bellowings would increase as he hastened slowly and laboriously back to the ship, indicating that other unseen monsters of the steamy jungle had flocked to tear the dead giant to pieces and bolt it down.
oh, jupiter was a nice planet! mused brand. a sweet place--if one happened to be a two-hundred-foot snake or something!
he had always thought the entire globe was in that new, raw, marshy state. but he had worked only in one comparatively small area of the northern hemisphere; had never been within thirty thousand miles of the red spot. what might lie in that ominous crimson patch, he could not even guess. however, he reflected, he was soon to find out, though he might never live to tell about it.
shrugging his shoulders, he turned into the fifty story building in which was his modest apartment. there he found, written by the automatic stylus on his radio pad, the message: "be with you at seven o'clock. best regards, and i hope you strangle. dex harlow."
he clutched brand's fingers in a bone-mangling grip, and threw his hat into a far corner.
"you're a fine friend!" he growled cheerfully. "here i'm having a first rate time for myself, swimming and planing along the riviera, with two more weeks leave ahead of me--and i get a call from the old man to report to you. what excuse have you for your crime?"
"a junket to jupiter," said brand. "would you call that a good excuse?"
"jupiter!" exclaimed dex. "wouldn't you know it? of course you'd have to pick a spot four hundred million miles away from all that grand swimming i was having!"
"would you like to go back on leave, and have me choose someone else?" inquired brand solemnly.
"well, no," said dex hastily. "now that i'm here, i suppose i might as well go through with it."
brand laughed. "try and get you out of it! i know your attitude toward a real jaunt. and it's a real jaunt we've got ahead of us, too, old boy. we're going to the red spot. immediately."
"and journeyman," added brand. "he's the latest victim of whatever's in the hell-hole."
dex whistled. "journeyman too! well, all i've got to say is that whatever's there must be strong medicine. journeyman was a damn fine man, and as brave as they come. have you any idea what it's all about?"
"not an idea. nobody has. we're to go and find out--if we can. are you all ready?"
"all ready," said dex.
"so am i. we'll start at eleven o'clock in one of the old man's best cruisers. meanwhile, we might as well go and hunt up a dinner somewhere, to fortify us against the synthetic pork chops and bread we'll be swallowing for the next fortnight."
they went out; and at ten minutes of eleven reported at the great space ship hangars north of new york, with their luggage, a conspicuous item of which was a chess board to help while away the long, long days of spacial travel. brand then paused a little while for a final check-up on directions.
they clambered into the tiny control room and shut the hermetically sealed trap-door. brand threw the control switch and precisely at eleven o'clock the conical shell of metal shot heavenward, gathering such speed that it was soon invisible to human eyes. he set their course toward the blazing speck that was jupiter, four hundred million miles away; and then reported their start by radio to commander stone's night operator.
the investigatory expedition to the ominous red spot of the giant of the solar system was on.
the pipe-like men
brand began to slacken speed on the morning of the thirteenth day (morning, of course, being a technical term: there are no horizons in space for the sun to rise over). jupiter was still an immense distance off; but it took a great while to slow the momentum of the space ship, which, in the frictionless emptiness of space, had been traveling faster and faster for nearly three hundred hours.
behind them was the distant ball of sun, so far off that it looked no larger than a red-hot penny. before them was the gigantic disk of jupiter, given a white tinge by the perpetual fog blankets, its outlines softened by its thick layer of atmosphere and cloud banks. two of its nine satellites were in sight at the moment, with a third edging over the western rim.
"makes you think you're drunk and seeing triple, doesn't it?" commented dex, who was staring out the thick glass panel beside brand. "nine moons! almost enough for one planet!"
brand nodded abstractly, and concentrated on the control board. rapidly the ship rocketed down toward the surface. the disk became a whirling, gigantic plate; and then an endless plain, with cloud formations beginning to take on definite outline.
"about to enter jupiter's atmosphere." brand spoke into the radio transmitter. over the invisible thread of radio connection between the space ship and earth, four hundred million miles behind, flashed the message.
"all right. for god's sake, be careful," came the answer, minutes later. "say something at least every half hour, to let us know communication is unbroken. we will sound at ten second intervals."
lower the shell rocketed. the endless plain slowly ceased its rushing underneath them as they entered the planet's atmosphere and began to be pulled around with it in its revolution. far to the west a faint red glow illumined the sky.
the two men looked at each other, grimly, soberly.
"we're here," said dex, flexing the muscles of his powerful arms.
"we are," said brand, patting the gun in his holster.
the rapid dusk of the giant planet began to close in on them. the thin sunlight darkened; and with its lowering, the red spot of jupiter glared more luridly ahead of them. silently the two men gazed at it, and wondered what it held.
they shot the space ship toward it, and halted a few hundred miles away. watery white light from the satellites, "that jitter around in the sky like a bunch of damned waterbugs," as dex put it, was now the sole illumination.
they hung motionless in their space shell, to wait through the five-hour jovian night for the succeeding five hours of daylight to illumine a slow cruise over the red area that, in less than a year, had swallowed up three of earth's space ships. and ever as they waited, dozing a little, speculating as to the nature of the danger they faced, the peep, peep of the radio shrilled in their ears to tell them that there was still a connection--though a very tenuous one--with their mother planet.
"red spot ten miles away," said brand in the transmitter. "we're approaching it slowly."
the tiny sun had leaped up over jupiter's horizon; and with its appearance they had sent the ship planing toward their mysterious destination. beneath them the fog banks were thinning, and ahead of them were no clouds. for some reason there was a clarity unusual to jupiter's atmosphere in the air above the red section.
"red spot one mile ahead, altitude forty thousand feet," reported brand.
he and dex peered intently through the port glass panel. ahead and far below, their eyes caught an odd metallic sheen. it was as though the ground there were carpeted with polished steel that reflected red firelight.
tense, filled with an excitement that set their pulses pounding wildly, they angled slowly down, nearer to the edge of the vast crimson area, closer to the ground. the radio keened its monotonous signal.
brand crawled to the transmitter, laboriously, for his body tipped the scales here at nearly four hundred pounds.
"we can see the metallic glitter that journeyman spoke of," he said. "no sign of life of any kind, though. the red glow seems to flicker a little."
closer the ship floated. closer. to right and left of them for vast distances stretched the red area. ahead of them for hundreds of miles they knew it extended.
"we're right on it now," called brand. "right on it--we're going over the edge--we're--"
next instant he was sprawling on the floor, with dex rolling helplessly on top of him, while the space ship bounced up twenty thousand feet as though propelled by a giant sling.
the peep, peep of the radio signalling stopped. the space ship rolled helplessly for a moment, then resumed an even keel. brand and dex gazed at each other.
"what the hell?" said dex.
he started to get to his feet, put all his strength into the task of moving his jupiter-weighted body, and crashed against the top of the control room.
"say!" he sputtered, rubbing his head. "say, what is this?"
brand, profiting by his mistake, rose more cautiously, shut off the atomic motor, and approached a glass panel again. "god knows what it is," he said with a shrug. "somehow, with our passing into the red area, the pull of gravity has been reduced by about ten, that's all."
"oh, so that's all, is it? well, what's happened to old jupe's gravity?"
again brand shrugged. "i haven't any idea. your guess is as good as mine."
he peered down through the panel, and stiffened in surprise.
"dex!" he cried. "we're moving! and the motor is shut off!"
"we're drawing down closer to the ground, too," announced dex, pointing to their altimeter. "our altitude has been reduced five thousand feet in the last two minutes."
quickly brand turned on the motor in reverse. the space ship, as the rushing, reddish ground beneath indicated, continued to glide forward as though pulled by an invisible rope. he turned on full power. the ship's progress was checked a little. a very little! and the metallic red surface under them grew nearer as they steadily lost altitude.
"something seems to have got us by the nose," said dex. "we're on our way to the center of the red spot, i guess--to find whatever it was that journeyman found. and the radio communication his been broken somehow...."
wordlessly, they stared out the panel, while the shell, quivering with the strain of the atomic motor's fight against whatever unseen force it was that relentlessly drew them forward, bore them swiftly toward the heart of the vast crimson area.
"look!" cried brand.
for over an hour the ship had been propelled swiftly, irresistibly toward the center of the red spot. it had been up about forty thousand feet. now, with a jerk that sent both men reeling, it had been drawn down to within fifteen thousand feet of the surface; and the sight that was now becoming more and more visible was incredible.
beneath was a vast, orderly checkerboard. every alternate square was covered by what seemed a jointless metal plate. the open squares, plainly land under cultivation, were surrounded by gleaming fences that hooked each metal square with every other one of its kind as batteries are wired in series. over these open squares progressed tiny, two legged figures, for the most part following gigantic shapeless animals like figures out of a dream. ahead suddenly appeared the spires and towers of an enormous city!
metropolis and cultivated land! it was as unbelievable, on that raw new planet, as such a sight would have been could a traveler in time have observed it in the midst of a dim pleistocene panorama of young earth.
it was instantly apparent that the city was their destination. rapidly the little ship was rushed toward it; and, realizing at last the futility of its laboring, brand cut off the atomic motor and let the shell drift.
over a group of squat square buildings their ship passed, decreasing speed and drifting lower with every moment. the lofty structures that were the nucleus of the strange city loomed closer. now they were soaring slowly down a wide thoroughfare; and now, at last, they hovered above a great open square that was thronged with figures.
lower they dropped. lower. and then they settled with a slight jar on a surface made of reddish metal; and the figures rushed to surround them.
looking out the glass panel at these figures, both brand and dex exclaimed aloud and covered their eyes for a moment to shut out the hideous sight of them. now they examined them closely.
manlike they were: and yet like no human being conceivable to an earth mind. they were tremendously tall--twelve feet at least--but as thin as so many animated poles. their two legs were scarce four inches through, taper-less, boneless, like lengths of pipe; and like two flexible pipes they were joined to a slightly larger pipe of a torso that could not have been more than a foot in diameter. there were four arms, a pair on each side of the cylindrical body, that weaved feebly about like lengths of rubber hose.
set directly on the pipe-like body, as a pumpkin might be balanced on a pole, was a perfectly round cranium in which were glassy, staring eyes, with dull pupils like those of a sick dog. the nose was but a tab of flesh. the mouth was a minute, circular thing, soft and flabby looking, which opened and shut regularly with the creature's breathing. it resembled the snout-like mouth of a fish, of the sucker variety; and fish-like, too, was the smooth and slimy skin that covered the beanpole body.
"god!" said brand with a shudder. "fancy these things feeling over your body...."
"they're hostile, whatever they are," said dex. "look out: that one's pointing something at you!"
one of the slender, tottering creatures had raised an arm and leveled at brand something that looked rather like an elongated, old-fashioned flashlight. brand involuntarily ducked. the clear glass panel between them and the mob outside gave him a queasy feeling of being exposed to whatever missile might lurk in the thing's tube.
"what do we do now?" demanded dex with a shaky laugh. "you're chief of this expedition. i'm waiting for orders."
"we wait right here," replied brand. "we're safe in the shell till we're starved out. at least they can't get in to attack us."
but it developed that, while the slimy looking things might not be able to get in, they had ways of reaching the earthmen just the same!
the creature with the gun-like tube extended it somewhat further toward brand.
brand felt a sharp, unpleasant tingle shoot through his body, as though he had received an electric shock. he winced, and cried out at the sudden pain of it.
"what's the matter--" dex began. but hardly had the words left his mouth when he, too, felt the shock. a couple of good, hearty earth oaths exploded from his lips.
the repulsive creature outside made an authoritative gesture. he seemed to be beckoning to them, his huge dull eyes glaring threateningly at the same moment.
"our beanpole friend is suggesting that we get out of the shell and stay awhile," said dex with grim humor. "they seem anxious to entertain us--ouch!"
as the two men made no move to obey the beckoning gesture, the creature had raised the tube again; and again the sharp, unpleasant shock shot through them.
"what the devil are we going to do?" exclaimed brand. "if we go out in that mob of nightmare things--it's going to be messy. as long as we stay in the shell we have some measure of protection."
"not much protection when they can sting us through metal and glass at will," growled dex. "do you suppose they can turn the juice on harder? or is that bee-sting their best effort?"
as though in direct answer to his words, the blob-like face of the being who seemed in authority convulsed with anger and he raised the tube again. this time the shock that came from it was sufficient to throw the two men to the floor.
"well, we can't stay in the ship, that's certain," said brand. "i guess there's only one thing to do."
dex nodded. "climb out of here and take as many of these skinny horrors with us into hell as we can," he agreed.
in a measure their charge was successful. its very suddenness caught some of the tall monstrosities off guard. half a dozen of them stopped the fragile glass bullets to writhe in horrible death on the red metal paving of the square. but that didn't last long.
in less than a minute, thin, clammy arms were winding around the earthmen's wrists, and their guns were wrenched from them. and then started a hand-to-hand encounter that was all the more hideous for being so unlike any fighting that might have occurred on earth.
with a furious growl dex charged the nearest creature, whose huge round head swayed on its stalk of a body fully six feet above his own head. he gathered the long thin legs in a football grip, and sent the thing crashing full length on its back. the great head thumped resoundingly against the metal paving, and the creature lay motionless.
for an instant dex could only stare at the thing. it had been so easy, like overcoming a child. but even as that thought crossed his mind, two of the tall thin figures closed in behind him. four pairs of arms wound around him, feebly but tenaciously, like wet seaweed.
they began to constrict and wind tighter around him. he tore at them, dislodged all but two. his sturdy earth leg went back to sweep the stalk-like legs of his attackers from under them. one of the things went down, to twist weakly in a laborious attempt to rise again. but the other, by sheer force of height and reach, began to bear dex down.
then, just as dex was feeling that the end had come, he felt the creature wrench from him, and saw it slide in a tangle of arms and legs over the smooth metal pavement. he got shakily to his feet, to see brand standing over him and flailing out with his fists at an ever tightening circle of towering figures.
"thanks," panted dex. and he began again, tripping the twelve-foot things in order to get them down within reach, battering at the great pulpy heads, fighting blindly in that expressed craving to take as many of the creatures into hell with him as he could manage. beside him fought brand, steadily, coolly, grim of jaw and unblinking of eye.
already the struggle had gone on far longer than they had dreamed it might. for some reason the grotesque creatures delayed killing them. that they could do so any time they pleased, was certain: if the monsters could reach them with their shock-tubes through the double insulated hull of the space ship, they could certainly kill them out in the open.
yet they made no move to do so. the deadly tubes were not used. the screeching gargoyles, instead, devoted all their efforts to merely hurling their attenuated bodies on the two men as though they wished to capture them alive.
finally, however, the nature of the battle changed. the tallest of the attackers opened his tiny mouth and piped a signal. the ring of weaving tall bodies surrounding the two opened and became a u. the creatures in the curve of the u raised their shock-tubes and, with none of their own kind behind the victims to share in its discharge, released whatever power it was that lurked in them.
the shock was terrific. without the glass and metal of the ship to protect them, out in the open and defenceless, brand and dex got some indication of its real power.
writhing and twitching, feeling as though pierced by millions of red hot needles, they went down. a swarm of pipe-like bodies smothered them, and the fight was over.
the coming of greca
the numbing shock from the tubes left the earthmen's bodies almost paralyzed for a time; but their brains were unfogged enough for them to observe only too clearly all that went on from the point of their capture.
while three of the things stood guard with the mysterious tubes, another unbound them. a whole shower of high pitched, piping syllables was hurled at them, speech which sounded threatening and contemptuous but was otherwise, of course, entirely unintelligible, and then the creatures withdrew. the heavy metal door was slammed shut, and they were alone.
brand drew a long breath, and began to feel himself all over for broken bones. he found none; he was still nerve-wracked from that last terrific shock, but otherwise whole and well.
"are you hurt, dex?" he asked solicitously.
"i guess not," replied dex, getting uncertainly to his feet. "and i'm wondering why. it seems to me the brutes were uncommonly considerate of us--and i'm betting the reason is one we won't like!"
brand shrugged. "i guess we'll find out their intentions soon enough. let's see what our surroundings look like."
they walked to the nearest window-aperture, and gazed out on a startling and marvelous scene.
beneath their high tower window, extending as far as the eye could reach, lay the city, lit by the reddish glare of the peculiar metal with which its streets were paved. for the most part the metropolis consisted of perfectly square buildings pierced by many windows to indicate that each housed a large number of inmates. but here and there grotesque turrets lanced the sky, and symbolic domes arched above the surrounding flat metal roofs.
one building in particular they noticed. this was an enormous structure in the shape of a half-globe that reared its spherical height less than an eighth of a mile from the building they were in. it was situated off to their right at the foot of a vast, high-walled enclosure whose near end seemed to be formed by the right wall of their prison. they could only see it by leaning far out of the window; and it would not have come to their attention at all had they not heard it first--or, rather, heard the sound of something within it: for from it came a curious whining hum that never varied in intensity, something like the hum of a gigantic dynamo, only greater and of a more penetrating pitch.
"sounds as though it might be some sort of central power station," said brand. "but what could it supply power for?"
"give it up," said dex. "for their damned shock-tubes, perhaps, among other things--"
he broke off abruptly as a sound of sliding bolts came from the doorway. the two men whirled around to face the door, their fists doubling instinctively against whatever new danger might threaten them.
the door was opened and two of their ugly, towering enemies came in, their tubes held conspicuously before them. behind came another figure; and at sight of this one, so plainly not of the race of jupiter, the earthmen gasped with wonder.
they saw a girl who might have come from earth, save that she was taller than most earth women--of a regal height that reached only an inch or two below brand's own six foot one. she was beautifully formed, and had wavy dark hair and clear light blue eyes. a sort of sandal covered each small bare foot; and a gauzy tunic, reaching from above the knee to the shoulder, only half shielded her lovely figure.
she was bearing a metal container in which was a mess of stuff evidently intended as food. the guards halted and stepped aside to let her pass into the room. then they backed out, constantly keeping dex and brand covered with the tubes, and closed and barred the door.
the girl smiled graciously at the admiration in the eyes of both the men--a message needing no inter-planetary interpretation. she advanced, and held the metal container toward them.
"eat," she said softly. "it is good food, and life giving."
for an instant brand was dumbfounded. for here was language he could understand--which was incredible on this far-flung globe. then he suddenly comprehended why her sentences were so intelligible.
she was versed in mental telepathy. and versed to a high degree! he'd had some experience with telepathy on venus; but theirs was a crude thought-speech compared to the fluency possessed by the beautiful girl before him.
"who are you?" he asked wonderingly.
"i am greca"--it was very hard to grasp names or abstract terms--"of the fourth satellite."
"then you are not of these monsters of jupiter?"
"oh, no! i am their captive, as are all my people. we are but slaves of the tall ones."
brand glanced at dex. "here's a chance to get some information, perhaps," he murmured.
dex nodded; but meanwhile the girl had caught his thought. she smiled--a tragic, wistful smile.
"i shall be happy to tell you anything in my power to tell," she informed him. "but you must be quick. i can only remain with you a little while."
she sat down on the floor with them--the few bench-like things obviously used by the tall creatures as chairs were too high for them--and with the informality of adversity the three captives began to talk. swiftly brand got a little knowledge of greca's position on jupiter, and of the racial history that led up to it.
four of the nine satellites of jupiter were now the home of living beings. but two only, at the dawn of history as greca knew it, had been originally inhabited. these were the fourth and the second.
on the fourth there dwelt a race, "like me," as greca put it--a kindly, gentle people content to live and let live.
on the second had been a race of immensely tall, but attenuated and physically feeble things with great heads and huge dull eyes and characters distinguished mainly for cold-blooded savagery.
the inhabitants of the fourth satellite had remained in ignorance of the monsters on the second till one day "many, many ages ago," a fleet of clumsy ships appeared on the fourth satellite. from the ships had poured thousands of pipe-like creatures, armed with horrible rods of metal that killed instantly and without a sound. the things, it seemed, had crowded over the limits of their own globe, and had been forced to find more territory.
they had made captive the entire population of the satellite. then--for like all dangerous vermin they multiplied rapidly--they had overflowed to the first and fifth satellites--the others were uninhabitable--and finally to the dangerous surface of jupiter itself. everywhere they had gone, they had taken droves of greca's people to be their slaves, "and the source of their food," added greca, with a shudder; a statement that was at the moment unintelligible to the two men.
brand stared sympathetically at her. "they treat them very badly?" he asked gently.
"terribly! terribly!" said greca, shuddering again.
"but you seem quite privileged," he could not help saying.
she shook her dainty head pathetically. "i am of high rank among my people. i am a priestess of our religion, which is the religion of the great white one who rules all the sky everywhere. the rogans" (it was the best translation brand could make of her mental term for the slimy tall things that held them captive) "--the rogans hold my fate over the heads of my race. should they rebel, i would be thrown to the monster in the pen. of course the rogans could crush any revolt with their terrible tubes, but they do not want to kill their slaves if they can help it. they find it more effective to hold their priestesses in hostage."
brand turned from personal history to more vital subjects.
"why," he asked greca, "are the shining red squares of metal laid everywhere over this empire of the rogans?"
"to make things light," was the reply. "when the rogans first came to this mighty sphere, they could hardly move. things are so heavy here, somehow. so their first thought was to drive my enslaved people to the casting and laying of the metal squares and the metal beams that connect them, in order to make things weigh less."
"but how do the plates function?"
greca did not know this, save vaguely. she tried to express her little knowledge of the scientific achievements of the savage rogans. after some moments brand turned to dex and said:
"as near as i can get it, the rogans, by this peculiar red metal alloy, manage to trap and divert the permanent lines of force, the magnetic field, of jupiter itself. so the whole red spot is highly magnetized, which somehow upsets natural gravitational attraction. i suppose it is responsible for the discoloration of the ground, too."
he turned to question the girl further about this, but she had got nervously to her feet already.
"i'll be taken away soon," she said. "i was brought in here only to urge you to eat the food. i must be interpreter, since the rogans speak not with the mind, and i know their hateful tongue."
"why are they so anxious for us to eat?" demanded dex with an uneasy frown.
"so you will be strong, and endure for a long time the--the ordeal they have in store for you," faltered the girl at last. "they intend to force from you the secret of the power that drove your ship here, so they too may have command of space."
"but i don't understand," frowned brand. "they must already have a means of space navigation. they came here to jupiter from the satellites."
"their vessels are crude, clumsy things. the journey from the nearest satellite is the limit of their flying range. they have nothing like your wonderful little ships, and they want to know how to build and power them."
she gazed sorrowfully at them and went on: "you see, yours is the fourth space ship to visit their kingdom; and that makes them fearful because it shows they are vulnerable to invasion. they want to stop that by invading your planet first. besides their fear, there is their greed. their looking-tubes reveal that yours is a fruitful and lovely sphere, and they are insatiable in their lust for new territories. thus they plan to go to your planet as soon as they are able, and kill or enslave all the people there as they have killed and enslaved my race."
"they'll have a job on their hands trying to do that!" declared dex stoutly.
but brand paled. "they can do it!" he snapped. "look at those death-tubes of theirs. we have no arms to compete with that." he turned to greca. "so the rogans plan to force the secret of our motors from us by torture?"
she nodded, and caught his hand in hers.
"yes. they will do with you as they did with the six who came before you--and who died before surrendering the secret."
"so! we know now what happened to journeyman and the others!" burst out dex. "i'll see 'em in hell before i'll talk!"
"and me," nodded brand. "but that doesn't cure the situation. as long as ships disappear in this red inferno, so long will the old man keep sending others to find out what's wrong. the rogans will capture them as easily as they captured us. and eventually someone will happen along who'll weaken under torture. then--"
he stopped. a dread vision filled his mind of earth depopulated by the feebly ferocious rogans, of rank on rank of earth's vast armies falling in stricken rows at the shock of the rogans' tubes.
greca caught the vision. she nodded. "yes, that is what would happen if they found ways of reaching your globe."
"but, god, brand, we can't allow that!" cried dex. "we've got to find a way to spike the guns of these walking gas-pipes, somehow!"
brand sighed heavily. "we are two against hundreds of thousands. we are bare-handed, and the rogans have those damned tubes. anyway, we are on the verge of death at this very moment. what under heaven can we do to spike their guns?"
he was silent a moment: and in the silence the steady hum from the domed building outside came to his ears.
"what's in that big, round topped building, greca?" he asked quietly.
"i do not know, exactly," replied the girl. "there is some sort of machinery in it, and to it go connecting beams from all the square metal plates everywhere. that is all i know."
"we have in ally in her," murmured brand. "though god only knows if that will mean anything to us...."
in the tower
"what i can't figure out," said dex, striding up and down the big bare room, "is why we're needed to tell them about the atomic motor. they've got our ship, and three others besides. i should think they could learn about the motor just by taking it apart and studying it."
brand grinned mirthlessly, recalling the three years of intensive study it had taken him to learn the refinements of atomic motive power. "if you'd ever qualified as a space navigator, dex, you'd know better. the rogans are an advanced race; their control of polar magnetism and the marvelously high-powered telescopes greca mentions prove that; but i doubt if they could ever analyze that atomic motor with no hint as to how it works."
silence descended on them again, in which each was lost in his own thoughts.
how many hours had passed, the earthmen did not know. they had spent the time in fruitless planning to escape from their tower room and go back to the ship again. though how they could get away in the ship when the rogans seemed able to propel it where-ever they wished against the utmost power of their motor, they did not attempt to consider.
one of jupiter's short nights had passed, however--a night weirdly made as light as day by red glares from the plates, which seemed to store up sunlight, among their other functions--and the tiny sun had risen to slant into their window at a sharp angle.
suddenly they heard the familiar drawing of the great bolts outside their door. it was opened, and a dozen or more of the rogans came in, with greca cowering piteously in their midst and attempting to communicate her distress to brand.
at the head of the little band of rogans was one the prisoners had not seen before. he was of great height, fully two feet taller than the others; and he carried himself with an air that proclaimed his importance.
the tall one turned to greca and addressed a few high-pitched, squeaky words to her. she shook her head; whereupon, at a hissed command, two of the rogans caught her by the wrists and dragged her forward.
"they have come to question you," greca lamented to brand. "and they want to do it through me. but i will not! i will not!"
brand smiled at her though his lips were pale.
"you are powerless to struggle," he said. "do as they ask. you cannot help us by refusing, and, in any case, i can promise that they won't learn anything from us."
the tall rogan teetered up to the prisoners on his gangling legs, and stared icily at them. crouched beside him, her lovely body all one mute appeal to the earthmen to forgive her for the part she was forced to play, was greca.
at length the rogan leader spoke. he addressed his sibilant words to greca, though his stony eyes were kept intently on the earthmen.
"he says," exclaimed greca telepathically, "to inform you first that he is head of all the rogan race on this globe, and that all on this globe must do as he commands."
brand nodded to show he understood the message.
"he says he is going to ask you a few questions, and that you are to answer truthfully if you value your lives:"
"first, he wants to know what the people of your world are like. are they all the same as you?"
dex started to reply to that; but brand flung him a warning look. "tell him we are the least of the earth people," he answered steadily. "tell him we are of an inferior race. most of those on earth are giants five times as large as we are, and many times more powerful."
greca relayed the message in the whistling, piping rogan tongue. the tall one stared, then hissed another sentence to the beautiful interpreter.
"he wants to know," said greca, "if there are cities on your globe as large and complete as this one."
"there are cities on earth that make this look like a--a--" brand cast about for understandable similes--"like a collection of animal burrows."
"he says to describe your planet's war weapons," was the next interpretation. and here brand let himself go.
with flights of fancy he hadn't known he was capable of, he described great airships, steered automatically and bristling with guns that discharged explosives powerful enough to kill everything within a range of a thousand miles. he told of billions of thirty-foot giants sheathed in an alloy that would make them invulnerable to any feeble rays the rogans might have developed. he touched on the certain wholesale death that must overtake any hostile force that tried to invade the planet.
"the rogan shock-tubes are toys compared with the ray-weapons of earth," he concluded. "we have arms that can nullify the effects of yours and kill at the same instant. we have--"
but here the rogan leader turned impatiently away. greca had been translating sentence by sentence. now the tall one barked out a few syllables in a squeaky voice.
"he says he knows you are lying," sighed greca. "for if you on earth have tubes more effective than theirs why weren't you equipped with them on your expedition here to the red kingdom?"
brand bit his lips. "check," he muttered. "the brute has a brain in that ugly head."
"he has been telling what his hordes can do, answering your boasts with boasts of his own. his words are awful! i won't tell you all he said. i will only say that he is convinced his shock-tubes are superior to any earth arms, and that he states he will now illustrate their power to you to quell your insolence. i don't know what he means by that...."
but she and the earthmen were soon to find out.
the rogan leader stepped to the window and arrogantly beckoned brand and dex to join him there. they did; and the leader gazed out and down as though searching for something.
he pointed. the two earthmen followed his leveled arm with their eyes and saw, a hundred yards or so away, a bent and dreary figure trudging down the metal paving of the street. it was a figure like those to be seen on earth, which placed it as belonging to greca's race.
the tall leader drew forth one of the shock-tubes. seen near at hand, it was observed to be bafflingly simple in appearance. it seemed devoid of all mechanism--simply a tube of reddish metal with a sort of handle formed of a coil of heavy wire.
the rogan pointed the tube at the distant figure.
greca screamed, and screamed again. coincident with her cry, as though the sound of it had felled him, the distant slave dropped to the pavement.
that was all. the tube had merely been pointed: as far as brand could see, the rogan's "hand" had not moved on the barrel of the tube, nor even constricted about the coil of wire that formed its handle. yet that distant figure had dropped. furthermore, fumes of greasy black smoke now began to arise from the huddled body; and in less than thirty seconds there was left no trace of it on the gleaming metal pavement.
"so that's what those things are like at full power!" breathed dex. "my god!"
the rogan leader spoke a few words. greca, huddled despairingly on the floor, crushed by this brutal annihilation of one of her country-men before her very eyes, did not translate. but translation was unnecessary. the rogan's icy, triumphant eyes, the very posture of his grotesque body, spoke for him.
"that," he was certainly saying, "is what will happen to any on your helpless planet who dare oppose the rogan will!"
he whipped out a command to the terror-stricken girl. she rose from her crouching position on the floor; and at length formulated the rogan's last order:
"you will explain the working of the engine that drove your space ship here."
dex laughed. it was a short bark of sound, totally devoid of humor, but very full of defiance. brand thrust his hands into the pockets of his tunic, spread his legs apart, and began to whistle.
a quiver that might have been of anger touched the rogan leader's repulsive little mouth. he glared balefully at the uncowed earthmen and spoke again, evidently repeating his command. the two turned their backs to him to indicate their refusal to obey.
at that, the tall leader pointed to dex. in an instant three of the guards had wound their double pairs of arms around his struggling body. brand sprang to help him, but a touch of the mysterious discharge from the leader's tube sent him writhing to the floor.
"it's no use, brand," said dex steadily. he too had stopped struggling, and now stood quietly in the slimy coils of his captors' arms. "i might as well go along with them and get it over with. i probably won't see you again. good luck!"
he was borne out of the room. the rogan leader turned to brand and spoke.
"he says that if your comrade does not tell him what he wants to know, your turn will come next," sobbed greca. "oh! why does not the great white one strike these monsters to the dust!"
she ran to brand and pressed her satiny cheek to his. then she was dragged roughly away.
the great door clanged shut. the heavy outer fastenings clicked into place. dex had gone to experience whatever it was that journeyman and the rest had experienced in this red hell. and brand was left behind to reflect on what dread torments this might comprise; and to pray desperately that no matter what might be done to his shrinking body he would be strong enough to refuse to betray his planet.
the torture chamber
swiftly dex was carried down the long ramp to the ground floor, the arms of his captors gripping him with painful tightness. heading the procession was the immensely tall, gangling rogan leader, clutching greca by the wrist and dragging her indifferently along to be his mouthpiece.
they did not stop at the street level; they continued on down another ramp, around a bend, descending an even steeper incline toward the bowels of jupiter. their descent ended at last before a huge metal barrier which, at a signal from the leader, drew smoothly up into the ceiling to disclose a gigantic, red-lit chamber underlying the foundations of the building.
in fear and awe, dex gazed around that huge room.
it resembled in part a nightmare rearrangement of such a laboratory as might be found on earth; and in part a torture chamber such as the most ferocious of savages might have devised had they been scientifically equipped to add contrivances of supercivilization to the furthering of their primitive lust for cruelty.
there were great benches--head-high to the earthman--to accommodate the height of the rogan workmen. there were numberless metal instruments, and glass coils, and enormous retorts; and in one corner an orange colored flame burnt steadily on a naked metal plate, seeming to have no fuel or other source of being.
there was a long rack of cruelly pointed and twisted instruments. under this was a row of long, delicate pincers, with coils on the handles to indicate that they might be heated to fiendish precision of temperatures. there were gleaming metal racks with calibrated slide-rods and spring dials to denote just what pull was being exerted on whatever unhappy creature might be stretched taut on them. there were tiny cones of metal whose warped, baked appearance testified that they were little portable furnaces that could be placed on any desired portion of the anatomy, to slowly bake the selected disk of flesh beneath them.
dex shuddered; and a low moan came from greca, whose clear blue eyes had rested on the contents of this vast room before in her capacity as hostage and interpreter for the inhuman rogans.
and now another sense of dex's began to register perception on his brain.
a peculiar odor came to his nostrils. it was a musky, fetid odor, like that to be smelled in an animal cage; but it was sharper, more acrid than anything he had ever smelled on earth. it smelled--ah, he had it!--reptilian. as though somewhere nearby a dozen titanic serpents were coiled ready to spring!
looking about, dex saw a six-foot square door of bars in one wall of
they travelled next day, reaching london at half-past two. betty had gone up in the early morning to prepare the way. the dogs had been with aunt rosamund all this time. gyp missed their greeting; but the installation of betty and the baby in the spare room that was now to be the nursery, absorbed all her first energies. light was just beginning to fail when, still in her fur, she took a key of the music-room and crossed the garden, to see how all had fared during her ten weeks' absence. what a wintry garden! how different from that languorous, warm, moonlit night when daphne wing had come dancing out of the shadow of the dark trees. how bare and sharp the boughs against the grey, darkening sky--and not a song of any bird, not a flower! she glanced back at the house. cold and white it looked, but there were lights in her room and in the nursery, and someone just drawing the curtains. now that the leaves were off, one could see the other houses of the road, each different in shape and colour, as is the habit of london houses. it was cold, frosty; gyp hurried down the path. four little icicles had formed beneath the window of the music-room. they caught her eye, and, passing round to the side, she broke one off. there must be a fire in there, for she could see the flicker through the curtains not quite drawn. thoughtful ellen had been airing it! but, suddenly, she stood still. there was more than a fire in there! through the chink in the drawn curtains she had seen two figures seated on the divan. something seemed to spin round in her head. she turned to rush away. then a kind of superhuman coolness came to her, and she deliberately looked in. he and daphne wing! his arm was round her neck. the girl's face riveted her eyes. it was turned a little back and up, gazing at him, the lips parted, the eyes hypnotized, adoring; and her arm round him seemed to shiver--with cold, with ecstasy?
again that something went spinning through gyp's head. she raised her hand. for a second it hovered close to the glass. then, with a sick feeling, she dropped it and turned away.
never! never would she show him or that girl that they could hurt her! never! they were safe from any scene she would make--safe in their nest! and blindly, across the frosty grass, through the unlighted drawing-room, she went upstairs to her room, locked the door, and sat down before the fire. pride raged within her. she stuffed her handkerchief between her teeth and lips; she did it unconsciously. her eyes felt scorched from the fire-flames, but she did not trouble to hold her hand before them.
suddenly she thought: 'suppose i had loved him?' and laughed. the handkerchief dropped to her lap, and she looked at it with wonder--it was blood-stained. she drew back in the chair, away from the scorching of the fire, and sat quite still, a smile on her lips. that girl's eyes, like a little adoring dog's--that girl, who had fawned on her so! she had got her "distinguished man"! she sprang up and looked at herself in the glass; shuddered, turned her back on herself, and sat down again. in her own house! why not here--in this room? why not before her eyes? not yet a year married! it was almost funny--almost funny! and she had her first calm thought: 'i am free.'
but it did not seem to mean anything, had no value to a spirit so bitterly stricken in its pride. she moved her chair closer to the fire again. why had she not tapped on the window? to have seen that girl's face ashy with fright! to have seen him--caught--caught in the room she had made beautiful for him, the room where she had played for him so many hours, the room that was part of the house that she paid for! how long had they used it for their meetings--sneaking in by that door from the back lane? perhaps even before she went away--to bear his child! and there began in her a struggle between mother instinct and her sense of outrage--a spiritual tug-of-war so deep that it was dumb, unconscious--to decide whether her baby would be all hers, or would have slipped away from her heart, and be a thing almost abhorrent.
"please shut the drawing-room, window, ellen; and tell betty i'm afraid i got a little chill travelling. i'm going to bed. ask her if she can manage with baby." and she looked straight into the girl's face. it wore an expression of concern, even of commiseration, but not that fluttered look which must have been there if she had known.
"yes, m'm; i'll get you a hot-water bottle, m'm. would you like a hot bath and a cup of hot tea at once?"
gyp nodded. anything--anything! and when the maid was gone, she thought mechanically: 'a cup of hot tea! how quaint! what should it be but hot?'
the maid came back with the tea; she was an affectionate girl, full of that admiring love servants and dogs always felt for gyp, imbued, too, with the instinctive partisanship which stores itself one way or the other in the hearts of those who live in houses where the atmosphere lacks unity. to her mind, the mistress was much too good for him--a foreigner--and such 'abits! manners--he hadn't any! and no good would come of it. not if you took her opinion!
"and i've turned the water in, m'm. will you have a little mustard in it?"
again gyp nodded. and the girl, going downstairs for the mustard, told cook there was "that about the mistress that makes you quite pathetic." the cook, who was fingering her concertina, for which she had a passion, answered:
"she 'ides up her feelin's, same as they all does. thank 'eaven she haven't got that drawl, though, that 'er old aunt 'as--always makes me feel to want to say, 'buck up, old dear, you ain't 'alf so precious as all that!'"
and when the maid ellen had taken the mustard and gone, she drew out her concertina to its full length and, with cautionary softness, began to practise "home, sweet home!"
to gyp, lying in her hot bath, those muffled strains just mounted, not quite as a tune, rather as some far-away humming of large flies. the heat of the water, the pungent smell of the mustard, and that droning hum slowly soothed and drowsed away the vehemence of feeling. she looked at her body, silver-white in the yellowish water, with a dreamy sensation. some day she, too, would love! strange feeling she had never had before! strange, indeed, that it should come at such a moment, breaking through the old instinctive shrinking. yes; some day love would come to her. there floated before her brain the adoring look on daphne wing's face, the shiver that had passed along her arm, and pitifulness crept into her heart--a half-bitter, half-admiring pitifulness. why should she grudge--she who did not love? the sounds, like the humming of large flies, grew deeper, more vibrating. it was the cook, in her passion swelling out her music on the phrase,
"be it ne-e-ver so humble, there's no-o place like home!"
that night, gyp slept peacefully, as though nothing had happened, as though there were no future at all before her. she woke into misery. her pride would never let her show the world what she had discovered, would force her to keep an unmoved face and live an unmoved life. but the struggle between mother-instinct and revolt was still going on within her. she was really afraid to see her baby, and she sent word to betty that she thought it would be safer if she kept quite quiet till the afternoon.
she got up at noon and stole downstairs. she had not realized how violent was her struggle over his child till she was passing the door of the room where it was lying. if she had not been ordered to give up nursing, that struggle would never have come. her heart ached, but a demon pressed her on and past the door. downstairs she just pottered round, dusting her china, putting in order the books which, after house-cleaning, the maid had arranged almost too carefully, so that the first volumes of dickens and thackeray followed each other on the top shell, and the second volumes followed each other on the bottom shelf. and all the time she thought dully: 'why am i doing this? what do i care how the place looks? it is not my home. it can never be my home!'
the house was invisible from the music-room; and, spurred on by thought that, until fiorsen knew she was back, those two might be there in each other's arms any moment of the day or night, gyp wrote that evening:
what else in the world could she say? he would not get it till he woke about eleven. with the instinct to take all the respite she could, and knowing no more than before how she would receive his return, she went out in the forenoon and wandered about all day shopping and trying not to think. returning at tea-time, she went straight up to her baby, and there heard from betty that he had come, and gone out with his violin to the music-room.
bent over the child, gyp needed all her self-control--but her self-control was becoming great. soon, the girl would come fluttering down that dark, narrow lane; perhaps at this very minute her fingers were tapping at the door, and he was opening it to murmur, "no; she's back!" ah, then the girl would shrink! the rapid whispering--some other meeting-place! lips to lips, and that look on the girl's face; till she hurried away from the shut door, in the darkness, disappointed! and he, on that silver-and-gold divan, gnawing his moustache, his eyes--catlike---staring at the fire! and then, perhaps, from his violin would come one of those swaying bursts of sound, with tears in them, and the wind in them, that had of old bewitched her! she said:
"open the window just a little, betty dear--it's hot."
there it was, rising, falling! music! why did it so move one even when, as now, it was the voice of insult! and suddenly she thought: "he will expect me to go out there again and play for him. but i will not, never!"
she put her baby down, went into her bedroom, and changed hastily into a teagown for the evening, ready to go downstairs. a little shepherdess in china on the mantel-shelf attracted her attention, and she took it in her hand. she had bought it three and more years ago, when she first came to london, at the beginning of that time of girl-gaiety when all life seemed a long cotillion, and she its leader. its cool daintiness made it seem the symbol of another world, a world without depths or shadows, a world that did not feel--a happy world!
she had not long to wait before he tapped on the drawing-room window. she got up from the tea-table to let him in. why do faces gazing in through glass from darkness always look hungry--searching, appealing for what you have and they have not? and while she was undoing the latch she thought: 'what am i going to say? i feel nothing!' the ardour of his gaze, voice, hands seemed to her so false as to be almost comic; even more comically false his look of disappointment when she said:
"please take care; i'm still brittle!" then she sat down again and asked:
"will you have some tea?"
"tea! i have you back, and you ask me if i will have tea gyp! do you know what i have felt like all this time? no; you don't know. you know nothing of me--do you?"
a smile of sheer irony formed on her lips--without her knowing it was there. she said:
"have you had a good time at count rosek's?" and, without her will, against her will, the words slipped out: "i'm afraid you've missed the music-room!"
his stare wavered; he began to walk up and down.
and gyp went on smiling. between that, and stabbing these false raptures to the heart, there seemed to be nothing she could do. the moment his hands relaxed, she got up and said:
"you know there's a baby in the house?"
"ah, the baby! i'd forgotten. let's go up and see it."
she could feel him thinking: 'perhaps it will make her nice to me!' he turned suddenly and went.
she stood with her eyes shut, seeing the divan in the music-room and the girl's arm shivering. then, going to the piano, she began with all her might to play a chopin polonaise.
that evening they dined out, and went to "the tales of hoffmann." by such devices it was possible to put off a little longer what she was going to do. during the drive home in the dark cab, she shrank away into her corner, pretending that his arm would hurt her dress; her exasperated nerves were already overstrung. twice she was on the very point of crying out: "i am not daphne wing!" but each time pride strangled the words in her throat. and yet they would have to come. what other reason could she find to keep him from her room?
but when in her mirror she saw him standing behind her--he had crept into the bedroom like a cat--fierceness came into her. she could see the blood rush up in her own white face, and, turning round she said:
"no, gustav, go out to the music-room if you want a companion."
he recoiled against the foot of the bed and stared at her haggardly, and gyp, turning back to her mirror, went on quietly taking the pins out of her hair. for fully a minute she could see him leaning there, moving his head and hands as though in pain. then, to her surprise, he went. and a vague feeling of compunction mingled with her sense of deliverance. she lay awake a long time, watching the fire-glow brighten and darken on the ceiling, tunes from "the tales of hoffmann" running in her head; thoughts and fancies crisscrossing in her excited brain. falling asleep at last, she dreamed she was feeding doves out of her hand, and one of them was daphne wing. she woke with a start. the fire still burned, and by its light she saw him crouching at the foot of the bed, just as he had on their wedding-night--the same hungry yearning in his face, and an arm outstretched. before she could speak, he began:
"oh, gyp, you don't understand! all that is nothing--it is only you i want--always. i am a fool who cannot control himself. think! it's a long time since you went away from me."
gyp said, in a hard voice:
"i didn't want to have a child."
he said quickly:
"no; but now you have it you are glad. don't be unmerciful, my gyp! it is like you to be merciful. that girl--it is all over--i swear--i promise."
his hand touched her foot through the soft eiderdown. gyp thought: 'why does he come and whine to me like this? he has no dignity--none!' and she said:
"how can you promise? you have made the girl love you. i saw her face."
he drew his hand back.
"you saw her?"
he was silent, staring at her. presently he began again:
"she is a little fool. i do not care for the whole of her as much as i care for your one finger. what does it matter what one does in that way if one does not care? the soul, not the body, is faithful. a man satisfies appetite--it is nothing."
"perhaps not; but it is something when it makes others miserable."
"has it made you miserable, my gyp?"
his voice had a ring of hope. she answered, startled:
"her? ho! it is an experience for her--it is life. it will do her no harm."
"no; nothing will do anybody harm if it gives you pleasure."
at that bitter retort, he kept silence a long time, now and then heaving a long sigh. his words kept sounding in her heart: "the soul, not the body, is faithful." was he, after all, more faithful to her than she had ever been, could ever be--who did not love, had never loved him? what right had she to talk, who had married him out of vanity, out of--what?
and suddenly he said:
she uttered a sigh, and turned away her face.
he bent down against the eider-down. she could hear him drawing long, sobbing breaths, and, in the midst of her lassitude and hopelessness, a sort of pity stirred her. what did it matter? she said, in a choked voice:
"very well, i forgive."
the human creature has wonderful power of putting up with things. gyp never really believed that daphne wing was of the past. her sceptical instinct told her that what fiorsen might honestly mean to do was very different from what he would do under stress of opportunity carefully put within his reach.
since her return, rosek had begun to come again, very careful not to repeat his mistake, but not deceiving her at all. though his self-control was as great as fiorsen's was small, she felt he had not given up his pursuit of her, and would take very good care that daphne wing was afforded every chance of being with her husband. but pride never let her allude to the girl. besides, what good to speak of her? they would both lie--rosek, because he obviously saw the mistaken line of his first attack; fiorsen, because his temperament did not permit him to suffer by speaking the truth.
having set herself to endure, she found she must live in the moment, never think of the future, never think much of anything. fortunately, nothing so conduces to vacuity as a baby. she gave herself up to it with desperation. it was a good baby, silent, somewhat understanding. in watching its face, and feeling it warm against her, gyp succeeded daily in getting away into the hypnotic state of mothers, and cows that chew the cud. but the baby slept a great deal, and much of its time was claimed by betty. those hours, and they were many, gyp found difficult. she had lost interest in dress and household elegance, keeping just enough to satisfy her fastidiousness; money, too, was scarce, under the drain of fiorsen's irregular requirements. if she read, she began almost at once to brood. she was cut off from the music-room, had not crossed its threshold since her discovery. aunt rosamund's efforts to take her into society were fruitless--all the effervescence was out of that, and, though her father came, he never stayed long for fear of meeting fiorsen. in this condition of affairs, she turned more and more to her own music, and one morning, after she had come across some compositions of her girlhood, she made a resolution. that afternoon she dressed herself with pleasure, for the first time for months, and sallied forth into the february frost.
monsieur edouard harmost inhabited the ground floor of a house in the marylebone road. he received his pupils in a large back room overlooking a little sooty garden. a walloon by extraction, and of great vitality, he grew old with difficulty, having a soft corner in his heart for women, and a passion for novelty, even for new music, that was unappeasable. any fresh discovery would bring a tear rolling down his mahogany cheeks into his clipped grey beard, the while he played, singing wheezily to elucidate the wondrous novelty; or moved his head up and down, as if pumping.
"ah," he said, at last, "my little old friend! she has come back! now that is good!" and, patting her hand he looked into her face, which had a warmth and brilliance rare to her in these days. then, making for the mantelpiece, he took therefrom a bunch of parma violets, evidently brought by his last pupil, and thrust them under her nose. "take them, take them--they were meant for me. now--how much have you forgotten? come!" and, seizing her by the elbow, he almost forced her to the piano. "take off your furs. sit down!"
"play me the 'carnival,'" he said. "we shall soon see!"
gyp played. twice he nodded; once he tapped his fingers on his teeth, and showed her the whites of his eyes--which meant: "that will have to be very different!" and once he grunted. when she had finished, he sat down beside her, took her hand in his, and, examining the fingers, began:
"yes, yes, soon again! spoiling yourself, playing for that fiddler! trop sympathique! the back-bone, the back-bone--we shall improve that. now, four hours a day for six weeks--and we shall have something again."
gyp said softly:
"i have a baby, monsieur harmost."
monsieur harmost bounded.
"what! that is a tragedy!" gyp shook her head. "you like it? a baby! does it not squall?"
"mon dieu! well, well, you are still as beautiful as ever. that is something. now, what can you do with this baby? could you get rid of it a little? this is serious. this is a talent in danger. a fiddler, and a baby! c'est beaucoup! c'est trop!"
gyp smiled. and monsieur harmost, whose exterior covered much sensibility, stroked her hand.
"you have grown up, my little friend," he said gravely. "never mind; nothing is wasted. but a baby!" and he chirruped his lips. "well; courage! we shall do things yet!"
gyp turned her head away to hide the quiver of her lips. the scent of latakia tobacco that had soaked into things, and of old books and music, a dark smell, like monsieur harmost's complexion; the old brown curtains, the sooty little back garden beyond, with its cat-runs, and its one stunted sumach tree; the dark-brown stare of monsieur harmost's rolling eyes brought back that time of happiness, when she used to come week after week, full of gaiety and importance, and chatter away, basking in his brusque admiration and in music, all with the glamourous feeling that she was making him happy, and herself happy, and going to play very finely some day.
the voice of monsieur harmost, softly gruff, as if he knew what she was feeling, increased her emotion; her breast heaved under the humming-bird blouse, water came into her eyes, and more than ever her lips quivered. he was saying:
"come, come! the only thing we cannot cure is age. you were right to come, my child. music is your proper air. if things are not all what they ought to be, you shall soon forget. in music--in music, we can get away. after all, my little friend, they cannot take our dreams from us--not even a wife, not even a husband can do that. come, we shall have good times yet!"
and gyp, with a violent effort, threw off that sudden weakness. from those who serve art devotedly there radiates a kind of glamour. she left monsieur harmost that afternoon, infected by his passion for music. poetic justice--on which all homeopathy is founded--was at work to try and cure her life by a dose of what had spoiled it. to music, she now gave all the hours she could spare. she went to him twice a week, determining to get on, but uneasy at the expense, for monetary conditions were ever more embarrassed. at home, she practised steadily and worked hard at composition. she finished several songs and studies during the spring and summer, and left still more unfinished. monsieur harmost was tolerant of these efforts, seeming to know that harsh criticism or disapproval would cut her impulse down, as frost cuts the life of flowers. besides, there was always something fresh and individual in her things. he asked her one day:
"what does your husband think of these?"
gyp was silent a moment.
"i don't show them to him."
she never had; she instinctively kept back the knowledge that she composed, dreading his ruthlessness when anything grated on his nerves, and knowing that a breath of mockery would wither her belief in herself, frail enough plant already. the only person, besides her master, to whom she confided her efforts was--strangely enough--rosek. but he had surprised her one day copying out some music, and said at once: "i knew. i was certain you composed. ah, do play it to me! i am sure you have talent." the warmth with which he praised that little "caprice" was surely genuine; and she felt so grateful that she even played him others, and then a song for him to sing. from that day, he no longer seemed to her odious; she even began to have for him a certain friendliness, to be a little sorry, watching him, pale, trim, and sphinx-like, in her drawing-room or garden, getting no nearer to the fulfilment of his desire. he had never again made love to her, but she knew that at the least sign he would. his face and his invincible patience made him pathetic to her. women such as gyp cannot actively dislike those who admire them greatly. she consulted him about fiorsen's debts. there were hundreds of pounds owing, it seemed, and, in addition, much to rosek himself. the thought of these debts weighed unbearably on her. why did he, how did he get into debt like this? what became of the money he earned? his fees, this summer, were good enough. there was such a feeling of degradation about debt. it was, somehow, so underbred to owe money to all sorts of people. was it on that girl, on other women, that he spent it all? or was it simply that his nature had holes in every pocket?
watching fiorsen closely, that spring and early summer, she was conscious of a change, a sort of loosening, something in him had given way--as when, in winding a watch, the key turns on and on, the ratchet being broken. yet he was certainly working hard--perhaps harder than ever. she would hear him, across the garden, going over and over a passage, as if he never would be satisfied. but his playing seemed to her to have lost its fire and sweep; to be stale, and as if disillusioned. it was all as though he had said to himself: "what's the use?" in his face, too, there was a change. she knew--she was certain that he was drinking secretly. was it his failure with her? was it the girl? was it simply heredity from a hard-drinking ancestry?
gyp never faced these questions. to face them would mean useless discussion, useless admission that she could not love him, useless asseveration from him about the girl, which she would not believe, useless denials of all sorts. hopeless!
he was very irritable, and seemed especially to resent her music lessons, alluding to them with a sort of sneering impatience. she felt that he despised them as amateurish, and secretly resented it. he was often impatient, too, of the time she gave to the baby. his own conduct with the little creature was like all the rest of him. he would go to the nursery, much to betty's alarm, and take up the baby; be charming with it for about ten minutes, then suddenly dump it back into its cradle, stare at it gloomily or utter a laugh, and go out. sometimes, he would come up when gyp was there, and after watching her a little in silence, almost drag her away.
those months of spring and summer were like a long spell of drought, when moisture gathers far away, coming nearer, nearer, till, at last, the deluge bursts and sweeps the garden.
the sound of footsteps on the gravel made her turn. rosek was coming from the drawing-room window. rather startled, gyp looked at him over her shoulder. what had brought him at eleven o'clock in the morning? he came up to her, bowed, and said:
hesitating just a second, gyp drew off her gardening-gloves:
"of course! here? or in the drawing-room?"
"in the drawing-room, please."
a faint tremor passed through her, but she led the way, and seated herself where she could see betty and the baby. rosek stood looking down at her; his stillness, the sweetish gravity of his well-cut lips, his spotless dandyism stirred in gyp a kind of unwilling admiration.
"what is it?" she said.
"bad business, i'm afraid. something must be done at once. i have been trying to arrange things, but they will not wait. they are even threatening to sell up this house."
with a sense of outrage, gyp cried:
"nearly everything here is mine."
rosek shook his head.
"the lease is in his name--you are his wife. they can do it, i assure you." a sort of shadow passed over his face, and he added: "i cannot help him any more--just now."
gyp shook her head quickly.
"no--of course! you ought not to have helped him at all. i can't bear--" he bowed, and she stopped, ashamed. "how much does he owe altogether?"
"about thirteen hundred pounds. it isn't much, of course. but there is something else--"
"i am afraid to tell you; you will think again perhaps that i am trying to make capital out of it. i can read your thoughts, you see. i cannot afford that you should think that, this time."
gyp made a little movement as though putting away his words.
"no; tell me, please."
rosek shrugged his shoulders.
"there is a man called wagge, an undertaker--the father of someone you know--"
"yes. a child is coming. they have made her tell. it means the cancelling of her engagements, of course--and other things."
gyp uttered a little laugh; then she said slowly:
"can you tell me, please, what this mr.--wagge can do?"
again rosek shrugged his shoulders.
"he is rabid--a rabid man of his class is dangerous. a lot of money will be wanted, i should think--some blood, perhaps."
he moved swiftly to her, and said very low:
he turned, and gyp thought he was really going; but he stopped and came back past the line of the window. the expression of his face was quite changed, so hungry that, for a moment, she felt sorry for him. and that must have shown in her face, for he suddenly caught at her, and tried to kiss her lips; she wrenched back, and he could only reach her throat, but that he kissed furiously. letting her go as suddenly, he bent his head and went out without a look.
gyp stood wiping his kisses off her throat with the back of her hand, dumbly, mechanically thinking: "what have i done to be treated like this? what have i done?" no answer came. and such rage against men flared up that she just stood there, twisting her garden-gloves in her hands, and biting the lips he would have kissed. then, going to her bureau, she took up her address book and looked for the name: wing, 88, frankland street, fulham. unhooking her little bag from off the back of the chair, she put her cheque-book into it. then, taking care to make no sound, she passed into the hall, caught up her sunshade, and went out, closing the door without noise.
she walked quickly toward baker street. her gardening-hat was right enough, but she had come out without gloves, and must go into the first shop and buy a pair. in the choosing of them, she forgot her emotions for a minute. out in the street again, they came back as bitterly as ever. and the day was so beautiful--the sun bright, the sky blue, the clouds dazzling white; from the top of her 'bus she could see all its brilliance. there rose up before her the memory of the man who had kissed her arm at the first ball. and now--this! but, mixed with her rage, a sort of unwilling compassion and fellow feeling kept rising for that girl, that silly, sugar-plum girl, brought to such a pass by--her husband. these feelings sustained her through that voyage to fulham. she got down at the nearest corner, walked up a widish street of narrow grey houses till she came to number eighty-eight. on that newly scrubbed step, waiting for the door to open, she very nearly turned and fled. what exactly had she come to do?
the door was opened by a servant in an untidy frock. mutton! the smell of mutton--there it was, just as the girl had said!
"is miss--miss daphne wing at home?"
in that peculiar "i've given it up" voice of domestics in small households, the servant answered:
"yes; miss disey's in. d'you want to see 'er? what nyme?"
gyp produced her card. the maid looked at it, at gyp, and at two brown-painted doors, as much as to say, "where will you have it?" then, opening the first of them, she said:
"tyke a seat, please; i'll fetch her."
gyp went in. in the middle of what was clearly the dining-room, she tried to subdue the tremor of her limbs and a sense of nausea. the table against which her hand rested was covered with red baize, no doubt to keep the stains of mutton from penetrating to the wood. on the mahogany sideboard reposed a cruet-stand and a green dish of very red apples. a bamboo-framed talc screen painted with white and yellow marguerites stood before a fireplace filled with pampas-grass dyed red. the chairs were of red morocco, the curtains a brownish-red, the walls green, and on them hung a set of landseer prints. the peculiar sensation which red and green in juxtaposition produce on the sensitive was added to gyp's distress. and, suddenly, her eyes lighted on a little deep-blue china bowl. it stood on a black stand on the mantel-piece, with nothing in it. to gyp, in this room of red and green, with the smell of mutton creeping in, that bowl was like the crystallized whiff of another world. daphne wing--not daisy wagge--had surely put it there! and, somehow, it touched her--emblem of stifled beauty, emblem of all that the girl had tried to pour out to her that august afternoon in her garden nearly a year ago. thin eastern china, good and really beautiful! a wonder they allowed it to pollute this room!
a sigh made her turn round. with her back against the door and a white, scared face, the girl was standing. gyp thought: 'she has suffered horribly.' and, going impulsively up to her, she held out her hand.
daphne wing sighed out: "oh, mrs. fiorsen!" and, bending over that hand, kissed it. gyp saw that her new glove was wet. then the girl relapsed, her feet a little forward, her head a little forward, her back against the door. gyp, who knew why she stood thus, was swept again by those two emotions--rage against men, and fellow feeling for one about to go through what she herself had just endured.
"it's all right," she said, gently; "only, what's to be done?"
daphne wing put her hands up over her white face and sobbed. she sobbed so quietly but so terribly deeply that gyp herself had the utmost difficulty not to cry. it was the sobbing of real despair by a creature bereft of hope and strength, above all, of love--the sort of weeping which is drawn from desolate, suffering souls only by the touch of fellow feeling. and, instead of making gyp glad or satisfying her sense of justice, it filled her with more rage against her husband--that he had taken this girl's infatuation for his pleasure and then thrown her away. she seemed to see him discarding that clinging, dove-fair girl, for cloying his senses and getting on his nerves, discarding her with caustic words, to abide alone the consequences of her infatuation. she put her hand timidly on that shaking shoulder, and stroked it. for a moment the sobbing stopped, and the girl said brokenly:
"oh, mrs. fiorsen, i do love him so!" at those naive words, a painful wish to laugh seized on gyp, making her shiver from head to foot. daphne wing saw it, and went on: "i know--i know--it's awful; but i do--and now he--he--" her quiet but really dreadful sobbing broke out again. and again gyp began stroking and stroking her shoulder. "and i have been so awful to you! oh, mrs. fiorsen, do forgive me, please!"
all gyp could find to answer, was:
"yes, yes; that's nothing! don't cry--don't cry!"
very slowly the sobbing died away, till it was just a long shivering, but still the girl held her hands over her face and her face down. gyp felt paralyzed. the unhappy girl, the red and green room, the smell of mutton--creeping!
at last, a little of that white face showed; the lips, no longer craving for sugar-plums, murmured:
"it's you he--he--really loves all the time. and you don't love him--that's what's so funny--and--and--i can't understand it. oh, mrs. fiorsen, if i could see him--just see him! he told me never to come again; and i haven't dared. i haven't seen him for three weeks--not since i told him about it. what shall i do? what shall i do?"
his being her own husband seemed as nothing to gyp at that moment. she felt such pity and yet such violent revolt that any girl should want to crawl back to a man who had spurned her. unconsciously, she had drawn herself up and pressed her lips together. the girl, who followed every movement, said piteously:
"i don't seem to have any pride. i don't mind what he does to me, or what he says, if only i can see him."
gyp's revolt yielded to her pity. she said:
"how long before?"
three months--and in this state of misery!
"i think i shall do something desperate. now that i can't dance, and they know, it's too awful! if i could see him, i wouldn't mind anything. but i know--i know he'll never want me again. oh, mrs. fiorsen, i wish i was dead! i do!"
a heavy sigh escaped gyp, and, bending suddenly, she kissed the girl's forehead. still that scent of orange blossom about her skin or hair, as when she asked whether she ought to love or not; as when she came, moth-like, from the tree-shade into the moonlight, spun, and fluttered, with her shadow spinning and fluttering before her. gyp turned away, feeling that she must relieve the strain and pointing to the bowl, said:
"you put that there, i'm sure. it's beautiful."
the girl answered, with piteous eagerness:
"oh, would you like it? do take it. count rosek gave it me." she started away from the door. "oh, that's papa. he'll be coming in!"
gyp heard a man clear his throat, and the rattle of an umbrella falling into a stand; the sight of the girl wilting and shrinking against the sideboard steadied her. then the door opened, and mr. wagge entered. short and thick, in black frock coat and trousers, and a greyish beard, he stared from one to the other. he looked what he was, an englishman and a chapelgoer, nourished on sherry and mutton, who could and did make his own way in the world. his features, coloured, as from a deep liverishness, were thick, like his body, and not ill-natured, except for a sort of anger in his small, rather piggy grey eyes. he said in a voice permanently gruff, but impregnated with a species of professional ingratiation:
"ye-es? whom 'ave i--?"
"ow!" the sound of his breathing could be heard distinctly; he twisted a chair round and said:
"take a seat, won't you?"
gyp shook her head.
in mr. wagge's face a kind of deference seemed to struggle with some more primitive emotion. taking out a large, black-edged handkerchief, he blew his nose, passed it freely over his visage, and turning to his daughter, muttered:
the girl turned quickly, and the last glimpse of her white face whipped up gyp's rage against men. when the door was shut, mr. wagge cleared his throat; the grating sound carried with it the suggestion of enormously thick linings.
he said more gruffly than ever:
"may i ask what 'as given us the honour?"
"i came to see your daughter."
"this is an unpleasant business, ma'am. i don't know what to say. reelly i don't. it's awkward; it's very awkward."
gyp said quietly:
"your daughter is desperately unhappy; and that can't be good for her just now."
mr. wagge's thick figure seemed to writhe. "pardon me, ma'am," he spluttered, "but i must call your husband a scoundrel. i'm sorry to be impolite, but i must do it. if i had 'im 'ere, i don't know that i should be able to control myself--i don't indeed." gyp made a movement of her gloved hands, which he seemed to interpret as sympathy, for he went on in a stream of husky utterance: "it's a delicate thing before a lady, and she the injured party; but one has feelings. from the first i said this dancin' was in the face of providence; but women have no more sense than an egg. her mother she would have it; and now she's got it! career, indeed! pretty career! daughter of mine! i tell you, ma'am, i'm angry; there's no other word for it--i'm angry. if that scoundrel comes within reach of me, i shall mark 'im--i'm not a young man, but i shall mark 'im. an' what to say to you, i'm sure i don't know. that my daughter should be'ave like that! well, it's made a difference to me. an' now i suppose her name'll be dragged in the mud. i tell you frankly i 'oped you wouldn't hear of it, because after all the girl's got her punishment. and this divorce-court--it's not nice--it's a horrible thing for respectable people. and, mind you, i won't see my girl married to that scoundrel, not if you do divorce 'im. no; she'll have her disgrace for nothing."
gyp, who had listened with her head a little bent, raised it suddenly, and said:
"there'll be no public disgrace, mr. wagge, unless you make it yourself. if you send daphne--daisy--quietly away somewhere till her trouble's over, no one need know anything."
mr. wagge, whose mouth had opened slightly, and whose breathing could certainly have been heard in the street, took a step forward and said:
"do i understand you to say that you're not goin' to take proceedings, ma'am?"
gyp shuddered, and shook her head.
mr. wagge stood silent, slightly moving his face up and down.
"well," he said, at length, "it's more than she deserves; but i don't disguise it's a relief to me. and i must say, in a young lady like you, and--and handsome, it shows a christian spirit." again gyp shivered, and shook her head. "it does. you'll allow me to say so, as a man old enough to be your father--and a regular attendant."
he held out his hand. gyp put her gloved hand into it.
"i'm very, very sorry. please be nice to her."
mr. wagge recoiled a little, and for some seconds stood ruefully rubbing his hands together and looking from side to side.
"i'm a domestic man," he said suddenly. "a domestic man in a serious line of life; and i never thought to have anything like this in my family--never! it's been--well, i can't tell you what it's been!"
gyp took up her sunshade. she felt that she must get away; at any moment he might say something she could not bear--and the smell of mutton rising fast!
"i am sorry," she said again; "good-bye"; and moved past him to the door. she heard him breathing hard as he followed her to open it, and thought: 'if only--oh! please let him be silent till i get outside!' mr. wagge passed her and put his hand on the latch of the front door. his little piggy eyes scanned her almost timidly.
"well," he said, "i'm very glad to have the privilege of your acquaintance; and, if i may say so, you 'ave--you 'ave my 'earty sympathy. good-day."
the door once shut behind her, gyp took a long breath and walked swiftly away. her cheeks were burning; and, with a craving for protection, she put up her sunshade. but the girl's white face came up again before her, and the sound of her words:
"oh, mrs. fiorsen, i wish i was dead! i do!"
gyp walked on beneath her sunshade, making unconsciously for the peace of trees. her mind was a whirl of impressions--daphne wing's figure against the door, mr. wagge's puggy grey-bearded countenance, the red pampas-grass, the blue bowl, rosek's face swooping at her, her last glimpse of her baby asleep under the trees!
she sat on that bench a long time before it came into her mind that she was due at monsieur harmost's for a music lesson at three o'clock. it was well past two already; and she set out across the grass. the summer day was full of murmurings of bees and flies, cooings of blissful pigeons, the soft swish and stir of leaves, and the scent of lime blossom under a sky so blue, with few white clouds slow, and calm, and full. why be unhappy? and one of those spotty spaniel dogs, that have broad heads, with frizzy topknots, and are always rascals, smelt at her frock and moved round and round her, hoping that she would throw her sunshade on the water for him to fetch, this being in his view the only reason why anything was carried in the hand.
she found monsieur harmost fidgeting up and down the room, whose opened windows could not rid it of the smell of latakia.
"ah," he said, "i thought you were not coming! you look pale; are you not well? is it the heat? or"--he looked hard into her face--"has someone hurt you, my little friend?" gyp shook her head. "ah, yes," he went on irritably; "you tell me nothing; you tell nobody nothing! you close up your pretty face like a flower at night. at your age, my child, one should make confidences; a secret grief is to music as the east wind to the stomach. put off your mask for once." he came close to her. "tell me your troubles. it is a long time since i have been meaning to ask. come! we are only once young; i want to see you happy."
but gyp stood looking down. would it be relief to pour her soul out? would it? his brown eyes questioned her like an old dog's. she did not want to hurt one so kind. and yet--impossible!
monsieur harmost suddenly sat down at the piano. resting his hands on the keys, he looked round at her, and said:
"i am in love with you, you know. old men can be very much in love, but they know it is no good--that makes them endurable. still, we like to feel of use to youth and beauty; it gives us a little warmth. come; tell me your grief!" he waited a moment, then said irritably: "well, well, we go to music then!"
it was his habit to sit by her at the piano corner, but to-day he stood as if prepared to be exceptionally severe. and gyp played, whether from overexcited nerves or from not having had any lunch, better than she had ever played. the chopin polonaise in a flat, that song of revolution, which had always seemed so unattainable, went as if her fingers were being worked for her. when she had finished, monsieur harmost, bending forward, lifted one of her hands and put his lips to it. she felt the scrub of his little bristly beard, and raised her face with a deep sigh of satisfaction. a voice behind them said mockingly:
there, by the door, stood fiorsen.
"congratulations, madame! i have long wanted to see you under the inspiration of your--master!"
gyp's heart began to beat desperately. monsieur harmost had not moved. a faint grin slowly settled in his beard, but his eyes were startled.
fiorsen kissed the back of his own hand.
"to this old pantaloon you come to give your heart. ho--what a lover!"
gyp saw the old man quiver; she sprang up and cried:
fiorsen ran forward, stretching out his arms toward monsieur harmost, as if to take him by the throat.
gyp slipped between, right up to those outstretched hands till she could feel their knuckles against her. had he gone mad? would he strangle her? but her eyes never moved from his, and his began to waver; his hands dropped, and, with a kind of moan, he made for the door.
monsieur harmost's voice behind her said:
"before you go, monsieur, give me some explanation of this imbecility!"
fiorsen spun round, shook his fist, and went out muttering. they heard the front door slam. gyp turned abruptly to the window, and there, in her agitation, she noticed little outside things as one does in moments of bewildered anger. even into that back yard, summer had crept. the leaves of the sumach-tree were glistening; in a three-cornered little patch of sunlight, a black cat with a blue ribbon round its neck was basking. the voice of one hawking strawberries drifted melancholy from a side street. she was conscious that monsieur harmost was standing very still, with a hand pressed to his mouth, and she felt a perfect passion of compunction and anger. that kind and harmless old man--to be so insulted! this was indeed the culmination of all gustav's outrages! she would never forgive him this! for he had insulted her as well, beyond what pride or meekness could put up with. she turned, and, running up to the old man, put both her hands into his.
"i'm so awfully sorry. good-bye, dear, dear monsieur harmost; i shall come on friday!" and, before he could stop her, she was gone.
she dived into the traffic; but, just as she reached the pavement on the other side, felt her dress plucked and saw fiorsen just behind her. she shook herself free and walked swiftly on. was he going to make a scene in the street? again he caught her arm. she stopped dead, faced round on him, and said, in an icy voice:
"please don't make scenes in the street, and don't follow me like this. if you want to talk to me, you can--at home."
then, very calmly, she turned and walked on. but he was still following her, some paces off. she did not quicken her steps, and to the first taxicab driver that passed she made a sign, and saying:
"bury street--quick!" got in. she saw fiorsen rush forward, too late to stop her. he threw up his hand and stood still, his face deadly white under his broad-brimmed hat. she was far too angry and upset to care.
from the moment she turned to the window at monsieur harmost's, she had determined to go to her father's. she would not go back to fiorsen; and the one thought that filled her mind was how to get betty and her baby. nearly four! dad was almost sure to be at his club. and leaning out, she said: "no; hyde park corner, please."
the hall porter, who knew her, after calling to a page-boy: "major winton--sharp, now!" came specially out of his box to offer her a seat and the times.
gyp sat with it on her knee, vaguely taking in her surroundings--a thin old gentleman anxiously weighing himself in a corner, a white-calved footman crossing with a tea-tray; a number of hats on pegs; the green-baize board with its white rows of tapelike paper, and three members standing before it. one of them, a tall, stout, good-humoured-looking man in pince-nez and a white waistcoat, becoming conscious, removed his straw hat and took up a position whence, without staring, he could gaze at her; and gyp knew, without ever seeming to glance at him, that he found her to his liking. she saw her father's unhurried figure passing that little group, all of whom were conscious now, and eager to get away out of this sanctum of masculinity, she met him at the top of the low steps, and said:
"i want to talk to you, dad."
he gave her a quick look, selected his hat, and followed to the door. in the cab, he put his hand on hers and said:
"now, my dear?"
but all she could get out was:
"i want to come back to you. i can't go on there. it's--it's--i've come to an end."
his hand pressed hers tightly, as if he were trying to save her the need for saying more. gyp went on:
"i must get baby; i'm terrified that he'll try to keep her, to get me back."
"is he at home?"
"i don't know. i haven't told him that i'm going to leave him."
winton looked at his watch and asked:
"does the baby ever go out as late as this?"
"yes; after tea. it's cooler."
"i'll take this cab on, then. you stay and get the room ready for her. don't worry, and don't go out till i return."
and gyp thought: 'how wonderful of him not to have asked a single question.'
the cab stopped at the bury street door. she took his hand, put it to her cheek, and got out. he said quietly:
"do you want the dogs?"
"yes--oh, yes! he doesn't care for them."
"all right. there'll be time to get you in some things for the night after i come back. i shan't run any risks to-day. make mrs. markey give you tea."
gyp watched the cab gather way again, saw him wave his hand; then, with a deep sigh, half anxiety, half relief, she rang the bell.
when the cab debouched again into st. james' street, winton gave the order: "quick as you can!" one could think better going fast! a little red had come into his brown cheeks; his eyes under their half-drawn lids had a keener light; his lips were tightly closed; he looked as he did when a fox was breaking cover. gyp could do no wrong, or, if she could, he would stand by her in it as a matter of course. but he was going to take no risks--make no frontal attack. time for that later, if necessary. he had better nerves than most people, and that kind of steely determination and resource which makes many englishmen of his class formidable in small operations. he kept his cab at the door, rang, and asked for gyp, with a kind of pleasure in his ruse.
"she's not in yet, sir. mr. fiorsen's in."
"ah! and baby?"
"i'll come in and see her. in the garden?"
"dogs there, too?"
"yes, sir. and will you have tea, please, sir?"
"no, thanks." how to effect this withdrawal without causing gossip, and yet avoid suspicion of collusion with gyp? and he added: "unless mrs. fiorsen comes in."
passing out into the garden, he became aware that fiorsen was at the dining-room window watching him, and decided to make no sign that he knew this. the baby was under the trees at the far end, and the dogs came rushing thence with a fury which lasted till they came within scent of him. winton went leisurely up to the perambulator, and, saluting betty, looked down at his grandchild. she lay under an awning of muslin, for fear of flies, and was awake. her solemn, large brown eyes, already like gyp's, regarded him with gravity. clucking to her once or twice, as is the custom, he moved so as to face the house. in this position, he had betty with her back to it. and he said quietly:
it is not in the nature of stout women with babies in their charge to receive such an order without question. her colour, and the heaving of that billowy bosom made winton add quickly:
"now, betty, pull yourself together; gyp wants you. i'll tell you all about it in the cab."
the poor woman, still heaving vaguely, could only stammer:
"yes, sir. poor little thing! what about its night-things? and miss gyp's?"
conscious of that figure still at the window, winton made some passes with his fingers at the baby, and said:
"never mind them. as soon as you see me at the drawing-room window, get ready and go. eyes front, betty; don't look round; i'll cover your retreat! don't fail gyp now. pull yourself together."
with a sigh that could have been heard in kensington, betty murmured: "very well, sir; oh dear!" and began to adjust the strings of her bonnet. with nods, as if he had been the recipient of some sage remarks about the baby, winton saluted, and began his march again towards the house. he carefully kept his eyes to this side and to that, as if examining the flowers, but noted all the same that fiorsen had receded from the window. rapid thought told him that the fellow would come back there to see if he were gone, and he placed himself before a rose-bush, where, at that reappearance, he could make a sign of recognition. sure enough, he came; and winton quietly raising his hand to the salute passed on through the drawing-room window. he went quickly into the hall, listened a second, and opened the dining-room door. fiorsen was pacing up and down, pale and restless. he came to a standstill and stared haggardly at winton, who said:
"how are you? gyp not in?"
something in the sound of that "no" touched winton with a vague--a very vague--compunction. to be left by gyp! then his heart hardened again. the fellow was a rotter--he was sure of it, had always been sure.
"baby looks well," he said.
fiorsen turned and began to pace up and down again.
"where is gyp? i want her to come in. i want her."
winton took out his watch.
"it's not late." and suddenly he felt a great aversion for the part he was playing. to get the baby; to make gyp safe--yes! but, somehow, not this pretence that he knew nothing about it. he turned on his heel and walked out. it imperilled everything; but he couldn't help it. he could not stay and go on prevaricating like this. had that woman got clear? he went back into the drawing-room. there they were--just passing the side of the house. five minutes, and they would be down at the turning. he stood at the window, waiting. if only that fellow did not come in! through the partition wall he could hear him still tramping up and down the dining-room. what a long time a minute was! three had gone when he heard the dining-room door opened, and fiorsen crossing the hall to the front door. what was he after, standing there as if listening? and suddenly he heard him sigh. it was just such a sound as many times, in the long-past days, had escaped himself, waiting, listening for footsteps, in parched and sickening anxiety. did this fellow then really love--almost as he had loved? and in revolt at spying on him like this, he advanced and said:
"well, i won't wait any longer."
fiorsen started; he had evidently supposed himself alone. and winton thought: 'by jove! he does look bad!'
"good-bye!" he said; but the words: "give my love to gyp," perished on their way up to his lips.
"good-bye!" fiorsen echoed. and winton went out under the trellis, conscious of that forlorn figure still standing at the half-opened door. betty was nowhere in sight; she must have reached the turning. his mission had succeeded, but he felt no elation. round the corner, he picked up his convoy, and, with the perambulator hoisted on to the taxi, journeyed on at speed. he had said he would explain in the cab, but the only remark he made was:
"you'll all go down to mildenham to-morrow."
and betty, who had feared him ever since their encounter so many years ago, eyed his profile, without daring to ask questions. before he reached home, winton stopped at a post-office, and sent this telegram:
"gyp and the baby are with me letter follows.--winton."
there was much to do, and it was late before they dined, and not till markey had withdrawn could they begin their talk.
close to the open windows where markey had placed two hydrangea plants--just bought on his own responsibility, in token of silent satisfaction--gyp began. she kept nothing back, recounting the whole miserable fiasco of her marriage. when she came to daphne wing and her discovery in the music-room, she could see the glowing end of her father's cigar move convulsively. that insult to his adored one seemed to winton so inconceivable that, for a moment, he stopped her recital by getting up to pace the room. in her own house--her own house! and--after that, she had gone on with him! he came back to his chair and did not interrupt again, but his stillness almost frightened her.
coming to the incidents of the day itself, she hesitated. must she tell him, too, of rosek--was it wise, or necessary? the all-or-nothing candour that was part of her nature prevailed, and she went straight on, and, save for the feverish jerking of his evening shoe, winton made no sign. when she had finished, he got up and slowly extinguished the end of his cigar against the window-sill; then looking at her lying back in her chair as if exhausted, he said: "by god!" and turned his face away to the window.
at that hour before the theatres rose, a lull brooded in the london streets; in this quiet narrow one, the town's hum was only broken by the clack of a half-drunken woman bickering at her man as they lurched along for home, and the strains of a street musician's fiddle, trying to make up for a blank day. the sound vaguely irritated winton, reminding him of those two damnable foreigners by whom she had been so treated. to have them at the point of a sword or pistol--to teach them a lesson! he heard her say:
"dad, i should like to pay his debts. then things would be as they were when i married him."
he emitted an exasperated sound. he did not believe in heaping coals of fire.
"i want to make sure, too, that the girl is all right till she's over her trouble. perhaps i could use some of that--that other money, if mine is all tied up?"
it was sheer anger, not disapproval of her impulse, that made him hesitate; money and revenge would never be associated in his mind. gyp went on:
"i want to feel as if i'd never let him marry me. perhaps his debts are all part of that--who knows? please!"
winton looked at her. how like--when she said that "please!" how like--her figure sunk back in the old chair, and the face lifted in shadow! a sort of exultation came to him. he had got her back--had got her back!
fiorsen's bedroom was--as the maid would remark--"a proper pigsty"--until he was out of it and it could be renovated each day. he had a talent for disorder, so that the room looked as if three men instead of one had gone to bed in it. clothes and shoes, brushes, water, tumblers, breakfast-tray, newspapers, french novels, and cigarette-ends--none were ever where they should have been; and the stale fumes from the many cigarettes he smoked before getting up incommoded anyone whose duty it was to take him tea and shaving-water. when, on that first real summer day, the maid had brought rosek up to him, he had been lying a long time on his back, dreamily watching the smoke from his cigarette and four flies waltzing in the sunlight that filtered through the green sun-blinds. this hour, before he rose, was his creative moment, when he could best see the form of music and feel inspiration for its rendering. of late, he had been stale and wretched, all that side of him dull; but this morning he felt again the delicious stir of fancy, that vibrating, half-dreamy state when emotion seems so easily to find shape and the mind pierces through to new expression. hearing the maid's knock, and her murmured: "count rosek to see you, sir," he thought: 'what the devil does he want?' a larger nature, drifting without control, in contact with a smaller one, who knows his own mind exactly, will instinctively be irritable, though he may fail to grasp what his friend is after.
and pushing the cigarette-box toward rosek, he turned away his head. it would be money he had come about, or--that girl! that girl--he wished she was dead! soft, clinging creature! a baby! god! what a fool he had been--ah, what a fool! such absurdity! unheard of! first gyp--then her! he had tried to shake the girl off. as well try to shake off a burr! how she clung! he had been patient--oh, yes--patient and kind, but how go on when one was tired--tired of her--and wanting only gyp, only his own wife? that was a funny thing! and now, when, for an hour or two, he had shaken free of worry, had been feeling happy--yes, happy--this fellow must come, and stand there with his face of a sphinx! and he said pettishly:
"well, paul! sit down. what troubles have you brought?"
rosek lit a cigarette but did not sit down. he struck even fiorsen by his unsmiling pallor.
"you had better look out for mr. wagge, gustav; he came to me yesterday. he has no music in his soul."
"satan take mr. wagge! what can he do?"
"i am not a lawyer, but i imagine he can be unpleasant--the girl is young."
fiorsen glared at him, and said:
"why did you throw me that cursed girl?"
rosek answered, a little too steadily:
"i did not, my friend."
"what! you did. what was your game? you never do anything without a game. you know you did. come; what was your game?"
"you like pleasure, i believe."
fiorsen said violently:
"look here: i have done with your friendship--you are no friend to me. i have never really known you, and i should not wish to. it is finished. leave me in peace."
"my dear, that is all very well, but friendships are not finished like that. moreover, you owe me a thousand pounds."
"well, i will pay it." rosek's eyebrows mounted. "i will. gyp will lend it to me."
"oh! is gyp so fond of you as that? i thought she only loved her music-lessons."
crouching forward with his knees drawn up, fiorsen hissed out:
"don't talk of gyp! get out of this! i will pay you your thousand pounds."
rosek, still smiling, answered:
"gustav, don't be a fool! with a violin to your shoulder, you are a man. without--you are a child. lie quiet, my friend, and think of mr. wagge. but you had better come and talk it over with me. good-bye for the moment. calm yourself." and, flipping the ash off his cigarette on to the tray by fiorsen's elbow, he nodded and went.
fiorsen, who had leaped out of bed, put his hand to his head. the cursed fellow! cursed be every one of them--the father and the girl, rosek and all the other sharks! he went out on to the landing. the house was quite still below. rosek had gone--good riddance! he called, "gyp!" no answer. he went into her room. its superlative daintiness struck his fancy. a scent of cyclamen! he looked out into the garden. there was the baby at the end, and that fat woman. no gyp! never in when she was wanted. wagge! he shivered; and, going back into his bedroom, took a brandy-bottle from a locked cupboard and drank some. it steadied him; he locked up the cupboard again, and dressed.
going out to the music-room, he stopped under the trees to make passes with his fingers at the baby. sometimes he felt that it was an adorable little creature, with its big, dark eyes so like gyp's. sometimes it excited his disgust--a discoloured brat. this morning, while looking at it, he thought suddenly of the other that was coming--and grimaced. catching betty's stare of horrified amazement at the face he was making at her darling, he burst into a laugh and turned away into the music-room.
while he was keying up his violin, gyp's conduct in never having come there for so long struck him as bitterly unjust. the girl--who cared about the wretched girl? as if she made any real difference! it was all so much deeper than that. gyp had never loved him, never given him what he wanted, never quenched his thirst of her! that was the heart of it. no other woman he had ever had to do with had been like that--kept his thirst unquenched. no; he had always tired of them before they tired of him. she gave him nothing really--nothing! had she no heart or did she give it elsewhere? what was that paul had said about her music-lessons? and suddenly it struck him that he knew nothing, absolutely nothing, of where she went or what she did. she never told him anything. music-lessons? every day, nearly, she went out, was away for hours. the thought that she might go to the arms of another man made him put down his violin with a feeling of actual sickness. why not? that deep and fearful whipping of the sexual instinct which makes the ache of jealousy so truly terrible was at its full in such a nature as fiorsen's. he drew a long breath and shuddered. the remembrance of her fastidious pride, her candour, above all her passivity cut in across his fear. no, not gyp!
he went to a little table whereon stood a tantalus, tumblers, and a syphon, and pouring out some brandy, drank. it steadied him. and he began to practise. he took a passage from brahms' violin concerto and began to play it over and over. suddenly, he found he was repeating the same flaws each time; he was not attending. the fingering of that thing was ghastly! music-lessons! why did she take them? waste of time and money--she would never be anything but an amateur! ugh! unconsciously, he had stopped playing. had she gone there to-day? it was past lunch-time. perhaps she had come in.
three o'clock. so that was her hour! his eyes rested idly on a little old coloured print of a bacchante, with flowing green scarf, shaking a tambourine at a naked cupid, who with a baby bow and arrow in his hands, was gazing up at her. he turned it over; on the back was written in a pointed, scriggly hand, "to my little friend.--e. h." fiorsen drew smoke deep down into his lungs, expelled it slowly, and went to the piano. he opened it and began to play, staring vacantly before him, the cigarette burned nearly to his lips. he went on, scarcely knowing what he played. at last he stopped, and sat dejected. a great artist? often, nowadays, he did not care if he never touched a violin again. tired of standing up before a sea of dull faces, seeing the blockheads knock their silly hands one against the other! sick of the sameness of it all! besides--besides, were his powers beginning to fail? what was happening to him of late?
"i am mr. fiorsen. mrs. fiorsen here?"
"yes, sir; will you wait?"
why did she look at him like that? ugly girl! how hateful ugly people were! when she was gone, he reopened the door of the waiting-room, and listened.
chopin! the polonaise in a flat. good! could that be gyp? very good! he moved out, down the passage, drawn on by her playing, and softly turned the handle. the music stopped. he went in.
when winton had left him, an hour and a half later that afternoon, fiorsen continued to stand at the front door, swaying his body to and fro. the brandy-nurtured burst of jealousy which had made him insult his wife and old monsieur harmost had died suddenly when gyp turned on him in the street and spoke in that icy voice; since then he had felt fear, increasing every minute. would she forgive? to one who always acted on the impulse of the moment, so that he rarely knew afterward exactly what he had done, or whom hurt, gyp's self-control had ever been mysterious and a little frightening. where had she gone? why did she not come in? anxiety is like a ball that rolls down-hill, gathering momentum. suppose she did not come back! but she must--there was the baby--their baby!
for the first time, the thought of it gave him unalloyed satisfaction. he left the door, and, after drinking a glass to steady him, flung himself down on the sofa in the drawing-room. and while he lay there, the brandy warm within him, he thought: 'i will turn over a new leaf; give up drink, give up everything, send the baby into the country, take gyp to paris, berlin, vienna, rome--anywhere out of this england, anywhere, away from that father of hers and all these stiff, dull folk! she will like that--she loves travelling!' yes, they would be happy! delicious nights--delicious days--air that did not weigh you down and make you feel that you must drink--real inspiration--real music! the acrid wood-smoke scent of paris streets, the glistening cleanness of the thiergarten, a serenading song in a florence back street, fireflies in the summer dusk at sorrento--he had intoxicating memories of them all! slowly the warmth of the brandy died away, and, despite the heat, he felt chill and shuddery. he shut his eyes, thinking to sleep till she came in. but very soon he opened them, because--a thing usual with him of late--he saw such ugly things--faces, vivid, changing as he looked, growing ugly and uglier, becoming all holes--holes--horrible holes--corruption--matted, twisted, dark human-tree-roots of faces! horrible! he opened his eyes, for when he did that, they always went. it was very silent. no sound from above. no sound of the dogs. he would go up and see the baby.
while he was crossing the hall, there came a ring. he opened the door himself. a telegram! he tore the envelope.
"gyp and the baby are with me letter follows.--winton."
he gave a short laugh, shut the door in the boy's face, and ran upstairs; why--heaven knew! there was nobody there now! nobody! did it mean that she had really left him--was not coming back? he stopped by the side of gyp's bed, and flinging himself forward, lay across it, burying his face. and he sobbed, as men will, unmanned by drink. had he lost her? never to see her eyes closing and press his lips against them! never to soak his senses in her loveliness! he leaped up, with the tears still wet on his face. lost her? absurd! that calm, prim, devilish englishman, her father--he was to blame--he had worked it all--stealing the baby!
he went down-stairs and drank some brandy. it steadied him a little. what should he do? "letter follows." drink, and wait? go to bury street? no. drink! enjoy himself!
he laughed, and, catching up his hat, went out, walking furiously at first, then slower and slower, for his head began to whirl, and, taking a cab, was driven to a restaurant in soho. he had eaten nothing but a biscuit since his breakfast, always a small matter, and ordered soup and a flask of their best chianti--solids he could not face. more than two hours he sat, white and silent, perspiration on his forehead, now and then grinning and flourishing his fingers, to the amusement and sometimes the alarm of those sitting near. but for being known there, he would have been regarded with suspicion. about half-past nine, there being no more wine, he got up, put a piece of gold on the table, and went out without waiting for his change.
in the streets, the lamps were lighted, but daylight was not quite gone. he walked unsteadily, toward piccadilly. a girl of the town passed and looked up at him. staring hard, he hooked his arm in hers without a word; it steadied him, and they walked on thus together. suddenly he said:
"well, girl, are you happy?" the girl stopped and tried to disengage her arm; a rather frightened look had come into her dark-eyed powdered face. fiorsen laughed, and held it firm. "when the unhappy meet, they walk together. come on! you are just a little like my wife. will you have a drink?"
"brother," he said, "lend me your fiddle. here's money for you. come; lend it to me. i am a great violinist."
"ah! vraiment! voyons! donnez--un instant--vous verrez."
gyp hardly slept at all. three times she got up, and, stealing to the door, looked in at her sleeping baby, whose face in its new bed she could just see by the night-light's glow. the afternoon had shaken her nerves. nor was betty's method of breathing while asleep conducive to the slumber of anything but babies. it was so hot, too, and the sound of the violin still in her ears. by that little air of poise, she had known for certain it was fiorsen; and her father's abrupt drawing of the curtains had clinched that certainty. if she had gone to the window and seen him, she would not have been half so deeply disturbed as she was by that echo of an old emotion. the link which yesterday she thought broken for good was reforged in some mysterious way. the sobbing of that old fiddle had been his way of saying, "forgive me; forgive!" to leave him would have been so much easier if she had really hated him; but she did not. however difficult it may be to live with an artist, to hate him is quite as difficult. an artist is so flexible--only the rigid can be hated. she hated the things he did, and him when he was doing them; but afterward again could hate him no more than she could love him, and that was--not at all. resolution and a sense of the practical began to come back with daylight. when things were hopeless, it was far better to recognize it and harden one's heart.
winton, whose night had been almost as sleepless--to play like a beggar in the street, under his windows, had seemed to him the limit!--announced at breakfast that he must see his lawyer, make arrangements for the payment of fiorsen's debts, and find out what could be done to secure gyp against persecution. some deed was probably necessary; he was vague on all such matters. in the meantime, neither gyp nor the baby must go out. gyp spent the morning writing and rewriting to monsieur harmost, trying to express her chagrin, but not saying that she had left fiorsen.
her father came back from westminster quiet and angry. he had with difficulty been made to understand that the baby was fiorsen's property, so that, if the fellow claimed it, legally they would be unable to resist. the point opened the old wound, forced him to remember that his own daughter had once belonged to another--father. he had told the lawyer in a measured voice that he would see the fellow damned first, and had directed a deed of separation to be prepared, which should provide for the complete payment of fiorsen's existing debts on condition that he left gyp and the baby in peace. after telling gyp this, he took an opportunity of going to the extempore nursery and standing by the baby's cradle. until then, the little creature had only been of interest as part of gyp; now it had for him an existence of its own--this tiny, dark-eyed creature, lying there, watching him so gravely, clutching his finger. suddenly the baby smiled--not a beautiful smile, but it made on winton an indelible impression.
wishing first to settle this matter of the deed, he put off going down to mildenham; but "not trusting those two scoundrels a yard"--for he never failed to bracket rosek and fiorsen--he insisted that the baby should not go out without two attendants, and that gyp should not go out alone. he carried precaution to the point of accompanying her to monsieur harmost's on the friday afternoon, and expressed a wish to go in and shake hands with the old fellow. it was a queer meeting. those two had as great difficulty in finding anything to say as though they were denizens of different planets. and indeed, there are two planets on this earth! when, after a minute or so of the friendliest embarrassment, he had retired to wait for her, gyp sat down to her lesson.
monsieur harmost said quietly:
"your letter was very kind, my little friend--and your father is very kind. but, after all, it was a compliment your husband paid me." his smile smote gyp; it seemed to sum up so many resignations. "so you stay again with your father!" and, looking at her very hard with his melancholy brown eyes, "when will you find your fate, i wonder?"
monsieur harmost's eyebrows rose.
"ah," he said, "you think! no, that is impossible!" he walked twice very quickly up and down the room; then spinning round on his heel, said sharply: "well, we must not waste your father's time. to work."
winton's simple comment in the cab on the way home was:
"nice old chap!"
at bury street, they found gyp's agitated parlour-maid. going to do the music-room that morning, she had "found the master sitting on the sofa, holding his head, and groaning awful. he's not been at home, ma'am, since you--you went on your visit, so i didn't know what to do. i ran for cook and we got him up to bed, and not knowing where you'd be, ma'am, i telephoned to count rosek, and he came--i hope i didn't do wrong--and he sent me down to see you. the doctor says his brain's on the touch and go, and he keeps askin' for you, ma'am. so i didn't know what to do."
gyp, pale to the lips, said:
"wait here a minute, ellen," and went into the dining-room. winton followed. she turned to him at once, and said:
"oh, dad, what am i to do? his brain! it would be too awful to feel i'd brought that about."
winton grunted. gyp went on:
"i must go and see. if it's really that, i couldn't bear it. i'm afraid i must go, dad."
"well, i'll come too," he said. "the girl can go back in the cab and say we're on the way."
taking a parting look at her baby, gyp thought bitterly: 'my fate? this is my fate, and no getting out of it!' on the journey, she and winton were quite silent--but she held his hand tight. while the cook was taking up to rosek the news of their arrival, gyp stood looking out at her garden. two days and six hours only since she had stood there above her pansies; since, at this very spot, rosek had kissed her throat! slipping her hand through winton's arm, she said:
"dad, please don't make anything of that kiss. he couldn't help himself, i suppose. what does it matter, too?"
a moment later rosek entered. before she could speak, winton was saying:
"thank you for letting us know, sir. but now that my daughter is here, there will be no further need for your kind services. good-day!"
at the cruel curtness of those words, gyp gave the tiniest start forward. she had seen them go through rosek's armour as a sword through brown paper. he recovered himself with a sickly smile, bowed, and went out. winton followed--precisely as if he did not trust him with the hats in the hall. when the outer door was shut, he said:
"i don't think he'll trouble you again."
gyp's gratitude was qualified by a queer compassion. after all, his offence had only been that of loving her.
fiorsen had been taken to her room, which was larger and cooler than his own; and the maid was standing by the side of the bed with a scared face. gyp signed to her to go. he opened his eyes presently:
"gyp! oh! gyp! is it you? the devilish, awful things i see--don't go away again! oh, gyp!" with a sob he raised himself and rested his forehead against her. and gyp felt--as on the first night he came home drunk--a merging of all other emotions in the desire to protect and heal.
"it's all right, all right," she murmured. "i'm going to stay. don't worry about anything. keep quite quiet, and you'll soon be well."
gyp went back to her seat by the bed. irony! she whose only desire was to be let go free, was mainly responsible for his breakdown! but for her, there would be nothing on his mind, for he would not be married! brooding morbidly, she asked herself--his drinking, debts, even the girl--had she caused them, too? and when she tried to free him and herself--this was the result! was there something fatal about her that must destroy the men she had to do with? she had made her father unhappy, monsieur harmost--rosek, and her husband! even before she married, how many had tried for her love, and gone away unhappy! and, getting up, she went to a mirror and looked at herself long and sadly.
three days after her abortive attempt to break away, gyp, with much heart-searching, wrote to daphne wing, telling her of fiorsen's illness, and mentioning a cottage near mildenham, where--if she liked to go--she would be quite comfortable and safe from all curiosity, and finally begging to be allowed to make good the losses from any broken dance-contracts.
next morning, she found mr. wagge with a tall, crape-banded hat in his black-gloved hands, standing in the very centre of her drawing-room. he was staring into the garden, as if he had been vouchsafed a vision of that warm night when the moonlight shed its ghostly glamour on the sunflowers, and his daughter had danced out there. she had a perfect view of his thick red neck in its turndown collar, crossed by a black bow over a shiny white shirt. and, holding out her hand, she said:
"how do you do, mr. wagge? it was kind of you to come."
mr. wagge turned. his pug face wore a downcast expression.
"i hope i see you well, ma'am. pretty place you 'ave 'ere. i'm fond of flowers myself. they've always been my 'obby."
"they're a great comfort in london, aren't they?"
"ye-es; i should think you might grow the dahlia here." and having thus obeyed the obscure instincts of savoir faire, satisfied some obscurer desire to flatter, he went on: "my girl showed me your letter. i didn't like to write; in such a delicate matter i'd rather be vivey vocey. very kind, in your position; i'm sure i appreciate it. i always try to do the christian thing myself. flesh passes; you never know when you may have to take your turn. i said to my girl i'd come and see you."
"i'm very glad. i hoped perhaps you would."
mr. wagge cleared his throat, and went on, in a hoarser voice:
"i don't want to say anything harsh about a certain party in your presence, especially as i read he's indisposed, but really i hardly know how to bear the situation. i can't bring myself to think of money in relation to that matter; all the same, it's a serious loss to my daughter, very serious loss. i've got my family pride to think of. my daughter's name, well--it's my own; and, though i say it, i'm respected--a regular attendant--i think i told you. sometimes, i assure you, i feel i can't control myself, and it's only that--and you, if i may say so, that keeps me in check."
during this speech, his black-gloved hands were clenching and unclenching, and he shifted his broad, shining boots. gyp gazed at them, not daring to look up at his eyes thus turning and turning from christianity to shekels, from his honour to the world, from his anger to herself. and she said:
"please let me do what i ask, mr. wagge. i should be so unhappy if i mightn't do that little something."
mr. wagge blew his nose.
"it's a delicate matter," he said. "i don't know where my duty lays. i don't, reelly."
gyp looked up then.
"the great thing is to save daisy suffering, isn't it?"
mr. wagge's face wore for a moment an expression of affront, as if from the thought: 'sufferin'! you must leave that to her father!' then it wavered; the curious, furtive warmth of the attracted male came for a moment into his little eyes; he averted them, and coughed. gyp said softly:
"to please me."
mr. wagge's readjusted glance stopped in confusion at her waist. he answered, in a voice that he strove to make bland:
"if you put it in that way, i don't reelly know 'ow to refuse; but it must be quite between you and me--i can't withdraw my attitude."
"no, of course. thank you so much; and you'll let me know about everything later. i mustn't take up your time now." and she held out her hand.
mr. wagge took it in a lingering manner.
"well, i have an appointment," he said; "a gentleman at campden hill. he starts at twelve. i'm never late. good-morning."
when she had watched his square, black figure pass through the outer gate, busily rebuttoning those shining black gloves, she went upstairs and washed her face and hands.
for several days, fiorsen wavered; but his collapse had come just in time, and with every hour the danger lessened. at the end of a fortnight of a perfectly white life, there remained nothing to do in the words of the doctor but "to avoid all recurrence of the predisposing causes, and shove in sea air!" gyp had locked up all brandy--and violins; she could control him so long as he was tamed by his own weakness. but she passed some very bitter hours before she sent for her baby, betty, and the dogs, and definitely took up life in her little house again. his debts had also be contrary to humanity if they were to hang about, or to cause starvation of the men on board in mid-voyage on account of the mere lack of coal or food. beyond this, the spirit of the law of nations is that a neutral ought to allow nothing. can any one boldly assert that the theory of asylum can be applied with fairness to a case like that of the baltic fleet, which is far from seeking asylum, but is deliberately endeavouring to administer coups to its adversary and proceeding to the very seat of war. if he can do so, where is the justice and equity of the so-called law of nations, which the occidentals boast of, not without just title, and claim that it forms one of the essential parts of christian morality?
7. as to the talk about the three-mile limit of the territorial waters, there is already much divergency of opinion even amongst the jurists. to put it forth as a defence in a case like that of the baltic fleet affairs seems to me too puerile. the matter, however, becomes all the more grave when even that limit is not observed, and it has been constantly ignored by the baltic fleet.
such are the views which we japanese have taken in the matter. some french journals (erroneously basing their assertions on the views i have personally expressed) say that japan has taken up english views of international law in opposition to the continental views, so that france ought not to yield to japan's protest. this contention is not correct. we do not hold these views because they are english ones: we do so because they are in our opinion the only views which are internationally just and equitable. we are now fighting against a foe so formidable, as the whole world knows, that to us it is a matter of life and death. we have sufficient patience and fortitude, but we cannot run the risk of sacrificing our very existence without some protest when we think that we are not being treated with justice and equity.
you ask my opinion on the future of the yellow peril cry. from an ethical point of view it is an unjust and unreasonable accusation. from a practical point of view it is idle and useless talk.
i have spoken and written on these particular points so often that i do not feel inclined to reiterate any more. i will, however, consider the matter from a different point of view and solicit any answer which may be advanced against my conviction. i do not do this from any thought of vanity; i should be very sorry if it were ever taken in that sense. i would simply ask those who agitate and cry the yellow peril, the means they would suggest for the adopting of their propaganda, if their words are not to be empty ones.
suppose any country wanted to subjugate japan, and should want to send an army to fight on the soil of japan, what number of men do they think would suffice? no general in the whole world would, i am sure, be bold enough to undertake the task with under one million men. i have reason to believe even that number would not suffice, but for a moment let it be that number. what country in the world can send that number over the broad ocean? germany, france, england, or america? russia seems to have the greatest chance, being nearer to japan. but her experience is already known.
suppose the idea of a land campaign be abandoned, and only a fleet be sent to intimidate japan by sea battles, or by harassing her commerce. there would certainly be a better chance for any of the occidental fleets than for the armies, in coping with the forces of japan. above all, i frankly admit that england would be the most formidable foe in that respect. but excepting england, is there any other country that can say with certainty that it can easily crush the japanese navy? is it germany? is it france? or is it--america?
but supposing our navy were crushed; what next? it would, of course, be a very ugly thing for us, but it would not mean the subjection of japan. our sea-coast towns may be bombarded, our commerce may be harassed, but japan will still subsist within her soil, for she can live without depending on any other country for food. and, besides, disturbance of commerce would not be a loss only to her.
moreover, any country which should embark on such an enterprise would have need to think it over twice (or, indeed, three or four times) before undertaking it, and to calculate the probable benefit it could get therefrom, and the probable expenses it would incur; not to speak of the result of any possible failure. it may be presumed that japan would not tamely be intimidated by any action undertaken by any country which is not based on justice and equity, and which, therefore, is not open to reason.
further, is there any country which would willingly embark on such an enterprise single-handed? i think not. the reason is too obvious for me to elucidate.
putting aside altogether any question of justice and equity, if such an enterprise is to be embarked upon at all, it would have to be by common action of all the western powers, somewhat similar to that when the combined forces of europe rose against france some hundred years ago.
but let me ask if such a thing is possible under the present circumstances? the claims of japan to the kind consideration of humanity have already become so widely spread that she could no longer be trampled upon easily. man is, after all, a rational being. do the writers of the articles on the yellow peril (articles which even now repeatedly make their appearance) not know the fact that even in france there is a large number of people who have recently purchased japanese bonds, not to speak of germany, where those bonds have been openly floated by banks of high standing? even if all the governments of the west should be willing to agree to such an enterprise, i do not think the people at large would move with them.
japan is modest enough, japan is honest enough. why does she deserve a general ostracism? she might become, it is possible, a power of the world. she might become, it is possible, more civilised on the lines of occidental civilisation, after which she strives so earnestly. are these to be blamed as her sins?
to me the yellow peril cry, which is so often revived in some quarters of the continent, is either a sort of what we call 'guchi,' that is to say, useless repetition of complaint of some unreasonable disappointment, or a perpetuation of wicked instigation and selfish intention. in either case, it is not at all a laudable action; indeed, i may say it is wasteful calumny for no material good will come of it inasmuch as its object can never be achieved from the very condition of the world. the people who entertain that idea would be doing far better service to their country, to the progress of civilisation, to the general cause of humanity, if only they put aside such a silly notion, and busy themselves in teaching their fellow country-folks to accustom themselves to the changed circumstances of the time. it would be a far more manly and noble act if they revised their old notions, which in a measure may be called prejudice.
as to ourselves, the japanese, we shall only be glad if we can enjoy a peaceful and harmonious life in the happy family of the world, as we are determined to do, in spite of all the obstacles which may be laid before us.
interview with the baron suyematsu
the eminent statesman, baron suyematsu, kindly dictated in english to one of our editors answers relating to certain questions with regard to the relation between japan and europe, especially france and germany.
with the disclosure of the alleged kodama report in view, how far may one give credit to the alleged japanese plan of invasion of indo-china?
i know all that has been written in france on the subject. all those rumours appear to me to have come originally from russia, and to have been put into circulation in order to excite french opinion against japan, in other words, it is nothing else than a mere repetition of the yellow peril cry.
japan does not covet indo-china. i have shown elsewhere that the french colonies in the far east have no perceptible influence upon the situation of japan, either from a political or an economical point of view. japan has sufficient to do at home, she does not want to plunge into external adventures, such as meddling with indo-china or picking a quarrel with a country like france. you may be sure that it would be more politic for france to cultivate amicable relations with japan than irritate her by such accusations. even if those accusations honestly represent the true sentiment of the french, the japanese would only take them for malicious manœuvres directed to aid russia, and they could not produce any good impression on the minds of the japanese.
is there any reason to believe that the so-called kodama report was forged in russia rather than in france?
i have demonstrated elsewhere that the document which was recently made public and attributed to kodama containing some military indications on the plan of an invasion of indo-china is a perfect forgery. i have exposed elsewhere several technical errors therein which would never appear in an authentic official document. but whether it is authentic or not, i do not attach any importance to the matter, from a political point of view at least. it is the duty of all the military and naval authorities to keep themselves ready for any emergency. for example, france ought to keep herself always prepared for any possible difficulties which may arise on her frontiers in the east, and in the south, and on the western coasts; the same with germany, with austria, with italy, even with the united states.
it appears to me that, if the general staff-office of france or of germany, or the military or naval authorities of any country whatever, were to remain without the least knowledge as to what measure should be taken in case of a danger, they would be neglecting their duty to their country. i can then say that all the japanese officers, both in the army and in the navy ought to study constantly the measures which japan should take in any emergency. i believe it is the same in every country in europe. this, however, does not belong to the sphere of practical politics. it is the duty of statesmen and politicians to maintain a friendly relationship with all other countries as far as possible; and, consequently, to keep absolute control over their armies and navies. the army and navy ought to serve as instruments and machines in their hands, and not they, the civilians, become the instruments of the army and navy. you may be quite assured that in japan the army and navy are the machines of the statesmen, and that the statesmen are not their machines.
can the fabrication of the so-called kodama report be demonstrated by a precise fact?
i shall not say whence the document emanated. i believe it was composed by some one who does not lack a certain knowledge of japan, but who has drawn false deductions from his knowledge of similar matters of other countries. here is the best example. the document speaks of the native contingents of formosa. now there exist no such forces in formosa. the garrisons of formosa are sent there from japan. on the other hand, in the colonies belonging to other countries there are generally troops formed of native contingents. it is notably so in french colonies. the author of the document in question, reasoning from these facts, thought that it ought to be the same with formosa.
has japan any fear of another alteration of the treaty of shimonoseki being imposed upon her?
we do not overlook the possibility of another combination which those powers may have an idea of forming against us, and it behoves us to be watchful. nevertheless, to tell you my candid opinion, it is scarcely possible that a similar intervention should be renewed. i do not think france would push her docility so far as to follow germany a second time. it would be necessary that germany should set the example, aided by russia and france, to come out to the far east, especially because the russian fleets have ceased to exist. i admit that the german fleet is strong, but i do not believe it is powerful enough for one to say with certainty that it can easily crush japan. at all events, what pretext has germany to enter into war in the far east? among other things also she would have to count on the opinion and sentiments of two countries at least, i mean england and the united states. i do not, therefore, consider a new combination possible. japan cannot be intimidated by mere barking.
if, however, europe should choose to take such a course, we should gravely reflect. i do not believe your country for example would ever undertake an expedition against japan. you have disapproved a small expedition to tonkin and we are a little more serious than the tonkinese. france might no doubt, if her honour demanded it, judge it worth the pain to engage in a war with japan, but under no other circumstance do i believe her disposed to take such a part.
japan will always continue to advance on the lines of occidental civilisation. i do not see the reason which will prevent japan from acting in concert with france or germany, provided of course these powers do not enter upon an action which may appear to her altogether unjust or iniquitous, in which case she may not be able to march with them hand-in-hand.
would japan be offended by france introducing civilisation into indo-china?
we are not at all opposed to your introducing western civilisation into your colonies. on the contrary we shall be quite contented, but in introducing your civilisation into your colonies you have to be prepared that it signifies an amelioration of the condition of the natives. if it were so, why should we make the least objection? but in the hypothesis that the introduction of civilisation has in view neither amelioration of the condition of the natives nor progress of commerce and industry, we might then conceive a sort of suspicion. supposing that you augment the garrisons, the fortifications, the naval forces, one would see in it nothing but an expansion of your military power and not an introduction of civilisation in the sense understood in france. even in that case we would not raise objections, unless it were done with a view to menace us; but here i shall offer you a suggestion. is it really worth your while to develop there incessantly your military and naval forces in order to oppose japan? would not the enterprise be rather costly? would it not be infinitely better to employ your energy in cultivating a good understanding between your country and ours instead of rivalling each other by crossing armaments?
baron suyematsu gave a daily news representative his opinion of the 'spectre of japan' as conceived by many europeans. the japanese baron, a burly, cheerful man, laughed heartily as he dealt with the alarmist fears of the 'yellow peril.'
our talk began over mr. bruce smith's notice of motion in the australian parliament.
'yes, i have seen the proposal,' said baron suyematsu, 'and i am very glad an australian representative has taken up the question. he proposes to amend the immigration restriction act so as to permit japanese to enter the commonwealth. the reason given is that japan has placed herself in the front rank of nations, has granted religious freedom, has established consulates, and become the honoured ally of great britain. i understand that australian papers are saying there is no chance of the motion being carried. i care not whether the motion is carried or not this time. of one thing i am certain--it will be carried eventually.
'what reason has australia for shutting out the japanese?'
'the dread of cheaper labour and of the "yellow peril," as it is called. whatever there be in that, it certainly does not apply to the japanese. this is already being realised in australia, as mr. bruce smith's motion shows. the japanese are making it clear that they have to be regarded by europeans in a different light from the rest of asiatics. europeans consider themselves superior to all other races. i do not blame them for thinking that, for of modern civilisations theirs is certainly the best. but with the exception of the british people, europeans have not yet realised that modern japan is built up on european methods. she has no more to do with the so-called "yellow peril" than america has. she takes her place by the side of the other powers, with very much the same civilisation as theirs. england having been the first to recognise the new japan, i am certain her colonies will soon follow. that is why i feel it is only a question of time before australia excludes japan from its restriction act.'
a mistaken idea
'yet australia has been talking freely enough about the japanese menace.'
'i know. it is quite a mistaken idea of the australians that if japan triumphs in the present war she would be a menace to australia. they say that if we win we shall be masters of the east and the paramount power in eastern waters. what, they ask, is to become of australia, if we take it into our heads to make a descent upon their shores?'
baron suyematsu again laughed boisterously, as one who can afford to make merry at an extravagant idea.
'the whole thing is so utterly preposterous,' he went on, 'that it would not be worth considering were it not typical of what is being said all over europe. our fight for national existence against russia has been misconstrued everywhere. we seem to have filled the western world with all sorts of vague fears, france is saying that we shall soon deprive her of indo-china. germany declares we have designs on kiao-chau. the dutch say that java is no longer safe from our machinations. never was such nonsense talked of a country which, after all, is but fighting to preserve its national existence.'
'and you say japan has no intention of arming the asiatics against the europeans?'
'the whole idea is absurd. japan wishes to become one with the european nations. i might even say she aspires to become a member of the european family. it is a mistake to think that japan is going to form a pan-asiatic association. japan is the only country in the east that can rise on european lines. her example could not be followed by other asiatic countries. we are said to be the successors of the tartars, at one time the disturbers of the world's peace. nothing of the kind. russia would be more fittingly the successor of the tartars. the tartar races have been merged in the russian empire.
'i am sure,' added baron suyematsu, in a final word, 'that europe will soon find its fears about the "spectre of japan" are all ill-founded. england, i am glad to believe, never had those fears, and before long i hope to see her colonies in the same frame of mind. i hope the commonwealth parliament will lead the way.'
'our people,' said baron suyematsu, 'like the british people, favour the renewal of the anglo-japanese alliance. they also favour its extension. the nature of such extension demands careful thought, of course. i will not go into details, but i will say that a more effectual alliance is desirable from the standpoints of both england and japan, and i also think from the standpoint of america. japan's interest is too obvious to require mention; but england's interest, in my opinion, is equally real. russia and england are in contact throughout asia and friction is constant. england needs strengthening against russia and also against other powers active in the orient.
monroe doctrine of the past
'america's relation to this problem is more difficult. monroeism is thought to stand in the way. i appreciate the delicacy of venturing to discuss the policy of a nation other than my own, but i feel that americans are too sensible to resent an honest expression of opinion. monroeism is not part of the constitution, but the dictum of a statesman. this dictum was made when our planet was very large, before the development of steam and electricity. the nations were isolated and insulated by distance and non-communication.
'at that time american theory and practice relative to foreign affairs were in harmony. america was actually self-contained, but to-day the world is a tiny ball and america's flag and america's interests are on every sea. america is sovereign in hawaii and the philippines, and yet the american people cling to the idea of leaving distant matters alone. nevertheless the state department is widely and intelligently active.
american interest world-wide
'theoretically you do not participate, actually your participation bears upon international events everywhere. witness secretary hay's initiative respecting the jews, as well as despatch after despatch aimed at russian aggression in manchuria. the world's interests are becoming woven into a solid fabric. great nations cannot escape the responsibility this involves. american theory and practice, in my judgment, will go on diverging until the notion of non-participation will be merely an antiquated abstraction.
'therefore i refuse to regard as hopeless the idea of an american-anglo-japanese alliance, guaranteeing the peaceful development of the vast resources of the far east. such an alliance exists essentially now--an alliance springing from cognate ideas, wishes, purposes and principles. this is the best possible foundation for that formal compact which the evolution of industry and commerce seems to me unmistakably to foreshadow.'
since the bulk of the present work went to press, i came across the following communication printed in the outlook. i take the liberty of subjoining it herewith, without any vain intention of flaunting the virtues of my countrymen.--k.s.
to the editor of the outlook
sir,--i have received during the last few weeks letters bearing such eloquent testimony to the nobility of japanese character that i am sending you some extracts in the hope of your publishing them. the letters are from a friend of mine, who with her husband has lived in yokohama for many years, and can therefore speak with considerable authority. the first extract is about the soldiers themselves--
mine you know is a busy life, and i found work among the military hospitals and also among the brave wives of the soldiers so fascinating that from the new year till early june i let all social duties slip, so much so that i had a nervous breakdown in june, and since then have had to go very slow.
we had a splendid time at our seaside cottage at negishi this afternoon, any amount of our dear brown soldiers round us. there are five hundred quartered in that fishing village just now; they were resting, bathing, boating, washing their clothes or cooking their chow, but never a rude word or an uncouth action; no rowdyism, but all as civil, quiet, good-tempered, and alert as possible; they are a marvel; and my children go in and out among them and love them, like i do! i could kill white idiots when i hear them speak of those fine fellows as 'an inferior race.' ye gods! 'inferior' with never a camp follower to their name, and rapine unknown even after the fiercest fight! what european race can show a record like that? i wish i could be home for six months and tell what the soldiers and their wives are--what miracles of cheerful patience and manly dignity the wounded men are as they lie hacked and maimed, sometimes till almost all semblance of manhood is gone, yet never a murmur does any one hear from their lips--no, not if they are armless, legless, and even blind. and you would not dare condole with them! they say and believe they 'are greatly honoured.' when they embrace christianity, they shame the brightest christian among us, and i come away from visiting the hospitals feeling so small, so humble, yet at peace with all the world. we have very, very much to learn from this great people.
this second extract, about a soldier's wife, may come home to your readers even more:--
i allow two families a small sum of money every week. one case is that of a young woman, under twenty years of age, who has a child and an aged parent to keep, and her husband went to the war a few weeks ago, leaving her penniless and on the verge of having another baby. a few days ago, when i went to take her weekly money, she refused to take it, saying she had got a little work to do and could now manage without any help, as there were so many in much greater need of help than herself; and she would not take the money, though she was earning even less than i was allowing her. that is what i call a real heroine.
how many at work amongst our poor last winter could give such evidence to character as that?--i am, sir, yours, etc.
note to dialogue viii.
before the preceding pages had been printed two events worth mentioning here took place. one is the lamented death of sir henry irving. the other is the public discussion which took place under the auspices of the london shakespeare league, on the best method of presenting shakespeare's plays on the modern stage. on the latter subject perhaps i may add a word. while in japan the tendency is to introduce women-players into the company of male players, and improvement of scenery is much sought after on european lines, both of which are due to the occidental influence, it is curious to notice that exactly reverse movements, namely the dispensing with the female players and the returning back to the primitive simplicity of stage properties, are advocated in england by competent persons with regard to the representation of shakespeare. i extract below among others a passage of the speech of mr. bernard shaw on the occasion of the discussion referred to above:--
when mr. gilbert said that he would like to see the women's parts played by boys, he was not uttering a jest. in some of the performances at westminster school, he had seen boys in women's parts much more effective than any professional actress. if women players had been proposed to shakespeare, he would not only have been scandalised, but he would have pointed out that it was impossible to get the force from women that was obtained from boy actors.
note to the article on 'commercial morality'
in the october number of the anglo-japanese gazette (london) is published a criticism by mr. curtis, editor and proprietor of the kobe herald, on 'the ridiculously sweeping assertions,' as he calls it, made by mr. longford in his article. i subjoin herewith a passage which relates to mr. longford's assertion that a 'cordon' is drawn by the japanese round the trading centres of yokohama and kobe, and that foreign merchants are suffering under the 'thraldom':--
well, let me say that no sane, fair-minded man who knows anything whatever of his subject would ever dream of accusing the whole japanese people of a lack of commercial morality. all this talk about a cordon being drawn round the treaty ports is rubbish. no such barrier exists, save perhaps in the imagination of a few who cannot shake off the prejudices and disabilities of the past. the idea sounds absurd to me, knowing, as i do know, that all the go-ahead firms have been doing their utmost for some time past to open up connections in the principal cities. mr. longford seems to think that business is conducted in japan to-day just as it was twenty years ago. he apparently does not know that some foreign houses have trusted clerks or travellers all over the country; that some foreign business men run up to osaka and tokio daily; and that business journeys to maidzuru--the great, fortified naval base on the sea of japan--nagoya sasebo, hiroshima, and other important centres, are matters of everyday experience now.
in the same number of the same journal is also published an important article from the pen of sir tollemache sinclair, bart., concerning bishop awdry's letter published in the times. sir tollemache strongly repudiates the accuracy of the bishop's charge of dishonesty and immorality against the japanese, which sir tollemache calls the bishop's 'utterly erroneous accusations,' basing his contention upon an elaborate comparison of the statistical facts of japan and many other nations relating to several important subjects having bearing on the question. among other things, he writes:--
this clerical censor, who endeavours to find a mote in his japanese brother's eye, but does not see the beam in his english brother's eye, cut the ground from under his own feet on the subject of the imaginary dishonesty of japanese traders, for he tells us that a house was built for him by japanese tradesmen admirably without any contract, and at a moderate expense; and i should like to know, if any englishman did the same thing in england, whether he would not be unmercifully fleeced. bishop awdry says he is a friend of the japanese, but they will probably say to him, after reading his letter, 'save us from our friends, as to our enemies we will take care of them ourselves.'
and he winds up the article with these words:--
what excuse has he to offer for the gross and discreditable and unfounded insults which he has heaped on the heads of those under whose protection, and in the enjoyment of whose hospitality, he resides.... in short, it may justly be said of the letter written by this superfluous bishop, 'what is true is not new, and what is new is not true.'
adoption, the custom of advance japan, morris's age, ways of counting aïda, the opera ainslie, dr. daniel, his mission to nagasaki aizu, lord of america's sympathy for japan american press, views of war with russia given to the anglo-french, russo-japanese entente anglo-franco diplomacy in japan anglo-japanese alliance and america, an interview army, the japanese -- state of, after fighting army and navy, organisation of arisugawa, prince art, japanese ashikaga aston, dr. australian question, the
bank of japan. 'black room president,' books on japan bracken, a talk about british east india company buddhist sects budha, amida bukum bushido -- discourse on -- history of the term -- its literature bushiku bushi-zoku
calendar, the japanese calumnies on japan card-playing cards, description of character of the japanese chastity chauvinism, fear of chess-playing in china -- in japan chiku-ba-sho china, the difficulty of reform in -- the future of -- and russia, secret treaty between chinese jurisprudence -- banking system chivalry, japanese chokai, gunboat chosiu -- troops christianity and japan chrysanthemums, the culture of climate in japan code of honour, the japanese commerce and industry of japan described commercial morality of the japanese described communication, means of, in japan corea currency, japanese
daidoji yiuzan daimio explained -- and samurai, difference between danjiuro deaf and dumb, the treatment of death, the japanese conception of deutsche revue diet, the difficulty of distinguishing r and l duels dwellings, details of
earrings, remarks on eating fruit without peeling education in japan -- the system of -- common and military elementary lessons on budo england, her political attitude. england and america, relations between, with regard to japan english press views on japanese character -- sympathy for japan
feeling and sentiment in japan feudal system in japan fiction, japanese fighting, modes of finance of the imperial government at the beginning of the great change financial and economical annual financial system, progress of firearms, the first use of, in japan flowers, art of arrangement of -- sale of food, japanese forecast on the issue of the war france and her women -- relations with england french nationalists and socialists with regard to japan fushimi, battle of
hakodate hana-karuta hanawa hearn, lafcadio -- life of -- remarks on hetaira hideyoshi hirosé, commandant -- mrs., her letter to an english admiral hizen hogen monogatari house of representatives
imperial army department -- government and military reform imperial japan imperial succession -- troops independent review indo-china question inouyé, count -- a sketch of his life intermarriages, japanese international conventions and japan irving, sir henry, and the japanese stage ito, marquis -- an old speech by -- a sketch of his life izawa hanrioshi
jane eyre and japan japan after the war -- emperor of, his powers -- and america, relations between -- and europe, relations between -- and foreign capital -- and russia, a priest's views on japan times japanese, the age of -- as correspondents -- love tale, a -- reform, how brought about -- tariff -- vendetta jiujitsu, discourse on -- and wrestling, a comparison of -- the willow mind style
kagoshima -- bombardment of kaibara yekken kataki-uchi katsura, count kawakami kawasé, kido kikugoro kiusiu kioto kite flying kites koizumi yakumo kokkwa, a monthly on art komura, baron kumazawa banzan kuroda kuropatkin, general kwanto, plain of
lady's opinion on japanese women, a languages, remarks on languages of china and japan lays of ancient rome le matin, 35. lectures by yamaga soko legislation, evolution of lines on hailstones little, archibald local administration loti, pierre
macaulay maritana, the opera marriage ceremonies, description of massage matoni, monsieur matrimony, preliminary inquiries in respect to matsukata, career of mikado's empire military organisation -- training -- for boys -- service, hereditary, abolished mongolian troops moon scenes morality of japan, compared with other nations mothers and wives, japanese music, japanese
nagasaki nakaodo, a nakaye-toju names, japanese napoleon national banks nationality, abuse of japanese navigation in the japan sea navy, the japanese -- its history nelson neutrality question, the 'new commoners,' and the history of their emancipation night fêtes in japan nobility, the japanese -- methods of addressing nogi, general, and religion's meaning notions of pardon and forgiving nozu, general
occidental civilisation -- vulgarity okubo okuma, count -- a sketch of the life of osaka oyama marshal
paris -- a motor ride round -- by night peace prospects, observations of physique, the japanese political attitude of england political organism of japan port arthur press, the, and the war printing, the art of pronunciation of japanese public baths
questions and answers on bun and bu
raffles, sir stamford, his appreciation of japan railways, construction of red cross society religion in japan -- discussions on religion, japanese meaning of restoration, the japanese revenge, japanese revolution, discussion on the japanese risen sun, the rodjestvensky, admiral romance, japanese 'ronin,' roosevelt, president -- and jiujitsu -- his partiality towards japan russia, emperor of -- and japan, a priest's views on russian defeat, the cause of russian views of the japanese russo-japanese war, outbreak of russophile papers
sada-yakko sadanji saga, prince of saigo saionji, a sketch of the life of samurai -- and daimio, difference between -- and fighting -- explained -- discipline of the -- the soul of -- mother illustrated by a drama satcho satow, sir e. satsuma -- formation of the -- war -- the cause of scenery of japan sekigahara, battle of self-help, smiles's semitic sympathy shido, shikwan shimadai shimazu saburo shintoism, its sensitiveness to pollution shipbuilding yards, origin of shiwa yoshimasa shizoku, the title shogun shogunate -- financial system of -- troops simonoseki, treaty of singing insects sino-japanese war sketches of some chief figures of actual japan snow scenes social morality, discussion on social condition of japan socialism and japan, discussion on sotsuibushi, or police-master-general sports, japanese stage, the japanese 'standard of living,' an essay stoessel, general summer resorts of foreigners sumoo superstition, japanese. swords
taira takasago takasugi takeda shingen telegraphs in japan telephones in japan things japanese (1898) togo, admiral tokio -- the history of -- the patois of tokugawa -- régime -- feudatories under tolstoy, count leo trans-siberian railway trip to japan, details concerning tsu-shima, battle of
washington, george weapons, japanese
and their cultural significance
by morris jastrow, jr. ph. d. (leipzig) professor of semitic languages in the university of pennsylvania (philadelphia)
gießen 1914 verlag von alfred töpelmann (vormals j. ricker)
sir william osler
regius professor of medicine oxford university
this volume is dedicated as a mark of esteem and admiration.
"most fine, most honour'd, most renown'd." (king henry v, 2d part, act iv, 5, 164.)
the significance attached to birth omens is thus merely a phase of the ceremonies attendant upon the passage of the new-born from its mysterious hiding place to the light. the analogy between the new life and the processes of nature is complete, for the plant, too, after being hidden in the earth, which is pictured in the religions of antiquity as a 'great mother', comes to the surface.
malformations among infants and the young of animals were of course plentiful, but here too the anomalies and monstrosities are not as numerous and varied as were entered in the handbooks of the babylonian and assyrian diviners. the factor of fancy to which i have referred enters even more largely in the entries of many actual malformations, through the assumption of a more or less fanciful resemblance of some feature or of some part of an infant or of the young of an animal with the features or parts of some animal.
'if it is a double foetus, but with one head, a double spine, two tails and one body, the land that is now ruled by two will be ruled by one person.
if it is a double foetus with one head, the land will be safe.'
'if the foetus is male and female--omen of azag-bau who ruled the land. the king's country will be seized.
'if it is a double foetus with slits (?) on the head and tail, the land will be secure.
if it is a double foetus, encompassed like an enclosure, with slits on the body, end of the dynasty, confusion and disturbances in the country.
if it is a double foetus, encompassed like an enclosure, with twisted necks and only one head, the land will remain under one head.
if it is a double foetus with one head, a double spine, eight feet, two necks and two tails, the king will enlarge his land.
if it is a double foetus with one head, double spine, two tails and one body, then the land that is ruled by two will be ruled by one.
if it is a double foetus with only one head and one spine, eight feet, two necks and two tails, the king will enlarge his land.
if it is a double foetus with only one neck, the ruler will enlarge his land.
if it is a double foetus with only one spine, the ruler will enlarge his land.
if it is a double foetus with only one mouth, the land will remain under the command of the king.
if it is a double foetus with only one breast, the land will be enlarged, rule of a legitimate king.
let us proceed further with this text.
if it is a double foetus, and the second lies at the tail of the first and enclosed and both are living, ditto.
if it is a double foetus, and one rides over the other, victory, throne will support throne.
if it is a double foetus and one rides over the other and there is only one head, the power of the king will conquer the enemy's land.
if it is a double foetus with the faces downward, approach of the son of the king, who will take the throne of his father, or a second son of the king will die, or a third son of the king will die.
if it is a double foetus with six feet, the population will be diminished, confusion in the land.
if an ewe gives birth to three (lambs), the prosperity of the country will be annulled, but things will go well with the owner of the ewe, his stall will be enlarged.
if an ewe gives birth to three fully developed (lambs), the dynasty will meet with opposition, approach of an usurper, the country will be destroyed.
if an ewe gives birth to four, the land will encounter hostility, the produce of the land will be swept away, approach of an usurper, destruction in the land.
if an ewe gives birth to four, approach of an usurper, the country will be destroyed.
if an ewe gives birth to five, destruction will ravage the country, the owner of the house will die, his stall will be destroyed.
if an ewe gives birth to six, confusion among the population.
if an ewe gives birth to seven,--three male and four female--, the king will perish.
if an ewe gives birth to eight, approach of an usurper, the tribute of the king will be withheld.
if an ewe gives birth to nine, end of the dynasty.
if the foetus lacks a left ear, a god will harken to the prayer of the king, the king will take the land of his enemy, the palace of the enemy will be destroyed, the enemy will be without a counsellor, the cattle of the enemy's country will be diminished, the enemy will lose control.
if the left ear of the foetus is detached, the enemy's stall will be destroyed.
if the left ear of the foetus is split, the herd will be enlarged, the leaders of the enemy's country will leave (it).
if the left ear of the foetus is split and swollen with clay, the enemy's country will have a rival.
if the right ear of the foetus is destroyed, the stall will be enlarged, the stall of the enemy will be diminished.
if the outside of the right ear is destroyed, the land will yield to the enemy's land.
if the left ear of the foetus lies near the cheek, an enemy will be installed in the royal palace.
if the left ear of the foetus lies near the jaw, birth of a demon in the enemy's land, or the land of the enemy will perish.
the guiding principle of the interpretation in these instances is the natural association of the right as your side and the left with the enemy's side. a defect on the right side is unfavorable to you, i. e., to the king or to the country or to the individual in whose household the birth occurs, while the same defect on the left side is unfavorable to the enemy and, therefore, favorable to you. the principle is quite consistently carried out even to the point that if the sign itself is favorable, it is only when it is found on the right side that it is favorable to you, while its occurrence on the left side is favorable to the enemy.
defects of any kind appear to be unfavorable, whereas an excess of organs and parts are in many instances favorable, though with a considerable measure of arbitrariness.
if the foetus has two ears on the right side and none on the left, the boundary city of the enemy will become subject to you.
if the foetus has two ears on the left side and none on the right, your boundary city will become subject to the enemy.
if the foetus has two ears on the right side and one on the left, the land will remain under the control of the ruler.
if the foetus has two ears on the left side and one on the right, the land will revolt.
if within the left ear of the foetus there is a second ear, the counsellors of the ruler will advise evilly.
if behind the right ear of the foetus there is a second ear, the ruler will have counsellors.
if behind the left ear there are two ears visible on the outside, the inhabitants of the boundary city of the enemy will become subject to you.
if a foetus has three ears, one on the left side and two on the right side, the angry gods will return to the country.
if a foetus has three ears, one on the left side and two on the right, the gods will kill within the country.
if within the right ear of a foetus there are three ears with the inner sides well formed, the opponent will conclude peace with the king whom he fears, the army of the ruler will dwell in peace with him.
if within the left ear of a foetus there are three ears with the inner sides well formed, thy ally will become hostile.
if behind each of the two ears there are three ears visible on the outside, confusion in the land, the counsel of the land will be discarded, one land after the other will revolt.
if within each of two ears there are three ears visible on the inner side, things will go well with the ruler's army.
if within each of the two ears there are three ears, visible on the outside and the inside, the army of the ruler will forsake him and his land will revolt.
if within each of the two ears there are three ears, visible on the outside and the inside, the army of the ruler will forsake him and his land will revolt.
if an ewe gives birth to a lion, the abandoned weapons will make an attack (again), the king will be without a rival.
if an ewe gives birth to a lion, but (some of) the features are (also) human, the power of the king will conquer a powerful country.
if an ewe gives birth to a lion, but (some of) the features are those of a lamb, the young cattle will not prosper.
if an ewe gives birth to a lion, but (some of) the features are those of an ass, severe famine will occur in the country.
if an ewe gives birth to a lion, but with the mouth of a wild cow, the rule of the king will not prosper.
if an ewe gives birth to a lion but with the mouth of a bull, famine will ensue.
if an ewe gives birth to a lion with fatty flesh on the nose, the land will be well nourished.
if an ewe gives birth to a lion, and the right temple is covered with fatty flesh, the land will be richly blessed.
if an ewe gives birth to a lion, and the left temple is covered with fatty flesh,--rivalry.
if an ewe gives birth to a lion, and it is covered all over with fatty flesh, the king will be without a rival.
the general idea associated with the lion in divination texts is that of power, success, increase and the like. the sign, therefore, of an ewe producing a lion is a favorable one; it is only through attendant circumstances that the character of the sign is transformed into an unfavorable or partly unfavorable omen. so in case the lion-lamb has a head suggestive of the variegated colors of the rainbow bird, the sign still points to power, but to a power exercised by the crown prince against the father. if some of the features suggest those of an ass or of a dog or of a pig, the ideas associated with these animals convert what would otherwise have been a favorable sign into an unfavorable one. the mouth of a wild cow or of a bull, thus interfering with the complete identification of the young lamb as a lion-lamb, similarly, brings about an unfavorable interpretation. fatty flesh by a natural association points to increased prosperity, while mutilations of the head, tail or of any other part naturally carry with them unfavorable prognostications.
if an ewe gives birth to a dog ... the king's land will revolt.
if an ewe gives birth to a panther, the kingdom of the ruler will secure universal sway.
if an ewe gives birth to a hyena (?), approach of elam.
if an ewe gives birth to a gazelle, the days of the ruler through the grace of the gods will be long, or the ruler will have warriors.
if an ewe gives birth to a hind, the son of the king will seize his father's throne, or the approach of subartu will overthrow the land.
if an ewe gives birth to a wild cow, revolt will prevail in the land.
if an ewe gives birth to an ox, the weapons of the ruler will prevail over the weapons of the enemy.
if an ewe gives birth to a cow, the king will die, another king will draw nigh and divide the country.
one might have supposed that such omens represent a purely imaginative theoretical factor, but the introduction of the historical reference proves conclusively that the babylonians and assyrians attached an was--different,' she whispered.
'how?' my lady muttered.
'he swore at me,' marie answered in the same tone. 'and he spoke of you--somehow differently.'
the countess laughed, but far from joyously. 'i suppose to-night--i must see him?' she said. she tried as she spoke to press herself more deeply into the pillows, as if she might escape that way. her flesh crept, and she shivered though she was as hot as fire.
once or twice in the hours which followed she was almost beside herself. sometimes she prayed. more often she walked up and down the room like one in a fever. she did not know on what she was trusting, and she could have struck marie when the girl, appealed to again and again, would explain nothing, and name no quarter from which help might come. all the afternoon the camp lay grilling in the sunshine, and in the shuttered room in the middle of it my lady suffered. had the house lain by the river she might have tried to escape; but the camp girdled it on three sides, and on the fourth, where a swampy inlet guarded one flank of the village, a deep ditch as well as the morass forbade all passage.
she remained in her room until she heard the unwelcome sounds which told of the general's return. then she came into the outer room, her eyes glittering, a red spot on either cheek, all pretence at an end. her glance withered fraulein max, who sat blinking in a corner with a very evil conscience. and to marie wort, when the girl came near her on the pretence of adjusting her lace sleeves, she had only one word to say.
'you slut!' she hissed, her breath hot on the girl's cheek. 'if you fail me i will kill you. begone out of my sight!'
the child, excited before, broke down at that, and, bursting into a fit of weeping, ran out. her sobs were still in the air when general tzerclas entered.
the countess's face was flushed, and her bearing, full of passion and defiance, must have warned him what to expect, if he felt any doubt before. the sun was just setting, the room growing dusk. he stood awhile, after saluting her, in doubt how he should come to the point, or in admiration; for her scorn and anger only increased her beauty and his feeling for her. at length he pointed lightly to the women, who kept their places by the door.
'is it your wish, fair cousin,' he said slowly, 'that i should speak before these, or will you see me alone?'
'your spy, that cat there,' my lady answered, carried away by her temper, 'may go! the women will stay.'
fraulein max, singled out by that merciless finger, sprang forward, her face mottled with surprise and terror. for a second she hesitated. then she rushed towards her friend, as if she would embrace her.
'countess!' she cried. 'rotha! surely you are mad! you cannot think that i would----'
my lady turned, and in a flash struck her fiercely on the cheek with her open hand. 'liar!' she cried; 'go to your master, you whipped hound!'
the dutch woman recoiled with a cry of pain, and sobbing wildly went back to her place. the general laughed harshly.
'you hold with me, sweetheart,' he said. 'discipline before everything. but you have not my patience.'
she looked at him--angry with him, angry with herself, her hand to her bosom--but she did not answer.
'for you must allow,' he continued--his tone and his eyes still bantered her--'that i have been patient. i have been like a man athirst in the desert; but i have waited day after day, until now i can wait no longer, sweetheart.'
'so you tamper with my--with that woman!' she said scornfully.
the general shrugged his shoulders and laughed grimly. 'why not?' he said. 'what are waiting-women and the like made for, if not to be bribed--or slapped?'
she hated him for that sly hit--if never before; but she controlled herself. she would throw the burden on him.
he read the thought, and it led him to change his tone. there was a gloomy fire in his eyes, and smouldering passion in his voice, when he spoke again.
'well, countess,' he said, 'i am here for your answer.'
'to the question i asked you some time ago,' he rejoined, dwelling on her with sullen eyes. 'i asked you to be my wife. your answer?'
'prythee!' she said proudly, 'this is a strange way of wooing.'
'it is not of my choice that i woo in company,' he answered, shrugging his shoulders. 'my answer; that is all i want--and you.'
'then you shall have the first, and not the last,' she exclaimed on a sudden impulse. 'no, no--a hundred times no! if you do not see that by pressing me now,' she continued impetuously, 'when i am alone, friendless, and unprotected, you insult me, you should see it, and i do.'
for a moment there was silence. then he laughed; but his voice, notwithstanding his mastery over it and in spite of that laugh, shook with rage and resentment. 'as i expected,' he said. 'i knew last night that you hated me. you have been playing a part throughout. you loathe me. yes, madam, you may wince,' he continued bitterly, 'for you shall still be my wife; and when you are my wife we will talk of that.'
'never!' she said, with a brave face; but her heart beat wildly, and a mist rose before her eyes.
he laughed. 'my legions are round me,' he said. 'where are yours?'
'you are a gentleman,' she answered with an effort. 'you will let me go.'
'if i do not?'
'there are those who will know how to avenge me.'
he laughed again. 'i do not know them, countess,' he said contemptuously. 'for hesse cassel, he has his hands full at nuremberg, and will be likely, when wallenstein has done with him, to need help himself. the king of sweden--the brightest morning ends soonest in rain--and he will end at nuremberg. bernhard of weimar, leuchtenstein, all the fanatics fall with him. only the banner of the free companies stands and waves ever the wider. be advised,' he continued grimly. 'bend, countess, or i have the means to break you.'
'never!' she said.
'so you say now,' he answered slowly. 'you will not say so in five minutes. if you care nothing for yourself, have a care for your friends.'
'you said i had none,' she retorted hoarsely.
she started and looked at him wildly, her lips apart, her eyes wide with hope, fear, expectation. what did he mean? what could he mean by this new turn? ha!
she had her face towards the window, and dark as the room was growing--outside the light was failing fast--he read the thought in her eyes, and nodded.
'the waldgrave?' he said lightly. 'yes, he is alive, countess, at present; and your steward also.'
'they are prisoners?' she whispered, her cheeks grown white.
'prisoners; and under sentence of death.'
'why?' she muttered. but alas! she knew; she knew already.
'they are hostages for your good behaviour,' he answered in his cold, mocking tone. 'if their principal satisfies me, good; they will go free. if not, they die--to-morrow.'
'to-morrow?' she gasped.
'to-morrow,' he answered ruthlessly. 'now i think we understand one another.'
she threw up her hand suddenly, as if she were about to vent on him all the passions which consumed her--the terror, rage, and shame which swelled in her breast. but something in his gibing tone, something in the set lines of his figure--she could not see his face--checked her. she let her hand fall in a gesture of despair, and shrank into herself, shuddering. she looked at him as at a serpent--that fascinated her. at last she murmured--
'you will not dare. what have they done to you?'
'nothing,' he answered. 'it is not their affair; it is yours.'
'where are they?' she moaned at last, though he had already told her.
'in the camp,' he said.
'can i--can i see them?' she panted.
'afterwards,' he answered, with the smile of a fiend; 'when you are my wife.'
that added the last straw. she took two steps to the table, and sitting down blindly, covered her face with her hands. her shoulders began to tremble, her head sank lower and lower on the table. her pride was gone.
'heaven help us!' she whispered in a passion of grief. 'heaven help us, for there is no help here!'
'that is better,' he said, eyeing her coldly. 'we shall soon come to terms now.'
'one word and you are a dead man!' a stern voice hissed in his ear. then he saw another barrel gleam in the lamplight, and he stood still.
'what is this?' he said, looking from one to the other, his voice trembling with rage.
'justice!' the same speaker answered harshly. 'but stand still and be silent, and you shall have your life. give the alarm, and you die, general, though we die the next minute. sit down in that chair.'
he hesitated. but the two shining barrels converging on his head, the two grim faces behind them, were convincing; in a moment he obeyed.
one of the men--it was i--muttered something to marie, and she snuffed the wick, and blew up the light. in a moment it filled the room, disclosing a strange medley of levelled weapons, startled faces, and flashing eyes. in one corner fraulein max and the two women cowered behind one another, trembling and staring. at the table sat my lady, with dull, dazed eyes, looking on, yet scarcely understanding what was happening. on either side of her stood steve and i, covering the general with our pistols, while the waldgrave, who was still too weak for much exertion, kept guard at the door.
tzerclas was the first to speak. 'what is this foolery?' he said, scowling unutterable curses at us. 'what does this mean?'
there was a gleam in tzerclas' eye, which warned me to stand back and crook my finger. his face was black with fury, and for an instant i thought that he would spring upon us and dare all. but prudence and the pistols prevailed. with an evil look he sat still, and in a trice steve had a loop round his arms and was binding him to the heavy chair.
i knew then that as far as he was concerned we were safe; and i turned to bid the women get cloaks and food, adjuring them to be quick, since every moment was precious.
'bring nothing but cloaks and food and wine,' i said. 'we have to go a league on foot and can carry little.'
the countess heard my words, and looked at me with growing comprehension. 'the waldgrave?' she muttered. 'is he here?'
he came forward from the door to speak to her; but when she saw him, and how pale and thin he was, with great hollows in his cheeks and his eyes grown too large for his face, she began to cry weakly, as any other woman might have cried, being overwrought. i bade marie, who alone kept her wits, to bring her wine and make her take it; and in a minute she smiled at us, and would have thanked us.
'wait!' i said bluntly, feeling a great horror upon me whenever i looked towards the general or caught his eye. 'you may have small cause to thank us. if we fail, heaven and you forgive us, my lady, for this man will not. if we are retaken----'
'we will not be retaken!' she cried hardily. 'you have horses?'
'five only,' i answered. 'they are all steve could get, and they are a league away. we must go to them on foot. there are eight of us here, and young jacob and ernst are watching outside. are all ready?'
'that woman does not go!' the countess said suddenly.
i answered in a low tone that i thought she must.
'no!' my lady cried harshly--she could be cruel sometimes--'not with us. she does not belong to our party. let her stay with her paymaster, and to-morrow he will doubtless reward her.'
what reward she was likely to get fraulein max knew well. she flung herself at my lady's feet in an agony of fear, and clutching her skirts, cried abjectly for mercy; she would carry, she would help, she would do anything, if she might go! knowing that we dared not leave her since she would be certain to release the general as soon as our backs were turned, i was glad when marie, whose heart was touched, joined her prayers to the culprit's and won a reluctant consent.
it has taken long to tell these things. they passed very quickly. i suppose not more than a quarter of an hour elapsed between our first appearance and this juncture, which saw us all standing in the lamplight, laden and ready to be gone; while the general glowered at us in sullen rage, and my lady, with a new thought in her mind, looked round in dismay.
she drew me aside. 'martin,' she said, 'his orderly is waiting in the road with his horse. the moment we are gone he will shout to him.'
'we have provided for that,' i answered, nodding. then assuring myself by a last look round that all were ready, i gave the word. 'now, steve!' i said sharply.
in a twinkling he flung over the general's head a small sack doubled inwards. we heard a stifled oath and a cry of rage. the bars of the strong chair creaked as our prisoner struggled, and for a moment it seemed as if the knots would barely hold. but the work had been well done, and in less than half a minute steve had secured the sack to the chair-back. it was as good as a gag, and safer. then we took up the chair between us, and lifting it into the back room, put it down and locked the door upon our captive.
as we turned from it steve looked at me. 'if he catches us after this, master martin,' he said, 'it won't be an easy death we shall die!'
'heaven forbid!' i muttered. 'let us be off!'
he gave the word and we stole out into the darkness at the back of the house, steve, who had surveyed the ground, going first. my lady followed him; then came the waldgrave; after him the two women and fraulein max, with jacob and ernst; last of all, marie and i. it was no time for love-making, but as we all stood a minute in the night, while steve listened, i drew marie's little figure to me and kissed her pale face again and again; and she clung to me, trembling, her eyes shining into mine. then she put me away bravely; but i took her bundle, and with full hearts we followed the others across the field at the back and through the ditch.
that passed, we found ourselves on the edge of the village, with the lights of the camp forming five-sixths of a circle round us. in one direction only, where the swamp and creek fringed the place, a dark gap broke the ring of twinkling fires. towards this gap steve led the way, and we, a silent line of gliding figures, followed him. the moon had not yet risen. the gloom was such that i could barely make out the third figure before me; and though all manner of noises--the chorus of a song, the voice of a scolding hag, even the rattle of dice on a drumhead--came clearly to my ears, and we seemed to be enclosed on all sides, the darkness proved an effectual shield. we met no one, and five minutes after leaving the house, reached the bank of the little creek i have mentioned.
alas! our troubles were only beginning. through this ooze we had to wade for a mile or more, sometimes in doubt, always in darkness; now plashing into pools, now stumbling over a submerged log, often up to our knees in mud and water. the frogs croaked round us, the bog moaned and gurgled; in the depth of the marsh the bitterns boomed mournfully. if we stood a moment we sank. it was a horrible time; and the more horrible, as through it all we had only to turn to see the camp lights behind us, a poor half-mile or so away.
none but desperate men could have exposed women to such a labour; nor could any but women without hope and at their wit's end have accomplished it. as it was, fraulein max, who never ceased to whimper, twice sank down and would go no farther, and we had to pluck her up roughly and force her on. my lady's women, who wept in their misery, were little better. wet to the waist, draggled, and worn out by the clinging slime and the reek of the marsh, they were kept moving only with difficulty; so that, but for steve's giant strength and my lady's courage, i think we should have stayed there till daylight, and been caught like birds limed on a bough.
as it was, we plunged and strove for more than an hour in that place, the dark sky above us, the quaking bog below, the women's weeping in our ears. then, at last, when i had almost given up hope, we struggled out one by one upon the road, and stood panting and shaking, astonished to find solid ground under our feet. we had still two miles to walk, but on dry soil; and though at another time the task might have seemed to the women full of adventure and arduous, it failed to frighten them after what we had gone through. steve took fraulein anna, and i one of the women. my lady and the waldgrave went hand in hand; the one giving, i fancy, as much help as the other. for marie, her small, white face was a beacon of hope in the darkness. in the marsh she had never failed or fainted. on the road the tears came into my eyes for pity and love and admiration.
at length steve bade us stand, and leaving us in the way, plunged into the denser blackness of a thicket, which lay between it and the river. i heard him parting the branches before him, and stumbling and swearing, until presently the sounds died away in the distance, and we remained shivering and waiting. what if the horses were gone? what if they had strayed from the place where he had tethered them early in the day, or some one had found and removed them? the thought threw me into a cold sweat.
then i heard him coming back, and i caught the ring of iron hoofs. he had them! i breathed again. in a moment he emerged, and behind him a string of shadows--five horses tied head and tail.
'quick!' he muttered. he had been long enough alone to grow nervous. 'we are two hours gone, and if they have not yet discovered him they must soon! it is a short start, and half of us on foot!'
no one answered, but in a moment we had the waldgrave, my lady, fraulein, and one of the women mounted. then we put up marie, who was no heavier than a feather, and the lighter of the women on the remaining horse; and steve hurrying beside the leader, and i, ernst, and jacob bringing up the rear, we were well on the road within two minutes of the appearance of the horses. those who rode had only sacking for saddles and loops of rope for stirrups; but no one complained. even fraulein max began to recover herself, and to dwell more upon the peril of capture than on aching legs and chafed knees.
the road was good, and we made, as far as i could judge, about six miles in the first hour. this placed us nine miles from the camp; the time, a little after midnight. at this point the clouds, which had aided us so far by increasing the darkness of the night, fell in a great storm of rain, that, hissing on the road and among the trees, in a few minutes drenched us to the skin. but no one complained. steve muttered that it would make it the more difficult to track us; and for another hour we plodded on gallantly. then our leader called a halt, and we stood listening.
the rain had left the sky lighter. a waning moon, floating in a wrack of watery clouds to westward, shed a faint gleam on the landscape. to the right of us it disclosed a bare plain, rising gradually as it receded, and offering no cover. on our left, between us and the river, it was different. here a wilderness of osiers--a grey willow swamp that in the moonlight shimmered like the best utrecht--stretched as far as we could see. the road where we stood rose a few feet above it, so that our eyes were on a level with the highest shoots; but a hundred yards farther on the road sank a little. we could see the water standing on the track in pools, and glimmering palely.
'this is the place,' steve muttered. 'it will be dawn in another hour. what do you think, master martin?'
'that we had better get off the road,' i answered. 'take it they found him at midnight; the orderly's patience would scarcely last longer. then, if they started after us a quarter of an hour later, they should be here in another twenty minutes.'
'it is an aguey place,' he said doubtfully.
'it will suit us better than the camp,' i answered.
no one else expressed an opinion, and steve, taking my lady's rein, led her horse on until he came to the hollow part of the road. here the moonlight disclosed a kind of water-lane, running away between the osiers, at right angles from the road. steve turned into it, leading my lady's horse, and in a moment was wading a foot deep in water. the waldgrave followed, then the women. i came last, with marie's rein in my hand. we kept down the lane about one hundred and fifty paces, the horses snorting and moving unwillingly, and the water growing ever deeper. then steve turned out of it, and began to advance, but more cautiously, parallel with the road.
we had waded about as far in this direction, sidling between the stumps and stools as well as we could, when he came again to a stand and passed back the word for me. i waded on, and joined him. the osiers, which were interspersed here and there with great willows, rose above our heads and shut out the moonlight. the water gurgled black about our knees. each step might lead us into a hole, or we might trip over the roots of the osiers. it was impossible to see a foot before us, or anything above us save the still, black rods and the grey sky.
'it should be in this direction,' steve said, with an accent of doubt. 'but i cannot see. we shall have the horses down.'
'let me go first,' i said.
'we must not separate,' he answered hastily.
'no, no,' i said, my teeth beginning to chatter. 'but are you sure that there is an eyot here?'
'i did not go to it,' he answered, scratching his head. 'but i saw a clump of willows rising well above the level, and they looked to me as if they grew on dry land.'
he stood a moment irresolutely, first one and then another of the horses shaking itself till the women could scarcely keep their seats.
'why do we not go on?' my lady asked in a low voice.
'because steve is not sure of the place, my lady,' i said. 'and it is almost impossible to move, it is so dark, and the osiers grow so closely. i doubt we should have waited until daylight.'
'then we should have run the risk of being intercepted,' she answered feverishly. 'are you very wet?'
'no,' i said, though my feet were growing numb, 'not very. i see what we must do. one of us must climb into a willow and look out.'
we had passed a small one not long before. i plashed my way back to it, along the line of shivering women, and, pulling myself heavily into the branches, managed to scramble up a few feet. the tree swayed under my weight, but it bore me.
the first dawn was whitening the sky and casting a faint, reflected light on the glistening sea of osiers, that seemed to my eyes--for i was not high enough to look beyond it--to stretch far and away on every side. here and there a large willow, rising in a round, dark clump, stood out above the level; and in one place, about a hundred paces away on the riverside of us, a group of these formed a shadowy mound. i marked the spot, and dropped gently into the water.
'i have found it,' i said. 'i will go first, and do you bring my lady, steve. and mind the stumps. it will be rough work.'
it was such a place as only despair could choose for a refuge. in shape like the back of some large submerged beast, it lay in length about forty paces, in breadth half as many. the highest point was a poor foot above the water. seven great willows took up half the space; it was as much as our horses, sinking in the moist mud to the fetlock, could do to find standing-room on the remainder. coarse grass and reeds covered it; and the flotsam of the last flood whitened the trunks of the willows, and hung in squalid wisps from their lower branches.
for the first time we saw one another's faces, and how pale and woe-begone, mudstained and draggled we were! the cold, grey light, which so mercilessly unmasked our refuge, did not spare us. it helped even my lady to look her worst. fraulein anna sat a mere lifeless lump in her saddle. the waiting-women cried softly; they had cried all night. the waldgrave looked dazed, as if he barely understood where he was or why he was there.
still, even that rolled away at last--about six o'clock--and let us see the sun shining overhead in a heaven of blue distance and golden clouds. larks rose up and sang, and all the birds of the marsh began to twitter and tweet. in a trice our mud island was changed to a bower--a place of warmth and life and refreshment--where light and shade lay on the dappled floor, and the sunshine fell through green leaves.
then i took the cloaks, and the saddles, and everything that was wet, and spread them out on branches to dry; and leaving the women to make themselves comfortable in their own way and shift themselves as they pleased, we two, with the waldgrave and the two servants, went away to the other end of the eyot.
'i shall sleep,' steve said drowsily.
the insects were beginning to hum. the horses stood huddled together, swishing their long tails.
'you think they won't track us?' i asked.
'certain,' he said. 'there are six hundred yards of mud and water, eel-holes, and willow shoots between us and the road.'
the waldgrave assented mechanically; it seemed so to me too. and by-and-by, worn out with the night's work, i fell asleep, and slept, i suppose, for a good many hours, with the sun and shade passing slowly across my face, and the bees droning in my ears, and the mellow warmth of the summer day soaking into my bones. when i awoke i lay for a time revelling in lazy enjoyment. the oily plop of a water-rat, as it dived from a stump, or the scream of a distant jay, alone broke the laden silence. i looked at the sun. it lay south-west. it was three o'clock then.
a light touch fell on my knee. i started, looked down, and for a moment stared in sleepy wonder. a tiny bunch of blue flowers, such as i could see growing in a dozen places on the edge of the island, lay on it, tied up with a thread of purple silk. i started up on my elbow, and--there, close beside me, with her cheeks full of colour, and the sunshine finding golden threads in her dark hair, sat marie, toying with more flowers.
'ha!' i said foolishly. 'what is it?'
'my lady sent me to you,' she answered.
'yes,' i asked eagerly. 'does she want me?'
but marie hung her head, and played with the flowers. 'i don't think so,' she whispered. 'she only sent me to you.'
then i understood. the waldgrave had gone to the farther end. steve and the men were tending the horses half a dozen paces beyond the screen of willow-leaves. we were alone. a rat plashed into the water, and drove marie nearer to me; and she laid her head on my shoulder, and i whispered in her ear, till the lashes sank down over her eyes and her lips trembled. if i had loved her from the first, what was the length and height and breadth of my love now, when i had seen her in darkness and peril, sunshine and storm, strong when others failed, brave when others flinched, always helpful, ready, tireless! and she so small! so frail, i almost feared to press her to me; so pale, the blood that leapt to her cheeks at my touch seemed a mere reflection of the sunlight.
i told her how steve had made the guards at the prison drunk with wine bought with her dowry; how the horses he had purchased and taken out of the camp by twos and threes had been paid for from the same source; and how many ducats had gone for meats and messes to keep the life, that still ran sluggishly, in the waldgrave's veins. she listened and lay still.
'so you have no dowry now, little one,' i said, when i had told her all. 'and your gold chain is gone. i believe you have nothing but the frock you stand up in. why, then, should i marry you?'
i felt her heart give a great leap under my hand, and a shiver ran through her. but she did not raise her head, and i, who had thought to tease her into looking at me, had to put back her little face till it gazed into mine.
'why?' i said; 'why?'--drawing her closer and closer to me.
then the colour came into her face like the sunlight itself. 'because you love me,' she whispered, shutting her eyes.
and i did not gainsay her.
steve had discovered a more easy though longer way out of the willow-bed, and two hours before midnight on the second night, he and i mounted the women and prepared to set out. he arranged that we should go in the same order in which we had come: that he should lead the march, and i bring up the rear, while the waldgrave, who was still far from well, and whose continued lack of vigour troubled us the more as we said little about it, should ride with my lady.
the night seemed likely to be fine, but the darkness, the sough of the wind as it swept over the plain, and the melancholy plashing of the water as our horses plodded through it, were not things of a kind to allay our fears. when we at last left our covert, and reaching the road stood to listen, the fall of a leaf made us start. though no sounds but those of the night came to our ears--and some of these were of a kind to reassure us--we said 'hush!' again and again, and only moved on after a hundred alarums and assurances.
i walked by marie, with my hand on the withers of her horse, but we did not talk. the two waiting-women riding double were before us, and their muttered fears alone broke the silence which prevailed at the end of the train. we went at the rate of about two leagues an hour, steve and i and the men running where the roads were good, and everywhere and at all times urging the horses to do their best. the haste of our movements, the darkness, our constant alarm, and the occasional confusion when the rear pressed on the van at an awkward place, had the effect of upsetting the balance of our minds; so that the most common impulse of flight--to press forward with ever-increasing recklessness--began presently to possess us. once or twice i had to check the foremost, or they would have outrun the rear; and this kind of race brought us gradually into such a state of alarm, that by-and-by, when the line came to a sudden stop on the brow of a gentle descent, i could hardly restrain my impatience.
'what is it?' i asked eagerly. 'why are we stopping?' surely the road is good enough here.'
no one answered, but it was significant that on the instant one of the women began to cry.
'stop that folly!' i said. 'what is in front there? cannot some one speak?'
'the waldgrave thinks that he hears horsemen before us,' fraulein max answered.
in another moment the waldgrave's figure loomed out of the darkness. 'martin,' he said--i noticed that his voice shook--'go forward. they are in front. man alive, be quick!' he continued fiercely. 'do you want to have them into us?'
i left my girl's rein, and pushing past the women and fraulein, joined steve, who was standing by my lady's rein. 'what is it?' i said.
'nothing, i think,' he answered in an uncertain tone.
i stood a moment listening, but i too could hear nothing. i began to argue with him. 'who heard it?' i asked impatiently.
'the waldgrave,' he answered.
i did not like to say before my lady what i thought--that the waldgrave was not quite himself, nor to be depended upon; and instead i proposed to go forward on foot and learn if anything was amiss. the road ran straight down the hill, and the party could scarcely pass me, even in the gloom. if i found all well, i would whistle, and they could come on.
my lady agreed, and, leaving them halted, i started cautiously down the hill. the darkness was not extreme; the cloud drift was broken here and there, and showed light patches of sky between; i could make out the shapes of things, and more than once took a clump of bushes for a lurking ambush. but halfway down, a line of poplars began to shadow the road on our side, and from that point i might have walked into a regiment and never seen a man. this, the being suddenly alone, and the constant rustling of the leaves overhead, which moved with the slightest air, shook my nerves, and i went very warily, with my heart in my mouth and a cry trembling on my lips.
still i had reached the hillfoot before anything happened. then i stopped abruptly, hearing quite distinctly in front of me the sound of footsteps. it was impossible that this could be the sound that the waldgrave had heard, for only one man seemed to be stirring, and he moved stealthily; but i crouched down and listened, and in a moment i was rewarded. a dark figure came out of the densest of the shadow and stood in the middle of the road. i sank lower, noiselessly. the man seemed to be listening.
it flashed into my head that he was a sentry; and i thought how fortunate it was that i had come on alone.
presently he moved again. he stole along the track towards me, stooping, as i fancied, and more than once standing to listen, as if he were not satisfied. i sank down still lower, and he passed me without notice, and went on, and i heard his footsteps slowly retreating until they quite died away.
but in a moment, before i had risen to my full height, i heard them again. he came back, and passed me, breathing quickly and loudly. i wondered if he had detected our party and was going to give the alarm; and i stood up, anxious and uncertain, at a loss whether i should follow him or run back.
some one else was less lucky. we had not swept fifty yards from where i joined them, when a dark figure showed for a moment in the road before us. i saw it; it seemed to hang and hesitate. the next instant it was among us. i heard a shrill scream, a heavy fall, and we were over it, and charging on and on and on through the darkness.
to the foot of the hill and across the bottom, and up the opposite slope. i do not know how far we had sped, when steve's voice was heard, calling on us to halt.
'pull up! pull up!' he cried, with an angry oath. 'it is a false alarm! what fool set it going? there is no one behind us. donner und blitzen! where is martin?'
the horses were beginning to flag, and gladly came to a trot, and then to a walk.
'here! i panted.
'himmel! i thought we had ridden you down!' he said, leaving my lady's side. his voice shook with passion and loss of breath. 'who was it? we might all have broken our necks, and for nothing!'
the waldgrave--it was his stirrup i had caught--turned his horse round. 'i heard them--close behind us!' he panted. there was a note of wildness in his voice. my elbow was against his knee, and i felt him tremble.
'a bird in the hedge,' steve said rudely. 'it has cost some one dear. whose horse was it struck him?'
no one answered. i left the waldgrave's side and went back a few paces. the women were sobbing. ernst and jacob stood by them, breathing hard after their run. i thought the men's silence strange. i looked again. there was a figure missing; a horse missing.
'where is marie?' i cried.
she did not answer. no one answered; and i knew. steve swore again. i think he had known from the beginning. i began to tremble. on a sudden my lady lifted up her voice and cried shrilly--
again no answer. but this time i did not wait to listen. i ran from them into the darkness the way we had come, my legs quivering under me, and my mouth full of broken prayers. i remembered a certain solitary tree fronting the poplars, on the other side of the way, which i had marked mechanically at the moment of the fall--an ash, whose light upper boughs had come for an instant between my eyes and the sky. it stood on a little mound, where the moorland began to rise on that side. i came to it now, and stopped and looked. at first i could see nothing, and i trod forward fearfully. then, a couple of paces on, i made out a dark figure, lying head and feet across the road. i sprang to it, and kneeling, passed my hands over it. alas! it was a woman's.
i raised the light form in my arms, crying passionately on her name, while the wind swayed the boughs overhead, and, besides that and my voice, all the countryside was still. she did not answer. she hung limp in my arms. kneeling in the dust beside her, i felt blindly for a pulse, a heart-beat. i found neither--neither; the woman was dead.
and yet it was not that which made me lay the body down so quickly and stand up peering round me. no; something else. the blood drummed in my ears, my heart beat wildly. the woman was dead; but she was not marie.
she was an old woman, sixty years old. when i stooped again, after assuring myself that there was no other body near, and peered into her face, i saw that it was seamed and wrinkled. she was barefoot, and her clothes were foul and mean. she had the reek of one who slept in ditches and washed seldom. her toothless gums grinned at me. she was a horrible mockery of all that men love in women.
when i had marked so much, i stood up again, my head reeling. where was the man i had seen scouting up and down? where was marie? for a moment the wild idea that she had become this thing, that death or magic had transformed the fair young girl into this toothless hag, was not too wild for me. an owl hooted in the distance, and i started and shivered and stood looking round me fearfully. such things were; and marie was gone. in her place this woman, grim and dead and unsightly, lay at my feet. what was i to think?
i got no answer. i raised my voice and called, trembling, on marie. i ran to one side of the road and the other and called, and still got no answer. i climbed the mound on which the ash-tree stood, and sent my voice thrilling through the darkness of the bottom. but only the owl answered. then, knowing nothing else i could do, i went down wringing my hands, and found my lady standing over the body in the road. she had come back with steve and the others.
'in the morning!' i cried jealously.
no one spoke, and i looked from one to another. the men had returned from the search, and stood in a dark group round the body, which they had drawn to the side of the road. it wanted an hour of daylight yet, and i could not see their faces, but i read in their silence the answer that no one liked to put into words.
'be a man!' steve muttered, after a long pause. 'god help the girl. but god help us too if we are found here!'
still my lady did not speak, and i knew her brave heart too well to doubt her, though she had been the first to talk of going. 'get to horse,' i said roughly.
'no, no,' my lady cried at last. 'we will all stay, martin.'
'ay, all stay or all go!' steve muttered.
'then all go!' i said, choking down the sobs that would rise. and i turned first from the place.
i will not try to state what that cost me. i saw my girl's face everywhere--everywhere in the darkness, and the eyes reproached me. that she of all should suffer, who had never fainted, never faltered, whose patience and courage had been the women's stay from the first--that she should suffer! i thought of the tender, weak body, and of all the things that might happen to her, and i seemed, as i went away from her, the vilest thing that lived.
but reason was against me. if i stayed there and waited on the road by the old crone's body until morning, what could i do? whither could i turn? marie was gone and already might be half a dozen miles away. so the bonds of custom and duty held me. dazed and bewildered, i lacked the strength that was needed to run counter to all. i was no knight-errant, but a plain man, and i reeled on through the last hour of the night and the first grey streaks of dawn, with my head on my breast and sobs of despair in my throat.
if it had been our fate after that to continue our flight in the same weary fashion we had before devised, lying in woods by day, and all night riding jaded horses, until we passed the gates of some free city, i do not think that i could have gone through with it. doubtless it was my duty to go with my lady. but the long hours of daylight inaction, the slow brooding tramp, must have proved intolerable. and at some time or other, in some way or other, i must have snapped the ties that bound me.
but, as if the loss of my heart had rid us of some spell cast over us, by noon of that day we stood safe. for, an hour before noon, while we lay in a fir-wood not far from weimar, and jacob kept watch on the road below, and the rest slept as we pleased, a party of horse came along the way, and made as if to pass below us. they numbered more than a hundred, and jacob's heart failed him, lest some ring or buckle of our accoutrements should sparkle and catch their eyes. to shift the burden he called us, and we went to watch them.
'do they go north or south?' i asked him as i rose.
'north,' he whispered.
after that they were nothing to me, but i went with the rest. our lair was in some rocks overhanging the road. by the time we looked over, the horsemen were below us, and we could see nothing of them; though the sullen tramp of their horses, and the jingle of bit and spur, reached us clearly. presently they came into sight again on the road beyond, riding steadily away with their backs to us.
'that is not general tzerclas?' my lady muttered anxiously.
'nor any of his people!' steve said with an oath.
that led me to look more closely, and i saw in a moment something that lifted me out of my moodiness. i sprang on the rock against which i was leaning and shouted long and loudly.
'himmel!' steve cried, seizing me by the ankle. 'are you mad, man?'
but i only shouted again, and waved my cap frantically. then i slipped down, sobered. 'they see us,' i cried. 'they are leuchtenstein's riders. and count hugo is with them. you are safe, my lady.'
she turned white and red, and i saw her clutch at the rock to keep herself on her feet. 'are you sure?' she said. the troop had halted and were wheeling slowly and in perfect order.
'quite sure, my lady,' i answered, with a touch of bitterness in my tone. why had not this happened yesterday or the day before? then my girl would have been saved. now it came too late! too late! no wonder i felt bitterly about it.
we went down into the road on foot, a little party of nine--four women and five men. the horsemen, as they came up, looked at us in wonder. our clothes, even my lady's, were dyed with mud and torn in a score of places. we had not washed for days, and our faces were lean with famine. some of the women were shoeless and had their hair about their ears, while steve was bare-headed and bare-armed, and looked so huge a ruffian the stocks must have yawned for him anywhere. they drew up and gazed at us, and then count hugo came riding down the column and saw us.
'countess!' he said, as he sprang from his horse in wonder. 'is it really you? gott im himmel! these are strange times. waldgrave! your pardon. ach! have you come on foot?'
'not i. but these brave men have,' my lady answered, tears in her voice.
he looked at steve and grunted. then he looked at me and his eyes lightened. 'are these all your party?' he said hurriedly.
'all,' my lady answered in a low voice. he did not ask farther, but he sighed, and i knew that he had looked for his child. 'i came north upon a reconnaissance, and was about to turn,' he said. 'i am thankful that i did not turn before. is tzerclas in pursuit of you?'
'i do not know,' my lady answered, and told him shortly of our flight, and how we had lain two days and a night in the osier-bed.
'it was a good thought,' he said. 'but i fear that you are half famished.' and he called for food and wine, and served my lady with his own hands, while he saw that we did not go without. 'campaigner's fare,' he said. 'but you come of a fighting stock, countess, and can put up with it.'
'shame on me if i could not,' she answered.
there was a quaver in her voice, which showed how the rencontre moved her, how full her heart was of unspoken gratitude.
'when you have finished, we will get to horse,' he said. 'i must take you with me to nuremberg, for i am not strong enough to detach a party. but this evening we will make a long halt at hesel, and secure you a good night's rest.'
'i am sorry to be so burdensome,' my lady said timidly.
he shrugged his shoulders without compliment, but i did not hear what he answered. for i could bear no more. marie seemed so forgotten in this crowd, so much a thing of the past, that my gorge rose. no word of her, no thought of her, no talk of a search party! i pictured her forlorn, helpless little figure, her pale, uncomplaining face--i and no one else; and i had to go away into the bushes to hide myself. she was forgotten already. she had done all for them, i said to myself, and they forgot her.
then, in the thicket screened from the party, i had a thought--to go back and look for her, myself. now my lady was safe, there was nothing to prevent me. i had only to lie close among the rocks until count hugo left, and then i might plod back on foot and search as i pleased. in a flash i saw the poplars, and the road running beneath the ash-tree, and the woman's body lying stiff and stark on the sward. and i burned to be there.
left to myself i should have gone too. but the plan was no sooner formed than shattered. while i stood, hotfoot to be about it, and pausing only to consider which way i could steal off most safely, a rustling warned me that some one was coming, and before i could stir, a burly trooper broke through the bushes and confronted me. he saluted me stolidly.
'sergeant,' he said, 'the general is waiting for you.'
'the general?' i said.
'the count, if you like it better,' he answered. 'come, if you please.'
i followed him, full of vexation. it was but a step into the road. the moment i appeared, some one gave the word 'mount!' a horse was thrust in front of me, two or three troopers who still remained afoot swung themselves into the saddle; and i followed their example. in a trice we were moving down the valley at a dull, steady pace--southwards, southwards. i looked back, and saw the fir trees and rocks where we had lain hidden, and then we turned a corner, and they were gone. gone, and all round me i heard the measured tramp of the troop-horses, the swinging tones of the men, and the clink and jingle of sword and spur. i called myself a cur, but i went on, swept away by the force of numbers, as the straw by the current. once i caught count hugo's eye fixed on me, and i fancied he had a message for me, but i failed to interpret it.
steve rode by me, and his face too was moody. i suppose that we should all of us have thanked god the peril was past. but my lady rode in another part with count leuchtenstein and the waldgrave; and steve yearned, i fancy, for the old days of trouble and equality, when there was no one to come between us.
i saw count hugo that night. he sent for me to his quarters at hesel, and told me frankly that he would have let me go back had he thought good could come of it.
'but it would have been looking for a needle in a bundle of hay, my friend,' he continued. 'tzerclas' men would have picked you up, or the peasants killed you for a soldier, and in a month perhaps the girl would have returned safe and sound, to find you dead.'
'my lord!' i cried passionately, 'she saved your child. it was to her as her own!'
'i know it,' he answered with gravity, which of itself rebuked me. 'and where is my child?'
i shook my head.
'yet i do not give up my work and the task god and the times have given me, and go out looking for it!' he answered severely. 'leaving scot, and swede, and pole, and switzer to divide my country. for shame! you have your work too, and it lies by your lady's side. see to it that you do it. for the rest i have scouts out, who know the country; if i learn anything through them you shall hear it. and now of another matter. how long has the waldgrave been like this, my friend?'
'like this, my lord?' i muttered stupidly.
he nodded. 'yes, like this,' he repeated. 'i have heard him called a brave man. coming of his stock, he should be; and when i saw him in tzerclas' camp he had the air of one. now he starts at a shadow, is in a trance half his time, and a tremor the other half. what ails him?'
i told him how he had been wounded, fighting bravely, and that since that he had not been himself.
count hugo rubbed his chin gravely. 'it is a pity,' he said. 'we want all--every german arm and every german head. we want you. man alive!' he continued, roused to anger, i suppose, by my dull face, 'do you know what is in front of you?'
'no, my lord,' i said in apathy.
he opened his mouth as if to hurl a volley of words at me. but he thought better of it and shut his lips tight. 'very well,' he said grimly. 'wait three days and you will see.'
but in truth, i had not to wait three days. before sunset of the next i began to see, and, downcast as i was, to prick up my ears in wonder. beyond romhild and between that town and bamberg, the great road which runs through the valley of the pegnitz, was such a sight as i had never seen. for many miles together a column of dust marked its course, and under this went on endless marching. we were but a link in a long chain, dragging slowly southwards. now it was a herd of oxen that passed along, moving tediously and painfully, driven by half-naked cattle-men and guarded by a troop of grimy horse. now it was a reinforcement of foot from fulda, rank upon rank of shambling men trailing long pikes, and footsore, and parched as they were, getting over the ground in a wonderful fashion. after them would come a long string of waggons, bearing corn, and hay, and malt, and wines; all lurching slowly forward, slowly southward; often delayed, for every quarter of a mile a horse fell or an axle broke, yet getting forward.
and then the most wonderful sight of all, a regiment of swedish horse passed us, marching from erfurt. all their horses were grey, and all their head-pieces, backs and breasts of black metal, matched one another. as they came on through the dust with a tramp which shook the ground, they sang, company by company, to the music of drums and trumpets, a hymn, 'versage nicht, du häuflein klein!' behind them a line of light waggons carried their wives and children, also singing. and so they went by us, eight hundred swords, and i thought it a marvel i should never see beaten.
when they were gone out of sight, there were still droves of horses and mighty flocks of sheep to come, and cargoes of pork, and more foot and horse and guns. some companies wore buff coats and small steel caps, and carried arquebuses; and some marched smothered in huge headpieces with backs and breasts to match. and besides all the things i have mentioned and the crowds of sutlers and horse-boys that went with them, there were munition waggons closely guarded, and pack-horses laden with powder, and always and always waggons of corn and hay.
and all hurrying, jostling, crawling southwards. it seemed to me that the world was marching southwards; that if we went on we must fall in at the end of this with every one we knew. and the thought comforted me.
steve put it into words after his fashion. 'it must be a big place we are going to,' he said, about noon of the second day, 'or who is to eat all this? and do you mark, master martin? we meet no one coming back. all go south. this place nuremberg that they talk of must be worth seeing.'
'it should be,' i said.
and after that the excitement of the march began to take hold of me. i began to think and wonder, and look forward, with an eagerness i did not understand, to the issues of this.
but when late in the afternoon we entered nuremberg itself, and viewed the traffic in the streets, and the endless lines of gabled houses, the splendid mansions and bridges, the climbing roofs and turrets and spires of this, the greatest city in germany, then we thought little of all we had seen before. here thousands upon thousands rubbed shoulders in the streets; here continuous boats turned the river into solid land. here we were told were baked every day a hundred thousand loaves of bread; and i saw with my own eyes a list of a hundred and thirty-eight bakehouses. the roar of the ways, choked with soldiers and citizens, the babel of strange tongues, the clamour of bells and trumpets, deafened us. the constant crowding and pushing and halting turned our heads. i forgot my grief and my hope too. who but a madman would look to find a single face where thousands gazed from the windows? or could deem himself important with this swarming, teeming hive before him? steve stared stupidly about him; i rode dazed and perplexed. the troopers laughed at us, or promised us greater things when we should see the swedish lager outside the town, and wallenstein's great camp arrayed against it. but i noticed that even they, as we drew nearer to the heart of the city, fell silent at times, and looked at one another, surprised at the great influx of people and the shifting scenes which the streets presented.
for that night we had seen enough. i thought we had seen all, or that nothing in my life would ever surprise me again. but next day my lady went up to the burg on the hill in the middle of the city to look abroad, and took steve and myself with her. and then i found that i had not seen the half. the city, all roofs and spires and bridges, girt with a wall of seventy towers, roared beneath us; and that i had expected. but outside the wall i now saw a second city of huts and tents, with a great earthwork about it, and bastions and demilunes and picquets posted.
this was the swedish lager. it lay principally to the south of the city proper, though on all sides it encircled it more or less. they told me that there lay in it about forty thousand soldiers and twenty thousand horses, and twenty thousand camp followers; but the number was constantly increasing, death and disease notwithstanding, so that it presently stood as high as sixty thousand fighting men and half as many followers, to say nothing of the garrison that lay in the city, or the troops posted to guard the approaches. it seemed to me, gazing over that mighty multitude from the top of the hill, that nothing could resist such a force; and i looked abroad with curiosity for the enemy.
i expected to view his army cheek by jowl with us; and i was disappointed when i saw beyond our camp to southward, where i was told he lay, only a clear plain with the little river rednitz flowing through it. this plain was a league and more in width, and it was empty of men. beyond it rose a black wooded ridge, very steep and hairy.
my lady explained that wallenstein's army lay along this ridge--seventy thousand men, and forty thousand horses, and wallenstein himself. his camp we heard was eight miles round, the front guarded by a line of cannon, and taking in whole villages and castles. and now i looked again i saw the smoke hang among the trees. they whispered in nuremberg that no man in that army took pay; that all served for booty; and that the troopers that sacked magdeburg and followed tilly were, beside these, gentle and kindly men.
'god help us!' my lady cried fervently. 'god help this great city! god help the north! never was such a battle fought as must be fought here!'
we went down very much sobered, filled with awe and wonder and great thoughts, the dullest of us feeling the air heavy with portents, the more clerkly considering of armageddon and the last fight. briefly--for thirteen years the emperor and the papists had hustled and harried the protestants; had dragooned donauwörth, and held down bohemia, and plundered the palatinate, and crushed the king of denmark, and wherever there was a weak protestant state had pressed sorely on it. then one short year before i stood on the burg above the pegnitz, the protestant king had come out of the north like a thunderbolt, had shattered in a month the papist armies, had run like a devouring fire down the priests' lane, rushed over bohemia, shaken the emperor on his throne!
but could he maintain himself? that was now to be seen. to the emperor's help had come all who loved the old system, and would have it that the south was germany; all who wished to chain men's minds and saw their profit in the shadow of the imperial throne; all who lived by license and plunder, and reckoned a mass to-day against a murder to-morrow. all these had come, from the great duke of friedland grasping at empire, to the meanest freebooter with peasant's blood on his hands and in his veins; and there they lay opposite us, impregnably placed on the burgstall, waiting patiently until famine and the sword should weaken the fair city, and enable them to plunge their vulture's talons into its vitals.
no wonder that in nuremberg the citizens could be distinguished from the soldiers by their careworn faces; or that many a man stood morning and evening to gaze at the carved and lofty front of his house--by st. sebald's or behind the new cathedral--and wondered how long the fire would spare it. the magistrates who had staked all--their own and the city's--on this cast, went about with stern, grave faces and feared almost to meet the public eye. with a doubled population, with a huge army to feed, with order to keep, with houses and wives and daughters of their own to protect, with sack and storm looming luridly in the future, who had cares like theirs?
one man only, and him i saw as we went home from the burg. it was near the foot of the burg hill, where the strasse meets three other ways. at that time count tilly's crooked, dwarfish figure and pale horse's face, and the great hat and boots which seemed to swallow him up, were fresh in my mind; and sometimes i had wondered whether this other great commander were like him. well, i was to know; for through the crowd at the junction of these four roads, while we stood waiting to pass, there came a man on a white horse, followed by half a score of others on horseback; and in a moment i knew from the shouting and the way women thrust papers into his hands that we saw the king of sweden.
and so i first saw the great gustavus adolphus. it was said that he would at times fall into fits of berserk rage, and that in the field he was another man, keen as his sword, swift as fire, pitiless to those who flinched, among the foremost in the charge, a very thunderbolt of war. but as i saw him taking papers from women's hands at the end of the burg strasse, he had rather the air of a quiet, worthy prince--of coburg or darmstadt, it might be,--no dresser and no brawler; nor would any one, to see him then, have thought that this was the lion of the north who had dashed the pride of pappenheim and flung aside the firebrands of the south. or that even now he had on his shoulders the burden of two great nations and the fate of a million of men.
the face at the window.
after this it fared with us as it fares at last with the driftwood that chance or the woodman's axe has given to a forest stream in heritzburg. after rippling over the shallows and shooting giddily down slopes--or perchance lying cooped for days in some dark bend, until the splash of the otter or the spring freshet has sent it dancing on in sunshine and shadow--it reaches at last the werra. it floats out on the bosom of the great stream, and no longer tossed and chafed by each tiny pebble, feels the force of wind and stream--the great forces of the world. the banks recede from sight, and one of a million atoms, it is borne on gently and irresistibly, whither it does not know. so it was with us. from the day we fell in with count leuchtenstein and set our faces towards nuremberg, and in a greater degree after we reached that city, we embarked on a wider current of adventure, a fuller and less selfish life. if we had still our own cares and griefs, hopes and perils--as must be the case, i suppose, until we die--we had other common ones which we shared with tens of thousands, rich and poor, gentle and simple. we had to dread sack and storm; we prayed for relief and safety in company with all who rose and lay down within the walls. when a hundred waggons of corn slipped through the croats and came in, or duke bernard of weimar beat up a corner of the burgstall and gave wallenstein a bad night, we ran out into the streets to tell and hear the news. similarly, when tidings came that tzerclas with his two thousand ruffians had burned the king of sweden's colours, put on green sashes, and marched into the enemy's camp, we were not alone in our gloomy anticipations. we still had our private adventures, and i am going to tell them. but besides these, it should be remembered that we ran the risks, and rose every morning fresh to the fears, of nuremberg. when bread rose to ten, to fifteen, to twenty times its normal price; when the city, where many died every day of famine, plague, and wounds, began to groan and heave in its misery; when through all the country round the peasants crawled and died among the dead; when wallenstein, that dark man, heedless of the fearful mortality in his own camp, still sat implacable on the heights and refused all the king's invitations to battle, we grew pale and gloomy, stern-eyed and thin-cheeked with the rest. we dreamed of magdeburg as they did; and as the hot august days passed slowly over the starving city and still no end appeared, but only with each day some addition of misery, we felt our hearts sink in unison with theirs.
and we had to share, not their lot only, but their labours. we had not been in the town twenty-four hours before steve, jacob, and ernst were enrolled in the town militia; to me, either out of respect to my lady, or on account of my stature, a commission as lieutenant was granted. we drilled every morning from six o'clock until eight in the fields outside the new gate; the others went again at sunset to practise their weapons, but i was exempt from this drill, that the women might not be left alone. at all times we had our appointed rendezvous in case of alarm or assault. the swedish veterans strolled out of the camp and stood to laugh at our clumsiness. but the excellent order which prevailed among them made them favourites, and we let them laugh, and laughed again.
the waldgrave, who had long had duke bernard's promise, received a regiment of horse, so that he lay in the camp and should have been a contented man, since his strength had come back to him. but to my surprise he showed signs of lukewarmness. he seemed little interested in the service, and was often at my lady's house in the ritter strasse, when he would have been better at his post. at first i set this down to his passion for my lady, and it seemed excusable; but within a week i stood convinced that this no longer troubled him. he paid scant attention to her, but would sit for hours looking moodily into the street. and i--and not i alone--began to watch him closely.
i soon found that count hugo was right. the once gallant and splendid young fellow was a changed man. he was still comely and a brave figure, but the spirit in him was quenched. he was nervous, absent, irritable. his eyes had a wild look; on strangers he made an unfavourable impression. doubtless, though his wounds had healed, there remained some subtle injury that spoiled the man; and often i caught my lady looking at him sadly, and knew that i was not the only one with cause for mourning.
but how strange he was we did not know until a certain day, when my lady and i were engaged together over some accounts. it was evening, and the three men were away drilling. the house was very quiet. suddenly he flung in upon us with a great noise, his colour high, his eyes glittering. his first action was to throw his feathered hat on one chair, and himself into another.
'i've seen him!' he said. 'himmel! he is a clever fellow. he will worst you, cousin, yet--see if he does not. oh, he is a clever one!'
'who?' my lady said, looking at him in some displeasure.
'who? tzerclas, to be sure!' he answered, chuckling.
'you have seen him!' she exclaimed, rising.
'of course i have!' he answered. 'and you will see him too, one of these days.'
my lady looked at me, frowning. but i shook my head. he was not drunk.
'where?' she asked, after a pause. 'where did you see him, rupert?'
'in the street--where you see other men,' he answered, chuckling again. 'he should not be there, but who is to keep him out? he is too clever. he will get his way in the end, see if he does not!'
'rupert!' my lady cried in wrathful amazement, 'to hear you, one would suppose you admired him.'
'so i do,' he replied coolly. 'why not? he has all the wits of the family. he is as cunning as the devil. take a hint, cousin; put yourself on the right side. he will win in the end!' and the waldgrave rose restlessly from his chair, and, going to the window, began to whistle.
my lady came swiftly to me, and it grieved me to see the pain and woe in her face.
'is he mad?' she muttered.
i shook my head.
'do you think he has really seen him?' she whispered. we both stood with our eyes on him.
'i fear so, my lady,' i said with reluctance.
'but it would cost him his life,' she muttered eagerly, 'if he were found here!'
'he is a bold man,' i answered.
'ah! so was he--once,' she replied in a peculiar tone, and she pointed stealthily to the unconscious man in the window. 'a month ago he would have taken him by the throat anywhere. what has come to him?'
'god knows,' i answered reverently. 'grant only he may do us no harm!'
he turned round at that, humming gaily, and went out, seeming almost unconscious of our presence; and i made as light of the matter to my lady as i could. but tzerclas in the city, the waldgrave mad, or at any rate not sane, and last, but not least, the strange light in which the latter chose to regard the former, were circumstances i could not easily digest. they filled me with uneasy fears and surmises. i began to perambulate the crowd, seeking furtively for a face; and was entirely determined what i would do if i found it. the town was full, as all besieged cities are, of rumours of spies and treachery, and of reported overtures made now to the city behind the back of the army, and now to the army to betray the city. a single word of denunciation, and tzerclas' life would not be worth three minutes' purchase--a rope and the nearest butcher's hook would end it. my mind was made up to say the word.
i suppose i had been going about in this state of vigilance three days or more, when something, but not the thing i sought, rewarded it. at the time i was on my way back from morning drill. it was a little after eight, and the streets and the people wore an air bright, yet haggard. night, with its perils, was over; day, with its privations, lay before us. my mind was on the common fortunes, but i suppose my eyes were mechanically doing their work, for on a sudden i saw something at a window, took perhaps half a step, and stopped as if i had been shot.
i had seen marie's face! nay, i still saw it, while a man might count two. then it was gone. and i stood gasping.
i suppose i stood so for half a minute, waiting, with the blood racing from my heart to my head, and every pulse in my body beating. but she did not reappear. the door of the house did not open. nothing happened.
yet i had certainly seen her; for i remembered particulars--the expression of her face, the surprise that had leapt into her eyes as they met mine, the opening of the lips in an exclamation.
and still i stood gazing at the window and nothing happened.
at last i came to myself, and i scanned the house. it was a large house of four stories, three gables in width. the upper stories jutted out; the beams on which they rested were finely carved, the gables were finished off with rich, wooden pinnacles. in each story, the lowest excepted, were three long, low windows of the common nuremberg type, and the whole had a substantial and reputable air.
the window at which i had seen marie was farthest from the door, on the first floor. to go to the door i had to lose sight of it, and perhaps for that reason i stood the longer. at last i went and knocked, and waited in a fever for some one to come. the street was a thoroughfare. there were a number of people passing. i thought that all the town would go by before a dragging foot at last sounded inside, and the great nail-studded door was opened on the chain. a stout, red-faced woman showed herself in the aperture.
'what is it?' she asked.
'you have a girl in this house, named marie wort,' i answered breathlessly. 'i saw her a moment ago at the window. i know her, and i wish to speak to her.'
the woman's little eyes dwelt on me stolidly for a space. then she made as if she would shut the door. 'for shame!' she said spitefully. 'we have no girls here. begone with you!'
but i put my foot against the door. 'whose house is this?' i said.
'herr krapp's,' she answered crustily.
'is he at home?'
'no, he is not,' she retorted; 'and if he were, we have no baggages here.' and again she tried to shut the door, but i prevented her.
'where is he?' i asked sternly.
'he is at morning drill, if you must know,' she snapped; 'and his two sons. now, will you let me shut my door? or must i cry out?'
'nonsense, mother!' i said. 'who is in the house besides yourself?'
'what is that to you?' she replied, breathing short.
'i have told you,' i said, trying to control my anger. 'i----'
but, quick as lightning, the door slammed to and cut me short. i had thoughtlessly moved my foot. i heard the woman chuckle and go slipshod down the passage, and though i knocked again in a rage, the door remained closed.
i fell back and looked at the house. an elderly man in a grave, sober dress was passing, among others, and i caught his eye.
'whose house is that?' i asked him.
'herr krapp's,' he answered.
'i am a stranger,' i said. 'is he a man of substance?'
i thanked him, and made but two steps to herr krapp's side. he was the other's twin--elderly, soberly dressed, his only distinction a sword and pistol in his girdle and a white shoulder sash.
'herr krapp?' i said.
'the same,' he answered, eying me gravely.
'i am the countess of heritzburg's steward,' i said. i began to see the need of explanation. 'doubtless you have heard that she is in the city?'
'certainly,' he answered. 'in the ritter strasse.'
'yes,' i replied. 'a fortnight ago she missed a young woman, one of her attendants. she was lost in a night adventure,' i continued, my throat dry and husky. 'a few minutes ago i saw her looking from one of your windows.'
'from one of my windows?' he exclaimed in a tone of surprise.
'yes,' i said stiffly.
he opened his eyes wide. 'here?' he said. he pointed to his house.
'impossible!' he replied, shutting his lips suddenly. 'quite impossible, my friend. my household consists of my two sons and myself. we have a housekeeper only, and two lads. i have no young women in the house.'
'yet i saw her face, herr krapp, at your window,' i answered obstinately.
'wait,' he said; 'i will ask.'
but when the old housekeeper came she had only the same tale to tell. she was alone. no young woman had crossed the threshold for a week past. there was no other woman there, young or old.
'you will have it that i have a young man in the house next!' she grumbled, shooting scorn at me.
'i can assure you that there is no one here,' herr krapp said civilly. 'dorcas has been with me many years, and i can trust her. still if you like you can walk through the rooms.'
but i hesitated to do that. the man's manner evidenced his sincerity, and in face of it my belief wavered. fancy, i began to think, had played me a trick. it was no great wonder if the features which were often before me in my dreams, and sometimes painted themselves on the darkness while i lay wakeful, had for once taken shape in the daylight, and so vividly as to deceive me. i apologised. i said what was proper, and, with a heavy sigh, went from the door.
ay, and with bent head. the passing crowd and the sunshine and the distant music of drum and trumpet grated on me. for there was yet another explanation. and i feared that marie was dead.
i was still brooding sadly over the matter when i reached home. steve met me at the door, but, feeling in no mood for small talk just then, i would have passed him by and gone in, if he had not stopped me.
'i have a message for you, lieutenant,' he said.
'what is it?' i asked without curiosity.
'a little boy gave it to me at the door,' he answered. 'i was to ask you to be in the street opposite herr krapp's half an hour after sunset this evening.'
i gasped. 'herr krapp's!' i exclaimed.
steve nodded, looking at me queerly. 'yes; do you know him?' he said.
'i do now,' i muttered, gulping down my amazement. but my face was as red as fire, the blood drummed in my ears. i had to turn away to hide my emotion. 'what was the boy like?' i asked.
but it seemed that the lad had made off the moment he had done his errand, and steve had not noticed him particularly. 'i called after him to know who sent him,' he added, 'but he had gone too far.'
i nodded and mumbled something, and went on into the house. perhaps i was still a little sore on my girl's account, and resented the easy way in which she had dropped out of others' lives. at any rate, my instinct was to keep the thing to myself. the face at the window, and then this strange assignation, could have only one meaning; but, good or bad, it was for me. and i hugged myself on it, and said nothing even to my lady.
the day seemed long, but at length the evening came, and when the men had gone to drill and the house was quiet, i slipped out. the streets were full at this hour of men passing to and fro to their drill-stations, and of women who had been out to see the camp, and were returning before the gates closed. the bells of many of the churches were ringing; some had services. i had to push my way to reach herr krapp's house in time; but once there the crowd of passers served my purpose by screening me, as i loitered, from farther remark; while i took care, by posting myself in a doorway opposite the window, to make it easy for any one who expected me to find me.
and then i waited with my heart beating. the clocks were striking a half after seven when i took my place, and for a time i stood in a ferment of excitement, now staring with bated breath at the casement, where i had seen marie, now scanning all the neighbouring doorways, and then again letting my eyes rove from window to window both of krapp's house and the next one on either side. as the latter were built with many quaint oriels, and tiny dormers, and had lattices in side-nooks, where one least looked to find them, i was kept expecting and employed. i was never quite sure, look where i would, what eyes were upon me.
but little by little, as time passed and nothing happened, and the strollers all went by without accosting me, and no faces save strange ones showed at the windows, the heat of expectation left me. the chill of disappointment took its place. i began to doubt and fear. the clocks struck eight. the sun had been down an hour. half that time i had been waiting.
to remain passive was no longer bearable, and sick of caution, i stepped out and began to walk up and down the street, courting rather than avoiding notice. the traffic was beginning to slacken. i could see farther and mark people at a distance; but still no one spoke to me, no one came to me. here and there lights began to shine in the houses, on gleaming oak ceilings and carved mantels. the roofs were growing black against the paling sky. in nooks and corners it was dark. the half-hour sounded, and still i walked, fighting down doubt, clinging to hope.
but when another quarter had gone by, doubt became conviction. i had been fooled! either some one who had seen me loitering at krapp's in the morning and heard my tale had gone straight off, and played me this trick; or--gott im himmel!--or i had been lured here that i might be out of the way at home.
i had this in my mind. judge, then, of my horror, when, as i approached the ritter strasse, i became aware of a dull, roaring sound; and hastening to turn the corner, saw a large mob gathered in front of our house, and filling the street from wall to wall. the glare of torches shone on a thousand upturned faces, and flamed from a hundred casements. at the windows, on the roofs, peering over balconies and coping-stones and gables, and looking out of doorways were more faces, all red in the torchlight. and all the time as the smoking light rose and fell, the yelling, as it seemed to me, rose and fell with it--now swelling into a stern roar of exultation, now sinking into an ugly, snarling noise, above which a man might hear his neighbour speak.
i seized the first i came to--a man standing on the skirts of the mob, and rather looking on than taking part. 'what is it?' i said, shaking him roughly by the arm. 'what is the matter here?'
'hallo!' he answered, starting as he turned to me. 'is it you again, my friend?'
i had hit on herr krapp!' yes!' i cried breathlessly. 'what is it? what is amiss?'
he shrugged his shoulders. 'they are hanging a spy,' he answered. 'nothing more. irregular, but wholesome.'
i drew a deep breath. 'is that all?' i said.
he eyed me curiously. 'to be sure,' he said. 'what did you think it was?'
'i feared that there might be something wrong at my lady's,' i said, beginning to get my breath again. 'i left her alone at sunset. and when i saw this crowd before the house i--i could almost have cut off my hand. thank god, i was mistaken!'
he looked at me again and seemed to reflect a moment. then he said, 'you have not found the young woman you were seeking?'
i shook my head.
'well, it occurred to me afterwards--but at which window did you see her?'
'at a window on the first floor; the farthest from the door,' i answered.
'the second from the door end of the house?' he asked.
'no, the third.'
he nodded with an air of quiet triumph. 'just so!' he said. 'i thought so afterwards. but the fact is, my friend, my house ends with the second gable. the third gable-end does not belong to it, though doubtless it once did.'
'no, the door is in another street,' he answered. 'or rather it opens on the churchyard at the back of st. austin's. so you may have seen her after all. well, i wish you well,' he continued. 'i must be going.'
the crowd was beginning to separate, moving away by twos and threes, talking loudly. the lights were dying down. he nodded and was gone; while i still stood gaping. for how did the matter stand? if i had really seen marie at the window--as seemed possible now--and if nothing turned out to be amiss at home, then i had not been tricked after all, and the message was genuine. true she had not kept her appointment. but she might be in durance, or one of a hundred things might have frustrated her intention.
still i could do nothing now except go home, and cutting short my speculations, i forced myself through the press, and with some labour managed to reach the door. as i did so i turned to look back, and the sight, though the people were moving away fast, was sufficiently striking. almost opposite us in a beetling archway, the bowed head and shoulders of a man stood up above the common level. there was a little space round him, whence men held back; and the red glow of the smouldering links which the executioners had cast on the ground at his feet, shone upwards on his swollen lips and starting eyeballs. as i looked, the body seemed to writhe in its bonds; but it was only the wind swayed it. i went in shuddering.
on the stairs i met count hugo coming down, and knew the moment i saw him that there was something wrong. he stopped me, his eyes full of wrath.
'my man,' he said sternly, 'i thought that you were to be trusted! where have you been? what have you been doing? donner! is your lady to be left at dark with no one to man this door?'
conscience-stricken, i muttered that i hoped nothing had gone amiss.
'no, but something easily might!' he answered grimly. 'when i came here i found three as ugly looking rogues whispering and peering in your doorway as man could wish to see! yes, master martin, and if i had not ridden up at that moment i will not answer for it, that they would not have been in! it is a pity a few more knaves are not where that one is,' he continued sourly, pointing through the open door. 'we could spare them. but do you see and have more care for the future. or, mein gott, i will take other measures, my friend!'
so it had been a ruse after all! i went up sick at heart.
the house in the churchyard.
the heat which count leuchtenstein had thrown into the matter surprised me somewhat when i came to think of it, but i was soon to be more surprised. i did not go to my lady at once on coming in, for on the landing the sound of voices and laughter met me, and i learned that there were still two or three young officers sitting with her who had outstayed count hugo. i waited until they were gone--clanking and jingling down the stairs; and then, about the hour at which i usually went to take orders before retiring, i knocked at the door.
commonly one of the women opened to me. to-night the door remained closed. i waited, knocked again, and then went in. i could see no one, but the lamps were flickering, and i saw that the window was open.
at that moment, while i stood uncertain, she came in through it; and blinded, i suppose, by the lights, did not see me. for at the first chair she reached just within the window, she sat down suddenly and burst into tears!
'mein gott!' i cried clumsily. i should have known better; but the laughter of the young fellows as they trooped down the stairs was still in my ears, and i was dumfounded.
she sprang up on the instant, and glared at me through her tears. 'who are--how dare you? how dare you come into the room without knocking?' she cried violently.
'i did knock, my lady,' i stammered, 'asking your pardon.'
'then now go! go out, do you hear?' she cried, stamping her foot with passion. 'i want nothing. go!'
i turned and crept towards the door like a beaten hound. but i was not to go; when my hand was on the latch, her mood changed.
'no, stay,' she said in a different tone. 'you may come back. after all, martin, i had rather it was you than any one else.'
she dried her tears as she spoke, standing up very straight and proud, and hiding nothing. i felt a pang as i looked at her. i had neglected her of late. i had been thinking more of others.
'it is nothing, martin,' she said after a pause, and when she had quite composed her face. 'you need not be frightened. all women cry a little sometimes, as men swear,' she added, smiling.
'you have been looking at that thing outside,' i said, grumbling.
'perhaps it did upset me,' she replied. 'but i think it was that i felt--a little lonely.'
that sounded so strange a complaint on her lips, seeing that the echo of the young sparks' laughter was barely dead in the room, that i stared. but i took it, on second thoughts, to refer to fraulein max, whom she had kept at a distance since our escape, never sitting down with her, or speaking to her except on formal occasions; and i said bluntly--
'you need a woman friend, my lady.'
she looked at me keenly, and i fancied her colour rose. but she only answered, 'yes, martin. but you see i have not one. i am alone.'
'and lonely, my lady?'
'sometimes,' she answered, smiling sadly.
'but this evening?' i replied, feeling that there was still something i did not understand. 'i should not have thought you would be feeling that way. i have not been here, but when i came in, my lady----'
'pshaw!' she answered with a laugh of disdain. 'those boys, martin? they can laugh, fight, and ride; but for the rest, pouf! they are not company. however, it is bedtime, and you must go. i think you have done me good. good night. i wish--i wish i could do you good,' she added kindly, almost timidly.
to some extent she had. i went away feeling that mine was not the only trouble in the world, nor my loneliness the only loneliness. she was a stranger in a besieged city, a woman among men, exposed, despite her rank, to many of a woman's perils; and doubtless she had felt fraulein max's defection and the waldgrave's strange conduct more deeply than any one watching her daily bearing would have supposed. so much the greater reason was there that i should do my duty loyally, and putting her first to whom i owed so much, let no sorrow of my own taint my service.
but god knows there is one passion that defies argument. the house next herr krapp's had a fascination for me which i could not resist; and though i did not again leave my lady unguarded, but arranged that steve should stop at home and watch the door, four o'clock the next afternoon saw me sneaking away in search of st. austin's. of course i soon found it; but there i came to a check. round the churchyard stood a number of quiet family houses, many-gabled and shaded by limes, and doubtless once occupied by reverend canons and prebendaries. but no one of these held such a position that it could shoulder herr krapp's, or be by any possibility the house i wanted. the churchyard lay too far from the street for that.
i walked up the row twice before i would admit this; but at last i made it certain. still herr krapp must know his own premises, and not much cast down, i was going to knock at a chance door and put the question, when my eyes fell on a man who sat at work in the churchyard. he wore a mason's apron, and was busily deepening the inscription on a tablet let into the church wall. he seemed to be the very man to know, and i went to him.
'i want a house which looks into the neu strasse,' i said. 'it is the next house to herr krapp's. can you direct me to the door?'
he looked at me for a moment, his hammer suspended. then he pointed to the farther end of the row. 'there is an alley,' he said in a hoarse, croaking voice. 'the door is at the end.'
i thought his occupation an odd one, considering the state of the city; but i had other things to dwell on, and hastened off to the place he indicated. here, sure enough, i found the mouth of a very narrow passage which, starting between the last house and a blind wall, ran in the required direction. it was a queer place, scarcely wider than my shoulders, and with two turns so sharp that i remember wondering how they brought their dead out. in one part it wound under the timbers of a house; it was dark and somewhat foul, and altogether so ill-favoured a path that i was glad i had brought my arms.
apart from those remarkable episodes, the development of the scandinavian states since the sixteenth century has been, on their relatively small scale, that of the normal monarchic community with a variously vigorous democratic element; shaken frequently by civil strife; wasting much strength in insensate wars; losing much through bad kings and gaining somewhat from the good; passing painfully from bigotry to tolerance; getting rid of their old aristocracies and developing new; exhibiting in the mass the northern vice of alcoholism, yet maintaining racial vigour; disproportionately taxing their producers as compared with their non-producers; aiming, nevertheless, at industry and commerce, and suffering from the divisive social influences they entail; meddling in international strifes, till latterly the surrounding powers preponderated too heavily; disunited and normally jealous of each other, even when dynastically united, through stress of crude patriotic prejudice and lack of political science; frequently retrograding, yet in the end steadily progressing in such science as well as in general culture and well-being. losses of territory--as finland and schleswig-holstein--at the hands of stronger rivals, and the violent experiences and transitions of the napoleonic period, have left them on a relatively stable and safe basis, albeit still mutually jealous and unable to pass beyond the normal monarchic stage. to-day their culture is that of all the higher civilisations, as are their social problems.
the theory of celtic influence, though established in its essentials, is not perfectly consistent as set forth in the britannica article. thus, while the celticised literature is remarked for "noble simplicity of language," the true icelandic, primarily like the old english, is said to develop a "complexity of structure and ornament, an elaborate mythological and enigmatical phraseology, and a regularity of rhyme, assonance, luxuriance, quantity, and syllabification which it caught up from the latin and celtic poets." further, while the celticised school is described as "totally distinct from the icelandic," celtic influence is also specified as affecting norse literature in general. the first generations of icelandic poets were men of good birth, "nearly always, too, of celtic blood on one side at least"; and they went to norway or denmark, where they lived as kings' or chiefs' henchmen. the immigration of norse settlers from ireland, too, affected the iceland stock very early. "it is to the west that the best sagas belong: it is to the west that nearly every classic writer whose name we know belongs; and it is precisely in the west that the admixture of irish blood is greatest" (ib.). the facts seem decisive, and the statements above cited appear the more clearly to need modification. it is to be noted that schweitzer's geschichte der skandinavischen literatur gives no hint of the celtic influence.
thus this one little community may be said to have reached the limits of its evolution, as compared with others, simply because of the strait natural conditions in which its lot was cast. but to think of it as a tragically moribund organism is merely to proceed upon the old hallucinations of race-consciousness. men reared in iceland have done their part in making european civilisation, entering the more southerly scandinavian stocks as these entered the stocks of western europe; and the present population, who are a remnant, have no more cause to hang their heads than any family that happens to have few members or to have missed wealth. failure is relative only to pretension or purpose.
in recent years the statistics of emigration and population tell a fairly plain story. in norway and sweden alike the excess of births over deaths reached nearly its highest in 1887, the figures being 63,942 for sweden and 29,233 for norway. in 1887, however, emigration was about its maximum in both countries, 50,786 leaving sweden and 20,706 leaving norway. thereafter the birth-rate rapidly fell, and the emigration, though fluctuating, has never again risen in sweden to the volume of 1887-88, though it has in norway. but when, after falling to 43,728 in 1892, the excess of swedish births over deaths rises to 60,231 in 1895, while the emigration falls from 45,000 in 1892 to 13,000 in 1894, it is clear that the lesson of regulation is still very imperfectly learned. norway shows the same fluctuations, the excess of births rising from 23,600 in 1892 to nearly 32,000 in 1896, and again from 27,685 in 1908 to 29,804 in 1909, doubtless because of ups and downs in the harvests, as shown in the increase of marriages from 12,742 in 1892 to 13,962 in 1896.
in denmark the progression has been similar. there the excess of births over deaths was so far at its maximum in 1886, the figures being 29,986 in a population of a little over 2,000,000; whereafter they slowly decreased, till in 1893 the excess was only 26,235. all the while emigration was active, gradually rising from 4,346 in 1885 to 10,382 in 1891; then again falling to 2,876 in 1896, when the surplus of births over deaths was 34,181--a development sure to force more emigration. in 1911 the population was 2,775,076--a rapid rise; and in 1910 the surplus of births over deaths was 40,110. the scandinavians are thus still in the unstable progressive stage of popular well-being, though probably suffering less from it than either germany or england.
here, then, is a group of kindred peoples apparently at least as capable of reaching a solution of the social problem as any other, and visibly prospering materially and morally in proportion as they bring reason to bear on the vital lines of conduct, though still in the stage of curing over-population by emigration. given continued peaceful political evolution in the direction first of democratic federation, and further of socialisation of wealth, they may reach and keep the front rank in civilisation, while the more unmanageably large communities face risks of dire vicissitude.
the "downfall" of such a polity, then, is conceptual only. all the realities of life evolved by the league were passed on to its constituent elements throughout northern europe; and there survived from it what the separate states had not yet been able to offer--the adumbration, however dim, of a union reaching beyond the bounds of nationality and the jealousies of race. in an age of private war, without transcending the normal ethic, it practically limited private war as regarded its german members; and while joining battle at need with half-barbarian northern kings, or grudging foreigners, it of necessity made peace its ideal. its dissolution, therefore, marked at once the advance of national organisation up to its level, and the persistence of the more primitive over the more rational instincts of coalition.
note on literature
the special interest of dutch history for english and other readers led in past generations to a more general sociological study of it than was given to almost any other. l. guicciardini's description of the low countries (descrizione ... di tutti paesi bassi, etc., anversa, folio, 1567, 1581, etc.; trans. in french, 1568, etc.; in english, 1593; in dutch, 1582; in latin, 1613, etc.) is one of the fullest surveys of the kind made till recent times. sir william temple's observations upon the united provinces of the netherlands (1672) laid for english readers further foundations of an intelligent knowledge of the vital conditions of the state which had been in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the great commercial rival of england; and in the eighteenth century many english writers discussed the fortunes of dutch commerce. an english translation was made of the remarkably sagacious work variously known as the memoirs of john de witt, the true interest of holland, and political maxims of the state of holland (really written by de witt's friend, pierre delacourt; de witt, however, contributing two chapters), and much attention was given to it here and on the continent. in addition to the many and copious histories written in the eighteenth century in dutch, three or four voluminous and competent histories of the low countries were written in french--e.g., those of dujardin (1757, etc., 8 vols. 4to), cerisier (1777, etc., 10 vols. 12mo), le clerc (1723-28, 3 vols. folio), wicquefort (1719, folio, proceeding from peace of münster). of late years, though the lesson is as important as ever, it appears to be less generally attended to. in our own country, however, have appeared davies' history of holland (1841, 3 vols.), a careful but not often an illuminating work, which oddly begins with the statement that "there is scarcely any nation whose history has been so little understood or so generally neglected as that of holland"; t. colley grattan's earlier and shorter book (the netherlands, 1830), which is still worth reading for a general view based on adequate learning; and the much better known works of motley, the rise of the dutch republic (1856) and the history of the united netherlands (1861-68), which deal minutely with only a period of fifty-five years of dutch history, and of which, as of the work of davies, the sociological value is much below the annalistic. all three are impaired as literature by their stale rhetoric. the same malady infects the second volume of the industrial history of the free nations (1846), by w. torrens m'cullagh (afterwards m'cullagh torrens); but this, which deals with holland, is the better section of that treatise, and it gives distinct help to a scientific conception of the process of dutch history, as does j.r. m'culloch's essay on the rise, progress, and decline of commerce in holland, which is one of the best of his essays and treatises (2nd ed. 1859). the holland of the late professor thorold rogers has merit as a vivacious conspectus, but hardly rises to the opportunity.
of the many french, belgian, and german works on special periods of the history of the low countries, some have a special and general scientific interest. among these is the research of m. alphonse wauters on les libertés communales (bruxelles, 1878). barante's histoire des ducs de bourgogne (4th ed. 1838-40) contains much interesting matter on the burgundian period. the assiduous research of m. lefèvre pontalis, jean de witt, grand pensionnaire de hollande (2 tom. 1884; eng. trans. 2 vols.), throws a full light on one of the most critical periods of dutch history.
§ 1. the rise of the netherlands
the case of holland is one of those which at first sight seem to flout the sociological maxim that civilisations flourish in virtue partly of natural advantages and partly of psychological pressures. on the face of things, it would seem that the original negation of natural advantage could hardly be carried farther than here. a land pieced together out of drained marshes certainly tells more of man's effort than of nature's bounty. yet even here the process of natural law is perfectly sequent and intelligible.
§ 2. the revolt against spain
that the people who endured so much at the hands of a despot should have revolted unsubduably against his son is to be explained in terms of certain circumstances little stressed in popular historiography. in the narratives of the rhetorical historians, no real explanation arises. the revolt figures as a stand for personal and religious freedom. but when charles abdicated, after slaying his thousands, the reformation had been in full tide for over thirty years; calvin had built up protestant geneva to the point of burning servetus; england had been for twenty years depapalised; france, with many scholars and nobles converted to calvinism, was on the verge of a civil war of huguenots and catholics; the netherlands themselves had been drenched in the blood of heretics; and still no leading man had thought of repudiating either spain or rome. yet within thirteen years they were in full revolt, led by william of orange, now turned protestant. seeing that mere popular protestantism had spread far and gone fast, religious opinion was clearly not the determining force.
in reality, the conditio sine qua non was the psychological reversal effected by philip when he elected to rule as a spaniard, where his father had in effect ruled as a fleming. charles had always figured as a native of the netherlands, at home among his people, friendly to their great men, ready to employ them in his affairs, even to the extent of partly ruling spain through them. after his punishment of ghent they were his boon subjects; and in his youth it was the spaniards who were jealous of the flemish and dutch. this state of things had begun under his flemish-german father, philip i, who became king of spain by marriage, and under whom the netherland nobles showed in spain a rapacity that infuriated the spaniards against them. it was a question simply of racial predominance; and had the dynasty chosen to fix its capital in the north rather than in the south, it would have been the lot of the netherlanders to exploit spain--a task for which they were perfectly ready.
§ 3. the supremacy of dutch commerce
in such economies the dutch superiority grew out of the specially practical basis of their marine--habitual fishing and the constant use of canals. there is no better way than the former of building up seamanship; and just as the portuguese grew from hardy fishers to daring navigators, so the dutch grew from thrifty fishers and bargemen to thrifty handlers of sea-freight, surpassing in economy the shippers of england as they did in seamanship the marine of spain. broadly speaking, the navies which owed most to royal fostering--as those of spain, france, and in part england--were the later to reach efficiency in the degree of their artificiality; and the loss of one great spanish navy after another in storms must be held to imply a lack of due experience on the part of their officers.
"and you have no further thought of her?" she asked.
"as far as marriage is concerned, no," i responded. "nevertheless, i still regard her as an intimate friend. i was here only two or three hours ago chatting with her."
"you!" she cried, glaring at me strangely. "you were here--to-day?"
"yes," i replied. "i thought she would certainly tell you of my visit."
"she told me nothing. i was quite unaware of it. i was out, and the servants told me that a gentlemen had called in my absence."
"i gave a card," i replied. "it is no doubt in the hall."
"no, it is not. it has been destroyed."
"why?" i asked.
"for some mysterious reason known to yolande." then, turning quickly again to me, she placed her hand upon my arm in deep earnestness, saying: "tell me, is your love for her absolutely and entirely dead--so dead that you would not care to perform her a service?"
anderson's strange and startling story flashed through my mind. i made no reply.
"remember the affection you once bore her," she urged. "i am a woman, m'sieur, and i presume to remind you of it."
i needed no reminder. the recollection of those sweet idyllic days was still fresh as ever in my memory. ah! in those brief sunny hours i had fondly believed that our love would last always. it is ever the same. youth is ever foolish.
"i should have loved her now," i answered at last, "were it not for one fact."
"to the reason of our parting."
"the reason!" echoed the countess. "i have no idea whatever of the reason. what was it?"
i held my breath. would it be just to tell her the truth? i wondered. i reflected for a moment, then in a calm voice answered:
"because i discovered that her heart was not wholly mine."
she regarded me with undisguised amazement.
"do you mean that yolande had another lover?"
"no!" i cried with sudden resolve. "this conversation is not fair to her. it is all finished. she has forgotten, and we are both happy."
"happy!" cried the countess hoarsely. "you are, alas! mistaken. poor yolande has been the most unhappy girl in all the world. she has never ceased to think of you."
"then i regret, madame," i responded.
"if you really regret," she answered, "then your love for her is not altogether dead."
she spoke the truth. at this point i may as well confide to you, my reader, the fact that i still regarded my charming little friend of those careless days of buoyant youth with a feeling very nearly akin to love. i recollected the painful circumstances which led to our parting. my memory drifted back to that well-remembered, breathless summer's evening when, while walking with her along the white highway near her home, i charged her with friendliness towards a man whose reputation in brussels was none of the best; of her tearful protests, of my all-consuming jealousy, of her subsequent dignity, and of our parting. after that i had applied to the foreign office to be transferred, and a month later found myself in rome.
perhaps, after all, my jealousy might have been utterly unfounded. sometimes i had thought i had treated her harshly, for, truth to tell, i had never obtained absolute proof that this man was more than a mere acquaintance. indeed, i think it was this fact, or just a slight twinge of conscience, that caused a suspicion of the old love i once bore her to remain within me. it was not just to edith--that i knew; yet notwithstanding the denunciations of both kaye and anderson, i could not altogether crush her from my heart. to wholly forget the woman for whom one has entertained the grand passion is often most difficult, sometimes, indeed, impossible of accomplishment. visions of some sweet face with its pouting and ready lips will arise, constantly keeping the past ever present, and recalling a day one would fain forget. thus it was with me--just as it has been with thousands of others.
"no," i admitted truthfully and honestly at last, "my love for yolande is perhaps not altogether dead."
"then you will render me a service?" she cried quickly. "say that you will--for her sake!--for the sake of the great love you once bore her!"
"of what nature is this service you desire?" i asked, determined to act with caution, for the startling stories i had heard had aroused within me considerable suspicion.
"i desire your silence regarding an absolute secret," she answered in a hoarse half-whisper.
"a secret concerning yolande," she responded. "will you, for her sake, render us assistance, and at the same time preserve absolute secrecy as to what you may see or learn here to-day?"
"i will promise if you wish, madame, that no word shall pass my lips," i said. "but as to assistance, i cannot promise until i am aware of the nature of the service demanded of me."
she led the way down the long corridor, and turning to the left suddenly opened the door of a large and handsome bed-chamber, the wooden sun-blinds of which were closed to keep out the crimson glow of the sunset. the room was a fine one with big crystal mirrors and a shining toilette-service in silver, but upon the bed with its yellow silk hangings lay a female form fully dressed, but white-faced and motionless. in the dim half-light i could just distinguish the features as those of yolande.
"what has occurred?" i cried in a hoarse whisper, dashing towards the bedside and bending down to look upon the face that had once held me in fascination.
"we do not know," answered the trembling woman at my side. "it is all a mystery."
i stretched forth my hand and touched her cheek. it was icy cold.
in those few moments my eyes had become accustomed to the dim light of the darkened room, and i detected the change that had taken place in the girl's countenance. her eyes were closed, her lips blanched, her fair hair, escaped from its pins, fell in a sheen of gold upon the lace-edged pillow.
i held my breath. the awful truth was distinctly apparent. i placed my hand upon her heart, the bodice of her dress being already unloosened. then a few seconds later i drew back, standing rigid and aghast.
"why, she's dead!" i gasped.
"yes," the countess said, covering her face with her hands and bursting into tears. "my poor yolande! she is dead--dead!"
the discovery appalled me. only a couple of hours before we had chatted together, and she seemed in the best of health and spirits, just as in the old days, until i had made the announcement of wolf's presence in paris. the effect of that statement upon her had apparently been electrical. why, i knew not. had she not implored me to save her? this in itself was sufficient to show that she held him in deadly fear.
again i bent in order to make further examination, but saw the unmistakable mark of death upon her countenance. the lower jaw had dropped, the checks were cold, and the silver hand-mirror which i had snatched from the table and held at her mouth was unclouded. there was no movement--no life. yolande, my well-beloved of those long-past days, was dead.
i stood there at the bedside like a man in a dream. so swiftly had she been struck down that the terrible truth seemed impossible of realisation.
the countess, standing beside me, sobbed bitterly. truly the scene in that darkened chamber was a strange and impressive one. never before in my whole life had i been in the presence of the dead.
"yolande--yolande!" i called, touching her cheek in an effort to awaken her, for i could not believe that she was actually dead.
but there was no response. those blanched lips and the coldness of those cheeks told their own tale. she had passed to that land which lies beyond the range of human vision.
how long i stood there i cannot tell. my thoughts were inexpressibly sad ones, and the discovery had utterly upset me, so that i scarcely knew what i said or did. the blow of thus finding her lifeless crushed me. the affair was mysterious, to say the least of it. of a sudden, however, the sobs of the grief-stricken countess aroused me to a sense of my responsibility, and taking her hand i led her from the bedside into an adjoining room.
"how has this terrible catastrophe occurred?" i demanded of her breathlessly. "only two hours ago she was well and happy."
"you mean when you saw her?" she said. "what was the object of your call?"
"to see her," i responded.
"and yet you parted ill friends in brussels?" she observed in a tone of distinct suspicion. "you had some motive in calling. what was it?"
i hesitated. i could not tell her that i suspected her daughter to be a spy.
she smiled, rather superciliously i thought.
"but how did the terrible affair occur?"
"we have no idea," answered the countess brokenly. "she was found lying upon the floor of the salon within a quarter of an hour of the departure of her visitor, who proved to be yourself. jean, the valet-de-chambre, on entering, discovered her lying there, quite dead."
"astounding!" i gasped. "she was in perfect health when i left her."
she shook her head sorrowfully, and her voice, choking with grief, declared:
"my child has been killed--murdered!"
"murdered! impossible!" i cried.
"but she has," she declared. "i am absolutely positive of it!"
a piece of plain paper.
"what medical examination has been made?" i demanded.
"none," responded the countess. "my poor child is dead, and no doctor can render her assistance. medical aid is unavailing."
"but do you mean to say that on making this discovery you did not think it necessary to send for a doctor?" i cried incredulously.
"i did not send for one--i sent for you," was her response.
"but we must call a doctor at once," i urged. "if you have suspicion of foul play we should surely know if there is any wound, or any injury to account for death."
"i did not consider it necessary. no doctor can return her to me," she wailed. "i sent for you because i believed that you would render me assistance in this terrible affair."
"most certainly i will," i replied. "but in our own interests we must send for a medical man, and if it is found to be actually a case of foul play, for the police. i'll send a line to doctor deane, an englishman whom i know, who is generally called in to see anybody at the embassy who chances to be ill. he is a good fellow, and his discretion may be relied upon."
so saying, i scribbled a line on the back of a card, and told the man to take a cab down to the rue du havre, where the doctor occupied rooms over a hosier's shop a stone's throw from the bustling gare st. lazare.
the countess de foville, whose calmness had been so remarkable while speaking with me before we entered the death-chamber, had now given way to a flood of emotion. she sank back into her chair, and, burying her face in her hands, cried bitterly.
i tried to obtain some further information from her, but all that escaped her was:
"my poor yolande! my poor daughter!" finding that my endeavours to console her were futile, i went forth and made inquiries of the three frightened maidservants regarding what had occurred.
one of them, a dark-eyed frenchwoman in frilled cap, whom i had seen on my previous visit, said, in answer to my questions:
"jean discovered the poor mademoiselle in the petit salon about a quarter of an hour after m'sieur had left. she was lying upon her face near the window, quite rigid. he shouted; we all rushed in, and on examining her found that she was already dead."
"but was there no sign of a struggle?" i inquired, leading the way to the room indicated.
"the room was just as m'sieur sees it now," she answered, with a wave of her hand.
i glanced around, but as far as i could distinguish it was exactly as i had left it.
"there was no mark of violence--nothing to show that mademoiselle had been the victim of foul play?"
could it have been a case of suicide? i wondered. yolande's words before i had taken leave of her were desponding, and almost led me to believe that she had taken her life rather than face the man wolf who had so suddenly arrived in paris--the man who exercised upon her some mysterious influence, the nature of which i could not guess.
"it was not more than fifteen minutes after i had left, you say?" i inquired.
"no, m'sieur, not more."
"mademoiselle had no other visitor?"
"no, m'sieur. of that we are all certain."
"and the countess, where was she during the time i was here?"
"she was out driving. she did not return till about five minutes after we had made the terrible discovery."
"and how did madame act?"
"she ordered us to carry poor mademoiselle to her room. poor madame! she bore the blow with wonderful fortitude."
that remark caused me to prick up my ears.
"i don't quite understand," i said. "did she not give way to tears?"
"no, m'sieur; she shed no tears, but sat erect, motionless as a statue. she appeared unable to realise that poor mademoiselle was actually dead. at last she rang, and sent jean to you."
"you are absolutely certain that mademoiselle had no visit or after i left?"
"it would, moreover, not be possible for anyone to enter or leave without your knowledge?" i suggested.
"m'sieur understands me perfectly. mademoiselle must have fallen to the floor lifeless immediately after i had let you out. she made no sound, and had jean not entered with her letters, which the concierge had brought, my poor young mistress might be lying there now."
the average frenchwoman of the lower class is always dramatic wherever a domestic calamity is concerned, and this worthy bonne was no exception. she punctuated all her remarks with references to the sacred personages of the roman catholic religion.
"you haven't searched the room, i suppose?"
"no, m'sieur. madame gave orders that nothing was to be touched."
this reply was eminently satisfactory. i glanced again around the place, now dim in the falling twilight, and ordered her to throw back the sun-shutters.
the woman went to the window and opened them, admitting a flood of mellow light, the last crimson of the glorious afterglow. up from the boulevard came the dull roar of the traffic, mingling with the sound of distant bells ringing the ave maria. the bonne--an alsatian, from her accent--crossed herself from force of habit, and retreated towards the door.
"you may go," i said. "i will remain here until the doctor arrives."
"bien, m'sieur," answered the woman, disappearing and closing the door after her.
my object in dismissing her was to make a thorough search of the apartment, in order to discover whether any of yolande's private possessions were there. she had been denounced by kaye and anderson as a spy, and it occurred to me that i might possibly discover the truth. but she was dead. the painful fact seemed absolutely incredible.
the room was not a large one, but well furnished, with considerable taste and elegance. there was the broad, silk-covered couch, upon which yolande had sat in the full possession of health and spirits only a couple of hours before; the skin rug, upon which her tiny foot had been stretched so coquettishly; the small table, by which she had stood supporting herself after i had made the fatal announcement that wolf was in paris.
as i stood there the whole of that strangely dramatic scene occurred to me. yet she was dead--dead! she had died with her secret in her heart.
at any moment dick deane might arrive, but i desired to be the first to make an examination of the room, and with that object crossed to the little escritoire of inlaid olive-wood, one of those rather gimcrack pieces of furniture manufactured along the ligurian coast for unsuspecting winter visitors. it was the only piece of incongruous furniture in the room, all the rest being genuine louis quatorze.
one or two letters bearing conspicuous coats-of-arms were lying there, but all were notes of a private nature from one or other of her friends. one was an invitation to vichy from the baronne deland, wife of the great paris financier; another, signed "rose," spoke of the gaiety of cairo and the dances at shepheard's during the past winter; while a third, also in french, and bearing no signature, made an appointment to meet her in the english tea-shop in the rue royale on the following day at five o'clock.
that note, written upon plain paper of business appearance, had apparently been left by hand. who, i wondered, was the person who had made that appointment? to me the writing seemed disguised, and probably, owing to the thickness of the up-strokes, had been penned by a male hand. there was a mistake in the orthography, too, the word "plaisir" being written "plasir." this showed plainly that no frenchman had written it.
i placed the letter in my pocket, and, encouraged by it, continued my investigations.
next instant the truth was plain. that paper was the official paper used in french government offices for written reports. how came it in her possession, if the accusation against her were untrue?
i held it in my hand, glaring at it in bewilderment. sheet by sheet i examined it, but there was no writing upon it. apparently it was her reserve store of paper, to be used as wanted. in the french ministry of foreign affairs everything is methodical, especially the preparation of the dossiers. a certain dossier had once fallen into kaye's hands, and it contained sheets of exactly similar paper to that which i held in my hand.
eagerly i continued my search, striving to discover some writing which might lead me to a knowledge of the truth, but i found nothing. i had completed an examination of the whole of the contents of the drawers, when it occurred to me that there might be some other drawer concealed there. years ago i had been offered an escritoire of this pattern in genoa, and the sun-tanned fellow who endeavoured to induce me to purchase it had shown behind the centre drawer in the table a cunningly contrived cavity where private correspondence might be concealed.
therefore i drew out the drawer, sounded the interior at the back, and, finding it hollow, searched about for the spring by which it might be opened. at last i found it, and next moment drew forth a bundle of letters. they were bound with a blue ribbon that time had faded. i glanced at the superscription of the uppermost, and a thrill of sympathy went through me.
those carefully preserved letters were my own--letters full of love and tenderness, which i had written in the days that were dead. i stood holding them in my hand, my heart full of the past.
in this narrative, my reader, it is my intention to conceal nothing, but to relate to you the whole, undisguised truth, even though this chapter of england's secret history presents a seemingly improbable combination of strange facts and circumstances. therefore i will not hide from you the truth that in those moments, as i drew forth one of the letters i had written long ago and read it through, sweet and tender memories crowded upon me, and in my eyes stood blinding tears. i may be forgiven for this, i think, when it is remembered how fondly i had once loved yolande, before that fatal day when jealousy had consumed me, and i had turned my back upon her as a woman false and worthless.
letter after letter i read, each bringing back to me sad memories of those days, when in the calm sunset hour we had wandered by the riverside hand in hand like children, each supremely content in each other's love, fondly believing that our mad passion would last always. in all the world she had been, to me, incomparable. the centre of admiration at those brilliant balls at the royal palace at brussels, the most admired of all the trim and comely girls who rode at morning in the bois, the merriest of those who picnicked in the forest round about the ancient chateau, the sweetest, the most tender, and the most pure of all the women i knew--yolande in those days had been mine. there, in my hand, i held the letter which i had written from scotland when on leave for the shooting, asking if she loved me sufficiently to become my wife. to that letter i well remembered her reply--indeed, i knew it verbatim; a tender letter, full of honest love and straightforward admission--a letter such as only a pure and good woman could have penned. yes, she wrote that she loved me dearly, and would be my wife.
and yet it was all of the past. all had ended.
i sighed bitterly--how bitterly, mere words cannot describe. you, reader, be you man or woman, can you fully realise how deeply i felt at that moment, how utterly desolate the world then seemed to me?
those letters i slowly replaced in the cavity and closed it. then, as i turned away, my eyes fell upon the photographs standing upon a small whatnot close by the escritoire. they were of persons whom i did not know--all strangers, save one. this was a cabinet portrait in a heavy silver frame, and as i took it up to scrutinise it more closely a cry involuntarily escaped my lips.
the picture was a three-quarter length representation of a black-bearded, keen-eyed man, standing with his hands thrust idly in his pockets, and smoking a cigarette. there was no mistaking those features. it was the photograph of the man the discovery of whose presence in paris had produced such an extraordinary effect upon her-- rodolphe wolf.
by a thread.
i was still standing by the window, holding the photograph in my hand, and gazing upon it in wonder, when dick deane was shown in.
"what's the matter, old chap? are you the man in possession here?" he asked breezily, gripping me by the hand.
he was a fair, merry-faced fellow of thirty-five, rather good-looking, smartly dressed in black frock-coat of professional cut, and wearing a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez. he had been born in paris, and had spent the greater part of his life there, except during the years when he was at school with me before going to edinburgh, where he took his degree. then he had returned to paris, taken his french degree, and had soon risen to be one of the fashionable doctors in the french capital. he was an especial favourite in the salons, and, like every good-looking doctor, a favourite with the ladies.
"i'm not in possession," i answered. "a very serious affair has happened here, and we want your assistance."
in an instant he became grave, for i suppose my tone showed him that i was in no humour for joking.
"what's the nature of the affair?" he asked.
"death," i replied seriously. "a lady here--a friend of mine--has died mysteriously."
"a mystery--eh?" he exclaimed, instantly interested. "tell me about it."
"this place," i replied, "belongs to the countess de foville, a lady whom i knew well when i was at the brussels embassy, and it is her daughter yolande who has been found dead in this room this evening."
"yolande de foville!" he repeated, with knit brows. "she was a friend of yours once, if i mistake not?" he added, looking me straight in the face.
"yes, dick, she was," i responded. "i told you of her long ago."
"you loved her once?"
"yes," i answered with difficulty, "i loved her once."
"and how did the unfortunate affair occur?" he asked, folding his arms and leaning back against a chair. "tell me the whole story."
"i called here this afternoon, and spent half an hour or so with her," i said. "then i left and returned straight to the embassy--"
"you left her here?" he inquired, interrupting. "yes, in this very room. but it seems that a quarter of an hour later one of the servants entered and discovered her lying upon the door, dead."
"curious!" he ejaculated. "has a medical man seen her?"
"no. the countess sent for me as being one of her daughter's most intimate friends, and i, in turn, sent for you."
"where is the poor young lady?"
"in her room at the end of the corridor," i answered hoarsely.
"is there any suspicion of murder?"
"apparently none whatever. she had no visitor after i left."
"and no suspicion of suicide?" he asked, with a sharp look. "did you part friends?"
"perfectly so," i responded. "as to suicide, she had no reason, as far as anyone knows, to make an attempt upon her life."
he gave vent to an expression which sounded to me much like a grunt of dissatisfaction.
"now, be perfectly frank with me, gerald," he said, suddenly turning to me and placing his hand upon my shoulder. "you loved her very dearly once--was that not so?"
"i well remember it," he went on. "i quite recollect how, on one occasion, you came over to london, and while dining together at jimmy's you told me of your infatuation, and showed me her photograph. do you remember the night when you told me of your engagement to her?"
"and as time went on you suddenly dropped her--for what reason i know not. we are pals, but i have never attempted to pry into your affairs. if she really loved you, it must have been a hard blow for her when she heard that you had forsaken her for edith austin."
"you reproach me," i said. "but you do not know the whole truth, my dear fellow. i discovered that yolande possessed a second lover."
he nodded slowly, with pursed lips.
"and that was the reason of your parting?"
"the sole reason?"
"the sole reason."
"and you have no suspicion that she may have committed suicide because of her love for you? such things are not uncommon, remember, with girls of a certain temperament."
"if she has committed suicide, it is not on my account," i responded in a hard voice.
"i did not express that opinion," he hastened to protest. "before we discuss the matter further it will be best for me to see her. death may have been due to natural causes, for aught we know."
i stood motionless. his suggestion that my sweetheart of the old days had committed suicide because i had forsaken her was a startling one. surely that could not be so?
"come," my friend said, "let us lose no time. which is the room?"
i led him along the corridor, and opened the door of the chamber in which she was lying so cold and still. the light of the afterglow fell full upon her, tipping her auburn hair with crimson and illuminating her face with a warm radiance that gave her back the appearance of life. but it was only for a few moments. the slanting ray was lost, and the pallor of that beautiful countenance became marked against the gold of her wondrous hair.
in silence i stood at the foot of the bed watching my friend, who was now busy with his examination. he opened her eyes and closed them again, felt her heart, raised her arms, and examined her mouth, uttering no word. his serious face wore a look as though he were infinitely puzzled.
one after the other he examined the palms of her hands long and carefully, then, bending until his eyes were close to her face, he examined her lips, brow, and the whole surface of her cheeks. upon her neck, below the left ear, was a mark to which he returned time after time, as though not satisfied as to its cause. upon her lower lip, too, was a slight yellow discoloration, which he examined several times, comparing it with the mark upon the neck. he was unable to account for either.
"curious!" he ejaculated. "very curious indeed!"
"what is curious?" i inquired eagerly.
"those marks," he answered, indicating them with his finger. "they are very puzzling. i've never seen such marks before."
"do they point to foul play?" i inquired, feeling suspicious that she had by some mysterious means fallen the victim of an assassin.
"well, no," he responded, after some hesitation; "that is not my opinion."
"then what is your opinion?"
"at present i have none. i can have none until i make a thorough examination. there are certainly no outward marks of violence."
"we need not inform the police, i suppose?"
"not at present," he replied, his eyes still fixed upon the blanched face of the woman who had once been all the world to me.
i raised her dead hand, and upon it imprinted a last fervent kiss. it was cold and clammy to my lips. in that hour all my old love for her had returned, and my heart had become filled with an intense bitterness and desolation. i had thought that all my love for her was dead, and that edith austin, the calm, sweet woman far away in an english county, who wrote to me daily from her quiet home deep in the woodlands, had taken her place. but our meeting and its tragic sequel had, i admit, aroused within me a deep sympathy, which had, within an hour, developed into that great and tender love of old. with men this return to the old love is of no infrequent occurrence, but with women it seldom happens. perhaps this is because man is more fickle and more easily influenced by woman's voice, woman's glances, and woman's tears.
the reader will probably accuse me of injustice and of fickleness of heart. well, i cannot deny it; indeed, i seek to deny nothing in this narrative of strange facts and diplomatic wiles, but would only ask of those who read to withhold their verdict until they have ascertained the truth yet to be revealed, and have read to the conclusion, this strange chapter of the secret history of a nation.
my friend the doctor was holding one hand, while i imprinted a last kiss upon the other. a lump was in my throat, my eyes were filled with tears, my thoughts were all of the past, my anguish of heart unspeakable. that small chill hand with the cold, glittering ring--one that i had given her in brussels long ago--seemed to be the only reality in all that hideous phantasmagoria of events.
"do not despair," murmured the kind voice of my old friend, standing opposite me on the other side of the bed. "you loved her once, but it is all over--surely it is!"
"no, dick!" i answered brokenly. "i thought i did not love her. i have held her from me these three years--until now."
"ah!" he sighed, "i understand. man always longs for the unattainable."
"yes, always," i responded.
in that moment the memory of the day when we had parted arose gaunt and ghost-like. i had wronged her; i felt confident that i had. all came back to me now--that cruel, scandalous denunciation i had uttered in the heat of my mad jealousy--the false tale which had struck her dumb by its circumstantial accuracy. ah! how bitter it all was, now that punishment was upon me! i remembered how, in the hour of my worldly triumph and of her highest hope--at the very moment when she had spoken words of greater affection to me than she had ever used before--i had made the charge against her, and she had fallen back with her young heart crushed within her. my ring was there, still glittering mockingly upon her dead hand. by the unfounded charge i had made against her i had sinned. my sin at that moment arose from its grave, and barred the way for ever to all hope--to all happiness.
the summer twilight was stealing on apace, and in the silence of the room there sounded the roar of life from the boulevard below. men were crying le soir with strident voices, and all paris was on its way to dine, and afterwards to enjoy itself in idleness upon the terraces of the cafes or at those al-fresco variety performances in the avenue des champs elysees, where the entrance fee includes a consommation.
deane still held my old love's hand, bending in the dim light until his eyes were close to it, watching intently. but i took no notice, for my eyes were fixed upon that face that had held me in such fascination, and had been so admired at those brilliant receptions given by king leopold and the countess of flanders. the doctor stretched forth his hand, and of a sudden switched on the electric light. the next instant i was startled by his loud ejaculation of surprise.
"thank god!" he cried. "she's not dead, after all!"
"not dead!" i gasped, unable fully to realise his meaning.
"no," he answered breathlessly. "but we must not lose a single instant." and i saw that with a lancet he had made an incision in her delicate wrist, and there was blood there. "she is in a state of catalepsy, and we must do all in our power to bring her round."
"but do you think you can?" i cried.
"i hope so."
"do your best, dick," i implored. "save her, for my sake."
"rely upon me," he answered calmly, adding: "run along to number 18 in the boulevard--the corner house on the right--and bring doctor trepard at once. he lives au troisieme. tell him that i sent you, and that the matter is one of life or death." he scribbled some words on a card, and, giving it me, added: "tell him to bring this. meanwhile, i will commence artificial respiration. go!"
"but do you think she will really recover?" i demanded.
"i can't tell. we have already lost so much time. i had no idea of the truth. it has surprised me just as it has surprised you. this moment is not one for words, but for actions. don't lose an instant."
thus urged, i snatched up my hat and tore along the boulevard like a madman. without difficulty i found trepard's appartement, and on being admitted found him a grave-faced, rather stout old frenchman, who, on the instant i mentioned dick's name and gave him the card with the words upon it, naming some drugs he required, went into an adjoining room, and fetched a phial of tiny red pillules, which he held up to the light. then he put on his hat, and descended with me to the street. a fiacre was passing, which we took, and five minutes later we were standing together in the room where yolande was lying.
"this is a most curious case, my dear trepard," began dick, speaking in french--"a case of coma, which i have mistaken for death;" and, continuing, he briefly explained how the patient had been found in a state so closely resembling death that he himself had been deceived.
the old frenchman placed his hand upon her heart, and, withdrawing it, said:
"she's breathing now."
"breathing!" i echoed. "then she is recovering!"
"yes, old fellow," dick replied, "she is recovering--at least we hope we shall save her." then, turning to his colleague, he raised her hand and pointed to the finger-nails, asking: "do you notice anything there?"
the other, adjusting his pince-nez, bent and examined, them one by one.
"yes," he answered at last. "a slight purple discoloration at the base of the nails."
"and upon the lower lip does anything strike you as peculiar?"
"a yellow mark," he answered, after carefully inspecting the spot indicated.
"and there?" deane asked, touching the mark upon the neck.
"very strange!" ejaculated the elder man. "it is a most unusual case."
"yes. have you brought the hydrated peroxide of iron?"
for answer the frenchman produced the tiny tube, saying:
"then you suspect poison?"
"most certainly," he replied; and, taking a glass, he placed a single pillule in it, dissolving it in water, which he afterwards forced between the grey lips of my unconscious love. afterwards he glanced at his watch, observing: "we must give another in fifteen minutes."
then, drawing a chair to the bedside, he seated himself, holding her wrist and watching her countenance for any change that might take place there.
"have you no idea of the nature of the poison?" i inquired eagerly.
"none," he responded. "ask me no questions now. when we have brought her round will be time enough. it should be sufficient for you to know that she is not dead. why not leave us for the present? go and break the good news to the countess."
"you wish to be alone?"
"yes. this is a serious matter. leave us undisturbed, and on no pretext allow her mother to enter here."
thus urged, and feeling reassured by their statement that she still lived and that the pulsations of her heart were already quite perceptible, i left the room, noiselessly closing the door after me, and sought the countess in the small blue boudoir to which she had returned plunged in grief and dark despair.
she was seated in a chair, motionless and statuesque, staring straight before her. the blow had utterly crushed her, for she was entirely devoted to her only daughter now that her husband was dead. i well knew how deep was her affection for yolande, and how tender was her maternal love.
the room was in semi-darkness, for she had not risen to turn on the light. as i entered i did so with her permission, saying quietly:
"madame, i come to you with a message."
"from whom?" she asked in a hard mechanical voice.
"from my friend deane, the english doctor whom i have summoned. yolande still lives!"
"she lives!" she cried, springing to her feet in an instant. "you are deceiving me!"
"i am not, madame," i reassured her, smiling. "your daughter is still breathing, and is increasing in strength perceptibly. the doctors say that she will probably recover."
"thank god!" she gasped, her thin white hands clasped before her. "i pray that he may give her back to me. i will go to her."
but i held her back, explaining that both the medical men had expressed a wish to remain there alone.
"but what caused that appearance so akin to death?" she asked quickly.
"at present they cannot tell," i responded. "some deleterious substance is suspected, but until she has returned to consciousness and can give us some details of her sudden attack we can determine nothing."
"but she will recover, m'sieur?" the countess asked. "are you certain?"
"the chances are in her favour, the doctors say. they have given her a drug to counteract the effect of the poison."
"poison! was she poisoned?" gasped the countess.
"poison is suspected," i answered quietly. "but calm yourself, madame. the truth will be discovered in due course."
"i care nothing so long as yolande is given back to me!" the distressed woman cried. "was it your english friend who discovered the truth?"
"yes," i replied. "he is one of the cleverest men in paris."
"and to him my poor yolande will owe her life?"
"yes, to him."
"and to you also, m'sieur? you have done your utmost for us, and i thank you warmly for it all."
"madame," i said earnestly, "i have done only what a man should do. you sought my assistance, and i have given it, because--"
"because of what?" she inquired sharply the instant i paused.
"because i once loved her," i responded with perfect frankness.
a sigh escaped her, and her hand sought my arm.
"i was young once, m'sieur," she said in that calm, refined voice which had long ago always sounded so much to me like that of my own dead mother. "i understand your feeling--i understand perfectly. it is only my poor daughter who does not understand. she knows that you have forsaken her--that is all."
it was upon my tongue to lay bare to her the secret of my heart's longings, yet i hesitated. i remembered that calm, serious, sweet-faced woman on the other side of the english channel, far from the glare and glitter of life as i knew it--the fevered life which the diplomat in paris is forced to lead. i remembered my troth to edith, and my conscience pricked me.
"could it be possible," i reflected, "that yolande was really in the pay of a government hostile to england?" kaye was already nearing berlin with the intention of searching out her actions and exposing her as a spy, while anderson had already denounced her as having been a party to an attempt to secure the secret which he had carried from berlin to downing street.
with a mother's solicitude the countess could for some time only speak of yolande's mysterious attack; but at last, in order to prosecute my inquiries further, i observed, during a lull in the conversation:
"at the baroness de chalencon's last night a friend of yours inquired about you, madame."
"a friend? who?"
"a man named wolf--rodolphe wolf."
the next instant i saw that the mention of that name affected the mother no less markedly than it had affected the daughter. her face blanched; her eyes opened wide in fear, and her glance became in a moment suspicious. with marvellous self-possession she, however, pretended ignorance.
"wolf?" she repeated. "i do not remember the name. possibly he is some person we have met while travelling."
"yolande knew him, i believe, in brussels," i remarked. "he appeared to be acquainted with you."
"my daughter's friends are not always mine," she remarked coldly, with that cleverness which only a woman of the world can possess, and at once returned to the discussion of yolande and the probability of her recovery.
this puzzled me. i felt somehow convinced that she knew the truth. she had some distinct object in endeavouring to seal my lips. what it was, however, i could not determine.
she was expressing a fervent hope that her daughter would recover, and pacing the room, impatient to go to her bedside, when, of a sudden, dick opened the door, and, putting his head inside, addressed me, saying:
"can i speak with you a moment, ingram?" she dashed to the door in eagerness, but after a word of introduction from myself, he informed her that yolande had not sufficiently recovered to be disturbed.
"perfect quiet is absolutely necessary, madame," he urged. "your daughter, i am pleased to tell you, will live; but she must be kept absolutely quiet. i cannot allow you to approach her on any pretext whatsoever."
"she will not die, will she?" the woman implored distractedly.
"no," he replied, in a voice somewhat strained, i thought, "she will not die. of that you may rest assured."
then turning to me, he beckoned, and i followed him out of the room.
the old love.
"i don't like that woman, old fellow," were the first words dick uttered when we were alone in the room in which yolande had been found.
"why not?" i asked, rather surprised. "the countess de foville is always charming."
he shrugged his shoulders, saying:
"one sometimes has strange and unaccountable prejudices, you know. this is one of mine."
"and yolande," i asked, "what of her?"
"she's better. but it was fortunate i made the discovery just when i did, or she would no doubt have passed away. i never saw an appearance so closely resembling death in all my experience; in fact, i'd have staked my professional reputation that there was no spark of life."
"but what was the cause of it all?" i demanded. "you surely know the reason?"
"no, we cannot yet tell," he answered. "the marks puzzle us. that mark on her lower lip is the most peculiar and unaccountable. at present we can say nothing."
"then why did you call me out?"
"because i want to consult you," he replied. "the fact is, that in this affair there is a strong element of mystery which i don't like at all. and, moreover, the few seconds during which i've seen the countess have plainly impressed upon me the belief that either she has had something to do with it, or else that she knows the truth."
i nodded. this was exactly my own theory. "do you think yolande has been the victim of foul play?" i inquired a moment later.
"that's my suspicion," he responded. "but only she herself can tell us the truth."
"you really think, then, that a dastardly attempt has been made upon her life?" i cried incredulously.
"personally, i think there can be no doubt."
"but by whom? no one called here after my departure."
"it is that mystery which we must elucidate," he said. "all i fear is, however, that she may render us no assistance."
"because it is a mystery, and in all probability she will endeavour to preserve the secret. she must not see the countess before we question her."
"is she yet conscious?" i asked in eagerness.
"yes; but at present we must put no question to her."
"thank heaven!" i gasped. then i added, fervently grasping my friend's hand: "you cannot realise, dick, what great consolation this is to me!"
"i know, my dear fellow--i know," he answered sympathetically. "but may i speak to you as a friend? you won't be offended at anything i am about to say, will you?"
"offended?--certainly not. our friendship is too firm for that, dick. what is it you wish to say?"
i saw that he was uneasy, and was surprised at his sudden gravity.
"well," he said, after a moment's hesitation, "you'll forgive me for saying so, but i don't think that in this affair you've told me exactly the truth."
"what do you mean?" i inquired quickly.
"i mean that when you parted from her this afternoon you were not altogether good friends."
"you are mistaken," i assured him. "we were as good friends as ever before."
"no high words passed between you?"
"and nothing that you told her caused her any sudden grief? are you quite certain of this?" he asked, looking at me very fixedly through his glasses.
"i made one observation which certainly caused her surprise," i admitted. "nothing else."
"was it only surprise?" he asked very calmly.
"surprise mingled with fear."
"ah!" he ejaculated, as though obtaining some intelligence by this admission of mine. "and may i not know the nature of the information you gave her?"
"no, dick," i responded. "it is a secret--her secret."
he was silent.
"you refuse to tell me?" he said disappointedly.
"i am unable," i replied.
"and if i judge rightly, it is this secret which has parted you?"
"no, it is not," i answered. "that's the most curious part of the whole affair. the very existence of the secret has brought us together again."
"you mean that you have forsaken edith and returned to her?" he observed, raising his brows slightly in surprise.
"no; don't put it in that way," i implored. "i have not yet forsaken edith."
he smiled, just a trifle superciliously, i thought.
"and the countess is also in possession of this mysterious secret--eh?"
"of that i am not at all certain," i replied.
he sniffed in distinct suspicion that what i had told him was not the truth. at the same instant, however, the countess entered and demanded to know the condition of her child.
"she is much better, madame," he answered. "perfect quiet is, however, necessary, and constant observation of the temperature. to-morrow, or the day after, you may, i think, see her."
"not till then!" she cried. "i cannot wait so long."
"but it is necessary. your daughter's life hangs upon a single thread."
she was silenced, for she saw that argument was useless.
a few minutes later jean entered with a message from trepard asking dick and myself to consult with him. we therefore left the countess again, and passed along the corridor to the room in which my love of long ago was lying. as we entered she lifted her hand slowly to me in sign of recognition, and in an instant i was at her side.
"yolande!" i cried, taking her hand, so different now that death had been defeated by life. "yolande! my darling," i burst forth involuntarily, "you have come back to me!"
a sweet, glad smile spread over her beautiful face, leaving an expression of calm and perfect contentment, as in a low, uncertain voice, as though of one speaking afar off, she asked:
"gerald, is it actually you?"
"yes," i said, "of course it is. these two gentlemen are doctors," i added. "this is my old friend deane; and the other is doctor trepard, of whom i daresay you have heard."
she nodded to them both in acknowledgment of their kind expressions; then in a few low words inquired what had happened to her. she seemed in utter ignorance of it all.
"you were found lying on the floor of the little salon soon after i left, and they thought you were dead," i explained. "cannot you tell us how it occurred?"
a puzzled expression settled upon her face, as though she were trying to remember.
"i recollect nothing," she declared.
"but you surely remember how you were attacked?" i urged.
"attacked!" she echoed in surprise. "no one attacked me."
"i did not mean that," i answered, rather puzzled at her quick protest. "i meant that you were probably aware of the symptoms which preceded your unconsciousness."
"i felt a strange dizziness and a curious tightness in the throat and chest. that is all i remember. all became blank until i opened my eyes again and found myself lying here, with these two gentlemen standing at my side. the duration of my unconsciousness did not appear to me longer than a few minutes."
"then mademoiselle has no idea of the cause of her strange illness?" inquired deane in french. "none whatever, m'sieur."
"tell us one fact," he urged. "during the time which elapsed between your parting with m'sieur ingram and your sudden unconsciousness, did anyone enter the room?"
"no one; of that i am absolutely certain."
"how were you occupied during that time?"
"i was writing a letter."
"and before you rose did you feel the curious giddiness?"
"curious!" ejaculated trepard, who stood by with folded arms, eagerly listening to every word--"very curious!"
"did you feel any strange sensation on the left side of your neck beneath the ear, or upon your lower lip?" inquired deane earnestly.
she reflected for a moment, then said:
"followed immediately by unconsciousness?"
"yes, almost immediately."
the doctors exchanged glances, which showed that the mark upon the lip was the chief enigma of the situation.
trepard glanced at his watch, dissolved yet another pillule of hydrated peroxide of iron, and handed her the draught to swallow. the antidote had acted almost like magic.
"you are absolutely certain that no person entered the room after ingram had left?" repeated deane, as though not yet satisfied.
dick deane turned his eyes full upon me, and i divined his thoughts. he was reflecting upon the conversation held between us before we entered that room. he was endeavouring to worm from her some clue to her secret.
"my mother knows that i am recovering?" she went on. "if she does not, please tell her. she has been so distressed of late that this must have been the crowning blow to her."
"i have told madame your mother everything," i said. "do not be uneasy on her account."
"ah," she sighed, "how i regret that we came to paris! i regret it all, gerald, save that you and i have met again;" and she stretched out her hand until it came into contact with my coat-button, with which she toyed like a child.
"and this meeting has really given you satisfaction?" i whispered to her, heedless of the presence of the others.
"not only satisfaction," she answered, so softly that i alone could catch her words, and looking into my face with that expression of passionate affection which can never be simulated; "it has given back to me a desire for happiness, for life, for love."
at the elysee.
having reassured myself of yolande's recovery, i was compelled to rush off, slip into uniform, and attend a dinner at the elysee. the function was a brilliant affair, as are all the official junketings of the french president. at the right of the head of the republic, who was distinguishable by his crimson sash, sat the countess tornelli, with the wife of the united states ambassador on his left. the president's wife--who wore a superb gown of corn-coloured miroir velvet, richly embroidered and inlaid with venetian lace, a veritable triumph of the rue de la paix--had on her right the papal nuncio, monsignor lerenzelli, the doyen of the diplomatic corps, while on her left was my chief, lord barmouth.
the seat next me was allotted to his daughter sibyl, who looked charming in rose chiffon. during dinner she chatted merrily, describing a charity bazaar which she had attended that afternoon accompanied by her mother. on the other side of her sat count berchtold, the secretary of the austrian embassy, who was, i shrewdly suspected, one of her most devoted admirers. she was charming--a typical, smart english girl; and i think that i was proved to be an exception among men by reason of the fact that i did not flirt with her. indeed, we were excellent friends, and my long acquaintance with her gave me a prescriptive right to a kind of brotherly solicitude for her welfare. times without number i had chaffed her about her little affairs of the heart, and as many times she had turned my criticisms against myself by her witty repartee. she could be exceedingly sarcastic when occasion required; but there had always been a perfect understanding between us, and no remark was ever distorted into an insult.
dinner was followed by a brilliant reception. the great salon des fetes, which only a year before was hung with funeral wreaths, owing to the death of the previous president, resounded with that peculiar hum made up of all the intonations of conversation and discreet laughter rolled together against the sustained buzzing of the orchestra a short distance away. the scene was one of glittering magnificence. everyone knew everyone else. through the crowd of uniforms--which always give an official reception at the elysee the appearance of a bal travesti--i passed monsieur casimir perrier, former president of the republic; monsieur paul deschanel, the lion of the hour; monsieur benjamin-constant, always a prominent figure; prince roland bonaparte, smiling and bowing; the duchess d'auerstadt, with her magnificent jewels; and damat, the dapper grand chancellor of the legion of honour. all diplomatic paris was there, chattering, laughing, whispering, and plotting. around me sounded a veritable babel of tongues, but no part of the function interested me.
from time to time i saluted a man i knew, or bent over a woman's hand; but my thoughts were of the one woman who had so suddenly and so forcibly returned into my life. the representatives of the powers of europe were all present, and as they passed me by, each in his bright uniform, his orders flashing on his breast and a woman on his arm, i asked myself which of them was actually the employer of my well-beloved.
the startling events of the day had upset me. had it been possible i would have left and returned to my rooms for a quiet smoke and for calm reflection. but my duty required my presence there; hence i remained, strolling slowly around the great crowded salon with its myriad lights and profuse floral decorations, until i suddenly encountered the wizen-faced, toothless old baronne de chalencon, whose salon was one of the most popular in paris, and with whom i was on excellent terms.
"ah! my dear m'sieur ingram!" she cried, holding forth her thin, bony hand laden with jewels. "you look tired. why? no one here to-night who interests you--eh?"
"no one save yourself, baronne," i responded, bending over her hand.
"flatterer!" she laughed. "if i were forty years younger i might accept that as a compliment. but at my age--well, it is really cruel of you."
"intelligence is more interesting to a diplomat than a pretty face," i responded quickly. "and there is certainly no more intelligent woman in all paris than the baronne de chalencon."
she bowed stiffly, and her wrinkled face, which bore visible traces of poudre orchidee and touches of the hare's-foot, puckered up into a simpering smile.
"well, and what else?" she asked. "these speeches you have apparently prepared for some pretty woman you expected to meet here to-night, but, since she has not kept the appointment, you are practising them upon me."
"no," i said, "i really protest against that, baronne. a woman is never too old for a man to pay her compliments."
we had strolled into a cool ante-room, and were sitting together upon one of the many seats placed beneath clumps of palms and flowers, the only light being from a hundred tiny electric lamps hung overhead in the trees. the perfect arrangement of those ante-rooms of the salle des fetes on the nights of the official receptions is always noteworthy, and after the heat, music, and babel of tongues in the grand salon it was cool, quiet, and refreshing there.
by holding her regular salon, where everybody who was anybody made it a point to be seen, the baronne had acquired in paris a unique position. her fine house in the avenue des champs elysees was the centre of a smart and fashionable set, and she herself made a point of being versed in all the latest gossip and scandal of the french capital. she scandalised nobody, nor did she seek to throw mud at her enemies. she merely repeated what was whispered to her; hence a chat with her was always interesting to one who, like myself, was paid to keep his ears open and report from time to time the direction of the political wind.
tournier, the french minister of foreign affairs, and his wife were her most intimate friends; hence she was frequently aware of facts which were of considerable importance to us. indeed, once or twice her friendliness for myself had caused her to drop hints which had been of the greatest use to lord barmouth in the conduct of his difficult diplomacy at that time when the boulevard journals were screaming against england and the filthy prints were caricaturing her majesty, with intent to insult. even the figaro--the moderate organ of the french foreign office--had lost its self-control in the storm of abuse following the fashoda incident, and had libelled and maligned "les english." i therefore seized the opportunity for a chat with the wizen-faced old lady, who seemed in a particularly good-humour, and deftly turned the conversation into the political channel.
"now, tell me, baronne," i said, after we had been chatting some little time, and i had learnt more than one important fact regarding the intentions of tournier, "what is your opinion regarding the occupation of ceuta?"
she glanced at me quickly, as though surprised that i should be aware of what she had believed to be an entire secret.
"of ceuta?" she echoed. "and what do you at your embassy know regarding it?"
"we've heard a good deal," i laughed.
"no doubt you've heard a good deal that is untrue," the clever old lady replied, her powdered face again puckering into a smile. "do you want to know my honest opinion?" she added.
"yes, i do."
"well," she went on, "i attach very little importance to the rumours of a projected sale or lease of ceuta to us. i might tell you in confidence," she went on, dropping her voice, "that from some words i overheard at the garden-party at de wolkenstein's i have come to a firm conclusion that, although during the next few years important changes will be made upon the map of the world, ceuta will remain spanish. my country will never menace yours in the mediterranean at that point. a ministry might be found in madrid to consider the question of its disposal, but the spanish people would rise in revolution before they would consent. spain is very poor, but very proud. having lost so many of her foreign possessions, she will hold more strongly than ever to ceuta. there you have the whole situation in a nutshell."
"then the report that it is actually sold to france is untrue?" i asked eagerly.
"a mere report i believe it to be."
"but spain's financial indebtedness to france might prove an element of danger when europe justifies lord beaconsfield's prediction and rushes into war over morocco?"
"ah, my dear m'sieur ingram, i do not agree with the prediction of your great statesman," the old lady said vehemently. "it is not in that direction in which lies the danger of war, but at the other end of the mediterranean."
somehow i suspected her of a deliberate intention to mislead me in this matter. she was a shrewd woman, who only disclosed her secrets when it was to her own interests or the interests of her friends at the ministry of foreign affairs to do so. in paris there is a vast network of french intrigue, and it behoves the diplomatist always to be wary lest he should fall into the pitfalls so cunningly prepared for him. the dividing line between truth and untruth is always so very difficult to define in modern diplomacy. it is when the european situation seems most secure that the match is sufficiently near to fire the mine. fortunate it is that the public, quick to accept anything that appears in the daily journals, can be placed in a sense of false security by articles inspired by one or other of the embassies interested. if it were not so, european panics would certainly be of frequent occurrence.
my chief sauntered by, chatting with his close personal friend, prince olsoufieff, the russian ambassador, who looked a truly striking figure in his white uniform, with the cross of st. andrew glittering at his throat. the latter, as he passed, exclaimed confidentially in russian to my chief, who understood that language, having been first secretary of embassy in petersburg earlier in his career:
"da, ya po-ni-mai-u. ya sam napishu." ("yes, i understand. i will write for you myself.")
keen antagonists in diplomacy though they very often were, yet in private life a firm friendship existed between the pair--a friendship dating from the days when the one had been british attache in petersburg and the other had occupied a position in the russian ministry of foreign affairs--that large grey building facing the winter palace.
"the lion and the bear strolling together," laughed the toothless old baronne, after they had passed. "olsoufieff is a charming man, but he never accepts my invitations. i cannot tell why. i don't fancy he considers me his friend."
"sibyl was at your reception the other evening," i remarked suddenly. "she told me she met a man who was a stranger in paris. his name, i think she said, was wolf--rodolphe wolf. who is he?"
"he was introduced by de wolkenstein, the austrian ambassador," she replied quickly. "i did not know him."
"have you never met him before?" i asked, looking sharply into her eyes.
"once, i think, but i am not certain," she said, with a palpable effort to evade my question.
"come, madame," i said good-humouredly, "you know rodolphe wolf quite as well as i do. when you last met, his name was not wolf. is not that so?"
"well," she answered, "now that you put it in that manner i may as well admit that your suggestion is correct."
"and what is the object of his sudden visit to paris?"
"i cannot make out," she replied in a more confidential tone. "as i tell you, de wolkenstein introduced him, but, as m'sieur knows, i am very quick to detect a face that i have once seen, and i recognised him in an instant."
"sibyl told me that he had a long chat with her, and she described him as a most charming fellow."
"ah, no doubt! i suspected him and watched. it was evident that he came to my salon in order to meet her."
"to meet sibyl! why?"
"that i cannot tell."
"but i think, baronne, we may be both agreed upon one point."
"and that is?"
"that the man who now calls himself rodolphe wolf is here in paris with some secret motive."
"i am entirely in accord, m'sieur--quite. some steps must at once be taken to ascertain that man's motives."
"it seems curious that he should have been introduced for the purpose of meeting sibyl. what information did he want from her?"
"how can we tell? you know better than myself whether she ever knows any secrets of the embassy."
"she knows nothing,--of that i am absolutely convinced," i responded. "her father is devoted to her; but, nevertheless, he is one of those strict diplomatists who do not believe in trusting women with secrets."
"yet wolf had a distinct object in making a good impression upon her," she said reflectively.
"no doubt. as soon as she returned she began to talk of him."
and next instant i recollected the strange effect the news of his arrival in paris had had upon yolande, and the curiously tragic event which had subsequently occurred. all was puzzling--all inscrutable.
a silence fell between us. i was revolving in my mind whether i should ask this wizen-faced old leader of society a further question. with sudden resolve i turned to her again and asked:
"o baronne, i had quite forgotten. do you chance to know the countess de foville, of brussels? they have a chateau down in the ardennes, and move in the best set in belgium?"
"de foville? de foville?" she repeated. "what, do you mean the mother of that little witch yolande?"
"yes. but why do you call her a witch?" i demanded, with feigned laughter.
"why?" cried the old woman, the expression of her face growing dark with displeasure. "well, i do not know whether she is a friend of yours, but all i can tell you is that should she be, the best course for you to pursue is to cut her acquaintance."
"what do you mean?" i gasped.
"i mean exactly what i have said."
"but i don't understand," i cried. "be more frank with me," i implored.
"no," she answered in that hard voice, by which i knew that mention of yolande's name had displeased her. "remember that we are friends, and that sometimes we have interests in common. therefore, take this piece of advice from an old woman who knows."
"knows that your friendship with the pretty yolande is dangerous-- extremely dangerous."
next day, when the manservant asked me into the tiny boudoir in the rue de courcelles, i found yolande, in a pretty tea-gown of cream silk adorned with lace and ribbons, seated in an armchair in an attitude of weariness. the sun-shutters were closed, as on the previous day, for the heat in paris that july was insufferable, and in the dim light her wan figure looked very fair and fragile. the qualities which imparted to her a distinct individuality were the beautiful combination of the pastoral with the elegant--of simplicity with elevation--of spirit with sweetness.
she gave vent to a cry of gladness as i entered, rose, and stretching out her hands in welcome, drew a seat for me close to her. i looked at her standing before me in her warm, breathing, human loveliness.
"you are better, yolande? ah! how glad i am!" i commenced. "last night i believed that you were dead."
"and if i had died would it really have mattered so very much to you?" she asked in a low, intense voice. "you have forgotten me for three whole years until now."
"i know--i know!" i cried. "forgive me."
"i have already forgiven," she said, allowing her hand still to remain in mine. "but i have been thinking to-day--thinking ever so much."
her voice was weak and faltering, and i saw that she was not herself.
"thinking of what?"
"of you. i have been wondering whether, if i had died, you would have sometimes remembered me?"
"remembered you?" i said earnestly. "why, of course, dearest. why do you speak in such a melancholy tone?"
"because--well, because i am unhappy, gerald!" she cried, bursting into sudden tears. "ah! you do not know how i suffer--you can never know!"
i bent and stroked her hair, that beautiful red-gold hair that i had so often heard admired in the great salons in brussels. it had been bound but lightly by her maid, and was secured by a blue ribbon. she had apologised for receiving me thus, but declared that her head ached, and it was easier so. doctor deane had called twice that morning, and had pronounced her entirely out of danger.
"but why are you suffering?" i asked, caressing her and striving to charm away her tears. "cannot you confide in me?"
she shook her head in despair, and her body was shaken by a convulsive sob.
"surely there is confidence between us?" i urged. "do you not remember that day long ago when we walked one evening in the sunset hand-in-hand, as was our wont, along the river-path towards la roche? do you not remember how you told me that in future you would have no single secret from me?"
"yes," she answered hoarsely, with an effort, "i recollect."
"then you intend to break your promise to me?" i whispered earnestly. "surely you will not do this, yolande? you will not hide from me the cause of all this bitterness of yours?" she was silent. her breast, beneath its lace, rose quickly and fell again. her tear-filled eyes were fixed upon the carpet.
"i would not break my promise," she said at last, clasping my hand convulsively and lifting her eyes to mine; "but, alas! it is now imperative."
"i must suffer alone," she responded gloomily, shaking her head. her countenance was as pale as her gown, and she shivered as though she were cold, although the noonday heat was suffocating.
"because you refuse to tell me anything or allow me to assist you?" i said. "this is not in accordance with the promise made and sealed by your lips on that evening long ago."
"nor have your actions been in accordance with your own promise," she said slowly and distinctly.
"to what do you refer?"
"you told me that you loved me, gerald," she said in a deep voice, suddenly grown calm. "you swore by all you held most sacred that i was all the world to you, and that no one should come between us. yet past events have shown that you have forgotten those words of yours on the day when we idled in the bois beneath the trees. you, too, remember that day, do you not--the day when our lips met for the first time, and we both believed our path would in future be strewn with flowers? ah!" she sighed, "and what an awakening life has been to me since then!"
"we parted because of your refusal to satisfy me as to the real state of your feelings towards the man who was my enemy," i said rather warmly.
"but was it justifiable?" she asked in a tone of deep reproach and mingled sweetness. her blue eyes looked full upon me--those eyes that had held me in such fascination in the golden days of youth. "has any single fact which you have since discovered verified your suspicions? tell me truthfully;" and she leaned towards me in an attitude of deepest earnestness.
"no," i answered honestly, "i cannot say that my suspicions have ever been verified."
"and because of that you have returned to me when it is too late."
"too late!" i cried. "what do you mean?"
"exactly what i have said. you have come back to me when it is too late."
"you speak in enigmas, yolande. why not be more explicit?"
her pale lips trembled, her eyes were brimming with tears, her chilly hand quivered in mine. she did not speak for some moments, but at last said in a low, tremulous voice half choked by emotion:
"once you loved me, gerald,--of that i feel confident; and i reciprocated your affection, god knows! our love was, perhaps, curious, inasmuch as you were english and i was of a different creed and held different ideas from those which you considered right. it is always the same with a man and woman of different nationality--there must be a give-and-take principle between them. between us, however, there was perfect confidence until, by a strange combination of circumstances--by a stroke of the sword of fate--that incident occurred which led to our estrangement."
she paused, her blanched lips shut tight. "well?" i asked, "i am all attention. why is it too late now for me to make reparation for the past?"
i loved her with all my soul. i was heedless of those words of the old baronne, of anderson's suspicions, and kaye's denunciation. even if she were a spy, i adored her. the fire of that old love had swept upon me, and i could not hold back, even though her touch might be as that of a leper and her lips venomous.
"reparation is impossible," she answered hoarsely. "is not that sufficient?"
"no, it is not sufficient," i answered clearly. "i will not be put off by such an answer."
"it were better," she cried--"better that i had died yesterday than suffer like this. you rescued me from death only to torture me."
her words aroused within me a distinct suspicion that her strange illness had been brought to pass because, using some mysterious means, she had made an attempt against her own life. i believed that she had suffered, and was still suffering, from the effects of some poison, the exact nature of which neither deane nor trepard could as yet determine.
"i do not seek to torture you, dearest," i protested. "far from it. i merely want to know the truth, in order that i may share your unhappiness, as your betrothed ought to do."
"but you are not my betrothed."
"i was once."
"but not now. you taunt me with breaking that promise which i made three years ago, yet you yourself it was who played me false--who left me for your prim, strait-laced english miss!"
in an instant the truth was plain. she was aware that i had transferred my affections to edith! someone had told her--no doubt with a good many embellishments, or perhaps some scandalous story. in the salons through which we of the diplomatic circle are compelled to move, women's tongues are ever at work match-making and mischief-making. on the continent love and politics run always hand-in-hand. that is the reason why the most notorious of the demi-monde in paris, in vienna, and in berlin are the secret agents of their respective governments; and many are the honest men innocently denounced through jealousy and kindred causes. a false declaration of one or other of these unscrupulous spies has before now caused the downfall of a ministry or the disgrace of a noble and patriotic politician.
"i know to whom you refer," i said, with bowed head, after a moment's pause. "it is currently reported that i love her. i have loved her. i do not seek to deny it. when a man sustains such a blow as i sustained before we parted, he often rushes to another woman for consolation. the influence of that second woman often prevents him from going to the bad altogether. it has been so in my case."
"and you love her now?" she cried, the fire of fierce jealousy in her eyes. "you cannot deny it!"
"i do deny it," i cried. "true, until yesterday i held her in esteem, even in affection; but it is not so now. all my love for you, yolande, has returned to me. our parting has rendered you dearer and sweeter to me than ever."
"i cannot believe it," she exclaimed falteringly.
"i swear that it is so. in all my life, although am compelled to treat women with courtesy and sometimes to affect flirtation, because of my profession as a diplomatist, i have loved only one woman--yourself;" and i raised her chilly hand to my lips, kissing it fervently.
mine was no mere caprice at that moment. with an all-consuming passion i loved her, and was prepared on her account to make any sacrifice she demanded. let the reader remember what had already been told me, and reflect that, like many another man, i loved madly, and was heedless of any consequences that might follow. in this particular i was not alone. thousands before me had been allured to their ruin by a woman's eyes, just as thousands of brave women's hearts have been broken and their lives wrecked by men's false oaths of fidelity. i have heard wiseacres say that the woman only suffers in such cases; the man never. whether that rule proves always true will be shown in this strange story of my own love.
she drew her hand away slowly, but forcibly, saying:
"you cannot love two women. already you have shown a preference for a wife of your own people."
"it is all over between us," i protested. "mine was a mere passing fancy, engendered, i think, by the loneliness i suffered when i lost you."
"ah," (she smiled sadly), "that is all very well! a woman, when once played false by the man she loves and trusts, is never the same--never!"
"then am i to understand, yolande, that you refuse to pardon me, or to accept my affection?"
"i have already pardoned you," she faltered; "but to accept the love you once withdrew from me without just reason is, i regret to say, impossible."
"you speak coldly, as though you were refusing a mere invitation to dinner, or something of no greater importance," i protested. "i offer you my whole heart, my love--nay, my life;" and i held her hand again, looking straight into those wonderful eyes, now so calm, so serious, that my gaze wavered before them.
slowly she shook her head, and her trembling breast rose and fell again.
"ours was a foolish infatuation," she answered with an effort. "it is best that we should both of us forget."
"forget!" i cried. "but i can never forget you, yolande. you are my love. you are all the world to me."
her eyes were grave, and i saw that tears stood in them.
"no," she protested quietly; "do not say that. i cannot be any more to you than other women whom you meet daily. besides, i know well that in the diplomatic service marriage is a serious drawback to any save an ambassador."
"when a man is in love as i am with you, dearest, he throws all thoughts of his career to the winds; personal interests are naught where true love is concerned."
"you must not--nay, you shall not--wreck your future on my account," she declared in a low, intense voice. "it is not just either to yourself or to the englishwoman who loves you."
"why do you taunt me with that, yolande?" i asked reproachfully. "i do not love her. i have never truly loved her. i was lonely after you had gone out of my life, and she was amusing,--that was all."
"and now you find me equally amusing--eh?" she remarked, with just a touch of bitter sarcasm.
"why should you be jealous of her?" i asked. "you might just as well be jealous of sibyl, lord barmouth's daughter."
"with the latter you are certainly on terms of most intimate friendship," she answered with a smile. "i really wonder that i did not object to her in the days long ago."
"ah!" i laughed, "you certainly had no cause. it is true that we have been good friends ever since the day when she arrived home from the convent-school at bruges, a prim young miss with her hair tied up with ribbon. thrown constantly together, as we were, i became her male confidant and intimate friend; hence my licence to give her counsel in many matters and sometimes to criticise those actions of which i don't approve."
"then if that is so, you care a little for her--just a little? now admit it."
"i don't admit anything of the kind," i answered frankly. "for five years we have been constantly together; and times without number, at lady barmouth's request, i have acted as her escort here and there, until she looks upon me as a kind of necessary appendage who has a right to chaff her about her flirtations and annoy her by judicious sarcasm. i don't entertain one single spark of love for her. in brief, she has developed into an essentially smart girl, in the true sense of the word, and by reason of our constant companionship knows that to attempt a flirtation with me would result in a most dismal failure. i accused her once, not long ago, of having designs upon my heart, whereupon she replied that to accomplish such a thing would be about as easy as to win the affection of the bronze neptune in the garden-fountain of the embassy."
"you have been seen together a great deal of late?"
"who told you so?"
"a friend who knows you both." then she added: "from my information i hear that last season you danced so much with her and were so constantly at her side that people were talking of a match between you."
"ridiculous!" i exclaimed. "of course gossips are always too ready to jump to ill-formed conclusions. as one of the staff of the embassy, and her most intimate male friend, it was only courtesy to take her beneath my care. when she had no other partner and wanted to dance, then she sometimes asked me. i think she did it to annoy me, for she knew that i was never fond of dancing."
"do you remember the countess of flanders' balls at brussels--how we danced together?" she remarked.
"remember them!" i echoed. "they were in the golden days when everything seemed to our eyes couleur de rose--the days when our love was perfect."
she sighed again, but no word escaped her. she was, i knew, reflecting upon those blissful days and nights when we met here and there at all hours and at all the best houses in brussels, dining, lunching, dancing, and gossiping--together always.
"will you not resolve to forget the past, yolande?" i asked fervently, taking her hand in mine again. "come, tell me that you will--that you will not hold me aloof like this? i cannot bear it--indeed i can't, for i love you;" and i bent until my lips touched her finger-tips.
"you cannot? why?" i demanded, taken somewhat aback by her sudden attitude of determination.
"i will not allow you to ruin yourself, gerald, on my account," she declared in a very low but calm voice.
"but why should my love for you prove my ruin?" i cried madly. "the truth is that you do not love me. why not admit it at once?"
"you are in error," she hastened to protest. "i do love you. i love you to-day with the same fond affection as i entertained for you until that day--fatal to me--when you turned your back upon me and left me. but, alas! we can never now be the same to one another as we were then." she paused for a moment to regain breath; then, pale-faced, with eyes filled with tears, she gripped my arm frantically, crying: "gerald, my love, hear me! these are my last words, but i pronounce them--i make confession--so that you may understand the barrier that now lies between us."
"well," i said, "speak--tell me!"
"ah!" she cried hoarsely, covering her face with her hands, "you wring this confession from me. i am the most unhappy girl in all the world. would that i were dead that it was all ended! if i did not love you, gerald, i should deceive you, and leave you to discover the truth after our marriage. but i cannot--i cannot! even though we shall part to-day for ever, i have resolved to be frank with you because i still have one single spark of honesty left within my heart!"
"i don't understand," i exclaimed. "tell me."
"then listen," she said in a hard, unnatural voice, after a few moments of hesitation. "when we were lovers in the old days i was, as you know, a pure, honest, upright woman, with thoughts only for my god and for yourself. but i am that no longer. i am unworthy your love, gerald. i am unfit to be your wife, and can never be--never!" and she threw herself upon the couch near by and burst into a flood of tears, while i stood there rigid as a statue.
deane speaks his mind.
an hour later i was seated in my room at the embassy staring blankly at the blotting-pad before me, utterly perplexed and bewildered. i loved yolande--nay, she was my idol; nevertheless she had firmly refused to allow me to resume my place at her side. at one moment it seemed to me as though she had actually made a sacrifice for my sake; yet at another i could not help regarding both her and her mother with distinct suspicion. my love's strange words were in themselves a sufficient self-condemnation. her service as a political agent had been secured by one or other of the powers--france, i suspected; and, to put it plainly, she was a spy!
this knowledge had come upon me like a thunderbolt. of all the women i had known and least suspected of endeavouring to learn the secrets of our diplomacy, yolande was certainly the chief. the events which had culminated in her accepting this odious office were veiled in mystery. why had she done this? who had tempted her or forced her to it?
those tears of hers, when she had made confession, were the tears of a woman in the depths of despair and degradation, and i, loving her so fondly, could not but allow my heart to go forth in sympathy. there was an affinity between us that i knew might some day prove fatal.
but we had parted. she had announced her intention of leaving paris, accompanied by her mother, on the morrow, and had begged and implored that i would never seek her again.
"i shall take care to evade you," she had said. "to-day we meet for the last time. we must each go our own way and strive our hardest to forget."
ah! to forget would, i knew, be impossible. when a man has loved as ardently and intensely as i loved yolande, memories cling to him and are carried to the grave. you, reader, have loved in those half-forgotten days of long ago, and even now, with age creeping on, and, perchance, with grey hairs showing, sometimes give a passing thought to that fair one who in youth's golden days was your all in all. the sound of a song, the momentary perfume from a woman's chiffons as she passes, the sight of some long-forgotten scene, stirs the memory and recalls those hours of love and laziness when the world was so very pleasant and seemed to have been made for you alone. you recollect her sweet smile, her calm, womanly influence, her full red lips, and the fervency of her kisses. the tender memory to-day is sweet, even though it be tinged with bitterness, for you wonder whom she has married, and how she has fared; you wonder, too, if you will ever meet again, or whether she is already dead. the most charming reflection permitted to man is the memory of a half-forgotten love.
i had been a fool. this bitter truth was forced upon me as i sat there ruminating. i had cast aside that patience and discretion which i, as a diplomatist, had carefully cultivated, and had actually contemplated marriage with a woman who had been denounced by kaye as a secret agent. my own peril had been a grave one indeed, and as i reflected i began to wonder how it was that i should have so completely lost my self-control. having arrived in the vicinity of the post, he prowled out on foot with his only friend. it was early, for he must do his deed while yet the lights were lit. any one moving about after "taps" would surely be investigated by the guard. the country was not yet tranquil enough to permit of laxity in the matter of sentry duty, and the soldiers counted "ten" very fast after they challenged. he had laid aside his big hat, and was wrapped in his blanket. many indians were about, and he was less apt to be spoken to or noticed. he moved forward to the scout fire, which was outside of the guard-line, and stood for a time in some brushwood, beyond the play of the flames. he was closely enveloped in his blanket, and although indians passed quite near him, he was not noticed. suddenly he heard a detail of wagons clanking up the road, and conjectured rightly that they would go into the post. he ran silently toward them, and stooping low, saw against the skyline that the cavalry guard had worked up in front, impatient to shave the time when they should reach their quarters.
it was a wood train, and it clanked and ground and jingled to the quartermaster's corral, bearing one log on the last wagon which was john ermine and his fortunes. this log slid to the ground and walked swiftly away.
the time for "taps" was drawing near, and the post buzzed in the usual expectation of that approaching time of quiet. a rifle-shot rang loud and clear up on the officers' row; it was near major searles's house, every one said as they ran. women screamed, and tongue river cantonment laid its legs to the ground as it gathered to the place. officers came with revolvers, and the guard with lanterns. mrs. searles and her daughter were clasped in each other's arms, while mary, the cook, put her apron over her head. searles ran out with his gun; the shot had been right under the window of his sitting-room. an indian voice greeted him, "don' shoot; me killi him."
"who in h---- are you?" swore searles, at a present.
"don' shoot, me ahhæta--all same sharp-nose--don' shoot--me killi him."
"killi who? who have you killed? talk up quick!"
"me killi him. you come--you see."
the lantern quickly disclosed the man on the ground to be john ermine, late scout and fugitive from justice, shot through the heart and dead, with his blanket and rifle on the ground beside him. as he looked through the window, he had been stalked and killed by the fool whom he would not allow to shake hands with katherine searles, and a few moments later, when sharp-nose was brought into her presence, between two soldiers, she recognized him when he said, "mabeso, now you shake hands."
"yes, i will shake hands with you, sharp-nose," and half to herself, as she eyed her malevolent friend, she muttered, "and he kept you to remember me by."
the following pages are advertisements of
the macmillan standard library
the macmillan fiction library
the macmillan juvenile library
the macmillan standard library
this series has taken its place as one of the most important popular-priced editions. the "library" includes only those books which have been put to the test of public opinion and have not been found wanting,--books, in other words, which have come to be regarded as standards in the fields of knowledge--literature, religion, biography, history, politics, art, economics, sports, sociology, and belles lettres. together they make the most complete and authoritative works on the several subjects.
by jane addams
"shows such sanity, such breadth and tolerance of mind, and such penetration into the inner meanings of outward phenomena as to make it a book which no one can afford to miss."--new york times.
by l. h. bailey
"... clearly thought out, admirably written, and always stimulating in its generalization and in the perspectives it opens."--philadelphia press.
by l. h. bailey and c. e. hunn
"presents only those facts that have been proved by experience, and which are most capable of application on the farm."--los angeles express.
by r. j. campbell
"a fine contribution to the better thought of our times written in the spirit of the master."--st. paul dispatch.
by t. m. clark
"if the average man knew one-ninth of what mr. clark tells him in this book, he would be able to save money every year on repairs, etc."--chicago tribune.
by mary conyngton
"an exceedingly comprehensive work with chapters on the homeless man and woman, care of needy families, and the discussions of the problems of child labor."
by archibald cary coolidge
"a work of real distinction ... which moves the reader to thought."--the nation.
by herbert croly
"the most profound and illuminating study of our national conditions which has appeared in many years."--theodore roosevelt.
by edward t. devine
"one rarely comes across a book so rich in every page, yet so sound, so logical, and thorough."--chicago tribune.
by alice morse earle
"a book which throws new light on our early history."
by richard t. ely
"the benefit of competition and the improvement of the race, municipal ownership, and concentration of wealth are treated in a sane, helpful, and interesting manner."--philadelphia telegraph.
by richard t. ely
"the evils of monopoly are plainly stated, and remedies are proposed. this book should be a help to every man in active business life."--baltimore sun.
by allen french
"particularly valuable to a beginner in vegetable gardening, giving not only a convenient and reliable planting-table, but giving particular attention to the culture of the vegetables."--suburban life.
w. h. goodyear
"a thorough and scholarly interpretation of artistic development."
by norman hapgood
"a life of lincoln that has never been surpassed in vividness, compactness, and homelike reality."--chicago tribune.
by arnold haultain
"it is more than a golf book. there is interwoven with it a play of mild philosophy and of pointed wit."--boston globe.
by lafcadio hearn
"a thousand books have been written about japan, but this one is one of the rarely precious volumes which opens the door to an intimate acquaintance with the wonderful people who command the attention of the world to-day."--boston herald.
"its whole tone and spirit is of a sane, healthy optimism."--philadelphia telegraph.
by morris hillquit
"an interesting historical sketch of the movement."--newark evening news.
by george hodges
"religion to-day is preëminently ethical and social, and such is the religion so ably and attractively set forth in these pages."--boston herald.
by silvester c. horne
the centenary edition of this popular work. a clear, simple, narrative biography of the great missionary, explorer, and scientist.
by robert hunter
"mr. hunter's book is at once sympathetic and scientific. he brings to the task a store of practical experience in settlement work gathered in many parts of the country."--boston transcript.
by robert hunter
"a vivid, running characterization of the foremost personalities in the socialist movement throughout the world."--review of reviews.
by charles e. jefferson
"a book that should be read by every minister."
by henry churchill king
"i know no other study of the ethical teaching of jesus so scholarly, so careful, clear and compact as this."--g. h. palmer, harvard university.
by henry churchill king
"an able conspectus of modern psychological investigation, viewed from the christian standpoint."--philadelphia public ledger.
by jack london
"mr. london's book is thoroughly interesting, and his point of view is very different from that of the closest theorist."--springfield republican.
by jack london
"vigorous, socialistic essays, animating and insistent."
by everett d. lyon
"a book which gives an insight into the life history of the bee family, as well as telling the novice how to start an apiary and care for it."--country life in america.
by john mclennan
"the author has placed before the reader in the simplest terms a means of assistance in the ordinary problems of farming."--national nurseryman.
by hamilton w. mabie
"it is rather an interpretation than a record."--chicago standard.
"to the intelligent traveler and lover of greece this volume will prove a most sympathetic guide and companion."
by shailer mathews
"the book throughout is characterized by good sense and restraint.... a notable book and one that every christian may read with profit."--the living church.
by shailer mathews
"a succinct statement of the essentials of the new testament."--service.
by simon n. patten
"a work of substantial value."--continent.
by francis greenwood peabody
"this book is at once the most delightful, persuasive, and sagacious contribution to the subject."--louisville courier-journal.
by franklin pierce
"an excellent campaign document for a non-protectionist."--independent.
by walter rauschenbusch
"it is a book to like, to learn from, and to be charmed with."--new york times.
by jacob riis
"its romance and vivid incident make it as varied and delightful as any romance."--publisher's weekly.
by jacob riis
"a refreshing and stimulating picture."--new york tribune.
"the most judicious and balanced discussion at the disposal of the general reader."--world to-day.
"each chapter is the detailed account of all the work necessary for one month--in the vegetable garden, among the small fruits, with the fowls, guineas, rabbits, and in every branch of husbandry to be met with on the small farm."--louisville courier-journal.
by l. a. sherman
"emphatically a work without which the library of the shakespeare student will be incomplete."--daily telegram.
by a. sidgwick
"a vivid picture of social life and customs in germany to-day."
by j. allen smith
"not since bryce's 'american commonwealth' has a book been produced which deals so searchingly with american political institutions and their history."--new york evening telegram.
by john spargo
"one of the ablest expositions of socialism that has ever been written."--new york evening call.
by t. b. tarbell
"a sympathetic and understanding conception of the golden age of art."
by c. s. valentine
"beginners and seasoned poultrymen will find in it much of value."--chicago tribune.
by henry van dyke
"one of the basic books of true christian thought of to-day and of all times."--boston courier.
by henry van dyke
"undoubtedly the most notable interpretation in years of the real america. it compares favorably with bryce's 'american commonwealth.'"--philadelphia press.
by thorstein b. veblen
"the most valuable recent contribution to the elucidation of this subject."--london times.
by h. g. wells
"as a presentation of socialistic thought as it is working to-day, this is the most judicious and balanced discussion at the disposal of the general reader."--world to-day.
by william allen white
"the present status of society in america. an excellent antidote to the pessimism of modern writers on our social system."--baltimore sun.
the macmillan fiction library
a new and important series of some of the best popular novels which have been published in recent years.
these successful books are now made available at a popular price in response to the insistent demand for cheaper editions.
by james lane allen
"a narrative, told with naïve simplicity, of how a man who was devoted to his fruits and flowers and birds came to fall in love with a fair neighbor."--new york tribune.
by james lane allen
"mr. allen has style as original and almost as perfectly finished as hawthorne's.... and rich in the qualities that are lacking in so many novels of the period."--san francisco chronicle.
by gertrude atherton
"one of the most interesting works of the foremost american novelist."
by richard washburn child
"a big, simple, leisurely moving chronicle of life. commands the profoundest respect and admiration. jim is a real man, sound and fine."--daily news.
by marion crawford
"a story of underground mysterie."
by marion crawford
"a story of modern life in italy, visualizing the country and its people, and warm with the red blood of romance and melodrama."--boston transcript.
by william stearns davis
"there are many incidents so vivid, so brilliant, that they fix themselves in the memory."--nancy huston banks in the bookman.
by hamilton drummond
"read the story for the sake of the living, breathing people, the adventures, but most for the sake of the boy who served love and the king."--chicago record-herald.
"it is full of nature in many phases--of breeze and sunshine, of the glory of the land, and the sheer joy of living."--new york times.
by zona gale
"... full of fresh feeling and grace of style, a draught from the fountain of youth."--outlook.
by robert herrick
"a story of present-day life, intensely real in its picture of a young architect whose ideals in the beginning were, at their highest, æsthetic rather than spiritual. it is an unusual novel of great interest."
by jack london
"no reader of jack london's stories need be told that this abounds with romantic and dramatic incident."--los angeles tribune.
by jack london
"jack london has outdone himself in 'burning daylight.'"--the springfield union.
by pierre loti
"it gives a more graphic picture of the life of the rich turkish women of to-day than anything that has ever been written."--brooklyn daily eagle.
"he displays himself as an intellectual and amusing observer of life's foibles with a hero characterized by inimitable kindness and humor."--the independent.
by a. e. w. mason
"'the four feathers' is a first-rate story, with more legitimate thrills than any novel we have read in a long time."--new york press.
by kathleen norris
"worth its weight in gold."--catholic columbian.
by john oxenham
"'the long road' is a tragic, heart-gripping story of russian political and social conditions."--the craftsman.
by mrs. roger a. pryor
"the story is one in which the spirit of the old south figures largely; adventure and romance have their play and carry the plot to a satisfying end."
by frederic remington
"a very original and remarkable novel wonderful in its vigor and freshness."
by charles g. d. roberts
"the author catches the spirit of forest and sea life, and the reader comes to have a personal love and knowledge of our animal friends."--boston globe.
by elizabeth robins
"'the convert' devotes itself to the exploitation of the recent suffragist movement in england. it is a book not easily forgotten, by any thoughtful reader."--chicago evening post.
by elizabeth robins
a powerful and striking novel, english in scene, which takes an essentially modern view of society and of certain dramatic situations.
by mrs. humphrey ward
"a perfect picture of life, remarkable for its humor and extraordinary success at character analysis."
by h. g. wells
"mr. wells is beyond question the most plausible romancer of the time."--the new york tribune.
the macmillan juvenile library
this collection of juvenile books contains works of standard quality, on a variety of subjects--history, biography, fiction, science, and poetry--carefully chosen to meet the needs and interests of both boys and girls.
by joseph a. altsheler
"a story of the west, of indians, of scouts, trappers, fur traders, and, in short, of everything that is dear to the imagination of a healthy american boy."--new york sun.
by josephine daskam bacon
"only a genuine lover of children, and a keenly sympathetic observer of human nature, could have given us a book as this."--boston herald.
by lewis carroll
"one of the immortal books for children."
by marie beulah dix
"the human interest is strong, and children are sure to like it."--washington times.
by homer greene
"the story presents a picture of truth and honor that cannot fail to have a vivid impression upon the reader."--toledo blade.
"the record of an english family's coaching tour in a great old-fashioned wagon. a charming narrative, as quaint and original as its name."--booknews monthly.
by h. w. mabie
"a beautiful collection of christmas verse and prose in which all the old favorites will be found in an artistic setting."--the st. louis mirror.
by charles major
"an exciting story with all the thrills the title implies."
by charles major
"a stirring story full of bears, indians, and hidden treasures."--cleveland leader.
by e. nesbit
"a delightful story revealing the author's intimate knowledge of juvenile ways."--the nation.
by christina g. whyte
"a book that all girls will read with delight--a sweet, wholesome story of girl life."
by mabel osgood wright
"the whole book is delicious with its wise and kindly humor, its just perspective of the true value of things."
by mabel osgood wright
"barbara has written no more delightful book than this."
apparent printer's errors have been retained, unless stated below.
page numbers cited in illustration captions refer to their original placement in the text. illustrations have been moved near their mention in the text.
"" surrounding text represents italics.
punctuation, capitalization, accents and formatting markup have been made consistent.
page 34, "ba-chua-hish-a" changed to "ba-cher-hish-a" for consistency. (ba-cher-hish-a sobbed and wailed all night in her lodge, while the foster-father walked outside, speculating endlessly with his friends.)
page 94, "trial" changed to "trail". (now we must blind our trail; their scouts will find it in the morning.)
page 5 of the advertisements, "these" changed to "there". (there is interwoven with it a play of mild philosophy and of pointed wit.)
page 12 of the advertisements, "john" changed to "frederic". (by frederic remington)
page 14 of the advertisements has been left as originally published. the accompanying comment for "aunt jimmy's will" by mabel osgood wright has been left to read: "barbara has written no more delightful book than this."
and other essays
author of “when it was dark,” “first it was ordained,” “made in his image,” etc., etc.
richard clay & sons, limited, bread street hill, e.c., and bungay, suffolk.
my dear white,
the publication of this book is a business arrangement between you and me. its dedication however has nothing to do with the relations of author and publisher in those capacities, but is merely an expression of friendship and esteem. this then is to remind you of pleasant hours we have spent together on the other side of the channel, in your house at london, and my house in kent.
yours ever sincerely,
“multitudes, multitudes in the valley of decision.”
when i was a boy i made an occasional invasion of my father’s study, and in the absence of more congenial matter tried to extract some amusement from the shelves devoted to christian apologetics. at any rate the pictures of the portly divines, which sometimes prefaced their polemics, interested me, and i was sometimes allured to read a few pages of their scripture. i remember that i enjoyed the sub-acid flavour of bishop butler’s advertisement, prefixed to the first edition of his analogy, at an early age, and i have thought lately that in certain circles one hundred and seventy years have not greatly modified the mental attitude.
hear what the rector of stanhope who, as horace walpole said, was shortly to be “wafted to the see of durham in a cloud of metaphysics,” says about his literary contemporaries--
“it is come, i know not how, to be taken for granted, by many persons that christianity is not so much as a subject for inquiry, but that it is now at length discovered to be fictitious, and accordingly they treat it as if, in the present age, this were an agreed point among all people of discernment, and nothing remained but to set it up as a principal subject of mirth and ridicule, as it were, by way of reprisals for its having so long interrupted the pleasures of the world.”
perhaps the difference between the times of george the second and edward the seventh may be best discerned in the status and calibre of the popular penmen who in either age have found, or furnished amusement in a tilt against the catholic faith.
the man in the street, as we know him, did not exist in the eighteenth century. he is the predominant person to-day, and he requires the services of able authors to assure him of immunity, when he is inclined to frolic away from chastity or integrity, much as did the county members who pocketed the bribes of sir robert walpole and prated of patriotism.
fortunately for society the man in the street is a very decent fellow, and generally finds out before long that wisdom’s ways are ways of pleasantness. a man may enjoy posing as an agnostic when he wants an excuse for--as the negro said--“doing what he dam please,” but when he takes to himself a wife, and children are born to him, a certain anxiety as to the continuity and perpetuation of these relationships begins to show itself. a man who has lost a little child, or waited in agonizing suspense to hear the physician’s verdict, when sickness overshadows his home, discovers that he needs something beyond negations, something that will bring life and immortality to light again within his soul.
moreover, the man in the street finds it necessary to come to some decision on other problems of existence. he is a citizen and must needs exercise his enfranchisement and give his vote at an election now and again. he must help to decide whether the state shall ignore religion and establish a system of ethical education, of which the ultimate sanction is social convenience, or maintain the thesis that creed and character are mutually inter-dependent.
as he pays his poor rate wrathfully, or with resignation, its annual increase reminds him of the necessity of curing or eliminating the unfit. when he reads of belgian and prussian colonial enterprise, or ponders on the perplexing problem of the black belt which the southern states must solve, he is compelled to consider whether it is true that “god has made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell on all the face of the earth,” or whether this shall be accounted as another of the delusions of saul of tarsus whom governor festus found to be mad.
indeed, our friend, the man in the street, when he becomes a family man, without any pretensions to be a man of family, very often finds himself face to face with other problems. shall he simply sing with the psalmist “like as the arrows in the hand of the giant, even so are the young children. happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them,” or shall he be guided by the gloss of a modern interpreter who maintains that the oriental quiver was designed to hold but two or three arrows at most?
even when the plain man confines his interests to his business and seeks relaxations in “sport” alone, endeavouring to evade the puzzles of politics and avoid all theologized inquiry, he cannot escape from ethical consideration. professionalism in athletics and questions of betting and bribery contend with his conviction that there is something which ennobles man in running and striving for mastery, and it is futile to curse the bookmaker when his clients are so many, his occupation so lucrative.
the average man gets little guidance from pulpit or press. it is dull work reading sermons, even if sermons came in his way. from time to time some eloquent bishop or canon is reported in the monday morning papers, but journalists know that the publication of a summary with, in the case of a few of the preachers, some epigrams or denunciations, is all that can be permitted or expected. these may arouse the attention to the existence of evils, but give no guiding principle for their cure.
the habit of attendance at some place of worship is easily abandoned in the days of bachelor freedom, and rarely regained in maturer years. men for the most part find the preacher unconvincing. the usual audience does not desire discussion of difficulties. when the honest instinct of devotional worship is gratified by common praise and prayer, the people who regularly go to church, elderly, and orthodox in their own way, resent a demand upon their intellectual exertion, and the northern farmer of tennyson hardly misrepresents them, “i thought he said what he ought to ha’ said and i comed away.” the great nonconformist societies may, in some congregations, give a larger latitude to the preacher, but his freedom is rather in the direction of divinity than of ethics. mr. rockefeller is a prominent pillar of protestantism in the states, and mr. jabez balfour, in another congregation at croydon, apparently knew no qualms of conscience before his actual conviction, which was public, of sin.
there is an old proverb which tells us that “a man is either a fool or a philosopher at forty”--and, though proverbs are often only venerable prejudices in disguise, it is true that a man, who has attained his eighth lustrum and is of average ability, generally has come to certain definite conclusions as to the rudimentary laws of health. he knows enough about his body to avoid fatal errors in diet, and has learned the necessity of exercise and fresh air. but when he is called upon, as a member of the body politic, to decide questions of ethics on which the sanitation of society must depend, he feels himself at a loss. to many people it will seem a hard saying that a man must be either a fool or a philosopher at forty, but long ere he has reached that age he will have encountered problems of philosophy which it is impossible to shirk if he is to do his duty as a free man.
st. paul, it is true, when writing to a christian community in asia minor, bids them “beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy.” and the unfortunate habit of bible christians, of tearing a text from a treatise and making it into a precept, has thrown a sort of discredit upon philosophic thinking, while the mass of mankind will always prefer rules to principles of conduct. but in vain do we clamour against intellectual complications which are the inevitable endowment of these days. life is necessarily intricate, subtle and anxious, and democracy has made of each man a ruler and governor in his degree. is it possible to point to a single principle which shall be a motive and a standard of duty, which shall establish a synthetic method after the ruthless analysis of the later victorian days?
how searching that analysis has been! fifty years ago the man in the street might rarely read the bible, but he had a tolerably assured conviction that the bible was infallible, however resolutely he might refuse its interpretation by an infallible church.
“...the essays and reviews debate begins to tell on the public mind, and colenso’s views have weight.”
plain people were taught to look on the old testament as a library of hebrew literature containing not only poetry and history, but romance.
when colenso’s book first appeared, matthew arnold deprecated its publication since it brought criticisms familiar to men of culture before the notice of the public, without considering how the beliefs of “the vulgar” might be upset.
the supercilious apostle of “sweetness and light,” himself contributed largely in later years to the general confusion in men’s minds, and the new testament criticism has been introduced to the general public by mr. arnold’s accomplished niece.
our friend, the man in the street, was all unprepared!
what had he ever been taught of theology, the divine word to man? in his school-days, if his father was an income tax payer he probably had a weekly lesson in “divinity,” when he construed a few verses of the gospels in the greek testament, and showed up to his master, now and then, a map of the journeying of the apostle paul in asia minor and eastern europe. if his father expected him to be confirmed, in due course, some lessons in the catechism were added for his benefit, but prudent pedagogues took care not to endanger the popularity of a school, whether public or private, by any definite teaching which might be accused of being dogmatic. the head-master was probably a person of unsuspected orthodoxy, with a possible deanery or bishopric in view for his days of superannuation. his sermons in chapel used to set a fine standard of conduct before the boys, and were gracefully free from all mention of controversial questions. in due course they were published with the title sermons at yarrow, and enterprising parents turning over their pages would find little to criticize and much to admire. the cross, if presented at all in these publications, was so bespangled with rhetorical jewellery that “jews might kiss and infidels adore.” and the children of israel as public-school boys were never painfully conscious of any great difference between themselves and their baptized companions. but unfortunately only a few of the boys came under the civilizing instruction of the chief. bright young athletes from oxford and cambridge, lured into the ranks of pedagogy by their love of football and cricket, were the assistant-masters. a regular salary with holiday for a fourth of the year, the prospect of early marriage, and a remunerative boarding-house, attracted them to a pleasant position, and they had no wish to rebel against the time-table which made them teachers of “divinity” for at least one hour in the week. all educated people should be tolerably familiar with a book so largely used in quotation as the bible, and the succession of the kings of israel and judah could be used in strengthening the memory, whilst the stories of “jehu and those other johnnies you know” were by no means devoid of picturesque incident. greek testament could also be made useful in the acquisition of a vocabulary, or in a lesson showing the difference between classical and vernacular greek. “of course we must leave the application of these studies to conduct to home influence,” the headmasters would blandly observe, and between parent and pedagogue the teaching of the christian faith fell neglected to the ground.
what chance had the boys so brought up, of forming any conception of the essential truths of religion? a superficial acquaintance with the stories of hebrew history, a perfunctory attendance at chapel, some well-meant exhortations on the subject of temperance and chastity, as the catechism was revived in their memories before they were brought to be confirmed by the bishop, and some ability “to translate and give the context” of a few phrases from the greek texts of the gospels, these were their intellectual religious equipment for a life of fierce temptation from within and without. and when they encountered the storm and stress of modern social life they found that the critics had taken from them the old reverence of nursery days for “god’s book,” their school training had taught them only a rough code of honour, and their chief restraint from any ignoble impulse was a feeling that to do certain deeds was not “good form.”
a little lower down the social ladder the man in the street has fared no better in his boyhood. in the public elementary schools he has had a half-hour’s lesson in scripture and catechism five days of the week, and annually the diocesan, or the school board, inspector came round to ascertain whether the syllabus of religious teaching had been duly followed. but only when devout parish priests had a talent for teaching and a love for boys and girls was any attempt made to give children a religion, and even in this case not very much could be done for those who left school for ever when they were twelve years old.
a generation ago lord sherbrooke, on the extension of the franchise, told his contemporaries that it was time to begin “to educate our masters”--but we have not gone very far in our instruction of christian sociology, though as yet we have not adopted the utilitarian basis of morals accepted by the french republic, and endeavoured to establish principles of duty towards man without any reference whatever to a duty towards god.
can any one be surprised if the plain man be perplexed when he is called upon to decide questions of economy and morality without any guiding principle? as a matter of fact he makes no such effort. “multitudes, multitudes in the valley of decision, for the day of the lord is near in the valley of decisions,” but the sun and the moon are darkened, and the stars withdraw their shining. the puzzled popular vote is but as the swing of the pendulum, first to this side, then to the other. “these fellows have been no good, let us give the others a show.”
yet assuredly there is a principle which is guidance and strength if only men could discern it. there are teachers who can tell men of its beneficent power, but they are as yet few in number, and their voices are not sufficiently strong. when once these can get a hearing, men welcome their evangel and find in it a guide of life.
i am persuaded that just as bishop butler, when he perused the preface of his analogy, had no prescience of the young fellow of lincoln, who was in a few years to give the christian faith a fresh hold in the hearts of the common people, who gladly heard him, so in our time many of our bishops seem unable to perceive the dawn of another “day of the lord.”
indeed, it is our misfortune in england that bishops are almost necessarily bad leaders. we are told when an election to the papacy is imminent that this or that cardinal is in the list of “papabili”--a possible pope--so in like manner we may almost select amongst the undergraduates of oxford and cambridge our future diocesans. these are men clever, shrewd, and hard-working, of estimable private character, and not without some modest patrimony. early entered in the race for preferment, ambitious, and yet, mirabile dictu, devout, they are endowed first of all with the true qualification for episcopacy, a capacity for compromise and a pliant political mind. sic itur ad astra the excellent curate or tutor, the courteous and accomplished chaplain to the bishop, the eloquent canon and ecclesiastical courtier is consecrated and enthroned. henceforward for the rest of his days he must hurry from his study table, crowded with correspondence, to his confirmations, his diocesan society meetings, and his weary, humiliating attendance at the house of lords. what wonder if bishops discourage new ventures of faith, who have no time for thinking, no time for reading, and perhaps, sometimes, too little opportunity for prayer!
and so we find them not unwilling to accommodate the catholic faith to the popular prejudice of the moment, acquiescing in an undogmatic, undenominational, more or less christian creed. popularity becomes the very breath of their nostrils, and they proceed to hide in an appendix to the prayer-book, the hymn quicunque vult.
yet the discerning can see that now is no time for keeping in the background the great truths of religion. already men are being prepared in many ways to receive them.
the christian faith in england is no longer hampered by certain arbitrary axioms of the puritan divines. in the sixteenth century men were almost compelled by the exigencies of the situation to discover some infallible authority which they could set up over against the infallibility of the church of rome, and they endeavoured to treat holy scripture as though the great library of jewish and christian writers contained a complete code of consistent legislation. a text was a convincing argument for the divine right of kings, or for binding them in chains, for the burning of witches or the destruction of a shrine, and although in the two following centuries the protestant ministers taught men to modify this conception, and to realize the difference between the old testament and the new, the popular idea of revelation allowed small scope for theological inquiry. the biographies of our literary men of the victorian period have shown us how they were tempted to separate themselves from all public communion with the church, by their misgiving that the church was committed to an impossible position. carlyle groaned for what he called an “exit from houndsditch,” some deliverance from the rabbinic interpretation and use of the bible. things are very different to-day, as henry sidgwick says in a letter to alfred lord tennyson published by his son in a recent memoir. “the years pass, the struggle with what carlyle used to call ‘hebrew old clothes’ is over, freedom is won.” and in the result a scientific criticism of the old and new testament is found to be compatible with, and often a compulsion to an acceptance of the christian creed, not the creed of calvin, or the westminster confession, but the reasoned statement of nicæa. the student of physical science no longer believes that if he goes to church he must be taken to accept the cosmogony of genesis, and on his side he no longer stumbles at the difficulty of miraculous events. he knows too much about the influence of mind over matter to say that it is impossible that jesus christ and his apostles should have healed the paralytic and made the blind to see and the deaf to hear. he is no longer “cocksure” of his capability of drawing a line of division between the organic and the inorganic. he can conceive of the existence of spirits which can control and modify the ordinary laws of life. he finds it probable that evolution is not exhausted when man has come into being, and can look forward to a spiritual existence without suspecting himself of superstition. sacraments, the union of the spiritual with the material, seem to him to be in accordance with the laws of the universe, and he would never now-a-days stigmatize them as “magic.” however he may explain the methods by which cures were wrought upon the afflicted, the scientific man of to-day would not accuse st. luke of falsehood because he tells us that, “god wrought special miracles by the hands of paul, so that from his body were brought unto the sick handkerchiefs or aprons, and the diseases departed from them and the evil spirits went out of them.” indeed the man of science knows himself to be on the track of discoveries which will show us secrets of personality and spiritual possession which will banish for ever the absurd incredulity of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
who now-a-days would assert that “miracles do not happen,” when men like sir oliver lodge are laboriously discovering some few of these laws of the universe which give us these portents and signs? who dares to sneer at parthenogenesis or repeat the slander of celsus about the mother of god? men only who have grown rusty in reposing on their past reputations and cannot see that materialism as a philosophy is dead. day by day fresh evidence of the power of the spirit over matter bursts upon us. a plea for “philosophic doubt” of professor huxley’s infallibility is no longer necessary. the very distinction between matter and spirit grows more and more difficult as science develops analytical power. the minds of men are being prepared again to receive that supreme revelation which told of the wedding of the earth and heaven, the taking of the manhood into god.
in truth, this is the one principle which can give men guidance in the tangled intricacy of modern life. it is necessary to salvation, now, not hereafter only, to believe rightly the incarnation of our lord jesus christ.
for, first of all, men need to be saved from the apathy of despair. they need some hope that there is an answer to the riddle of the universe. let them once begin to feel that it may be true that the very god cares for his creatures and has made his love for them manifest by taking to himself the body, mind and spirit of man, and joining for ever human nature to the godhead, then through the darkness comes a human voice saying--
“o heart i made, a heart beats here! face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself. thou hast no power nor mayst conceive of mine, but love i gave thee, with myself to love, and thou must love me who have died for thee.”
a man regains his self-respect when once he has escaped from the paralyzing sense that his is only
“a life of nothings nothing worth from that first nothing ere our birth to that last nothing under earth.”
and there is only one starting-point for those who journey on this quest of an answer to the enigma of life. they must resolutely abandon the long travelled “a priori road.” they must understand that the science of to-day is not tied to any materialistic axioms, that metaphysic cannot be ignored by the physician, and that no competent scientist to-day would say of the resurrection of jesus on which ultimately depends his claims to our adoration, “that could not happen.” we know enough now of the laws of the universe to know that we do not know them all.
so some of us perceive that what is needed to-day is to arrest the attention of the man in the street, to get him to perceive that christianity has much more to say for itself than he suspected, and that christian philosophy will place in his hand a clue which will guide him in the labyrinth of life.
“i say the acknowledgment of god in christ accepted by thy reason, solves for thee all questions in the earth and out of it.”
we must set men free from phrases and get them to think. it suits the game of the party politician to pretend that ethics are easily self-evident, and that there is a simple fundamental religion on which all men are agreed; but there is a question which must be insistently urged, and upon the answer to which all things depend, “what think ye of christ?”
probably nothing has done more to alienate the man in the street from religious observance than the hypocritical pretence that all men are agreed about “simple bible teaching.” he knows well enough that what really matters is whether a man believes or not that god became man. if ever the labour party should definitely declare for elementary education without religious teaching it will be because the men whose children attend the elementary schools know that they cannot read the new testament without asking, “is it true?”
“did jesus christ really die and rise again the third day according to the scriptures?” “did jesus christ go up into heaven in the sight of the apostles till a cloud received him?” “did mary’s son come to her as other babies come?” “was joseph jesus christ’s real father?” our members of parliament who have no leisure to know their own children, who keep them in the nursery till it is time for them to go to the preparatory school, who leave their training to the governess and the head-master, may talk about “the cruelty of the religious differences which hinder the establishment of an efficient system of education for the children of the state.” but the men and the mothers who live with their children and talk to them about their lessons, know that a child will insist upon an answer to its questions. a father of a family in the artisan and labouring classes, if he be at all intelligent, loses all respect for ministers of the gospel who pretend that there is no difficulty about the simple gospel story, and losing his self-respect for the men who have appointed themselves his teachers, he is tempted to throw all theology aside. and if he ventures on this despairing expedient he finds himself in mental confusion again over ethics instead of theology, and there arises a prospect of anarchy and disorder. capital is timid, so enterprise is checked. poverty increases and riot follows, and it all ends, not now-a-days in the napoleonic “whiff of grape-shot,” but in the rattle of the maxim in the streets and the desolation of a thousand homes.
the experience of all civilization is that you cannot separate morality from religion. when the romans lost their faith in the old gods and became “undenominational,” civic virtue decayed. when the genius of the empire was set up for a universal deity and men were bidden as good citizens to burn their few grains of incense before the statue of the reigning emperor--the representative of an ordered and moral state--we know what happened. you cannot make an abstraction alive and deify government. laws, which have the sanction only of expediency, do but furnish mankind with exercise in evasion. indefinite belief in the existence of “something not ourselves which makes for righteousness” has no motive force, and though men may rub on in some fashion or other by following ancient custom, and the law of use and wont, this can only be done in quiet times. and ours are not quiet times; indeed, the air is thick with principles which are forcing themselves into expression. the principles of nationality or cosmopolitanism, the comity of nations and the limits of destruction, international trades unionism, and the laws of marriage are recurring items upon the programme of every social science congress. all these dark questions are forced upon the attentions of men, and never was there greater need of some synthetic philosophy which may help us in their exploration. are we going to put christianity aside and rule out theology from our calculations?
i may quote the testimony of the late sir leslie stephen here. every one knows that he held no brief to defend orthodoxy--
“to proclaim unsectarian christianity is, in circuitous language, to proclaim that christianity is dead. the love of christ, as representing the ideal perfection of human nature, may indeed be still a powerful motive, and powerful whatever the view which we take of christ’s character. the advocates of the doctrine in its more intellectual form represent this passion as the true essence of christianity. they assert with obvious sincerity of conviction that it is the leverage by which alone the world can be moved. but, as they would themselves admit, this conception would be preposterous if, with strauss, we regarded christ as a mere human being. our regard for him might differ in degree, but would not differ in kind, from our regard for socrates or for pascal. it would be impossible to consider it as an overmastering and all-powerful influence. the old dilemma would be inevitable; he that loves not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love christ whom he hath not seen? a mind untouched by the agonies and wrongs which invest london hospitals and lanes with horror, could not be moved by the sufferings of a single individual, however holy, who died eighteen centuries ago.
the considerations which seemed to compel the clearheaded author of this extract to his own well-known intellectual position no longer apply. in england, at any rate, the church is not bound down to any mechanical theory of the inspiration of the bible, and accepts all the discoveries of modern physical science without misgiving. such books as the late archbishop of canterbury (dr. temple) gave us in his bampton lectures have long ago shown the futility of attempting to map out the exact terms of a reconciliation between the claims of science and religion, but they have shown that religion and science are not destructive and contradictory of each other.
“the same principles are found in each. the principle of evolution, for instance, is as evident in the gradual development of religion as in the age-long process by which the natural world was created; the order and beauty and regular succession manifest in nature can be traced also in the spiritual universe. the revelation which was formerly held to be violation of law is seen to be a revelation of higher law. the great postulate of science, the uniformity of nature, is not infringed.”
we know now that there are laws of the universe which, if we knew more about them, would tell us how it was that a virgin could conceive and bear a son. it is not to us an inconceivable superstition that “the son of man” should have in his own person powers of which the rudimentary signs can be traced in all humanity, manifesting themselves from time to time. the day is long past when the resurrection of jesus christ can be set aside as a “cunningly devised fable.” no scientific man, who has not deliberately shut himself in an hermetically sealed materialism would say to-day that “miracles” do not happen. it is a question of evidence.
and educated men know that there is a science of metaphysics, that there is a science of psychology, that literary criticism is scientific, that the age of a document can be decided, that cumulative evidence cannot be ignored, and that simply to put aside the claims of christianity without examination is absurd.
but, as sir leslie stephen shows, it is the christianity of the catholic creed that matters, and it is this christianity of which the man in the street has need. it gives him a solution of those social and ethical problems which he must solve, which he can only neglect at the peril of natural degradation. for example, the position of women depends upon our belief or disbelief that christ was born of the virgin mary. to say that monogamy is the natural evolution of humanity, that chastity in the young unmarried man is a product of civilization, that a high conception of a man’s duty to posterity will keep him from harlotry, is simply to show ignorance of history, of human nature, and of the world as it is. a man who talks now-a-days about the respect of marriage being a teutonic contribution to the evolution of civilized society, is behind the times. we know that respect for women, and marriage held in honour, are the creations of the holy catholic church, which insists on the incarnation of the lord jesus christ.
but the man in the street does not know these things. the discoveries in science, whether physical or psychical, do not reach him. technical treatises are too strong meat for his intellectual digestion. the pulpit does not appeal to him. at every baptism in the church of england the priest solemnly instructs the god-parents of the child, “ye shall call upon him to hear sermons,” but for the most part the admonition is in vain. as a matter of fact, he picks up his religious notions from the newspaper press. and the newspaper press is not now controlled by men who have a distinct and definite belief in christianity. it depends upon finance, and financiers have other interests. the assertion of the psalter, “notus in judæa” has been changed now-a-days into an interrogation, and we ask, “in jewry is god known?” let any man who has an intimate acquaintance with the newspaper world run over in his mind the names of the great newspaper proprietors, the editors of our journalistic press, the writers of leading articles, the rising young journalists; and when he has excepted a few irishmen, who may happen to remain faithful to the roman catholic church, to which they owe their education, how many men will he find who honestly believe the nicene creed, and are habitually present on the first day of the week at the breaking of the bread?
the tone of the daily paper is tolerant. there is no rude hostility displayed towards definite christian doctrines, but the toleration is politely contemptuous. “all wise men are of the same religion, and what that religion is wise men do not say.”
it is true that in political matters the press has less power than it used to have. a magnate of finance cannot now seriously affect public opinion, though he may buy newspaper after newspaper, and sweep out the editorial staff to supply their places with men of his own choice. one wealthy wirepuller has other plutocrats to reckon with in questions of party politics, and a newspaper man who is dismissed by the proprietor of the tariff reformer may find another editorial chair placed at his disposal by the owner of the standard of free trade.
the man in the street looks out for a newspaper which may strengthen his own party proclivities. he expects to find political questions discussed, but so far as religion is concerned he accepts without knowing it the current convention of the pressman, and imbibes a semi-sceptical atmosphere without misgiving or suspicion.
and yet, as sir leslie stephen saw, every theory of duty depends upon belief or disbelief in the divinity of christ. we may talk of duty to society, duty to the race, duty to posterity, duty to civilization; but the plain man will recall the question of sir boyle roche: “i do not understand, mr. speaker, all this talk about our duty to posterity! what has posterity ever done for us?”
you cannot control conduct by asserting that a man owes a debt to an abstraction which you vivify by printing it with a capital letter, and there remains always the question of the dying lucretius--
“thy duty? what is duty? fare thee well.”
the problem, then, which we have to solve is--how to arrest the attention of the average man to those christian principles, of which the acceptance or definite refusal will determine the course of civilization during the next twenty years.
the mere assertion of authority will not suffice, and men are not impressed in favour of catholic doctrine simply by dignified ceremony and ritual. we have only to look across the english channel to be assured of this. frenchmen have not been encouraged to study the evidences of christianity. bishops and priests have only advertised sceptical books by forbidding their perusal to the faithful; and as the devout have been instructed to live by faith, but not how to give a reason for the faith which is in them, in the result m. viviani’s atheistic rhetoric has been placarded at the cost of the state in every commune throughout france.
we may consider, then, if there be any method by which the man who does not read theological or scientific or philosophical books, the man who has left off going to church, or gets no help from the average sermon, the man who has no reverence for mere authority, may be induced to consider the christian revelation as offering him a key to those riddles of life which his civic responsibilities are perpetually propounding.
remember that his present condition may be roughly described as consisting of religious haziness and moral laziness. the moral laziness is being subjected to a series of rough shocks. he must make up his mind about some questions of morality. the relation of the sexes, the duties of property, the treatment of the subject savage, the survival of the unfit, the ethics of commerce, the control of the sale of alcohol, the education of children, these things he has to decide and he will ultimately decide. but he is at present perplexed, and his religious haziness is the reason of his perplexity. he perhaps has not reached the conclusion of his contemporary in france, but he is on the way to it. those heavenly lights which m. viviani declares that his government has extinguished still shine faintly for men in england, though the mists obscure them.
can we get men to look upwards for light, and instead of cursing the ancient creed in a confused commination, to take arthur clough’s advice--
“ah! yet consider it again.”
i believe that there is a method, and as i mention it i am prepared for derision from all the “chorus of irresponsible reviewers, the irresponsible indolent reviewers.”
i believe that fiction will find those that can be reached by no other means. fiction sometimes sets a man seeking for fact.
very diffidently and very reverently i may remind my contemporaries that one, who has, at any rate, profoundly influenced the course of history, whatever view we may take of his person, did not disdain this method, “he taught them by parables.”
“let me tell you a story.” is there any age of mankind which does not respond to the invitation and give audience? a story stilled the tumult of the nursery in our earliest days, when heavy storms shook the windows and the tedium of a long, wet afternoon had turned play into fretfulness. a story beguiled us into interest when our history lesson had seemed an arid futility in fourth form days, and our magisterial enemies began to show themselves human after all when they bade us read the last of the barons as we were painfully plodding in the plantagenet period, and found the war of the roses a very thorny waste.
it is strange to turn over the pages of eminent evangelical sermons of the early victorian days and to notice how “novel reading” is denounced. probably the worthy divines who fulminated against fiction were thinking of their own boyhood, and the mischief which came to them from fielding and richardson and smollett surreptitiously perused. sir anthony absolute’s detestation of the circulating library survived in some provincial circles even when sir walter scott had come to his own. the last forty years have altered things considerably, and though some men may pretend to despise novels, now-a-days they must take them into account. wise and learned persons began to prescribe them, not only as a vehicle for the exhibition of wholesome but unattractive information, but as having a remedial value of their own. “the intellectual anodyne of the nineteenth century,” i remember that somebody called them--perhaps it was sir arthur helps. it came about that those who had a secret and timid predilection for the story-book, but blushed a little if at mudie’s counter they ventured to ask for a novel, found that their ordinary reading of biography and memoirs revealed some unsuspected sympathies of the illustrious and wise. who would have thought that darwin devoured novels and dean church did not disdain them, and that mr. gladstone sat up all night to finish john inglesant? the respectable pater-familias has long ceased to proscribe novel reading, and the most austere biographer no longer hides as a revelation of weakness his hero’s literary divertisements. finally, in this year of grace 1906 we are boldly told that archbishop temple could stand an examination in miss yonge’s novels, and on one occasion was heard keenly discussing with lord rosebery the careers of the may family in the daisy chain as though they were living acquaintances. from being recognized as a recreation the novel has developed into a power, and charles dickens was a pioneer in its progress. it is the custom amongst certain “superior persons” to sneer at the novel with a purpose, and to suggest that authors attained remunerative results by taking some subject which was already ripe for discussion and weaving round it a web of fiction.
undoubtedly there is danger to-day of such artifice, but i maintain that the great reforms of the past century owed much to writers whose purpose was perfectly innocent. cardinal newman has told us of the literary influence of sir walter scott, who turned men’s minds in the direction of the middle ages.
“the general need,” he said, “of something deeper and more attractive than what had offered itself elsewhere, may be said to have led to his popularity; and by means of his popularity he reacted on his readers, stimulating their mental thirst, feeding their hopes, setting before them visions, which when once seen are not easily forgotten, and silently indoctrinating them with nobler ideas, which might afterwards be appealed to as first principles.”
if cardinal newman could thus maintain the value of fiction in the great ecclesiastical movement which has regenerated the church of england, i may claim without apology that the reform in poor law administration gained the attention of the public when dickens made “bumbledom” ridiculous, and that the court of chancery was swept cleaner by the breezes which were blowing from bleak house. let any man run over in his mind the undoubted improvements in social matters during the last fifty years, and it will be seen how fiction has assisted in their promotion. did charles reade’s hard cash do nothing to arouse the attention of the public to the condition of the insane? did sir walter besant’s novels turn no light on the sins of the sweater, or charles kingsley’s alton locke show no reason for legalizing the trade union and the reform of the law of conspiracy? mrs. harriet beecher stowe may to-day be forgotten, but the southern states of north america would not dispute the influence of fiction upon the public mind.
the fact is that men, who generally read nothing else but newspapers, will read a good novel, and if the book brings before them principles which they have hitherto neglected, they will very often consider those principles again. it is necessary, however, that the novel shall appeal to them as being a fair record of the present or the past. they may as they read it be unable to pronounce on the thesis which is at the back of the book, but they will be led to consider and discuss it if the story, as a story, holds them. and it is here that the story which has a genuine religious motive often fails. most of the great artists in fiction, when they have taken in hand a subject which is of religious interest, have written in a spirit of detachment. george eliot’s romola is an example, and the result is that men are more interested in tito melema than in savonarola. novels in which religion is necessarily much in evidence have been written either by literary artists who have studiously endeavoured to lay aside their own personal convictions, or if the books have been written with a distinctly religious purpose the hero and heroine have been unconvincing, the people in the story have not been alive.
when cardinal newman had abandoned prematurely his hope of maintaining the catholic character of the church of england, he did not disdain to employ his pen in the production of a novel with a religious purpose; but we are amazed to find that the exquisite grace of style which is one of the charms of the apologia could not render charles riding interesting, or the novel loss and gain, of which he is the hero, readable.
it is perhaps dangerous to give another example from contemporary fiction, but those who justly admire mrs. humphry ward’s subtle discernment of character and great and increasing mastery of form and style, will not be inclined to dispute the opinion that when, in robert elsmere, she undertook the defence of the modern unitarian position, her hero was hardly a “man’s man.”
the reason is not far to seek. the average man knows too much of the darker side of life; and the necessary effort made by the author of religious novels to depict that of which they, fortunately for their own souls, have had no experience, is not successful. charles kingsley’s undergraduate days were perhaps not without knowledge of the shadows, but he is happier in the schools of alexandria, or in the spacious days of great elizabeth, than in a tale of modern life such as two years ago. his broad church catholic teaching does not always find its way to the man in the street, and henry kingsley, whose life was so different from that of his illustrious clerical brother, has more of human interest in his stories.
the novel with a purpose, and especially with a religious purpose, fails only, when it does fail, because the author’s knowledge of the average man in his sins and his temptations to sin, is altogether incommensurate with his familiarity with the great religious and social problems of which his story would suggest a solution.
it is often supposed that the men do not care to find the subject of religion introduced in fiction, that they resent religion in a novel, as children resent the administration of a medicinal powder in a spoonful of jam; but the expert witness of publishers demolishes this opinion. after all, the religious claim is insistent, and life is untruly depicted when men and women are described in a story as uninfluenced by it. there is something unreal in a book which has no sundays in it. critical opinion as expressed in the notices of books in the daily papers, and in more weighty reviews, is very misleading, simply because the reviewers are generally very young men or women who know more or less of literature but very little of life. the wrath of the young man fresh from the university at the success of those books which do not ignore the spiritual needs of men and women amuses the experienced author.
“faugh!” cries mr. jones of balliol; “another batch of sin and sentiment!” “the christian creed and the conjugal copula! religion and patchouli!” yet the critic forgets that those who would reach the minds and hearts of men must deal with the problems of creed and character which men have to solve, each one for himself.
our censors, dilettante, delicate-handed, with their canons of criticism might do worse than reckon up the number of english novels which have lived on into the twentieth century. they will be surprised to find that they are nearly all novels with a purpose and a religious purpose for their “motif.” charles reade when he wrote never too late to mend, not only helped forward the humane and intelligent treatment of criminals, he showed how the divine image was stamped indelibly on human nature, and where it seemed to be obliterated could be restored. but charles reade drew real men and women. his characters are not puppets of the play-house but are alive. and thackeray--clarum et venerabile nomen--making hypocrites his quarry, and raining his quiver full of satiric shafts upon the hateful crew, never scoffed for a moment at reverent things, but with bowed head and hushed footsteps passed by the sanctuary. therefore, these men are still living forces. men will read other novels of the past as women look at old-fashion plates, and amuse themselves with the differences and contrasts of succeeding generations, but the novels which men buy in their hundreds of thousands, the novels which are reprinted again and again, the novels for which the publishers wait as their copyright is expiring, like heirs expecting a rich man’s death, that each may endeavour to be first in the field with an edition which pays no royalty to the author; these novels are those which truly represented life as it seemed in other days, life seeking ever to be reassured that one has come who offers to those who walk in darkness the light of life.
it is exasperating to some minds to discover that the man of the world is not altogether worldly, and that he finds in books which recognize religion as a considerable part of man’s life, something which gives to them reality and truth. immature minds and inexperienced penmen are not impressed by the things which really matter, and in the interval between the university and man’s settlement in life much nonsense is written and spoken.
i speak from personal experience; and when i look back upon the reviews i wrote ten years ago, it is with invariable consternation, and sometimes a real sense of shame.
it is most probable that this hatred of christianity will grow and increase. the world has never before been as it is to-day. the system of party politics has placed power in the hands of the democracy. the “working man” has at last discovered what he can do. he must make his choice between the secular and the religious principle. hitherto the christian pastors of the people have appealed to his emotions, and not without success. the emotions will always be the chief guides in conduct for many; but the leaders of the working men are hard-headed, well read in social science and politics; and, owing to the insufficient training of the clergy in these subjects, the politicians of the proletariat have conceived a sort of contempt for the parson and the minister and the priest. the small body of unitarians, wealthy from their constant intermarriage with the great jewish families, and opposed to an aristocracy which has only in the last forty years been willing to receive them, has been quick to see that the working man must be alienated from the catholic creed, and his vote secured at any cost. on the railway bookstalls we may note the activity of the unitarian propaganda committee. fifty years ago it was not necessary to consider the opinions of the man in the street: the unitarian minister and his congregation were comfortable in the assurance of their own intellectual culture and their kindly interest for the poorer classes. in politics they were liberals, for an established church interfered with their sense of superiority, and the landed proprietors and the hereditary aristocracy socially ignored them. but they had no notion of calling into existence an electorate which should endanger the supremacy of the capitalist, and, like frankenstein, they are afraid of their own creations, now that the working man has become the dispenser of parliamentary power. it is vital to their interests that he should be diverted from further attacks upon capital, and encouraged to believe that it is the priest who is his true foe. “le cléricalisme voilà l’ennemi” is a convenient cry. a vague deism is not dangerous to wealthy manufacturers; but if the clergy are going to take up christian socialism it is time to be up and doing. so every weapon against the creed of christendom is being taken down and examined, and many an old fallacy is refurbished and employed once more. celsus is disinterred from the tomb in which origen had buried him, and his filthy slander of the blessed virgin is printed as though it were a new discovery of historical research. collins is called into court again as though bentley had never exposed his ignorance, and hume’s a priori method is revived as though it had never been discredited; whilst strauss and renan are quoted as authorities, as if westcott and lightfoot had never been known. shunt the working classes on a new line of rails. set them shrieking against sacramentalists, and swearing at sacerdotalists, and we may quietly arrange our commercial combinations and protect our manufacturing interests!
i want to see the seats under the dome of st. paul’s filled not by only the middle-aged middle classes, who for the most part are christian in creed, but by the young artisans and craftsmen, and the strong politicians who fill the free trade hall in manchester, and crowd the great assembly rooms of birmingham and liverpool when an election is drawing near. the timid members of the episcopate who may be reminded that “he that observeth the wind shall not sow; and he that regardeth the clouds shall not reap,” are not our only bishops. occasionally a prime minister offers for election and consecration a man who can reach the minds and consciences of men. is it too great an ambition for a storyteller to try to arouse in people’s minds a suspicion that after all something may be said for the catholic faith, and so to bring them to listen to those who know and can teach it? each man must do his work with such tools as have come in his way. the mission preacher will use his magnetic power, the artist whose skill it is to build or to paint, will make his appeal to the love of order and beauty, the musicians will meet the heart through the ear. may not the writer of fiction use his psychological training and his knowledge of many sides of human life to create a story which shall set men thinking about the old doctrines which he believes to have lost none of their regenerating power?
there is danger lest men with good intentions should go blindly to work to redress and diminish social grievances. individualism with its hateful cry, “each man for himself and the devil take the hindmost,” is now at a discount, but it may be replaced by a despotism of state regulation which will destroy the family and the home. there is, i believe, only one creed which can make the capitalist unselfish and the sons of labour satisfied, which will tell men that wealth means responsibility and that there is dignity in toil, which will teach the rich man to order himself lowly and reverently to those who are his betters and to hurt nobody by word or deed, which will teach the labourer that his chief need is not other men’s wealth, but the “carrière ouverte aux talents” and the determination to do his duty in that state of life, whatever it may be, unto which god shall call him.
it is the holy catholic faith which makes equality of opportunity for all men its earthly ambition, and offers refreshment and hope to those who are not strong enough to strive with the rest. the old men saw visions and we have found that they were prophecies, a young man may dream dreams. my dream is that the men who are doing the work of the world to-day may be taught that christ is their best teacher and the incarnate god their refuge and strength.
there is a tale of an acrobat and juggler who knew well that his tricks were the outcome of years of concentrated effort and constant exercise, and being moved by the grace of god, he desired to offer the best thing he had to give to the lord of life. his best was his skill. he lived by it. shown in the streets and the play places, it won for him his daily bread. his work was to give men amusement in their hours of recreation by an exhibition of his feats of strength and nimbleness. could this, his one talent, be consecrated and devoted to god? so he considered, and humbly sought the sanctuary, and there before the presence he performed his fantastic tricks which had cost him years of endeavour. the story is a parable which men have not been slow to read, and it has become the theme of the musician and artist.
shall i offend my fellow-writers if i repeat it here in this connection?
the fires of moloch
the fires of moloch
“there is a lion in the way; a lion is in the streets.”
every three months with unfailing regularity small paragraphs appear in the daily papers headed “record low birth-rate.” some figures follow, and then occurs the sentence--unhappily a stereotyped one in our day--“this is the lowest rate recorded in any quarter since civil registration began.”
now and again a blue-book upon the subject of the birth-rate is dissected by a journalist and the result appears in his newspaper as a series of startling figures. the story of england’s decadence is set out in the plainest language for every one to read.
at rarer intervals still, some prominent clergyman or sociologist writes or lectures in order to call attention to what is going on, and thus to bring home the spiritual and economic dangers of our racial suicide.
a few people read or listen and are convinced. a good many other people are too utterly ignorant of either the philosophy of christianity or the science of sociology to understand in the least what the point of view of the protesters is. according to their temperament, they smile quietly and dismiss the subject, or bellow their disgust at such a subject being mentioned at all.
“he who far off beholds another dancing, and all the time hears not the music that he dances to, thinks him a madman.”
a party which has the fools at its back is always in the majority, and discussion is stifled, alarm is lulled by the anodyne of indifference and the great number of honest folk who call themselves both patriots and christians have no time to spare from fighting and squabbling for money--in order that the dishonest men may not get it all.
half-a-dozen problems of extreme national importance confront every thinking english man and woman in 1907. the air is thick with their stir and movement, and so great is the noise and reverberation of them that true “royalty” of “inward happiness” seems a thing impossible and past by in these troubled times. be that as it may, it is quite certain that one of the most real and pressing of these problems is that summed up in the stock phrase “record low birth-rate.”
we hear a great deal about the doings of a class of people who are referred to as “the smart set,” and it is actually said that its influence is having a serious effect upon the national character. i do not believe it for a moment. it seems a folly to suppose that a handful of champagne corks floating on a cess-pool has any far-reaching influence upon the english home. i mention that small section of society constituted by the idle and luxurious rich, because, whatever their vices are, they are being used as whipping-boy for enormous numbers of people whose lives are equally guilty with theirs in at least one regard--in the matter of which i am writing now.
i propose in this essay to discuss the question of the decline in the birth-rate from the christian and catholic standpoint. there is only one perfect philosophy, and all other half-true philosophies in the light of which we might consider such a momentous matter as this, lead only to the conclusion that expediency is the highest good. without the incentive of the christian faith and without the light of the incarnation one may sit in a corner and think till “all’s blue in cloud cuckoo land.” christianity can alone be reconciled with economics, theory and practice celebrating always the marriage of the king’s son, the wedding of heaven and earth, the spiritual and the material. plato knew that it was impossible to raise the greek state to the level of his philosophic principles, and aristotle frankly abandons the attempt to connect ethics and politics with the highest conclusions of his creed. we are in the same position to-day if we ignore the supreme truth which is our possession and which was not vouchsafed to the great greek thinkers.
there is one cause and one cause only of the decline in the birth-rate and the beginning of the country’s spiritual and material suicide.
the way of nature is for every species to increase nearly to its possible maximum of numbers. this is a proved law, and nothing but the limitation of families by artificial means, or infanticide, can check its operation.
the truth is exactly as dr. barry put it nearly two years ago, “it
gneiss is the general name under which are comprised coarsely foliated rocks banded with irregular layers of feldspar and other minerals. the gneisses appear to be due in many cases to the crushing and shearing of deep-seated igneous rocks, such as granite and gabbro.
the crystalline schists, representing the finer types of foliation, consist of thin, parallel, crystalline leaves, which are often remarkably crumpled. these folia can be distinguished from the laminae of sedimentary rocks by their lenticular form and lack of continuity, and especially by the fact that they consist of platy, crystalline grains, and not of particles rounded by wear.
mica schist, the most common of schists, and in fact of all metamorphic rocks, is composed of mica and quartz in alternating wavy folia. all gradations between it and phyllite may be traced, and in many cases we may prove it due to the metamorphism of slates and shales. it is widespread in new england and along the eastern side of the appalachians. talc schist consists of quartz and talc, a light-colored magnesian mineral of greasy feel, and so soft that it can be scratched with the thumb nail.
hornblende schist, resulting in many cases from the foliation of basic igneous rocks, is made of folia of hornblende alternating with bands of quartz and feldspar. hornblende schist is common over large areas in the lake superior region.
quartz schist is produced from quartzite by the development of fine folia of mica along planes of shear. all gradations may be found between it and unfoliated quartzite on the one hand and mica schist on the other.
under the resistless pressure of crustal movements almost any rocks, sandstones, shales, lavas of all kinds, granites, diorites, and gabbros may be metamorphosed into schists by crushing and shearing. limestones, however, are metamorphosed by pressure into marble, the grains of carbonate of lime recrystallizing freely to interlocking crystals of calcite.
these few examples must suffice of the great class of metamorphic rocks. as we have seen, they owe their origin to the alteration of both of the other classes of rocks--the sedimentary and the igneous--by heat and pressure, assisted usually by the presence of water. the fact of change is seen in their hardness arid cementation, their more or less complete recrystallization, and their foliation; but the change is often so complete that no trace of their original structure and mineral composition remains to tell whether the rocks from which they were derived were sedimentary or igneous, or to what variety of either of these classes they belonged.
in many cases, however, the early history of a metamorphic rock can be deciphered. fossils not wholly obliterated may prove it originally water-laid. schists may contain rolled-out pebbles, showing their derivation from a conglomerate. dikes of igneous rocks may be followed into a region where they have been foliated by pressure. the most thoroughly metamorphosed rocks may sometimes be traced out into unaltered sedimentary or igneous rocks, or among them may be found patches of little change where their history maybe read.
metamorphism is most common among rocks of the earlier geological ages, and most rare among rocks of recent formation. no doubt it is now in progress where deep-buried sediments are invaded by heat either from intrusive igneous masses or from the earth's interior, or are suffering slow deformation under the thrust of mountain-making forces.
suggest how rocks now in process of metamorphism may sometimes be exposed to view. why do metamorphic rocks appear on the surface to-day?
in regions of folded and broken rocks fissures are frequently found to be filled with sheets of crystalline minerals deposited from solution by underground water, and fissures thus filled are known as mineral veins. much of the importance of mineral veins is due to the fact that they are often metalliferous, carrying valuable native metals and metallic ores disseminated in fine particles, in strings, and sometimes in large masses in the midst of the valueless nonmetallic minerals which make up what is known as the vein stone.
the most common vein stones are quartz and calcite. fluorite (calcium fluoride), a mineral harder than calcite and crystallizing in cubes of various colors, and barite (barium sulphate), a heavy white mineral, are abundant in many veins.
the placer deposits of california and other regions are gold- bearing deposits of gravel and sand in river beds. the heavy gold is apt to be found mostly near or upon the solid rock, and its grains, like those of the sand, are always rounded. how the gold came in the placers we may leave the pupil to suggest.
copper is found in a number of ores, and also in the native metal. below the zone of surface changes the ore of a copper vein is often a double sulphide of iron and copper called chalcopyrite, a mineral softer than pyrite--it can easily be scratched with a knife--and deeper yellow in color. for several score of feet below the ground the vein may consist of rusty quartz from which the metallic ores have been dissolved; but at the base of the zone of solution we may find exceedingly rich deposits of copper ores,-- copper sulphides, red and black copper oxides, and green and blue copper carbonates, which have clearly been brought down in solution from the leached upper portion of the vein.
origin of mineral veins. both vein stones and ores have been deposited slowly from solution in water, much as crystals of salt are deposited on the sides of a jar of saturated brine. in our study of underground water we learned that it is everywhere circulating through the permeable rocks of the crust, descending to profound depths under the action of gravity and again driven to the surface by hydrostatic pressure. now fissures, wherever they occur, form the trunk channels of the underground circulation. water descends from the surface along these rifts; it moves laterally from either side to the fissure plane, just as ground water seeps through the surrounding rocks from every direction to a well; and it ascends through these natural water ways as in an artesian well, whenever they intersect an aquifer in which water is under hydrostatic pressure.
the waters which deposit vein stones and ores are commonly hot, and in many cases they have derived their heat from intrusions of igneous rock still uncooled within the crust. the solvent power of the water is thus greatly increased, and it takes up into solution various substances from the igneous and sedimentary rocks which it traverses. for various reasons these substances stances are deposited in the vein as ores and vein stones. on rising through the fissure the water cools and loses pressure, and its capacity to hold minerals in solution is therefore lessened. besides, as different currents meet in the fissure, some ascending, some descending, and some coming in from the sides, the chemical reaction of these various weak solutions upon one another and upon the walls of the vein precipitates the minerals of vein stuffs and ores.
as an illustration of the method of vein deposits we may cite the case of a wooden box pipe used in the comstock mines, nevada, to carry the hot water of the mine from one level to another, which in ten years was lined with calcium carbonate more than half an inch thick.
the steamboat springs, nevada, furnish examples of mineral veins in process of formation. the steaming water rises through fissures in volcanic rocks and is now depositing in the rifts a vein stone of quartz, with metallic ores of iron, mercury, lead, and other metals.
reconcentration. near the base of the zone of solution veins are often stored with exceptionally large and valuable ore deposits. this local enrichment of the vein is due to the reconcentration of its metalliferous ores. as the surface of the land is slowly lowered by weathering and running water, the zone of solution is lowered at an equal rate and encroaches constantly on the zone of cementation. the minerals of veins are therefore constantly being dissolved along their upper portions and carried down the fissures by ground water to lower levels, where they are redeposited.
many of the richest ore deposits are thus due to successive concentrations: the ores were leached originally from the rocks to a large extent by laterally seeping waters; they were concentrated in the ore deposits of the vein chiefly by ascending currents; they have been reconcentrated by descending waters in the way just mentioned.
the original source of the metals. it is to the igneous rocks that we may look for the original source of the metals of veins. lavas contain minute percentages of various metallic compounds, and no doubt this was the case also with the igneous rocks which formed the original earth crust. by the erosion of the igneous rocks the metals have been distributed among sedimentary strata, and even the sea has taken into solution an appreciable amount of gold and other metals, but in this widely diffused condition they are wholly useless to man. the concentration which has made them available is due to the interaction of many agencies. earth movements fracturing deeply the rocks of the crust, the intrusion of heated masses, the circulation of underground waters, have all cooperated in the concentration of the metals of mineral veins.
while fissure veins are the most important of mineral veins, the latter term is applied also to any water way which has been filled by similar deposits from solution. thus in soluble rocks, such as limestones, joints enlarged by percolating water are sometimes filled with metalliferous deposits, as, for example, the lead and zinc deposits of the upper mississippi valley. even a porous aquifer may be made the seat of mineral deposits, as in the case of some copper-bearing and silver-bearing sandstones of new mexico.
the geological record
what a formation records. we have already learned that each individual body of stratified rock, or formation, constitutes a record of the time when it was laid. the structure and the character of the sediments of each formation tell whether the area was land or sea at the time when they were spread; and if the former, whether the land was river plain, or lake bed, or was covered with wind-blown sands, or by the deposits of an ice sheet. if the sediments are marine, we may know also whether they were laid in shoal water near the shore or in deeper water out at sea, and whether during a period of emergence, or during a period of subsidence when the sea transgressed the land. by the same means each formation records the stage in the cycle of erosion of the land mass from which its sediments were derived. an unconformity between two marine formations records the fact that between the periods when they were deposited in the sea the area emerged as land and suffered erosion. the attitude and structure of the strata tell also of the foldings and fractures, the deformation and the metamorphism, which they have suffered; and the igneous rocks associated with them as lava flows and igneous intrusions add other details to the story. each formation is thus a separate local chapter in the geological history of the earth, and its strata are its leaves. it contains an authentic record of the physical conditions--the geography--of the time and place when and where its sediments were laid.
past cycles of erosion. these chapters in the history of the planet are very numerous, although much of the record has been destroyed in various ways. a succession of different formations is usually seen in any considerable section of the crust, such as a deep canyon or where the edges of upturned strata are exposed to view on the flanks of mountain ranges; and in any extensive area, such as a state of the union or a province of canada, the number of formations outcropping on the surface is large.
it is thus learned that our present continent is made up for. the most part of old continental deltas. some, recently emerged as the strata of young coastal plains, are the records of recent cycles of erosion; while others were deposited in the early history of the earth, and in many instances have been crumpled into mountains, which afterwards were leveled to their bases and lowered beneath the sea to receive a cover of later sediments before they were again uplifted to form land.
the cycle of erosion now in progress and recorded in the layers of stratified rock being spread beneath the sea in continental deltas has therefore been preceded by many similar cycles. again and again movements of the crust have brought to an end one cycle-- sometimes when only well under way, and sometimes when drawing toward its close--and have begun another. again and again they have added to the land areas which before were sea, with all their deposition records of earlier cycles, or have lowered areas of land beneath the sea to receive new sediments.
the age of the earth. the thickness of the stratified rocks now exposed upon the eroded surface of the continents is very great. in the appalachian region the strata are seven or eight miles thick, and still greater thicknesses have been measured in several other mountain ranges. the aggregate thickness of all the formations of the stratified rocks of the earth's crust, giving to each formation its maximum thickness wherever found, amounts to not less than forty miles. knowing how slowly sediments accumulate upon the sea floor, we must believe that the successive cycles which the earth has seen stretch back into a past almost inconceivably remote, and measure tens of millions and perhaps even hundreds of millions of years.
adjacent strata in any region are arranged according to the law of superposition, i.e. any stratum is younger than that on which it was deposited, just as in a pile of paper, any sheet was laid later than that on which it rests. where rocks have been disturbed, their original attitude must be determined before the law can be applied. nor can the law of superposition be used in identifying and comparing the strata of different regions where the formations cannot be traced continuously from one region to the other.
the formations of different regions are arranged in their true order by the law of included organisms; i.e. formations, however widely separated, which contain a similar assemblage of fossils are equivalent and belong to the same division of geological time.
the correlation of formations by means of fossils may be explained by the formations now being deposited about the north atlantic. lithologically they are extremely various. on the continental shelf of north america limestones of different kinds are forming off florida, and sandstones and shales from georgia northward. separated from them by the deep atlantic oozes are other sedimentary deposits now accumulating along the west coast of europe. if now all these offshore formations were raised to open air, how could they be correlated? surely not by lithological likeness, for in this respect they would be quite diverse. all would be similar, however, in the fossils which they contain. some fossil species would be identical in all these formations and others would be closely allied. making all due allowance for differences in species due to local differences in climate and other physical causes, it would still be plain that plants and animals so similar lived at the same period of time, and that the formations in which their remains were imbedded were contemporaneous in a broad way. the presence of the bones of whales and other marine mammals would prove that the strata were laid after the appearance of mammals upon earth, and imbedded relics of man would give a still closer approximation to their age. in the same way we correlate the earlier geological formations.
for example, in 1902 there were collected the first fossils ever found on the antarctic continent. among the dozen specimens obtained were some fossil ammonites (a family of chambered shells) of genera which are found on other continents in certain formations classified as the cretaceous system, and which occur neither above these formations nor below them. on the basis of these few fossils we may be confident that the strata in which they were found in the antarctic region were laid in the same period of geologic time as were the cretaceous rocks of the united states and canada.
the record as a time scale. by means of the law of included organisms and the law of superposition the formations of different countries and continents are correlated and arranged in their natural order. when the geological record is thus obtained it may be used as a universal time scale for geological history. geological time is separated into divisions corresponding to the times during which the successive formations were laid. the largest assemblages of formations are known as groups, while the corresponding divisions of time are known as eras. groups are subdivided into systems, and systems into series. series are divided into stages and substages,--subdivisions which do not concern us in this brief treatise. the corresponding divisions of time are given in the following table.
the geologist is now prepared to read the physical history--the geographical development--of any country or of any continent by means of its formations, when he has given each formation its true place in the geological record as a time scale.
the following chart exhibits the main divisions of the record, the name given to each being given also to the corresponding time division. thus we speak of the cambrian system, meaning a certain succession of formations which are classified together because of broad resemblances in their included organisms; and of the cambrian period, meaning the time during which these rocks were deposited.
group and era system and period series and epoch
fossils and what they teach
the geological formations contain a record still more important than that of the geographical development of the continents; the fossils imbedded in the rocks of each formation tell of the kinds of animals and plants which inhabited the earth at that time, and from these fossils we are therefore able to construct the history of life upon the earth.
fossils. these remains of organisms are found in the strata in all degrees of perfection, from trails and tracks and fragmentary impressions, to perfectly preserved shells, wood, bones, and complete skeletons. as a rule, it is only the hard parts of animals and plants which have left any traces in the rocks. sometimes the original hard substance is preserved, but more often it has been replaced by some less soluble material. petrifaction, as this process of slow replacement is called, is often carried on in the most exquisite detail. when wood, for example, is undergoing petrifaction, the woody tissue may be replaced, particle by particle, by silica in solution through the action of underground waters, even the microscopic structures of the wood being perfectly reproduced. in shells originally made of aragonite, a crystalline form of carbonate of lime, that mineral is usually replaced by calcite, a more stable form of the same substance. the most common petrifying materials are calcite, silica, and pyrite.
often the organic substance has neither been preserved nor replaced, but the form has been retained by means of molds and casts. permanent impressions, or molds, may be made in sediments not only by the hard parts of organisms, but also by such soft and perishable parts as the leaves of plants, and, in the rarest instances, by the skin of animals and the feathers of birds. in fine-grained limestones even the imprints of jellyfish have been retained.
the different kinds of molds and casts may be illustrated by means of a clam shell and some moist clay, the latter representing the sediments in which the remains of animals and plants are entombed. imbedding the shell in the clay and allowing the clay to harden, we have a mold of the exterior of the shell, as is seen on cutting the clay matrix in two and removing the shell from it. filling this mold with clay of different color, we obtain a cast of the exterior, which represents accurately the original form and surface markings of the shell. in nature, shells and other relics of animals or plants are often removed by being dissolved by percolating waters, and the molds are either filled with sediments or with minerals deposited from solution.
where the fossil is hollow, a cast of the interior is made in the same way. interior casts of shells reproduce any markings on the inside of the valves, and casts of the interior of the skulls of ancient vertebrates show the form and size of their brains.
imperfection of the life record. at the present time only the smallest fraction of the life on earth ever gets entombed in rocks now forming. in the forest great fallen tree trunks, as well as dead leaves, decay, and only add a little to the layer of dark vegetable mold from which they grew. the bones of land animals are, for the most part, left unburied on the surface and are soon destroyed by chemical agencies. even where, as in the swamps of river, flood plains and in other bogs, there are preserved the remains of plants, and sometimes insects, together with the bones of some animal drowned or mired, in most cases these swamp and bog deposits are sooner or later destroyed by the shifting channels of the stream or by the general erosion of the land.
in the sea the conditions for preservation are more favorable than on land; yet even here the proportion of animals and plants whose hard parts are fossilized is very small compared with those which either totally decay before they are buried in slowly accumulating sediments or are ground to powder by waves and currents.
we may infer that during each period of the past, as at the present, only a very insignificant fraction of the innumerable organisms of sea and land escaped destruction and left in continental and oceanic deposits permanent records of their existence. scanty as these original life records must have been, they have been largely destroyed by metamorphism of the rocks in which they were imbedded, by solution in underground waters, and by the vast denudation under which the sediments of earlier periods have been eroded to furnish materials for the sedimentary records of later times. moreover, very much of what has escaped destruction still remains undiscovered. the immense bulk of the stratified rocks is buried and inaccessible, and the records of the past which it contains can never be known. comparatively few outcrops have been thoroughly searched for fossils. although new species are constantly being discovered, each discovery may be considered as the outcome of a series of happy accidents,--that the remains of individuals of this particular species happened to be imbedded and fossilized, that they happened to escape destruction during long ages, and that they happened to be exposed and found.
some inferences from the records of the history of life upon the planet. meager as are these records, they set forth plainly some important truths which we will now briefly mention.
1. each series of the stratified rocks, except the very deepest, contains vestiges of life. hence the earth was tenanted by living creatures for an uncalculated length of time before human history began.
2. life on the earth has been everchanging. the youngest strata hold the remains of existing species of animals and plants and those of species and varieties closely allied to them. strata somewhat older contain fewer existing species, and in strata of a still earlier, but by no means an ancient epoch, no existing species are to be found; the species of that epoch and of previous epochs have vanished from the living world. during all geological time since life began on earth old species have constantly become extinct and with them the genera and families to which they belong, and other species, genera, and families have replaced them. the fossils of each formation differ on the whole from those of every other. the assemblage of animals and plants (the fauna- flora) of each epoch differs from that of every other epoch.
in many cases the extinction of a type has been gradual; in other instances apparently abrupt. there is no evidence that any organism once become extinct has ever reappeared. the duration of a species in time, or its "vertical range" through the strata, varies greatly. some species are limited to a stratum a few feet in thickness; some may range through an entire formation and be found but little modified in still higher beds. a formation may thus often be divided into zones, each characterized by its own peculiar species. as a rule, the simpler organisms have a longer duration as species, though not as individuals, than the more complex.
3. the larger zoological and botanical groupings survive longer than the smaller. species are so short-lived that a single geological epoch may be marked by several more or less complete extinctions of the species of its fauna-flora and their replacement by other species. a genus continues with new species after all the species with which it began have become extinct. families survive genera, and orders families. classes are so long- lived that most of those which are known from the earliest formations are represented by living forms, and no sub-kingdom has ever become extinct.
thus, to take an example from the stony corals,--the zoantharia,-- the particular characters--which constituted a certain species-- facosites niagarensis--of the order are confined to the niagara series. its generic characters appeared in other species earlier in the silurian and continued through the devonian. its family characters, represented in different genera and species, range from the ordovician to the close of the paleozoic; while the characters which it shares with all its order, the zoantharia, began in the cambrian and are found in living species.
4. the change in organisms has been gradual. the fossils of each life zone and of each formation of a conformable series closely resemble, with some explainable exceptions, those of the beds immediately above and below. the animals and plants which tenanted the earth during any geological epoch are so closely related to those of the preceding and the succeeding epochs that we may consider them to be the descendants of the one and the ancestors of the other, thus accounting for the resemblance by heredity. it is therefore believed that the species of animals and plants now living on the earth are the descendants of the species whose remains we find entombed in the rocks, and that the chain of life has been unbroken since its beginning.
5. the change in species has been a gradual differentiation. tracing the lines of descent of various animals and plants of the present backward through the divisions of geologic time, we find that these lines of descent converge and unite in simpler and still simpler types. the development of life may be represented by a tree whose trunk is found in the earliest ages and whose branches spread and subdivide to the growing twigs of present species.
6. the change in organisms throughout geologic time has been a progressive change. in the earliest ages the only animals and plants on the earth were lowly forms, simple and generalized in structure; while succeeding ages have been characterized by the introduction of types more and more specialized and complex, and therefore of higher rank in the scale of being. thus the algonkian contains the remains of only the humblest forms of the invertebrates. in the cambrian, ordovician, and silurian the invertebrates were represented in all their subkingdoms by a varied fauna. in the devonian, fishes--the lowest of the vertebrates--became abundant. amphibians made their entry on the stage in the carboniferous, and reptiles came to rule the world in the mesozoic. mammals culminated in the tertiary in strange forms which became more and more like those of the present as the long ages of that era rolled on; and latest of all appeared the noblest product of the creative process, man.
just as growth is characteristic of the individual life, so gradual, progressive change, or evolution, has characterized the history of life upon the planet. the evolution of the organic kingdom from its primitive germinal forms to the complex and highly organized fauna-flora of to-day may be compared to the growth of some noble oak as it rises from the acorn, spreading loftier and more widely extended branches as it grows.
7. while higher and still higher types have continually been evolved, until man, the highest of all, appeared, the lower and earlier types have generally persisted. some which reached their culmination early in the history of the earth have since changed only in slight adjustments to a changing environment. thus the brachiopods, a type of shellfish, have made no progress since the paleozoic, and some of their earliest known genera are represented by living forms hardly to be distinguished from their ancient ancestors. the lowest and earliest branches of the tree of life have risen to no higher levels since they reached their climax of development long ago.
8. a strange parallel has been found to exist between the evolution of organisms and the development of the individual. in the embryonic stages of its growth the individual passes swiftly through the successive stages through which its ancestors evolved during the millions of years of geologic time. the development of the individual recapitulates the evolution of the race.
the frog is a typical amphibian. as a tadpole it passes through a stage identical in several well-known features with the maturity of fishes; as, for example, its aquatic life, the tail by which it swims, and the gills through which it breathes. it is a fair inference that the tadpole stage in the life history of the frog represents a stage in the evolution of its kind,--that the amphibia are derived from fishlike ancestral forms. this inference is amply confirmed in the geological record; fishes appeared before amphibia and were connected with them by transitional forms.
the great length of geologic time inferred from the slow change of species. life forms, like land forms, are thus subject to change under the influence of their changing environment and of forces acting from within. how slowly they change may be seen in the apparent stability of existing species. in the lifetime of the observer and even in the recorded history of man, species seem as stable as the mountain and the river. but life forms and land forms are alike variable, both in nature and still more under the shaping hand of man. as man has modified the face of the earth with his great engineering works, so he has produced widely different varieties of many kinds of domesticated plants and animals, such as the varieties of the dog and the horse, the apple and the rose, which may be regarded in some respects as new species in the making. we have assumed that land forms have changed in the past under the influence of forces now in operation. assuming also that life forms have always changed as they are changing at present, we come to realize something of the immensity of geologic time required for the evolution of life from its earliest lowly forms up to man.
it is because the onward march of life has taken the same general course the world over that we are able to use it as a universal time scale and divide geologic time into ages and minor subdivisions according to the ruling or characteristic organisms then living on the earth. thus, since vertebrates appeared, we have in succession the age of fishes, the age of amphibians, the age of reptiles, and the age of mammals.
the chart given on page 295 is thus based on the law of superposition and the law of the evolution of organisms. the first law gives the succession of the formations in local areas. the fossils which they contain demonstrate the law of the progressive appearance of organisms, and by means of this law the formations of different countries are correlated and set each in its place in a universal time scale and grouped together according to the affinities of their imbedded organic remains.
geologic time divisions compared with those of human history. we may compare the division of geologic time into eras, periods, and other divisions according to the dominant life of the time, to the ill-defined ages into which human history is divided according to the dominance of some nation, ruler, or other characteristic feature. thus we speak of the dark ages, the age of elizabeth, and the age of electricity. these crude divisions would be of much value if, as in the case of geologic time, we had no exact reckoning of human history by years.
and as the course of human history has flowed in an unbroken stream along quiet reaches of slow change and through periods of rapid change and revolution, so with the course of geologic history. periods of quiescence, in which revolutionary forces are perhaps gathering head, alternate with periods of comparatively rapid change in physical geography and in organisms, when new and higher forms appear which serve to draw the boundary line of new epochs. nevertheless, geological history is a continuous progress; its periods and epochs shade into one another by imperceptible gradations, and all our subdivisions must needs be vague and more or less arbitrary.
how fossils tell of the geography of the past. fossils are used not only as a record of the development of life upon the earth, but also in testimony to the physical geography of past epochs. they indicate whether in any region the climate was tropical, temperate, or arctic. since species spread slowly from some center of dispersion where they originate until some barrier limits their migration farther, the occurrence of the same species in rocks of the same system in different countries implies the absence of such barriers at the period. thus in the collection of antarctic fossils referred to on page 294 there were shallow-water marine shells identical in species with mesozoic shells found in india and in the southern extremity of south america. since such organisms are not distributed by the currents of the deep sea and cannot migrate along its bottom, we infer a shallow-water connection in mesozoic times between india, south america, and the antarctic region. such a shallow-water connection would be offered along the marginal shelf of a continent uniting these now widely separated countries.
the pre-cambrian systems
the earth's beginnings. the geological record does not tell us of the beginnings of the earth. the history of the planet, as we have every reason to believe, stretches far back beyond the period of the oldest stratified rocks, and is involved in the history of the solar system and of the nebula,--the cloud of glowing gases or of cosmic dust,--from which the sun and planets are believed to have been derived.
the nebular hypothesis. it is possible that the earth began as a vaporous, shining sphere, formed by the gathering together of the material of a gaseous ring which had been detached from a cooling and shrinking nebula. such a vaporous sphere would condense to a liquid, fiery globe, whose surface would become cold and solid, while the interior would long remain intensely hot because of the slow conductivity of the crust. under these conditions the primeval atmosphere of the earth must have contained in vapor the water now belonging to the earth's crust and surface. it held also all the oxygen since locked up in rocks by their oxidation, and all the carbon dioxide which has since been laid away in limestones, besides that corresponding to the carbon of carbonaceous deposits, such as peat, coal, and petroleum. on this hypothesis the original atmosphere was dense, dark, and noxious, and enormously heavier than the atmosphere at present.
the accretion hypothesis. on the other hand, it has been recently suggested that the earth may have grown to its present size by the gradual accretion of meteoritic masses. such cold, stony bodies might have come together at so slow a rate that the heat caused by their impact would not raise sensibly the temperature of the growing planet. thus the surface of the earth may never have been hot and luminous; but as the loose aggregation of stony masses grew larger and was more and more compressed by its own gravitation, the heat thus generated raised the interior to high temperatures, while from time to time molten rock was intruded among the loose, cold meteoritic masses of the crust and outpoured upon the surface.
it is supposed that the meteorites of which the earth was built brought to it, as meteorites do now, various gases shut up within their pores. as the heat of the interior increased, these gases transpired to the surface and formed the primitive atmosphere and hydrosphere. the atmosphere has therefore grown slowly from the smallest beginnings. gases emitted from the interior in volcanic eruptions and in other ways have ever added to it, and are adding to it now. on the other hand, the atmosphere has constantly suffered loss, as it has been robbed of oxygen by the oxidation of rocks in weathering, and of carbon dioxide in the making of limestones and carbonaceous deposits.
while all hypotheses of the earth's beginnings are as yet unproved speculations, they serve to bring to mind one of the chief lessons which geology has to teach,--that the duration of the earth in time, like the extension of the universe in space, is vastly beyond the power of the human mind to realize. behind the history recorded in the rocks, which stretches back for many million years, lies the long unrecorded history of the beginnings of the planet; and still farther in the abysses of the past are dimly seen the cycles of the evolution of the solar system and of the nebula which gave it birth.
we pass now from the dim realm of speculation to the earliest era of the recorded history of the earth, where some certain facts may be observed and some sure inferences from them may be drawn.
the oldest known sedimentary strata, wherever they are exposed by uplift and erosion, are found to be involved with a mass of crystalline rocks which possesses the same characteristics in all parts of the world. it consists of foliated rocks, gneisses, and schists of various kinds, which have been cut with dikes and other intrusions of molten rock, and have been broken, crumpled, and crushed, and left in interlocking masses so confused that their true arrangement can usually be made out only with the greatest difficulty if at all. the condition of this body of crystalline rocks is due to the fact that they have suffered not only from the faultings, foldings, and igneous intrusions of their time, but necessarily, also, from those of all later geological ages.
at present three leading theories are held as to the origin of these basal crystalline rocks.
1. they are considered by perhaps the majority of the geologists who have studied them most carefully to be igneous rocks intruded in a molten state among the sedimentary rocks involved with them. in many localities this relation is proved by the phenomena of contact; but for the most part the deformations which the rocks have since suffered again and again have been sufficient to destroy such evidence if it ever existed.
2. an older view regards them as profoundly altered sedimentary strata, the most ancient of the earth.
3. according to a third theory they represent portions of the earth's original crust; not, indeed, its original surface, but deeper portions uncovered by erosion and afterwards mantled with sedimentary deposits. all these theories agree that the present foliated condition of these rocks is due to the intense metamorphism which they have suffered.
it is to this body of crystalline rocks and the stratified rocks involved with it, which form a very small proportion of its mass, that the term archean (greek, arche, beginning) is applied by many geologists.
in some regions there rests unconformably on the archean an immense body of stratified rocks, thousands and in places even scores of thousands of feet thick, known as the algonkian. great unconformities divide it into well-defined systems, but as only the scantiest traces of fossils appear here and there among its strata, it is as yet impossible to correlate the formations of different regions and to give them names of more than local application. we will describe the algonkian rocks of two typical areas.
the grand canyon of the colorado. we have already studied a very ancient peneplain whose edge is exposed to view deep on the walls of the colorado canyon. the formation of flat-lying sandstone which covers this buried land surface is proved by its fossils to belong to the cambrian,--the earliest period of the paleozoic era. the tilted rocks on whose upturned edges the cambrian sandstone rests are far older, for the physical break which separates them from it records a time interval during which they were upheaved to mountainous ridges and worn down to a low plain. they are therefore classified as algonkian. they comprise two immense series. the upper is more than five thousand feet thick and consists of shales and sandstones with some limestones. separated from it by an unconformity which does not appear in figure 207, the lower division, seven thousand feet thick, consists chiefly of massive reddish sandstones with seven or more sheets of lava interbedded. the lowest member is a basal conglomerate composed of pebbles derived from the erosion of the dark crumpled schists beneath,--schists which are supposed to be archean. as shown in figure 207, a strong unconformity parts the schists and the algonkian. the floor on which the algonkian rests is remarkably even, and here again is proved an interval of incalculable length, during which an ancient land mass of archean rocks was baseleveled before it received the cover of the sediments of the later age.
the lake superior region. in eastern canada an area of pre- cambrian rocks, archean and algonkian, estimated at two million square miles, stretches from the great lakes and the st. lawrence river northward to the confines of the continent, inclosing hudson bay in the arms of a gigantic u. this immense area, which we have already studied as the laurentian peneplain, extends southward across the canadian border into northern minnesota, wisconsin, and michigan. the rocks of this area are known to be pre-cambrian; for the cambrian strata, wherever found, lie unconformably upon them.
the general relations of the formations of that portion of the area which lies about lake superior are shown in figure 262. great unconformities, uu' separate the algonkian both from the archean and from the cambrian, and divide it into three distinct systems, --the lower huronian, the upper huronian, and the keweenawan. the lower and the upper huronian consist in the main of old sea muds and sands and limy oozes now changed to gneisses, schists, marbles, quartzites, slates, and other metamorphic rocks. the keweenawan is composed of immense piles of lava, such as those of iceland, overlain by bedded sandstones. what remains of these rock systems after the denudation of all later geologic ages is enormous. the lower huronian is more than a mile thick, the upper huronian more than two miles thick, while the keweenawan exceeds nine miles in thickness. the vast length of algonkian time is shown by the thickness of its marine deposits and by the cycles of erosion which it includes. in figure 262 the student may read an outline of the history of the lake superior region, the deformations which it suffered, their relative severity, the times when they occurred, and the erosion cycles marked by the successive unconformities.
other pre-cambrian areas in north america. pre-cambrian rocks are exposed in various parts of the continent, usually by the erosion of mountain ranges in which their strata were infolded. large areas occur in the maritime provinces of canada. the core of the green mountains of vermont is pre-cambrian, and rocks of these systems occur in scattered patches in western massachusetts. here belong also the oldest rocks of the highlands of the hudson and of new jersey. the adirondack region, an outlier of the laurentian region, exposes pre-cambrian rocks, which have been metamorphosed and tilted by the intrusion of a great boss of igneous rock out of which the central peaks are carved. the core of the blue ridge and probably much of the piedmont belt are of this age. in the black hills the irruption of an immense mass of granite has caused or accompanied the upheaval of pre-cambrian strata and metamorphosed them by heat and pressure into gneisses, schists, quartzites, and slates. in most of these mountainous regions the lowest strata are profoundly changed by metamorphism, and they can be assigned to the pre-cambrian only where they are clearly overlain unconformably by formations proved to be cambrian by their fossils. in the belt mountains of montana, however, the cambrian is underlain by algonkian sediments twelve thousand feet thick, and but little altered.
mineral wealth of the pre-cambrian rocks. the pre-cambrian rocks are of very great economic importance, because of their extensive metamorphism and the enormous masses of igneous rock which they involve. in many parts of the country they are the source of supply of granite, gneiss, marble, slate, and other such building materials. still more valuable are the stores of iron and copper and other metals which they contain.
at the present time the pre-cambrian region about lake superior leads the world in the production of iron ore, its output for 1903 being more than five sevenths of the entire output of the whole united states, and exceeding that of any foreign country. the ore bodies consist chiefly of the red oxide of iron (hematite) and occur in troughs of the strata, underlain by some impervious rock. a theory held by many refers the ultimate source of the iron to the igneous rocks of the archean. when these rocks were upheaved and subjected to weathering, their iron compounds were decomposed. their iron was leached out and carried away to be laid in the algonkian water bodies in beds of iron carbonate and other iron compounds. during the later ages, after the algonkian strata had been uplifted to form part of the continent, a second concentration has taken place. descending underground waters charged with oxygen have decomposed the iron carbonate and deposited the iron, in the form of iron oxide, in troughs of the strata where their downward progress was arrested by impervious floors.
the pre-cambrian rocks of the eastern united states also are rich in iron. in certain districts, as in the highlands of new jersey, the black oxide of iron (magnetite) is so abundant in beds and disseminated grains that the ordinary surveyor's compass is useless.
the pre-cambrian copper mines of the lake superior region are among the richest on the globe. in the igneous rocks copper, next to iron, is the most common of all the useful metals, and it was especially abundant in the keweenawan lavas. after the keweenawan was uplifted to form land, percolating waters leached out much of the copper diffused in the lava sheets and deposited it within steam blebs as amygdules of native copper, in cracks and fissures, and especially as a cement, or matrix, in the interbedded gravels which formed the chief aquifers of the region. the famous calumet and hecla mine follows down the dip of the strata to the depth of nearly a mile and works such an ancient conglomerate whose matrix is pure copper.
the appearance of life. sometime during the dim ages preceding the cambrian, whether in the archean or in the algonkian we know not, occurred one of the most important events in the history of the earth. life appeared for the first time upon the planet. geology has no evidence whatever to offer as to whence or how life came. all analogies lead us to believe that its appearance must have been sudden. its earliest forms are unknown, but analogy suggests that as every living creature has developed from a single cell, so the earliest organisms upon the globe--the germs from which all later life is supposed to have been evolved--were tiny, unicellular masses of protoplasm, resembling the amoeba of to-day in the simplicity of their structure.
such lowly forms were destitute of any hard parts and could leave no evidence of their existence in the record of the rocks. and of their supposed descendants we find so few traces in the pre- cambrian strata that the first steps in organic evolution must be supplied from such analogies in embryology as the following. the fertilized ovum, the cell with which each animal begins its life, grows and multiplies by cell division, and develops into a hollow globe of cells called the blastosphere. this stage is succeeded by the stage of the gastrula,--an ovoid or cup-shaped body with a double wall of cells inclosing a body cavity, and with an opening, the primitive mouth. each of these early embryological stages is represented by living animals,--the undivided cell by the protozoa, the blastosphere by some rare forms, and the gastrula in the essential structure of the coelenterates,--the subkingdom to which the fresh-water hydra and the corals belong. all forms of animal life, from the coelenterates to the mammals, follow the same path in their embryological development as far as the gastrula stage, but here their paths widely diverge, those of each subkingdom going their own separate ways.
we may infer, therefore, that during the pre-cambrian periods organic evolution followed the lines thus dimly traced. the earliest one-celled protozoa were probably succeeded by many- celled animals of the type of the blastosphere, and these by gastrula-like organisms. from the gastrula type the higher sub- divisions of animal life probably diverged, as separate branches from a common trunk. much or all of this vast differentiation was accomplished before the opening of the next era; for all the subkingdoms are represented in the cambrian except the vertebrates.
evidences of pre-cambrian life. an indirect evidence of life during the pre-cambrian periods is found in the abundant and varied fauna of the next period; for, if the theory of evolution is correct, the differentiation of the cambrian fauna was a long process which might well have required for its accomplishment a large part of pre-cambrian time.
other indirect evidences are the pre-cambrian limestones, iron ores, and graphite deposits, since such minerals and rocks have been formed in later times by the help of organisms. if the carbonate of lime of the algonkian limestones and marbles was extracted from sea water by organisms, as is done at present by corals, mollusks, and other humble animals and plants, the life of those ancient seas must have been abundant. graphite, a soft black mineral composed of carbon and used in the manufacture of lead pencils and as a lubricant, occurs widely in the metamorphic pre- cambrian rocks. it is known to be produced in some cases by the metamorphism of coal, which itself is formed of decomposed vegetal tissues. seams of graphite may therefore represent accumulations of vegetal matter such as seaweed. but limestone, iron ores, and graphite can be produced by chemical processes, and their presence in the pre-cambrian makes it only probable, and not certain, that life existed at that time.
pre-cambrian fossils. very rarely has any clear trace of an organism been found in the most ancient chapters of the geological record, so many of their leaves have been destroyed and so far have their pages been defaced. omitting structures whose organic nature has been questioned, there are left to mention a tiny seashell of one of the most lowly types,--a discina from the pre- cambrian rocks of the colorado canyon,--and from the pre-cambrian rocks of montana trails of annelid worms and casts of their burrows in ancient beaches, and fragments of the tests of crustaceans. these diverse forms indicate that before the algonkian had closed, life was abundant and had widely differentiated. we may expect that other forms will be discovered as the rocks are closely searched.
pre-cambrian geography. our knowledge is far too meager to warrant an attempt to draw the varying outlines of sea and land during the archean and algonkian eras. pre-cambrian time probably was longer than all later geological time down to the present, as we may infer from the vast thicknesses of its rocks and the unconformities which part them. we know that during its long periods land masses again and again rose from the sea, were worn low, and were submerged and covered with the waste of other lands. but the formations of separated regions cannot be correlated because of the absence of fossils, and nothing more can be made out than the detached chapters of local histories, such as the outline given of the district about lake superior.
the pre-cambrian rocks show no evidence of any forces then at work upon the earth except the forces which are at work upon it now. the most ancient sediments known are so like the sediments now being laid that we may infer that they were formed under conditions essentially similar to those of the present time. there is no proof that the sands of the pre-cambrian sandstones were swept by any more powerful waves and currents than are offshore sands to-day, or that the muds of the pre-cambrian shales settled to the sea floor in less quiet water than such muds settle in at present. the pre-cambrian lands were, no doubt, worn by wind and weather, beaten by rain, and furrowed by streams as now, and, as now, they fronted the ocean with beaches on which waves dashed and along which tidal currents ran.
perhaps the chief difference between the pre-cambrian and the present was the absence of life upon the land. so far as we have any knowledge, no forests covered the mountain sides, no verdure carpeted the plains, and no animals lived on the ground or in the air. it is permitted to think of the most ancient lands as deserts of barren rock and rock waste swept by rains and trenched by powerful streams. we may therefore suppose that the processes of their destruction went on more rapidly than at present.
the paleozoic era. the second volume of the geological record, called the paleozoic (greek, palaios, ancient; zoe, life), has come down to us far less mutilated and defaced than has the first volume, which contains the traces of the most ancient life of the globe. fossils are far more abundant in the paleozoic than in the earlier strata, while the sediments in which they were entombed have suffered far less from metamorphism and other causes, and have been less widely buried from view, than the strata of the pre-cambrian groups. by means of their fossils we can correlate the formations of widely separated regions from the beginning of the paleozoic on, and can therefore trace some outline of the history of the continents.
paleozoic time, although shorter than the pre-cambrian as measured by the thickness of the strata, must still be reckoned in millions of years. during this vast reach of time the changes in organisms were very great. it is according to the successive stages in the advance of life that the paleozoic formations are arranged in five systems,--the cambrian, the ordovician, the silurian, the devonian, and the carboniferous. on the same basis the first three systems are grouped together as the older paleozoic, because they alike are characterized by the dominance of the invertebrates; while the last two systems are united in the later paleozoic, and are characterized, the one by the dominance of fishes, and the other by the appearance of amphibians and reptiles.
each of these systems is world-wide in its distribution, and may be recognized on any continent by its own peculiar fauna. the names first given them in great britain have therefore come into general use, while their subdivisions, which often cannot be correlated in different countries and different regions, are usually given local names.
the first three systems were named from the fact that their strata are well displayed in wales. the cambrian carries the roman name of wales, and the ordovician and silurian the names of tribes of ancient britons which inhabited the same country. the devonian is named from the english county devon, where its rocks were early studied. the carboniferous was so called from the large amount of coal which it was found to contain in great britain and continental europe.
distribution of strata. the cambrian rocks outcrop in narrow belts about the pre-cambrian areas of eastern canada and the lake superior region, the adirondacks and the green mountains. strips of cambrian formations occupy troughs in the pre-cambrian rocks of new england and the maritime provinces of canada; a long belt borders on the west the crystalline rocks of the blue ridge; and on the opposite side of the continent the cambrian reappears in the mountains of the great basin and the canadian rockies. in the mississippi valley it is exposed in small districts where uplift has permitted the stripping off of younger rocks. although the areas of outcrop are small, we may infer that cambrian rocks were widely deposited over the continent of north america.
physical geography. the cambrian system of north america comprises three distinct series, the lower cambrian, the middle cambrian, and the upper cambrian, each of which is characterized by its own peculiar fauna. in sketching the outlines of the continent as it was at the beginning of the paleozoic, it must be remembered that wherever the lower cambrian formations now are found was certainly then sea bottom, and wherever the lower cambrian are wanting, and the next formations rest directly on pre-cambrian rocks, was probably then land.
early cambrian geography. in this way we know that at the opening of the cambrian two long, narrow mediterranean seas stretched from north to south across the continent. the eastern sea extended from the gulf of st. lawrence down the champlain-hudson valley and thence along the western base of the blue ridge south at least to alabama. the western sea stretched from the canadian rockies over the great basin and at least as far south as the grand canyon of the colorado in arizona.
between these mediterraneans lay a great central land which included the pre-cambrian u-shaped area of the laurentian peneplain, and probably extended southward to the latitude of new orleans. to the east lay a land which we may designate as appalachia, whose western shore line was drawn along the site of the present blue ridge, but whose other limits are quite unknown. the land of appalachia must have been large, for it furnished a great amount of waste during the entire paleozoic era, and its eastern coast may possibly have lain even beyond the edge of the present continental shelf. on the western side of the continent a narrow land occupied the site of the sierra nevada mountains.
thus, even at the beginning of the paleozoic, the continental plateau of north america had already been left by crustal movements in relief above the abysses of the great oceans on either side. the mediterraneans which lay upon it were shallow, as their sediments prove. they were epicontinental seas; that is, they rested upon (greek, epi) the submerged portion of the continental plateau. we have no proof that the deep ocean ever occupied any part of where north america now is.
the middle and upper cambrian strata are found together with the lower cambrian over the area of both the eastern and the western mediterraneans, so that here the sea continued during the entire period. the sediments throughout are those of shoal water. coarse cross-bedded sandstones record the action of strong shifting currents which spread coarse waste near shore and winnowed it of finer stuff. frequent ripple marks on the bedding planes of the strata prove that the loose sands of the sea floor were near enough to the surface to be agitated by waves and tidal currents. sun cracks show that often the outgoing tide exposed large muddy flats to the drying action of the sun. the fossils, also, of the strata are of kinds related to those which now live in shallow waters near the shore.
the sediments which gathered in the mediterranean seas were very thick, reaching in places the enormous depth of ten thousand feet. hence the bottoms of these seas were sinking troughs, ever filling with waste from the adjacent land as fast as they subsided.
late cambrian geography. the formations of the middle and upper cambrian are found resting unconformably on the pre-cambrian rocks from new york westward into minnesota and at various points in the interior, as in missouri and in texas. hence after earlier cambrian time the central land subsided, with much the same effect as if the mississippi valley were now to lower gradually, and the gulf of mexico to spread northward until it entered lake superior. the cambrian seas transgressed the central land and strewed far and wide behind their advancing beaches the sediments of the later cambrian upon an eroded surface of pre-cambrian rocks.
the succession of the cambrian formations in north america records many minor oscillations and varying conditions of physical geography; yet on the whole it tells of widening seas and lowering lands. basal conglomerates and coarse sandstones which must have been laid near shore are succeeded by shaly sandstones, sandy shales, and shales. toward the top of the series heavy beds of limestone, extending from the blue ridge to missouri, speak of clear water, and either of more distant shores or of neighboring lands which were worn or sunk so low that for the most part their waste was carried to the sea in solution.
in brief, the cambrian was a period of submergence. it began with the larger part of north america emerged as great land masses. it closed with most of the interior of the continental plateau covered with a shallow sea.
the life of the cambrian period
it is now for the first time that we find preserved in the offshore deposits of the cambrian seas enough remains of animal life to be properly called a fauna. doubtless these remains are only the most fragmentary representation of the life of the time, for the cambrian rocks are very old and have been widely metamorphosed. yet the five hundred and more species already discovered embrace all the leading types of invertebrate life, and are so varied that we must believe that their lines of descent stretch far back into the pre-cambrian past.
plants. no remains of plants have been found in cambrian strata, except some doubtful markings, as of seaweed.
sponges. the sponges, the lowest of the multicellular animals, were represented by several orders. their fossils are recognized by the siliceous spicules, which, as in modern sponges, either were scattered through a mass of horny fibers or were connected in a flinty framework.
coelenterates. this subkingdom includes two classes of interest to the geologist,--the hydrozoa, such as the fresh-water hydra and the jellyfish, and the corals. both classes existed in the cambrian.
the hydrozoa were represented not only by jellyfish but also by the graptolite, which takes its name from a fancied resemblance of some of its forms to a quill pen. it was a composite animal with a horny framework, the individuals of the colony living in cells strung on one or both sides along a hollow stem, and communicating by means of a common flesh in this central tube. some graptolites were straight, and some curved or spiral; some were single stemmed, and others consisted of several radial stems united. graptolites occur but rarely in the upper cambrian. in the ordovician and silurian they are very plentiful, and at the close of the silurian they pass out of existence, never to return.
corals are very rarely found in the cambrian, and the description of their primitive types is postponed to later chapters treating of periods when they became more numerous.
echinoderms. this subkingdom comprises at present such familiar forms as the crinoid, the starfish, and the sea urchin. the structure of echinoderms is radiate. their integument is hardened with plates or particles of carbonate of lime.
of the free echinoderms, such as the starfish and the sea urchin, the former has been found in the cambrian rocks of europe, but neither have so far been discovered in the strata of this period in north america. the stemmed and lower division of the echinoderms was represented by a primitive type, the cystoid, so called from its saclike form, a small globular or ovate "calyx" of calcareous plates, with an aperture at the top for the mouth, inclosed the body of the animal, and was attached to the sea bottom by a short flexible stalk consisting of disks of carbonate of lime held together by a central ligament.
arthopods. these segmented animals with "jointed feet," as their name suggests, may be divided in a general way into water breathers and air breathers. the first-named and lower division comprises the class of the crustacea,--arthropods protected by a hard exterior skeleton, or "crust,"--of which crabs, crayfish, and lobsters are familiar examples. the higher division, that of the air breathers, includes the following classes: spiders, scorpions, centipedes, and insects.
the trilobite. the aquatic arthropods, the crustacea, culminated before the air breathers; and while none of the latter are found in the cambrian, the former were the dominant life of the time in numbers, in size, and in the variety of their forms. the leading crustacean type is the trilobite, which takes its name from the three lobes into which its shell is divided longitudinally. there are also three cross divisions,--the head shield, the tail shield, and between the two the thorax, consisting of a number of distinct and unconsolidated segments. the head shield carries a pair of large, crescentic, compound eyes, like those of the insect. the eye varies greatly in the number of its lenses, ranging from fourteen in some species to fifteen thousand in others. figure 268, c, is a restoration of the trilobite, and shows the appendages, which are found preserved only in the rarest cases.
during the long ages of the cambrian the trilobite varied greatly. again and again new species and genera appeared, while the older types became extinct. for this reason and because of their abundance, trilobites are used in the classification of the cambrian system. the lower cambrian is characterized by the presence of a trilobitic fauna in which the genus olenellus is predominant. this, the olenellus zone, is one of the most important platforms in the entire geological series; for, the world over, it marks the beginning of paleozoic time, while all underlying strata are classified as pre-cambrian. the middle cambrian is marked by the genus paradoxides, and the upper cambrian by the genus olenus. some of the cambrian trilobites were giants, measuring as much as two feet long, while others were the smallest of their kind, a fraction of an inch in length.
another type of crustacean which lived in the cambrian and whose order is still living is illustrated in figure 269.
worms. trails and burrows of worms have been left on the sea beaches and mud flats of all geological times from the algonkian to the present.
brachiopods. these soft-bodied animals, with bivalve shells and two interior armlike processes which served for breathing, appeared in the algonkian, and had now become very abundant. the two valves of the brachiopod shell are unequal in size, and in each valve a line drawn from the beak to the base divides the valve into two equal parts. it may thus be told from the pelecypod mollusk, such as the clam, whose two valves are not far from equal in size, each being divided into unequal parts by a line dropped from the beak.
brachiopods include two orders. in the most primitive order--that of the inarticulate brachiopods--the two valves are held together only by muscles of the animal, and the shell is horny or is composed of phosphate of lime. the discina, which began in the algonkian, is of this type, as is also the lingulella of the cambrian. both of these genera have lived on during the millions of years of geological time since their introduction, handing down from generation to generation with hardly any change to their descendants now living off our shores the characters impressed upon them at the beginning.
the more highly organized articulate brachiopods have valves of carbonate of lime more securely joined by a hinge with teeth and sockets (fig. 270). in the cambrian the inarticulates predominate, though the articulates grow common toward the end of the period.
mollusks. the three chief classes of mollusks--the pelecypods (represented by the oyster and clam of to-day), the gastropods (represented now by snails, conches, and periwinkles), and the cephalopods (such as the nautilus, cuttlefish, and squids)--were all represented in the cambrian, although very sparingly.
pteropods, a suborder of the gastropods, appeared in this age. their papery shells of carbonate of lime are found in great numbers from this time on.
cephalopods, the most highly organized of the mollusks, started into existence, so far as the record shows, toward, the end of the cambrian, with the long extinct orthoceras (straighthorn) and the allied genera of its family. the orthoceras had a long, straight, and tapering shell, divided by cross partitions into chambers. the animal lived in the "body chamber" at the larger end, and walled off the other chambers from it in succession during the growth of the shell. a central tube, the siphuncle, passed through from the body chamber to the closed tip of the cone.
the seashells, both brachiopods and mollusks, are in some respects the most important to the geologist of all fossils. they have been so numerous, so widely distributed, and so well preserved because of their durable shells and their station in growing sediments, that better than any other group of organisms they can be used to correlate the strata of different regions and to mark by their slow changes the advance of geological time.
climate. the life of cambrian times in different countries contains no suggestion of any marked climatic zones, and as in later periods a warm climate probably reached to the polar regions.
in north america the ordovician rocks lie conformably on the cambrian. the two periods, therefore, were not parted by any deformation, either of mountain making or of continental uplift. the general submergence which marked the cambrian continued into the succeeding period with little interruption.
subdivisions and distribution of strata. the ordovician series, as they have been made out in new york, are given for reference in the following table, with the rocks of which they are chiefly composed:
5 hudson . . . . . . . . shales 4 utica . . . . . . . . shales 3 trenton . . . . . . . limestones 2 chazy . . . . . . . . limestones 1 calciferous . . . . . sandy limestones
these marine formations of the ordovician outcrop about the cambrian and pre-cambrian areas, and, as borings show, extend far and wide over the interior of the continent beneath more recent strata. the ordovician sea stretched from appalachia across the mississippi valley. it seems to have extended to california, although broken probably by several mountainous islands in the west.
the shales of the utica and hudson show that the waters of the sea now became clouded with mud washed in from land. either the land was gradually uplifted, or perhaps there had arrived one of those periodic crises which, as we may imagine, have taken place whenever the crust of the shrinking earth has slowly given way over its great depressions, and the ocean has withdrawn its waters into deepening abysses. the land was thus left relatively higher and bordered with new coastal plains. the epicontinental sea was shoaled and narrowed, and muds were washed in from the adjacent lands.
the taconic deformation. the ordovician was closed by a deformation whose extent and severity are not yet known. from the st. lawrence river to new york bay, along the northwestern and western border of new england, lies a belt of cambrian-ordovician rocks more than a mile in total thickness, which accumulated during the long ages of those periods in a gradually subsiding trough between the adirondacks and a pre-cambrian range lying west of the connecticut river. but since their deposition these ancient sediments have been crumpled and crushed, broken with great faults, and extensively metamorphosed. the limestones have recrystallized into marbles, among them the famous marbles of vermont; the cambrian sandstones have become quartzites, and the hudson shale has been changed to a schist exposed on manhattan island and northward.
in part these changes occurred at the close of the ordovician, for in several places beds of silurian age rest unconformably on the upturned ordovician strata; but recent investigations have made it probable that the crustal movements recurred at later times, and it was perhaps in the devonian and at the close of the carboniferous that the greater part of the deformation and metamorphism was accomplished. as a result of these movements,-- perhaps several times repeated,--a great mountain range was upridged, which has been long since leveled by erosion, but whose roots are now visible in the taconic mountains of western new england.
the cincinnati anticline. over an oval area in ohio, indiana, and kentucky, whose longer axis extends from north to south through cincinnati, the ordovician strata rise in a very low, broad swell, called the cincinnati anticline. the silurian and devonian strata thin out as they approach this area and seem never to have deposited upon it. we may regard it, therefore, as an island upwarped from the sea at the close of the ordovician or shortly after.
petroleum and natural gas. these valuable illuminants and fuels are considered here because, although they are found in traces in older strata, it is in the ordovician that they occur for the first time in large quantities. they range throughout later formations down to the most recent.
the oil horizons of california and texas are tertiary; those of colorado, cretaceous; those of west virginia, carboniferous; those of pennsylvania, kentucky, and canada, devonian; and the large field of ohio and indiana belongs to the ordovician and higher systems.
petroleum and natural gas, wherever found, have probably originated from the decay of organic matter when buried in sedimentary deposits, just as at present in swampy places the hydrogen and carbon of decaying vegetation combine to form marsh gas. the light and heat of these hydrocarbons we may think of, therefore, as a gift to the civilized life of our race from the humble organisms, both animal and vegetable, of the remote past, whose remains were entombed in the sediments of the ordovician and later geological ages.
petroleum is very widely disseminated throughout the stratified rocks. certain limestones are visibly greasy with it, and others give off its characteristic fetid odor when struck with a hammer. many shales are bituminous, and some are so highly charged that small flakes may be lighted like tapers, and several gallons of oil to the ton may be obtained by distillation.
but oil and gas are found in paying quantities only when certain conditions meet:
1. a source below, usually a bituminous shale, from whose organic matter they have been derived by slow change.
2. a reservoir above, in which they have gathered. this is either a porous sandstone or a porous or creviced limestone.
3. oil and gas are lighter than water, and are usually under pressure owing to artesian water. hence, in order to hold them from escaping to the surface, the reservoir must have the shape of an anticline, dome, or lens.
4. it must also have an impervious cover, usually a shale. in these reservoirs gas is under a pressure which is often enormous, reaching in extreme cases as high as a thousand five hundred pounds to the square inch. when tapped it rushes out with a deafening roar, sometimes flinging the heavy drill high in air. in accounting for this pressure we must remember that the gas has been compressed within the pores of the reservoir rock by artesian water, and in some cases also by its own expansive force. it is not uncommon for artesian water to rise in wells after the exhaustion of gas and oil.
life of the ordovician
during the ages of the ordovician, life made great advances. types already present branched widely into new genera and species, and new and higher types appeared.
sponges continued from the cambrian. graptolites now reached their climax.
stromatopora--colonies of minute hydrozoans allied to corals--grew in places on the sea floor, secreting stony masses composed of thin, close, concentric layers, connected by vertical rods. the stromatopora are among the chief limestone builders of the silurian and devonian periods.
corals developed along several distinct lines, like modern corals they secreted a calcareous framework, in whose outer portions the polyps lived. in the ordovician, corals were represented chiefly by the family of the choetetes, all species of which are long since extinct. the description of other types of corals will be given under the silurian, where they first became abundant.
echinoderms. the cystoid reaches its climax, but there appear now two higher types of echinoderms,--the crinoid and the starfish. the crinoid, named from its resemblance to the lily, is like the cystoid in many respects, but has a longer stem and supports a crown of plumose arms. stirring the water with these arms, it creates currents by which particles of food are wafted to its mouth. crinoids are rare at the present time, but they grew in the greatest profusion in the warm ordovician seas and for long ages thereafter. in many places the sea floor was beautiful with these graceful, flowerlike forms, as with fields of long-stemmed lilies. of the higher, free-moving classes of the echinoderms, starfish are more numerous than in the cambrian, and sea urchins make their appearance in rare archaic forms.
crustaceans. trilobites now reach their greatest development and more than eleven hundred species have been described from the rocks of this period. it is interesting to note that in many species the segments of the thorax have now come to be so shaped that they move freely on one another. unlike their cambrian ancestors, many of the ordovician trilobites could roll themselves into balls at the approach of danger. it is in this attitude, taken at the approach of death, that trilobites are often found in the ordovician and later rocks. the gigantic crustaceans called the eurypterids were also present in this period.
the arthropods had now seized upon the land. centipedes and insects of a low type, the earliest known land animals, have been discovered in strata of this system.
bryozoans. no fossils are more common in the limestones of the time than the small branching stems and lacelike mats of the bryozoans,--the skeletons of colonies of a minute animal allied in structure to the brachiopod.
brachiopods. these multiplied greatly, and in places their shells formed thick beds of coquina. they still greatly surpassed the mollusks in numbers.
cephalopods. among the mollusks we must note the evolution of the cephalopods. the primitive straight orthoceras has now become abundant. but in addition to this ancestral type there appears a succession of forms more and more curved and closely coiled, as illustrated in figure 285. the nautilus, which began its course in this period, crawls on the bottom of our present seas.
vertebrates. the most important record of the ordovician is that of the appearance of a new and higher type, with possibilities of development lying hidden in its structure that the mollusk and the insect could never hope to reach. scales and plates of minute fishes found in the ordovician rocks near canon city, colorado, show that the humblest of the vertebrates had already made its appearance. but it is probable that vertebrates had been on the earth for ages before this in lowly types, which, being destitute of hard parts, would leave no record.
the narrowing of the seas and the emergence of the lands which characterized the closing epoch of the ordovician in eastern north america continue into the succeeding period of the silurian. new species appear and many old species now become extinct.
the appalachian region. where the silurian system is most fully developed, from new york southward along the appalachian mountains, it comprises four series:
4 salina . . . shales, impure limestones, gypsum, salt 3 niagara . . . chiefly limestones 2 clinton . . . sandstones, shales, with some limestones 1 medina . . . conglomerates, sandstones
the rocks of these series are shallow-water deposits and reach the total thickness of some five thousand feet. evidently they were laid over an area which was on the whole gradually subsiding, although with various gentle oscillations which are recorded in the different formations. the coarse sands of the heavy medina formations record a period of uplift of the oldland of appalachia, when erosion went on rapidly and coarse waste in abundance was brought down from the hills by swift streams and spread by the waves in wide, sandy flats. as the lands were worn lower the waste became finer, and during an epoch of transition--the clinton-- there were deposited various formations of sandstones, shales, and limestones. the niagara limestones testify to a long epoch of repose, when low-lying lands sent little waste down to the sea.
the gypsum and salt deposits of the salina show that toward the close of the silurian period a slight oscillation brought the sea floor nearer to the surface, and at the north cut off extensive tracts from the interior sea. in these wide lagoons, which now and then regained access to the open sea and obtained new supplies of salt water, beds of salt and gypsum were deposited as the briny waters became concentrated by evaporation under a desert climate. along with these beds there were also laid shales and impure limestones.
in new york the "salt pans" of the salina extended over an area one hundred and fifty miles long from east to west and sixty miles wide, and similar salt marshes occurred as far west as cleveland, ohio, and goderich on lake huron. at ithaca, new york, the series is fifteen hundred feet thick, and is buried beneath an equal thickness of later strata. it includes two hundred and fifty feet of solid salt, in several distinct beds, each sealed within the shales of the series.
would you expect to find ancient beds of rock salt inclosed in beds of pervious sandstone?
the salt beds of the salina are of great value. they are reached by well borings, and their brines are evaporated by solar heat and by boiling. the rock salt is also mined from deep shafts.
similar deposits of salt, formed under like conditions, occur in the rocks of later systems down to the present. the salt beds of texas are permian, those of kansas are permian, and those of louisiana are tertiary.
the mississippi valley. the heavy near-shore formations of the silurian in the appalachian region thin out toward the west. the medina and the clinton sandstones are not found west of ohio, where the first passes into a shale and the second into a limestone. the niagara limestone, however, spreads from the hudson river to beyond the mississippi, a distance of more than a thousand miles. during the silurian period the mississippi valley region was covered with a quiet, shallow, limestone-making sea, which received little waste from the low lands which bordered it.
the probable distribution of land and sea in eastern north america and western europe is shown in figure 287. the fauna of the interior region and of eastern canada are closely allied with that of western europe, and several species are identical. we can hardly account for this except by a shallow-water connection between the two ancient epicontinental seas. it was perhaps along the coastal shelves of a northern land connecting america and europe by way of greenland and iceland that the migration took place, so that the same species came to live in iowa and in sweden.
the western united states. so little is found of the rocks of the system west of the missouri river that it is quite probable that the western part of the united states had for the most part emerged from the sea at the close of the ordovician and remained land during the silurian. at the same time the western land was perhaps connected with the eastern land of appalachia across arkansas and mississippi; for toward the south the silurian sediments indicate an approach to shore.
life of the silurian
in this brief sketch it is quite impossible to relate the many changes of species and genera during the silurian.
honeycomb corals consist of masses of small, close-set prismatic cells, each crossed by horizontal partitions, or tabulae, while the septa are rudimentary, being represented by faintly projecting ridges or rows of spines.
chain corals are also marked by tabulae. their cells form elliptical tubes, touching each other at the edges, and appearing in cross section like the links of a chain. they became extinct at the end of the silurian.
the corals of the syringopora family are similar in structure to chain corals, but the tubular columns are connected only in places.
to the echinoderms there is now added the blastoid (bud-shaped). the blastoid is stemmed and armless, and its globular "head" or "calyx," with its five petal-like divisions, resembles a flower bud. the blastoids became more abundant in the devonian, culminated in the carboniferous, and disappeared at the end of the paleozoic.
the great eurypterids--some of which were five or six feet in length--and the cephalopods were still masters of the seas. fishes were as yet few and small; trilobites and graptolites had now passed their prime and had diminished greatly in numbers. scorpions are found in this period both in europe and in america. the limestone-making seas of the silurian swarmed with corals, crinoids, and brachiopods.
with the end of the silurian period the age of invertebrates comes to a close, giving place to the devonian, the age of fishes.
in america the silurian is not separated from the devonian by any mountain-making deformation or continental uplift. the one period passed quietly into the other. their conformable systems are so closely related, and the change in their faunas is so gradual, that geologists are not agreed as to the precise horizon which divides them.
subdivisions and physical geography. the devonian is represented in new york and southward by the following five series. we add the rocks of which they are chiefly composed.
the helderberg is a transition epoch referred by some geologists to the silurian. the thin sandstones of the oriskany mark an epoch when waves worked over the deposits of former coastal plains. the limestones of the corniferous testify to a warm and clear wide sea which extended from the hudson to beyond the mississippi. corals throve luxuriantly, and their remains, with those of mollusks and other lime-secreting animals, built up great beds of limestone. the bordering continents, as during the later silurian, must now have been monotonous lowlands which sent down little of even the finest waste to the sea.
in the hamilton the clear seas of the previous epoch became clouded with mud. the immense deposits of coarse sandstones and sandy shales of the chemung, which are found off what was at the time the west coast of appalachia, prove an uplift of that ancient continent.
the chemung series extends from the catskill mountains to northeastern ohio and south to northeastern tennessee, covering an area of not less than a hundred thousand square miles. in eastern new york it attains three thousand feet in thickness; in pennsylvania it reaches the enormous thickness of two miles; but it rapidly thins to the west. everywhere the chemung is made of thin beds of rapidly alternating coarse and fine sands and clays, with an occasional pebble layer, and hence is a shallow-water deposit. the fine material has not been thoroughly winnowed from the coarse by the long action of strong waves and tides. the sands and clays have undergone little more sorting than is done by rivers. we must regard the chemung sandstones as deposits made at the mouths of swift, turbid rivers in such great amount that they could be little sorted and distributed by waves.
over considerable areas the chemung sandstones bear little or no trace of the action of the sea. the catskill mountains, for example, have as their summit layers some three thousand feet of coarse red sandstones of this series, whose structure is that of river deposits, and whose few fossils are chiefly of fresh-water types. the chemung is therefore composed of delta deposits, more or less worked over by the sea. the bulk of the chemung equals that of the sierra nevada mountains. to furnish this immense volume of sediment a great mountain range, or highland, must have been upheaved where the appalachian lowland long had been. to what height the devonian mountains of appalachia attained cannot be told from the volume of the sediments wasted from them, for they may have risen but little faster than they were worn down by denudation. we may infer from the character of the waste which they furnished to the chemung shores that they did not reach an alpine height. the grains of the chemung sandstones are not those which would result from mechanical disintegration, as by frost on high mountain peaks, but are rather those which would be left from the long chemical decay of siliceous crystalline rocks; for the more soluble minerals are largely wanting. the red color of much of the deposits points to the same conclusion. red residual clays accumulated on the mountain sides and upland summits, and were washed as ocherous silt to mingle with the delta sands. the iron- bearing igneous rocks of the oldland also contributed by their decay iron in solution to the rivers, to be deposited in films of iron oxide about the quartz grains of the chemung sandstones, giving them their reddish tints.
life of the devonian
plants. the lands were probably clad with verdure during silurian times, if not still earlier; for some rare remains of ferns and other lowly types of vegetation have been found in the strata of that system. but it is in the devonian that we discover for the first time the remains of extensive and luxuriant forests. this rich flora reached its climax in the carboniferous, and it will be more convenient to describe its varied types in the next chapter.
rhizocarps. in the shales of the devonian are found microscopic spores of rhizocarps in such countless numbers that their weight must be reckoned in hundreds of millions of tons. it would seem that these aquatic plants culminated in this period, and in widely distant portions of the earth swampy flats and shallow lagoons were filled with vegetation of this humble type, either growing from the bottom or floating free upon the surface. it is to the resinous spores of the rhizocarps that the petroleum and natural gas from devonian rocks are largely due. the decomposition of the spores has made the shales highly bituminous, and the oil and gas have accumulated in the reservoirs of overlying porous sandstones.
invertebrates. we must pass over the ever-changing groups of the invertebrates with the briefest notice. chain corals became extinct at the close of the silurian, but other corals were extremely common in the devonian seas. at many places corals formed thin reefs, as at louisville, kentucky, where the hardness of the reef rock is one of the causes of the falls of the ohio.
sponges, echinoderms, brachiopods, and mollusks were abundant. the cephalopods take a new departure. so far in all their various forms, whether straight, as the orthoceras, or curved, or close- coiled as in the nautilus, the septum, or partition dividing the chambers, met the inner shell along a simple line, like that of the rim of a saucer. there now begins a growth of the septum by which its edges become sharply corrugated, and the suture, or line of juncture of the septum and the shell, is thus angled. the group in which this growth of the septum takes place is called the goniatite (greek gonia, angle).
vertebrates. it is with the greatest interest that we turn now to study the backboned animals of the devonian; for they are believed to be the ancestors of the hosts of vertebrates which have since dominated the earth. their rudimentary structures foreshadowed what their descendants were to be, and give some clue to the earliest vertebrates from which they sprang. like those whose remains are found in the lower paleozoic systems, all of these devonian vertebrates were aquatic and go under the general designation of fishes.
the lowest in grade and nearest, perhaps, to the ancestral type of vertebrates, was the problematic creature, an inch or so long, of figure 297. note the circular mouth not supplied with jaws, the lack of paired fins, and the symmetric tail fin, with the column of cartilaginous, ringlike vertebrae running through it to the end. the animal is probably to be placed with the jawless lampreys and hags,--a group too low to be included among true fishes.
ostracoderms. this archaic group, long since extinct, is also too lowly to rank among the true fishes, for its members have neither jaws nor paired fins. these small, fishlike forms were cased in front with bony plates developed in the skin and covered in the rear with scales. the vertebrae were not ossified, for no trace of them has been found.
devonian fishes. the true fishes of the devonian can best be understood by reference to their descendants now living. modern fishes are divided into several groups: sharks and their allies; dipnoans; ganoids, such as the sturgeon and gar; and teleosts,-- most common fishes, such as the perch and cod.
sharks. of all groups of living fishes the sharks are the oldest and still retain most fully the embryonic characters of their paleozoic ancestors. such characters are the cartilaginous skeleton, and the separate gill slits with which the throat wall is pierced and which are arranged in line like the gill openings of the lamprey. the sharks of the silurian and devonian are known to us chiefly by their teeth and fin spines, for they were unprotected by scales or plates, and were devoid of a bony skeleton. figure 299 is a restoration of an archaic shark from a somewhat higher horizon. note the seven gill slits and the lappetlike paired fins. these fins seem to be remnants of the continuous fold of skin which, as embryology teaches, passed from fore to aft down each side of the primitive vertebrate.
devonian sharks were comparatively small. they had not evolved into the ferocious monsters which were later to be masters of the seas.
dipnoans, or lung fishes. these are represented to-day by a few peculiar fishes and are distinguished by some high structures which ally them with amphibians. an air sac with cellular spaces is connected with the gullet and serves as a rudimentary lung. it corresponds with the swim bladder of most modern fishes, and appears to have had a common origin with it. we may conceive that the primordial fishes not only had gills used in breathing air dissolved in water, but also developed a saclike pouch off the gullet. this sac evolved along two distinct lines. on the line of the ancestry of most modern fishes its duct was closed and it became the swim bladder used in flotation and balancing. on another line of descent it was left open, air was swallowed into it, and it developed into the rudimentary lung of the dipnoans and into the more perfect lungs of the amphibians and other air- breathing vertebrates.
one of the ancient dipnoans is illustrated in figure 300. some of the members of this order were, like the ostracoderms, cased in armor, but their higher rank is shown by their powerful jaws and by other structures. some of these armored fishes reached twenty- five feet in length and six feet across the head. they were the tyrants of the devonian seas.
ganoids. these take their name from their enameled plates or scales of bone. the few genera now surviving are the descendants of the tribes which swarmed in the devonian seas. a restoration of one of a leading order, the fringe-finned ganoids, is given in figure 301. the side fins, which correspond to the limbs of the higher vertebrates, are quite unlike those of most modern fishes. their rays, instead of radiating from a common base, fringe a central lobe which contains a cartilaginous axis. the teeth of the devonian ganoids show a complicated folded structure.
general characteristics of devonian fishes. the notochord is persistent. the notochord is a continuous rod of cartilage, or gristle, which in the embryological growth of vertebrate animals supports the spinal nerve cord before the formation of the vertebrae. in most modern fishes and in all higher vertebrates the notochord is gradually removed as the bodies of the vertebrae are formed about it; but in the devonian fishes it persists through maturity and the vertebrae remain incomplete.
the skeleton is cartilaginous. this also is an embryological characteristic. in the devonian fishes the vertebrae, as well as the other parts of the skeleton, have not ossified, or changed to bone, but remain in their primitive cartilaginous condition.
the tail fin is vertebrated. the backbone runs through the fin and is fringed above and below with its vertical rays. in some fishes with vertebrated tail fins the fin is symmetric, and this seems to be the primitive type. in others the tail fin is unsymmetric: the backbone runs into the upper lobe, leaving the two lobes of unequal size. in most modern fishes (the teleosts) the tail fin is not vertebrated: the spinal column ends in a broad plate, to which the diverging fin rays are attached.
the effect of such laws is very serious. let it be granted, for the sake of argument, that the government and the social system in the state of new york are the best that have ever existed on this planet; yet even then both would presumably be capable of improvement. any person who admits this obvious proposition is by law incapable of teaching in a state school. thus the law decrees that the teachers shall all be either hypocrites or fools.
the growing danger exemplified by the new york law is that resulting from the monopoly of power in the hands of a single organization, whether the state or a trust or federation of trusts. in the case of education, the power is in the hands of the state, which can prevent the young from hearing of any doctrine which it dislikes. i believe there are still some people who think that a democratic state is scarcely distinguishable from the people. this, however, is a delusion. the state is a collection of officials, different for different purposes, drawing comfortable incomes so long as the status quo is preserved. the only alteration they are likely to desire in the status quo is an increase of bureaucracy and of the power of bureaucrats. it is, therefore, natural that they should take advantage of such opportunities as war excitement to acquire inquisitorial powers over their employees, involving the right to inflict starvation upon any subordinate who opposes them. in matters of the mind, such as education, this state of affairs is fatal. it puts an end to all possibility of progress or freedom or intellectual initiative. yet it is the natural result of allowing the whole of elementary education to fall under the sway of a single organization.
religious toleration, to a certain extent, has been won because people have ceased to consider religion so important as it was once thought to be. but in politics and economics, which have taken the place formerly occupied by religion, there is a growing tendency to persecution, which is not by any means confined to one party. the persecution of opinion in russia is more severe than in any capitalist country. i met in petrograd an eminent russian poet, alexander block, who has since died as the result of privations. the bolsheviks allowed him to teach æsthetics, but he complained that they insisted on his teaching the subject “from a marxian point of view.” he had been at a loss to discover how the theory of rhythmics was connected with marxism, although, to avoid starvation, he had done his best to find out. of course, it has been impossible in russia ever since the bolsheviks came into power to print anything critical of the dogmas upon which their regime is founded.
the examples of america and russia illustrate the conclusion to which we seem to be driven—namely, that so long as men continue to have the present fanatical belief in the importance of politics free thought on political matters will be impossible, and there is only too much danger that the lack of freedom will spread to all other matters, as it has done in russia. only some degree of political scepticism can save us from this misfortune.
for the present i am not in search of remedies, but am only concerned with diagnosis. we are faced with the paradoxical fact that education has become one of the chief obstacles to intelligence and freedom of thought. this is due primarily to the fact that the state claims a monopoly; but that is by no means the sole cause.
there are two quite different evils about propaganda as now practised. on the one hand, its appeal is generally to irrational causes of belief rather than to serious argument; on the other hand, it gives an unfair advantage to those who can obtain most publicity, whether through wealth or through power. for my part, i am inclined to think that too much fuss is sometimes made about the fact that propaganda appeals to emotion rather than reason. the line between emotion and reason is not so sharp as some people think. moreover, a clever man could frame a sufficiently rational argument in favour of any position which has any chance of being adopted. there are always good arguments on both sides of any real issue. definite mis-statements of fact can be legitimately objected to, but they are by no means necessary. the mere words “pear’s soap,” which affirm nothing, cause people to buy that article. if, wherever these words appear, they were replaced by the words “the labour party,” millions of people would be led to vote for the labour party, although the advertisements had claimed no merit for it whatever. but if both sides in a controversy were confined by law to statements which a committee of eminent logicians considered relevant and valid, the main evil of propaganda, as at present conducted, would remain. suppose, under such a law, two parties with an equally good case, one of whom had a million pounds to spend on propaganda, while the other had only a hundred thousand. it is obvious that the arguments in favour of the richer party would become more widely known than those in favour of the poorer party, and therefore the richer party would win. this situation is, of course, intensified when one party is the government. in russia the government has an almost complete monopoly of propaganda, but that is not necessary. the advantages which it possesses over its opponents will generally be sufficient to give it the victory, unless it has an exceptionally bad case.
the objection to propaganda is not only its appeal to unreason, but still more the unfair advantage which it gives to the rich and powerful. equality of opportunity among opinions is essential if there is to be real freedom of thought; and equality of opportunity among opinions can only be secured by elaborate laws directed to that end, which there is no reason to expect to see enacted. the cure is not to be sought primarily in such laws, but in better education and a more sceptical public opinion. for the moment, however, i am not concerned to discuss cures.
in america, which is the most advanced country industrially, and to a lesser extent in other countries which are approximating to the american condition, it is necessary for the average citizen, if he wishes to make a living, to avoid incurring the hostility of certain big men. and these big men have an outlook—religious, moral, and political—with which they expect their employees to agree, at least outwardly. a man who openly dissents from christianity, or believes in a relaxation of the marriage laws, or objects to the power of the great corporations, finds america a very uncomfortable country, unless he happens to be an eminent writer. exactly the same kind of restraints upon freedom of thought are bound to occur in every country where economic organization has been carried to the point of practical monopoly. therefore the safeguarding of liberty in the world which is growing up is far more difficult than it was in the nineteenth century, when free competition was still a reality. whoever cares about the freedom of the mind must face this situation fully and frankly, realizing the inapplicability of methods which answered well enough while industrialism was in its infancy.
there are two simple principles which, if they were adopted, would solve almost all social problems. the first is that education should have for one of its aims to teach people only to believe propositions when there is some reason to think that they are true. the second is that jobs should be given solely for fitness to do the work.
to take the second point first. the habit of considering a man’s religious, moral, and political opinions before appointing him to a post or giving him a job is the modern form of persecution, and it is likely to become quite as efficient as the inquisition ever was. the old liberties can be legally retained without being of the slightest use. if, in practice, certain opinions lead a man to starve, it is poor comfort to him to know that his opinions are not punishable by law. there is a certain public feeling against starving men for not belonging to the church of england, or for holding slightly unorthodox opinions in politics. but there is hardly any feeling against the rejection of atheists or mormons, extreme communists, or men who advocate free love. such men are thought to be wicked, and it is considered only natural to refuse to employ them. people have hardly yet waked up to the fact that this refusal, in a highly industrial state, amounts to a very rigorous form of persecution.
if this danger were adequately realized, it would be possible to rouse public opinion, and to secure that a man’s beliefs should not be considered in appointing him to a post. the protection of minorities is vitally important; and even the most orthodox of us may find himself in a minority some day, so that we all have an interest in restraining the tyranny of majorities. nothing except public opinion can solve this problem. socialism would make it somewhat more acute, since it would eliminate the opportunities that now arise through exceptional employers. every increase in the size of industrial undertakings makes it worse, since it diminishes the number of independent employers. the battle must be fought exactly as the battle of religious toleration was fought. and as in that case, so in this, a decay in the intensity of belief is likely to prove the decisive factor. while men were convinced of the absolute truth of catholicism or protestantism, as the case might be, they were willing to persecute on account of them. while men are quite certain of their modern creeds, they will persecute on their behalf. some element of doubt is essential to the practice, though not to the theory, of toleration. and this brings me to my other point, which concerns the aims of education.
if there is to be toleration in the world, one of the things taught in schools must be the habit of weighing evidence, and the practice of not giving full assent to propositions which there is no reason to believe true. for example, the art of reading the newspapers should be taught. the schoolmaster should select some incident which happened a good many years ago, and roused political passions in its day. he should then read to the school children what was said by the newspapers on one side, what was said by those on the other, and some impartial account of what really happened. he should show how, from the biased account of either side, a practised reader could infer what really happened, and he should make them understand that everything in newspapers is more or less untrue. the cynical scepticism which would result from this teaching would make the children in later life immune from those appeals to idealism by which decent people are induced to further the schemes of scoundrels.
history should be taught in the same way. napoleon’s campaigns of 1813 and 1814, for instance, might be studied in the moniteur, leading up to the surprise which parisians felt when they saw the allies arriving under the walls of paris after they had (according to the official bulletins) been beaten by napoleon in every battle. in the more advanced classes, students should be encouraged to count the number of times that lenin has been assassinated by trotsky, in order to learn contempt for death. finally, they should be given a school history approved by the government, and asked to infer what a french school history would say about our wars with france. all this would be a far better training in citizenship than the trite moral maxims by which some people believe that civic duty can be inculcated.
it must, i think, be admitted that the evils of the world are due to moral defects quite as much as to lack of intelligence. but the human race has not hitherto discovered any method of eradicating moral defects; preaching and exhortation only add hypocrisy to the previous list of vices. intelligence, on the contrary, is easily improved by methods known to every competent educator. therefore, until some method of teaching virtue has been discovered, progress will have to be sought by improvement of intelligence rather than of morals. one of the chief obstacles to intelligence is credulity, and credulity could be enormously diminished by instruction as to the prevalent forms of mendacity. credulity is a greater evil in the present day than it ever was before, because, owing to the growth of education, it is much easier than it used to be to spread misinformation, and, owing to democracy, the spread of misinformation is more important than in former times to the holders of power. hence the increase in the circulation of newspapers.
if i am asked how the world is to be induced to adopt these two maxims—namely (1) that jobs should be given to people on account of their fitness to perform them; (2) that one aim of education should be to cure people of the habit of believing propositions for which there is no evidence—i can only say that it must be done by generating an enlightened public opinion. and an enlightened public opinion can only be generated by the efforts of those who desire that it should exist. i do not believe that the economic changes advocated by socialists will, of themselves, do anything towards curing the evils we have been considering. i think that, whatever happens in politics, the trend of economic development will make the preservation of mental freedom increasingly difficult, unless public opinion insists that the employer shall control nothing in the life of the employee except his work. freedom in education could easily be secured, if it were desired, by limiting the function of the state to inspection and payment, and confining inspection rigidly to the definite instruction. but that, as things stand, would leave education in the hands of the churches, because, unfortunately, they are more anxious to teach their beliefs than freethinkers are to teach their doubts. it would, however, give a free field, and would make it possible for a liberal education to be given if it were really desired. more than that ought not to be asked of the law.
my plea throughout this address has been for the spread of the scientific temper, which is an altogether different thing from the knowledge of scientific results. the scientific temper is capable of regenerating mankind and providing an issue for all our troubles. the results of science, in the form of mechanism, poison gas, and the yellow press, bid fair to lead to the total downfall of our civilization. it is a curious antithesis, which a martian might contemplate with amused detachment. but for us it is a matter of life and death. upon its issue depends the question whether our grandchildren are to live in a happier world, or are to exterminate each other by scientific methods, leaving perhaps to negroes and papuans the future destinies of mankind.
the conway memorial lectureship
at a general meeting of the south place ethical society, held on october 22, 1908, it was resolved, after full discussion, that an effort should be made to establish a series of lectures, to be printed and widely circulated, as a permanent memorial to dr. conway.
moncure conway’s untiring zeal for the emancipation of the human mind from the thraldom of obsolete or waning beliefs, his pleadings for sympathy with the oppressed and for a wider and profounder conception of human fraternity than the world has yet reached, claim, it is urged, an offering of gratitude more permanent than the eloquent obituary or reverential service of mourning.
the range of the lectures (of which the thirteenth is published herewith) must be regulated by the financial support accorded to the scheme; but it is hoped that sufficient funds will be eventually forthcoming for the endowment of periodical lectures by distinguished public men, to further the cause of social, political, and religious freedom, with which dr. conway’s name must ever be associated.
the conway memorial lecture committee, although not yet in possession of the necessary capital for the permanent endowment of the lectureship, have inaugurated and maintained the work while inviting further contributions. the funds in hand, together with those which may reasonably be expected from supporters of the movement, will ensure the delivery of an annual lecture for some years at least.
the committee earnestly appeal for either donations or subscriptions from year to year until the memorial is permanently established. contributions may be forwarded to the hon. treasurer.
on behalf of the executive committee:—
printed by watts and co., johnson’s court, fleet street, e.c.4.
transcriber's note: minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. words printed in italics are noted with underscores: italics.
james frederick ferrier
famous scots series
the following volumes are now ready--
james frederick ferrier
e. s. haldane
famous scots series
published by oliphant anderson & ferrier edinburgh and london
the designs and ornaments of this volume are by mr. joseph brown, and the printing from the press of morrison & gibb limited, edinburgh.
james frederick ferrier
mr. oliphant smeaton has asked me to write a few words of preface to this little book. if i try, it is only because i am old enough to have had the privilege of knowing some of those who were most closely associated with ferrier.
when i sat at the feet of professor campbell fraser in the metaphysics classroom at edinburgh in 1875, ferrier's writings were being much read by us students. the influence of sir william hamilton was fast crumbling in the minds of young men who felt rather than saw that much lay beyond it. we were still engrossed with the controversy, waged in books which now, alas! sell for a tenth of their former price, about the conditioned and the unconditioned. we still worked at reid, hamilton, and mansel. but the attacks of mill on the one side, and of ferrier and dr. stirling on the other, were slowly but surely withdrawing our interest. ferrier had pointed out a path which seemed to lead us in the direction of germany if we would escape from mill, and stirling was urging us in the same sense. it was not merely that ferrier had written books. he had died more than ten years earlier, but his personality was still a living influence. echoes of his words came to us through grant and sellar. outside the university, men like blackwood and makgill made us feel what a power he had been. but that was not all for at least some of us. mrs. ferrier had removed to edinburgh--and i endorse all that my sister says of her rare quality. she lived in a house in torphichen street, which was the resort of those attracted, not only by the memory of her husband, but by her own great gifts. she was an old lady and an invalid. but though she could not move from her chair, paralysis had not dimmed her mental powers. she was a true daughter of 'christopher north.' i doubt whether i have seen her rival in quickness, her superior i never saw. she could talk admirably to those sitting near her, and yet follow and join in the conversation of another group at the end of the room. she could adapt herself to everyone--to the shy and awkward student of eighteen, who like myself was too much in awe of her to do more unhelped than answer, and to the distinguished men of letters who came from every quarter attracted by her reputation for brilliance. the words of no one could be more incisive, the words of no one were habitually more kind than hers. she had known everybody. she forgot nobody. in those days the relation between literature and the parliament house, if less close than it had been, was more apparent than it is to-day, and distinguished scottish judges and advocates mingled in the afternoon in the drawing-room, where she sat in a great arm-chair, with such men as sellar and stevenson and grant and shairp and tulloch. but her personality was the supreme bond.
those days are over, and with them has passed away much of what stimulated one to read in the institutes or the philosophical remains. but for the historian of british philosophy ferrier continues as a prominent figure. he it was who first did, what stirling and green did again at a stage later on--make a serious appeal to thoughtful people to follow no longer the shallow rivulets down which the teaching of the great german thinkers had trickled to them, but to seek the sources. if as a guide to those sources we do not look on him to-day as adequate, we are not the less under a deep obligation to him for having been the pioneer of later guides. what ferrier wrote about forty years ago has now become readily accessible, and what has been got by going there is in process of rapid and complete assimilation. the opinions which were in 1856 regarded by the authorities of the free and united presbyterian churches as disqualifying ferrier for the opportunity of influencing the mind of the youth of edinburgh, from the chair of logic and metaphysics in succession to sir william hamilton, are regarded by the present generation of presbyterians as the main reliable bulwark against the attacks of unbelievers. if one may judge by the essays in the recent volume called lux mundi, the same phenomenon displays itself among the young high church party in england. the time-spirit is fond of revenges.
but even for others than the historians of the movement of thought the books of ferrier remain attractive. there is about them a certain atmosphere in which everything seems alive and fresh. their author was no dryasdust. he was a living human being, troubled as we are troubled, and interested in the things which interest us. he spoke to us, not from the skies, but from among a crowd of his fellow human beings, and we feel that he was one of ourselves. as such it is good that a memorial of him should be placed where it may easily be seen.
r. b. haldane.
it may be a truism, but it is none the less a fact, that it is not always he of whom the world hears most who influences most deeply the thought of the age in which he lives. the name of james frederick ferrier is little heard of beyond the comparatively small circle of philosophic thinkers who reverence his memory and do their best to keep it green: to others it is a name of little import--one among a multitude at a time when scotland had many sons rising up to call her blessed, and not perhaps one of the most notable of these. and yet, could we but estimate the value of work accomplished in the higher sphere of thought as we estimate it in the other regions of practical work--an impossibility, of course--we might be disposed to modify our views, and accord our praises in very different quarters from those in which they are usually bestowed.
james ferrier wrote no popular books; he came before the public comparatively little; he made no effort to reconcile religion with philosophy on the one hand, or to propound theories startling in their unorthodoxy on the other. and still we may claim for him a place--and an honourable place--amongst the other famous scots, for the simple reason that after a long century of wearisome reiteration of tiresome platitudes--platitudes which had lost their original meaning even to the utterers of them, and which had become misleading to those who heard and thought they understood--ferrier had the courage to strike out new lines for himself, to look abroad for new inspiration, and to hand on these inspirations to those who could work them into a truly national philosophy.
james frederick ferrier's mother, margaret wilson, was a sister of professor john wilson--the 'christopher north' of immortal memory, whose daughter he was afterwards to marry. margaret ferrier was a woman of striking personal beauty. her features were perfect in their symmetry, as is shown in a lovely miniature, painted by saunders, a well-known miniature painter of the day, now in the possession of professor ferrier's son, her grandson. many of these personal charms descended to james ferrier, whose well-cut features bore considerable resemblance to his mother's. and his close connection with the wilson family had the result of bringing the young man into association with whatever was best in literature and art. while yet a boy, we are told, he sat upon sir walter's knee; the ettrick shepherd had told him tales and recited border ballads; while lockhart took the trouble to draw pictures, as he only could, to amuse the child.
it is known that ferrier took his bachelor's degree in 1832, and that he had by that time managed to acquire a very tolerable knowledge of the classics and begun to study philosophy, so that his time could not have been entirely idle. for the rest, he probably passed happily through his years at college, as many others have done before and after him, without allowing more weighty cares to dwell upon his mind. another friend of after days, the late principal tulloch, after noting the fact that oxford had not then developed the philosophic spirit which in recent years has marked her schools, and which had not then taken root any more than the high church movement which preceded it, goes on: 'it may be doubted, indeed, whether oxford exercised any definite intellectual influence on professor ferrier. he had imbibed his love for the latin poets before he went there, and his devotion to greek philosophy was an after-growth with which he never associated his magdalen studies. to one who visited the college with him many years afterwards, and to whom he pointed out with admiration its noble walks and trees, his associations with the place seemed to be mainly those of amusement. there is reason to think that few of those who knew him at magdalen would have afterwards recognised him in the laborious student at st. andrews, who for weeks together would scarcely cross the threshold of his study; and yet to all who knew him well, there was nevertheless a clear connection between the gay gownsman and the hard-working professor.'
in 1832, ferrier became an advocate at edinburgh, but it does not appear that he had any serious idea of practising at the bar. this is the period at which we know that the passion for metaphysical speculation laid hold of him,--a passion which is unintelligible and inexplicable to those who do not share in it,--and as ferrier could not clearly say in what direction this was leading him, as far as practical life was concerned, he probably deemed it best to attach himself to a profession which left much scope to the adopter of it, to strike out lines of his own. what led ferrier to determine to spend some months of the year 1834 at heidelberg it would be extremely interesting to know. the friend first quoted writes: 'i cannot tell of the influences under which he devoted himself to metaphysics. my opinion is that there were none, but that he was a philosopher born. he attached himself at once to the fellowship of sir william hamilton, to whom he was introduced by a common friend--i think the late mr. ludovic colquhoun. i know that he looked on sir william at that time as his master.'
probably the friendship with hamilton simply arose from the natural attraction which two sympathetic spirits feel to one another. it is clear that at this time ferrier's bent was towards metaphysics, and that, as mr. inglis says, this bent was born with him and was only beginning to find its natural outlet; therefore it would be very natural to suppose that acquaintance would be sought with one who was at this time in the zenith of his powers, and whose writings in the edinburgh review were exciting liveliest interest. a casual acquaintanceship between the young man of three-and-twenty and the matured philosopher twenty years his senior soon ripened into a friendship, not perhaps common between two men so different in age. it is perhaps more remarkable considering the differences in opinion on philosophical questions which soon arose between the two; for it is just as difficult for those whose point of view is fundamentally opposed on speculative questions to carry on an intercourse concerning their pursuits which shall be both friendly and unconstrained, as for two political opponents to discuss vital questions of policy without any undercurrent of self-restraint, when they start from entirely opposite principles. most likely had the two been actually contemporaries it might not have been so easy, but as it was, the younger man started with, and preserved, the warmest feelings to his senior; and even in his criticisms he expresses himself in the strongest terms of gratitude: 'he (hamilton) has taught those who study him to think, and he must take the consequences, whether they think in unison with himself or not. we conceive, however, that even those who differ from him most, would readily own that to his instructive disquisitions they were indebted for at least half of all they know of philosophy.' and in the appendix to the institutes, written soon after sir william's death, ferrier says: 'morally and intellectually, sir william hamilton was among the greatest of the great. a simpler and a grander nature never arose out of darkness into human life; a truer and a manlier character god never made. for years together scarcely a day passed in which i was not in his company for hours, and never on this earth may i expect to live such happy hours again. i have learned more from him than from all other philosophers put together; more, both as regards what i assented to and what i dissented from.' it was this open and free discussion of all questions that came before them--discussion in which there must have been much difference of opinion freely expressed on both sides, that made these evenings spent in manor place, where the hamiltons, then a recently married couple, had lately settled, so delightful to young ferrier. he had individuality and originality enough not to be carried away by the arguments used by so great an authority and so learned a man as his friend was reckoned, and then as later he constantly expressed his regret that powers so great had been devoted to the service of a philosophic system--that of reid--of which ferrier so thoroughly disapproved. but at the same time he hardly dared to expect that the labours of a lifetime could be set aside at the bidding of a man so much his junior, and to say the truth it is doubtful whether hamilton ever fully grasped his opponent's point of view. still, ferrier tells us that from first to last his whole intercourse with sir william hamilton was marked with more pleasure and less pain than ever attended his intercourse with any human being, and after hamilton was gone he cherished that memory with affectionate esteem. a touching account is given in sir william's life of how during that terrible illness which so sadly impaired his powers and nearly took his life, ferrier might be seen pacing to and fro on the street opposite his bedroom window during the whole anxious night, watching for indications of his condition, yet unwilling to intrude on the attendants, and unable to tear himself from the spot where his friend was possibly passing through the last agony. such friendship is honourable to both men concerned.
perhaps, then, it was this intercourse with kindred spirits (for many such were in the habit of gathering at the professor's house) that caused ferrier finally to determine to make philosophy the pursuit of his life--this combined, it may be, with the interest in letters which he could not fail to derive from his own immediate circle. he was in constant communication with susan ferrier, his aunt, who encouraged his literary bent to the utmost of her power. then professor wilson, his uncle, though of a very different character from his own, attracted him by his brightness and wit--a brightness which he says he can hardly bring before himself, far less communicate to others who had not known him. perhaps, as the same friend quoted before suggests, the attraction was partly due to another source. he says: 'how ferrier got on with wilson i never could divine; unless it were through the bright eyes of his daughter. wilson and ferrier seemed to me as opposite as the poles; the one all poetry, the other all prose. but the youth probably yielded to the mature majesty and genius of the man. had they met on equal terms i don't think they could have agreed for ten minutes. as it was, they had serious differences at times, which, however, i believe were all ultimately and happily adjusted.'
professor ferrier's daughter tells us that long after, in the summer of 1856, the family went to visit the english lakes, the centre of attraction being elleray, mr. ferrier's old home and birthplace. 'the very name of elleray breathes of poetry and romance. our father and mother had, of course, known it in its glorious prime, when our grandfather, "christopher north," wrestled with dalesmen, strolled in his slippers with wordsworth to keswick (a distance of seventeen miles), and kept his ten-oared barge in the long drawing-room of elleray. in these days they had "rich company," and the names of southey, wordsworth, de quincey, and coleridge were to them familiar household words. the cottage my mother was born in still stands, overshadowed by a giant sycamore.'
we can easily imagine the effect which society such as this would have on a young man's mind. but more than that, the friendship with the attractive cousin, margaret wilson, developed into something warmer, and an engagement was finally formed, which culminated in his marriage in 1837. not many of james ferrier's letters to his cousin during the long engagement have been preserved; the few that are were written from germany in 1834, the year in which he went to heidelberg; they were addressed to thirlstane house, near selkirk, where miss wilson was residing, and they give a lively account of his adventures.
wanderjahre--social life in scotland--beginning of his literary life
in the present century in germany we have seen a period of almost unparalleled literary glory succeeded by a time of great commercial prosperity and national enthusiasm. but when ferrier visited that country in 1834 the era of its intellectual greatness had hardly passed away; some, at least, of its stars remained, and others had very recently ceased to be. goethe had died just two years before, but heine lived till many years afterwards; amongst the philosophers, though kant and fichte, of course, were long since gone, schelling was still at work at munich, and hegel lived at berlin till november of 1831, when he was cut off during an epidemic of cholera. most of the great men had disappeared, and yet the memory of their achievements still survived, and the impetus they gave to thought could not have been lost. the traditional lines of speculation consistently carried out since reformation days had survived war and national calamity, and it remained to be seen whether the greater tests of prosperity and success would be as triumphantly undergone.
we can imagine ferrier's feelings when this new world opened up before him, a scottish youth, to whom it was a new, untrodden country. it may be true that it was his literary rather than his speculative affinities that first attracted him to germany. to form in literature he always attached the greatest value, and to the end his interest in letters was only second to his attachment to philosophy. german poetry was to him what it was to so many of the youth of the country from which it came--the expression of their deepest, and likewise of their freshest aspiration. the poetry of other countries and other tongues--english and latin, for example--meant much to him, but that of germany was nearest to his heart. french learning did not attract him; neither its literature nor its metaphysics and psychological method appealed to his thoughtful, analytic mind; but in germany he found a nation which had not as yet resigned its interest in things of transcendental import in favour of what pertained to mere material welfare.
such was the germany into which ferrier came in 1834. he did not, so far as we can hear, enter deeply into its social life; he visited it as a traveller, rather than as a student, and his stay in it was brief. considering the shortness of his time there, and the circumstances of his visit, the impression that it made upon him is all the more remarkable, for it was an impression that lasted and was evident throughout all his after life. since his day, indeed, it would be difficult to say how many young scotsmen have been impressed in a similar way by a few months' residence at a university town in germany. for partly owing to ferrier's own efforts, and perhaps even more owing to the 'boom'--to use a vulgarism--brought about by carlyle's writings, and by his first making known the marvels of german literature to the ordinary english-speaking public, who had never learned the language or tried to understand its recent history, the old traditional literary alliance between scotland and france appeared for the time being to have broken down in favour of a similar association with its rival country, germany. the work of goethe was at last appreciated, nothing was now too favourable to say about its merits; philosophy was suddenly discovered to have its home in germany, and there alone; our insularity in keeping to our antiquated methods--dryasdust, we were told, as the old ones of the schools, and perhaps as edifying--was vigorously denounced. theology, which had hitherto found complete support from the philosophic system which acted as her handmaid, and was only tolerated as such, was naturally affected in like manner by the change; and to her credit be it said, that instead of with averted eyes looking elsewhere, as might easily have been done, she determined to face the worst, and wisely asked the question whether in her department too she had not something she could learn from a sister country across the sea. hence a great change was brought about in the mental attitude of scotland; but we anticipate.
ferrier, after leaving heidelberg, paid a short visit to leipzig, and then for a few weeks took up his abode at berlin. from leipzig he writes to miss wilson again: 'how do you like an epistola dated from this great emporium of taste and letters, this culminating point of germanism, where waggons jostle philosophy, and tobacco-impregnated air is articulated into divinest music? it is fair-time, and i did not arrive, as one usually does, a day behind it, but on the very day it commenced. it will last, i believe, some weeks, and during that time all business is done on the open streets, which are lined on each side with large wooden booths, and are swarming with men and merchandise of every description and from every quarter of the world. it very much resembles a ladies' sale in the assembly rooms (what i never saw), only the ladies here are frequently jews with fierce beards, and have always a pipe in their mouths when not eating or drinking. as you walk along you will find the order of the day to be somewhat as follows. you first come to pipes, then shawls, then nails, then pipes, pipes again, pipes, gingerbread, dolls, then pipes, bridles, spurs, pipes, books, warming-pans, pipes, china, writing-desks, pipes again, pipes, pipes, pipes, nothing but pipes--the very pen will write nothing but pipes. pipes, you see, decidedly carry it. i wonder they don't erect public tobacco-smoke works, lay pipes for it along the streets, and smoke away--a city at a time. private families might take it in as we do gas!'
ferrier appears to have spent a week at frankfort before reaching his destination at leipzig. he describes his journey there: 'at frankfort i saw nothing worthy of note except a divine statue of ariadne riding on a leopard. after lumbering along for two nights and two days in a clumsy diligence, i reached leipzig two days ago. i thought that by the way i might perhaps see something worthy of mention, and accordingly sometimes put my head out of the window to look. but no--the trees, for instance, had all to a man planted their heads in the earth, and were growing with their legs upwards, just as they do with us; and as for the natives, they, on the contrary, had each of them filled a flower-pot, called a skull, full of earth, put their heads in it, and were growing downwards, just as the same animal does in our country; and on coming to one's recollection in the morning in a german diligence you find yourself surrounded by the same drowsy, idiotical, glazed, stained, and gummy complement of faces which might have accompanied you into carlisle on an autumn morning after a night of travel in his majesty's mail coach.'
berlin impressed ferrier by its imposing public buildings and general aspect of prosperity. it had, of course, long before reached a position of importance under the great frederick's government, though not the importance or the size that it afterwards attained. still, it was the centre of attraction for all classes throughout prussia, and possessed a cultivated society in which the middle-class element was to all appearances predominant. ferrier writes of the town: 'of the inside of the buildings and what is to be seen there i have nothing yet to say, but their external aspect is most magnificent. palaces, churches, mosque-like structures, spires and domes and towers all standing together, but with large spaces and fine open drives between, so that all are seen to the greatest possible advantage, conspire to form a most glorious city. at this moment a fountain which i can see from my window is playing in the middle of the square. a jet d'eau indeed!! it may do very well for a frenchman to call it that, but we must call it a perfect volcano of water. a huge column goes hissing up as high as a steeple, with the speed and force of a rocket, and comes down in thunder, and little rainbows are flitting about in the showery spray. it being sunday, every thing and person is gayer than usual. bands are playing and soldiers are parading all through the town; everything, indeed, is military, and yet little is foppish--a statement which to english ears will sound like a direct contradiction.'
our traveller had been given letters to certain berlin professors from young blackie, afterwards professor of greek in edinburgh university, who had just translated goethe's faust into the english tongue. 'i went about half an hour ago to call upon a sort of professor here to whom i had a letter and a faust to present from blackie--found him ill and confined to bed--was admitted, however, very well received, and shall call again when i think there is a chance of his being better. i have still another professor to call on with a letter and book from blackie, and there my acquaintance with the society of berlin is likely to terminate.' one other introduction to ferrier on this expedition to germany is mentioned in a note from his aunt, miss susan ferrier, the only letter to her nephew that has apparently been preserved: whether or not he availed himself of the offer, history does not record. it runs as follows:--
'edinr., 1st august.
'i could not get a letter to lord corehouse's german sister (countess purgstall), as it seems she is in bad health, and not fit to entertain vagabonds; but i enclose a very kind one from my friend, mrs. erskine, to the ambassadress at munich, and if you don't go there you may send it by post, as it will be welcome at any time on its own account.'
it was, as has been said, only about three years previously to this visit that hegel had passed away at berlin, and one wonders whether ferrier first began to interest himself in his writings at this time, and whether he visited the graveyard near the city gate where hegel lies, close to his great predecessor fichte. one would almost think this last was so from the exact description given in his short biography of hegel; and it is significant that on his return he brought with him a medallion and a photograph of the great philosopher. this would seem to indicate that his thoughts were already tending in the direction of hegelian metaphysics, but how far this was so we cannot tell. certainly the knowledge of the german language acquired by ferrier during this visit to the country proved most valuable to him, and enabled him to study its philosophy at a time when translations were practically non-existent, and few had learned to read it. that knowledge must indeed have been tolerably complete, for in 1851, when sir edward bulwer (afterwards lord lytton) was about to republish his translation of schiller's ballads, he corresponded with ferrier regarding the accuracy and exactness of his work. he afterwards, in the preface to the volume, acknowledges the great services ferrier had rendered; and in dedicating the book to him, speaks of the debt of gratitude he owes to one whose 'critical judgment and skill in detecting the finer shades of meaning in the original' had been so useful. ferrier likewise has the credit, accorded him by de quincey, of having corrected several errors in all the english translations of faust then extant--errors which were not merely literary inaccuracies, but which also detracted from the vital sense of the original. as to lord lytton, ferrier must at this time have been interested in his writings; for in a letter to miss wilson, he advises her to read bulwer's pilgrims of the rhine if she wishes for a description of the scenery, and speaks of the high esteem with which he was regarded by the germans.
during her infancy edinburgh had become mrs. ferrier's home, though she made frequent visits to westmorland, of whose dialect she had a complete command. the courtship, however, had been for the most part carried on at the picturesque old house of gorton, where 'christopher north' was temporarily residing, and which, situated as it is overlooking the lovely glen made immortal by the name of hawthornden, in view of roslin chapel, and surrounded by old-fashioned walks and gardens, must have been an ideal spot for a romantic couple like the ferriers to roam in. another friend writes of wilson's later home at elleray: 'in his hospitable house, where the wits of blackwood gathered at intervals and visited individually in season and out of season, his daughter saw strange men of genius, such as few young ladies had the fortune to see, and heard talk such as hardly another has the fortune to hear. lockhart, with his caricatures and his incisive sarcasm, was an intimate of the house. the ettrick shepherd, with his plaid and homely doric, broke in occasionally, as did also de quincey, generally towards midnight, when he used to sit pouring forth his finely-balanced, graceful sentences far on among the small hours of the morning. there were students, too, year after year, many of them not undistinguished, and some of whom had, we doubt not, ideas of their own regarding the flashing hazel eyes of their eloquent professor's eldest daughter.' but her cousin was her choice, though wealth offered no attraction, and neither side had reason to regret the marriage of affection.
at the time of his marriage ferrier had been practising at the bar, probably with no great measure of success, seeing that his heart was not really set upon his work. it was at this period that he first began to write, and his first contribution to literature took the form of certain papers contributed to blackwood's magazine, the subject being the 'philosophy of consciousness.' from that time onwards ferrier continued to write on philosophic or literary topics until his death, and many of these writings were first published in the famous magazine.
before entering, however, on any consideration of ferrier's writings and of the philosophy of the day, it might be worth while to try to picture to ourselves the social conditions and feelings of the time, in order that we may get some idea of the influences which surrounded him, and be assisted in our efforts to understand his outlook.
in the beginning of the nineteenth century scotland had been ground down by a strange tyranny--the tyranny of one man as it seemed, which man was henry dundas, first viscount melville, who for many long years ruled our country as few countries have been ruled before. what this despotism meant it is difficult for us, a century later, to figure to ourselves. all offices were dependent on his patronage; it was to him that everyone had to look for whatever post, advancement, or concession was required. and dundas, with consummate power and administrative ability, moulded scotland to his will, and by his own acts made her what she was before the world. but all the while, though unperceived, a new spirit was really dawning; the principles of the revolution, in spite of everything, had spread, and all unobserved the time-spirit made its influence felt below a surface of apparent calm. it laid hold first of all of the common people--weavers and the like: it roused these rough, uneducated men to a sense of wrong and the resolution to seek a remedy. not much, however, was accomplished. some futile risings took place--risings pitiable in their inadequacy--of hard-working weavers armed with pikes and antiquated muskets. of course, such rebels were easily suppressed; the leaders were sentenced to execution or transportation, as the case might be; but though peace apparently was restored and public meetings to oppose the government were rigorously suppressed, trade and manufactures were arising: scotland was not really dead, as she appeared. a new life was dawning: reform was in the air, and in due time made its presence felt. but the memory of these times of political oppression, when the franchise was the privilege of the few, and of the few who were entirely out of sympathy with the most part of their countrymen or their country's wants, remained with the people just as did the 'killing-time' of covenanting days two centuries before. time heals the wounds of a country as of an individual, but the operation is slow, and it is doubtful whether either period of history will ever be forgotten. at anyrate, if they are so as this century closes, they were not in the scotland known to ferrier; they were still a very present memory and one whose influence was keenly felt.
and along with this political struggle yet another struggle was taking place, no less real though not so evident. the religion of the country had been as dead as was the politics in the century that was gone--dead in the sleep of moderatism and indifferentism. but it, too, had awakened; the evangelical school arose, liberty of church government was claimed, a liberty which, when denied it, rent the established church in twain.
in our country it has been characteristic that great movements have usually begun with those most in touch with its inmost life, the so-called lower orders of its citizens. the nobles and the kings have rather followed than taken the lead. in the awakening of the present century this at anyrate was the case. 'society,' so called, remained conservative in its view for long after the people had determined to advance. scott, it must be remembered, was a retrogressive influence. the romanticism of his novels lent a charm to days gone by which might or might not be deserved; but they also encouraged their readers to imagine a revival of those days of chivalry as a possibility even now, when men were crying for their rights, when they had awakened to a sense of their possessions, and would take nothing in their place. the real chieftains were no more; they were imitation chieftains only who were playing at the game, and it was a game the clansmen would not join in. few exercises could be more strange than first to read the account of scottish life in one of the immortal novels by scott dealing with last century, and then to turn to miss ferrier or galt, depicting a period not so very different. setting aside all questions of genius, where comparison would be absurd, it would seem as if a beautiful enamel had been removed, and a bare reality revealed, somewhat sordid in comparison. the life was not really sordid,--realism as usual had overshot its mark,--but the enamel had been somewhat thickly laid, and might require to be removed, if truth were to be revealed.
so in the higher grades of edinburgh society the enamel of gentility has done its best to prejudice us against much true and genuine worth. it was characterised by a certain conventional unconventionality, a certain 'preciosity' which brought it near deserving a still stronger name, and it maintained its right to formulate the canons of criticism for the kingdom. edinburgh, it must be recollected, was no 'mean city,' no ordinary provincial town. it was still esteemed a metropolis. it had its aristocracy, though mainly of the order of those unable to bear the greater expense of london life. it had no manufactories to speak of, no mercantile class to 'vulgarise' it; it possessed a university, and the law courts of the nation. but above all it had a literary society. in the beginning of the century it had such men as henry mackenzie, dugald stewart, john playfair, dr. gregory, dr. thomas brown, not to speak of scott and jeffrey--a society unrivalled out of london. and in later days, when these were gone, others rose to fill their places.
of course, in addition to the movement of the working people, there was an educated protest against toryism, and it was made by a party who, to their credit be it said, risked their prospects of advancement for the principles of freedom. in their days toryism, we must recollect, meant something very different from what it might be supposed to signify in our own. it meant an attitude of obstruction as regards all change from established standards of whatever kind; it signified a point of view which said that grievances should be unredressed unless it was in its interest to redress them. the new party of opposition included in its numbers whig lawyers like gibson craig and henry erskine, in earlier days, and francis jeffrey and lord cockburn later on; a party of progress was also formed within the church, and the same within the precincts of the university. the movement, as became a movement on the political side largely headed by lawyers, had no tendency to violence; it was moderate in its policy, and by no means revolutionary--indeed it may be doubted whether there ever was much tendency to revolt even amongst those working men who expressed themselves most strongly. the advance party, however, carried the day, and when ferrier began to write, scotland was in a very different state from that of twenty years before. the reform bill had passed, and men had the moulding of their country's destiny practically placed within their hands. in the university, again, sir william hamilton, a whig, had just been appointed to the chair of logic, while moncreiff, chalmers, and the rest, were prominent in the church. the traditions of literary edinburgh at the beginning of the century had been kept up by a circle amongst whom lockhart, wilson, and de quincey may be mentioned; now carlyle, who had left edinburgh not long before, was coming into notice, and a new era seemed to be dawning, not so glorious as the past, but more untrammelled and more free.
how philosophy was affected by the change, and how ferrier assisted in its progress, it is our business now to tell; but we must first briefly sketch the history of scottish speculation to this date, in order to show the position in which he found it.
philosophy before ferrier's day
in attempting to give some idea of philosophy as it was in scotland in the earlier portion of the present century, we shall have to go back two hundred years or thereabout, in order to find a satisfactory basis from which to start. for philosophy, as no one realised more than ferrier, is no arbitrary succession of systems following one upon another as their propounders might decree; it is a development in the truest and highest significance of that word. it means the gradual working out of the questions which reason sets to be answered; and though it seems as if we had sometimes to turn our faces backwards, and to revert to systems of bygone days, we always find, when we look more closely, that in our onward course we have merely dropped some thread in our web, the recovery of which is requisite in order that it may be duly taken up and woven with the rest.
at the time of which we write the so-called 'scottish school' of reid, stewart, and beattie reigned supreme in orthodox scotland; it had undisputed power in the universities, and besides this obtained a very reputable place in the estimation of europe, and more especially of france. as it was this school more especially that ferrier spent much of his time in combating, it is its history and place that we wish shortly to describe. to do so, however, it is needful to go back to its real founder, locke, in order that its point of view may fairly be set forth.
in applying his mind to the views of locke, the ordinary man finds himself arriving at very commonplace and well-accustomed conceptions. locke, indeed, may reasonably be said to represent the ideas of common, everyday life. the ordinary man does not question the reality of things, he accepts it without asking any questions, and bases his theories--scientific or otherwise--upon this implied reality. locke worked out the theory which had been propounded by lord bacon, that knowledge is obtained by the observation of facts which are implicitly accepted as realities; and what, it was asked, could be more self-evident and sane? it is easy to conceive a number of perceiving minds upon the one hand, ready to take up perceptions of an outside material substance upon the other. the mind may be considered as a piece of white paper--a tabula rasa, as it was called--on which external things may make what impression they will, and knowledge is apparently explained at once. but though locke certainly succeeded in making these terms the common coin of ordinary life, difficulties crop up when we come to examine them more closely. after all, it is evident, the only knowledge our mind can have is a knowledge of its own ideas--ideas which are, of course, caused by something which is outside, or at least, as locke would say, by its quality. now, from this it would appear that these 'ideas' after all come between the mind and the 'thing,' whatever it is, that causes them--that is to say, we can perhaps maintain that we only know our 'ideas,' and not things as in themselves. locke passes into elaborate distinctions between primary qualities of things, of which he holds exact representations are given, and secondary qualities, which are not in the same position; but the whole difficulty we meet with is summed up in the question whether we really know substance, or whether it is that we can only hope to know ideas, and 'suppose' some substratum of reality outside. then another difficulty is that we can hardly really know our selves. how can we know that the self exists; and if, like malebranche, we speak of god revealing substance to us, how do we know about god? we cannot form any 'general' impressions, have any 'general' knowledge; only a sort of conglomeration of unrelated or detached bits of knowledge can possibly come home to us. the fact is, that modern philosophy starts with two separate and self-existent substances; that it does not see how they can be combined, and that the 'white-paper' theory is so abstract that we can never arrive at self-consciousness by its means.
berkeley followed out the logical consequences of locke, though perhaps he hardly knew where these would carry him. he acknowledged that we know nothing but ideas--nothing outside of our mind. but he adds the conception of self, and by analogy the conception of god, who acts as a principle of causation. whether there is necessary connection in his sensations or not, he does not say. hume followed with criticism, scathing and merciless. he states that all we know of is the experience we have; and by experience he signifies perceptions. ideas to him are nothing more than perceptions, and whether they are ideas simply of the mind, or ideas of some object, is to him the same. if we begin to imagine such conceptions as those of universality or necessity, of god or the self, beyond a complex of successive ideas, we are going farther than experience permits. we cannot connect our perceptions with an object, nor can we get beyond what experience allows. custom merely brings about certain conclusions which are often enough misleading. it connects effect and cause, really different events: it brings about ideas of morality very often deceptive. we have our custom of regarding things, another has his--who can say which is correct? all we can do is, what seems a hopeless task enough--we can try to show how these unrelated particulars seem by repetition to produce an illusionary connection in our minds.
both mind and matter appear, then, to be wanting, and experience alone is suggested as the means of solving the difficulty in which we are placed--a point in the argument which left an opportunity open to kant to suggest a new development, to ask whether things being found inadequate in producing knowledge, we might not ask if knowledge could not be more successful with things. but it is the scottish lines of attempted solution that we wish to follow out, and not the german. perhaps they are not so very different.
philosophy, as reid found it, was in a bad way enough, as far as the orthodox mind of scotland was concerned. all justification for belief in god, in immortality, in all that was held sacred in a century of much orthodoxy if little zeal, was gone. such things might be believed in by those who found any comfort in so believing, but to the educated man who had seriously reflected on them, they were anachronisms. the very desperateness of the case, however, seemed to promise a remedy. men could not rest in a state of permanent scepticism, in a world utterly incapable of being rationally explained. even the propounder of the theories allowed this to be true; and as for others, they felt that they were rational beings, and this signified that there was system in the world.
a champion arose when things were at their worst in thomas reid, the founder, or at least the chiefest ornament, of the so-called scottish school of philosophy. he it was who set himself to add the principle of the coherence of the universe, and the consequent possibility of establishing faith once more in the world. reid, to begin with, instead of looking at hume's results as serious, regarded them as necessarily absurd. he started a new theory of his own, the theory of immediate perception, which signified that we are able immediately to apprehend--not ideas only, but the truth. and how, we may ask, can this be done?
it had been pointed out first of all that sensations as understood by locke--that is, the relations so called by locke--might be separated from sensation in itself; in fact, that these first pertained to mind. hence we have a dualistic system given us to start with, and the question is how the two sides are to be connected? what does this theory of immediate perception, which reid puts forward as the solution, mean? is it just a mechanical union of two antitheses, or is it something more?
as to this last, perhaps the real answer would be that it both is, and is not. that is, the philosophy of reid would seem still dualistic in its nature; it certainly implies the mechanical contact of two confronting substances whose independence is vigorously maintained, in opposition to the idealistic system which it superseded; but in reference to reid we must recollect that his theory of immediate perception was also something more. as regards sensation, for example, he says that we do not begin with unrelated sensations, but with judgment--that is, we refer our sensations to a permanent subject, 'i.' sensations 'suggest' the nature of a mind and the belief in its existence. and this signifies that we have the power of making inferences--how we do not exactly know, but we believe it to be, not by any special reasoning process, but by the 'common-sense' innately born within us. common-sense is responsible for a good deal more--for the conceptions of existence and of cause, for instance; for reid acknowledges that sensations alone must fail to account for ideas such as those of extension, space, and motion. this standpoint seems indeed as if it did not differ widely from the kantian, but at the same time reid appears to think that it is not an essential that feelings should be perceptively referred to an external object; the first part of the process of perception is carried on without our consciousness--the mental sensation merely follows--and sensation simply supposes a sentient being and a certain manner in which that being is affected, which leaves us much where we were, as far as the subjectivity of our ideas is concerned. he does not hold that all sensation is a percept involving extension and much else--involving, indeed, existence.
following upon reid, dugald stewart obtained a very considerable reputation, and he was living and writing at the time ferrier was a young man. his main idea would, however, seem to have been to guard his utterances carefully, and enter upon no keen discussions or contentions: when a bold assertion is made, it is always under shelter of some good authority. but his rounded phrases gained him considerable admiration, as such writing often does. he carried--perhaps inadvertently--reid's views farther than he would probably have held as justifiable. he says we are not, properly speaking, conscious of self or the existence of self, but merely of a sensation or some other quality, which, by a subsequent suggestion of the understanding, leads to a belief in that which exercises the quality. this is the doctrine of reid put very crudely, and in a manner calculated to bring us back to unrelated sensation in earnest. stewart adopted a new expression for reid's 'common-sense,' i.e. the 'fundamental laws of belief,' which might be less ambiguous, but never took popular hold as did the first.
there were many others belonging to this school besides reid and stewart, whom it would be impossible to speak of here. the scottish philosophy had its work to do, and no doubt understood that work--the first essential in a criticism: it endeavoured to vindicate perception as against sensational idealism, and it only partially succeeded in its task. but we must be careful not to forget that it opened up the way for a more comprehensive and satisfactory point of view. it was with kant that the distinction arose between sensation and the forms necessary to its perception, the form of space and time, and so on. as to this part of the theory of knowledge, reid and his school were not clear; they only made an effort to express the fact that something was required to verify our knowledge, but they were far from satisfactorily attaining to their goal. the very name of 'common-sense' was misleading--making people imagine, as it did, that there was nothing in philosophy after all that the man in the street could not know by applying the smallest modicum of reflection to the subject. philosophy thus came to be considered as superfluous, and it was thought that the sooner we got rid of it and were content to observe the mandates of our hearts, the better for all concerned.
what, then, was the work which ferrier placed before himself when he commenced to write upon and teach philosophy? he was thoroughly and entirely dissatisfied with the old point of view, the point of view of the 'common-sense' school of metaphysicians, to begin with. sometimes it seems as though we could not judge a system altogether from the best exponent of it, although theoretically we are always bound to turn to him. in a national philosophy, at least, we want something that will wear, that will bear to be put in ordinary language, something which can be understood of the people, which can be assimilated with the popular religion and politics--in fact, which can really be lived as well as thought; and it is only after many years of use that we can really tell whether these conditions have been fulfilled. for this reason we are in some measure justified in taking the popular estimate of a system, and in considering its practical results as well as the value of its theory. now, the commonly accepted view of the eighteenth-century philosophers in scotland is that there is nothing very wonderful about the subject--like the bourgeois gentilhomme of molière, we are shown that we have been philosophising all our lives, only we never knew it. 'common-sense'--an attribute with which we all believe we are in some small measure endowed--explains everything if we simply exercise it, and that is open to us all: there has been much talk, it would seem, about nothing; secrets hidden to wise men are revealed to babes, and we have but to keep our minds open in order to receive them.
we are all acquainted with this talk in speculative regions of knowledge, but we most of us also know how disastrous it is to any true advancement in such directions. what happens now is just what happened in the eighteenth century. men relapse into a self-satisfied indolence of mind: in religion they are content with believing in a sort of general divine beneficence which will somehow make matters straight, however crooked they may seem to be; and in philosophy they are guided by their instincts, which teach them that what they wish to believe is true.
kant, as we have said, made an important development upon the position of hume. hume had arrived at the point of declaring the particular mind and matter equally incompetent to afford an ultimate explanation of things, and he suggested experience in their place. this is the first note of the new philosophy: experience, not a process of the interaction of two separate things, mind on the one hand, matter on the other, but something comprehending both. this, however, was scarcely realised either by hume or kant, though the latter came very near the formulation of it. kant saw, at least, that things could not produce knowledge, and he therefore changed his front and suggested starting with the knowledge that was before regarded as result--a change in point of view that caused a revolution in thought similar to that caused in our ideas of the natural world by the introduction of the system of copernicus. still, while following out his copernican theory, kant did not go far enough. his methods were still somewhat psychological in nature. he still regarded thought as something which can be separated from the thinker; he still maintained the existence of things in themselves independent and outside of thought. he gives us a 'theory' of knowledge, when what we want to reach is knowledge itself, and not a subjective conception of it.
here it is that the absolute idealism comes in--the idealism most associated with the name of hegel. hegel takes experience, knowledge, or thought, in another and much more comprehensive fashion than did his predecessors. knowledge, in fact, is all-comprehending; it embraces both sides in itself, and explains them as 'moments,' i.e. complementary factors in the one reality. to make this clearer: we have been all along taking knowledge as a dualistic process, as having two sides involved in it, a subject and an object. now, hegel says our mistake is this: we cannot make a separation of such a kind except by a process of abstraction: the one really implies the other, and could not possibly exist without it. we may in our ordinary pursuits do so, without doubt; we may concentrate our attention on one side or the other, as the case may be; we may look at the world as if it could be explained by mechanical means, as, indeed, to a certain point it can. but, hegel says, these explanations are not sufficient; they can easily be shown to be untrue, when driven far enough: the world is something larger; it has the ideal side as well as the real, and, as we are placed, they are both necessarily there, and must both be recognised, if we are to attain to true conceptions.
without saying that ferrier wholly assimilated the modern german view,--for of course he did not,--he was clearly largely influenced by it, more largely perhaps than he was even himself aware. it particularly met the present difficulties with which he was confronted. the negative attitude was felt to be impossible, and the other, the belief which then, as now, was so strongly advocated, the belief which meant a more or less blind acceptance of a spiritual power beyond our own, the belief in the god we cannot know and glory in not being able so to know, he felt to be an equal impossibility. ferrier, and many others, asked the question, are these alternatives exhaustive? can we not have a rational explanation of the world and of ourselves? can we not, that is, attain to freedom? the new point of view seemed in some measure to meet the difficulty, and therefore it was looked to with hope and anticipation even although its bearing was not at first entirely comprehended. ferrier was one of those who perceived the momentous consequences which such a change of front would cause, and he set himself to work it out as best he could. in an interesting paper which he writes on 'the philosophy of common-sense,' with special reference to sir william hamilton's edition of the works of dr. reid, we see in what way his opinions had developed.
the point which ferrier made the real crux of the whole question of philosophy was the distinction which exists between the ordinary psychological doctrine of perception and the metaphysical. the former drew a distinction between the perceiving mind and matter, and based its reasonings on the assumed modification of our minds brought about by matter regarded as self-existent, i.e. existent in itself and without regard to any perceiving mind. now, ferrier points out that this system of 'representationalism,' of representative ideas, necessarily leads to scepticism; for who can tell us more, than that we have certain ideas--that is, how can it be known that the real matter supposed to cause them has any part at all in the process? scepticism, as we saw before, has the way opened up for it, and it doubts the existence of matter, seeing that it has been given no reasonable grounds for belief in it, while idealism boldly denies its instrumentality and existence. what then, he asks, of dr. reid and his school of common-sense? reid cannot say that matter is known in consciousness, but what he does say is that something innately born within us forces us to believe in its existence. but then, as ferrier pertinently points out, scepticism and idealism do not merely doubt and deny the existence of a self-existent matter as an object of consciousness, but also because it is no object of belief. and what has reid to show for his beliefs? nothing but his word. we must all, ferrier says, be sceptics or idealists; we are all forced on to deny that matter in any form exists, for it is only self-existent matter that we recognise as psychologists. stewart tries to reinstate it by an appeal to 'direct observation,' an appeal which, ferrier truly says, is manifestly absurd; reasoning is useless, and we must, it would appear, allow any efforts we might make towards rectifying our position to be recognised as futile.
but now, ferrier says, the metaphysical solution of the problem comes in. we are in an impasse, it would appear; the analysis of the given fact is found impossible. but the failure of psychology opens up the way to metaphysic. 'the turning-round of thought from psychology to metaphysic is the true interpretation of the platonic conversion of the soul from ignorance to knowledge, from mere opinion to certainty and satisfaction; in other words, from a discipline in which the thinking is only apparent, to a discipline in which the thinking is real.' 'the difference is as great between "the science of the human mind" and metaphysic, as it is between the ptolemaic and the copernican astronomy, and it is very much of the same kind.' it is not that metaphysic proposes to do more than psychology; it aims at nothing but what it can fully overtake, and does not propose to carry a man farther than his tether extends, or the surroundings in which he finds himself. metaphysic in the hands of all true astronomers of thought, from plato to hegel, if it accomplishes more, attempts less.
metaphysic, ferrier says, demands the whole given fact, and that fact is summed up in this: 'we apprehend the perception of an object,' and nothing short of this suffices--that is, not the perception of matter, but our apprehension of that perception, or what we before called knowledge, ultimate knowledge in its widest sense. and this given fact is unlike the mere perception of matter, for it is capable of analysis and is not simply subjective and egoistic. psychology recognises perception on the one hand (subjective), and matter on the other (objective), but metaphysic says the distinction ought to be drawn between 'our apprehension' and 'the perception-of-matter,' the latter being one fact and indivisible, and on no account to be taken as two separate facts or thoughts. the whole point is, that by no possible means can the perception-of-matter be divided into two facts or existences, as was done by psychology. and ferrier goes on to point out that this is not a subjective idealism, it is not a condition of the human soul alone, but it 'dwells apart, a mighty and independent system, a city fitted up and upheld by the living god.' and in authenticating this last belief ferrier calls in internal convictions, 'common-sense,' to assist the evidence of speculative reason, where, had he followed more upon the lines of the great german idealists, he might have done without it.
now, ferrier continues, we are safe against the cavils of scepticism; the metaphysical theory of perception steers clear of all the perplexities of representationalism; for it gives us in perception one only object, the perception of matter; the objectivity of this datum keeps us clear from subjective idealism.
from the perception of matter, a fact in which man merely participates, ferrier infers a divine mind, of which perceptions are the property: they are states of the everlasting intellect. the exercise of the senses is the condition upon which we are permitted to apprehend or participate in the objective perception of material things. this, shortly, is the position from which he starts.
'fierce warres and faithful loves'
after his marriage in 1837, ferrier devoted his attention almost entirely to the philosophy he loved so well. he did not succeed--did not perhaps try to succeed--at the bar, to which he had been called. many qualities are required by a successful advocate besides the subtle mind and acute reasoning powers which ferrier undoubtedly possessed: possibly--we might almost say probably--these could have been cultivated had he made the effort. he had, to begin with, a fair junior counsel's practice, owing to his family connections, and this might have been easily developed; his ambition, however, did not soar in the direction of the law courts, and he did not give that whole-hearted devotion to the subject which is requisite if success is to follow the efforts of the novice. but if he was not attracted by the work at the parliament house, he was attracted elsewhere; and to his first mistress, philosophy, none could be more faithful. in other lines, it is true, he read much and deeply: literature in its widest sense attracted him as it would attract any educated man. poetry, above all, he loved, in spite of the tale sometimes told against him, that he gravely proposed turning in memoriam into prose in order to ascertain logically 'whether its merits were sustained by reason as well as by rhyme'--a proposition which is said greatly to have entertained its author, when related to him by a mutual friend. works of imagination he delighted in--all spheres of literature appealed to him; he had the sense of form which is denied to many of his craft; he wrote in a style at once brilliant and clear, and carelessness on this score in some of the writings of his countrymen irritated him, as those sensitive to such things are irritated. he has often been spoken of as a living protest against the materialism of the age, working away in the quiet, regardless of the busy throng, without its ambitions and its cares. sometimes, of course, he temporarily deserted the work he loved the best for regions less remote; sometimes he consented to lecture on purely literary topics, and often he wrote biographies for a dictionary, or articles or reviews for blackwood's edinburgh magazine. as it was to this serial that ferrier made his most important contributions, both philosophic and literary, for the next fifteen years, and as it was in its pages that the development of his system may be traced, a few words about its history may not be out of place, although it is a history with which we have every reason to be familiar now.
about 1816 the edinburgh review reigned supreme in literature. what was most strange, however, was that the conservative party, so strong in politics, had no literary organ of their own--and this at a time when the line of demarcation between the rival sides in politics was so fixed that no virtue could be recognised in an opponent or in an opponent's views, even though they were held regarding matters quite remote from politics. the whig party, though in a minority politically and socially, represented a minority of tremendous power, and possessed latent capabilities which soon broke forth into action. at this time, for instance, they had literary ability of a singularly marked description; they were not bound down by traditions as were their opponents, and were consequently much more free to strike out lines of their own, always of course under the guidance of that past-master in criticism, francis jeffrey. although his words were received as oracular by his friends, this dictatorship in matters of literary taste was naturally extremely distasteful to those who differed from him, especially as the influence it exerted was not a local or national influence alone, but one which affected the opinion of the whole united kingdom. for a time, no doubt, the party was so strong that the matter was not taken as serious, but it soon became evident that a strenuous effort must be made if affairs were to be placed on a better footing, and if a protest were to be raised against the cynical criticism in which the reviewers indulged. consequently, in april 1817, a literary periodical called the edinburgh monthly magazine was started by two gentlemen of some experience in literary matters, with the assistance of mr. william blackwood, an enterprising edinburgh publisher, whose reputation had grown of recent years to considerable dimensions. this magazine was not a great success: the editors and publisher did not agree, and finally mr. blackwood purchased the formers' share in it, took over the magazine himself, and, to make matters clear, gave it his name; thus in october of the same year the first number of blackwood's edinburgh magazine appeared. from a quiet and unobtrusive 'miscellany' the magazine developed into a strongly partisan periodical, with a brilliant array of young contributors, determined to oppose the edinburgh review régime with all its might, and not afraid to speak its mind respecting the literary gods of the day. every month some one came to their ears as miss higgins, who had charge of the little group, posed them against an old, overturned dory. "a perfect type--native--girls----freedom----wild beauty----" she resented the rotting dory. vick had leaned against a crimson velvet chair. why, her hair had not been combed since the morning before, her skirt was in tatters where she had torn it climbing into top notch; she was horribly conscious of her long legs, bare, brown, and bruised.
sidney found that posing in the morning sun on a beach at provincetown was not the lark vick had declared posing for the great stuart gelding had been. but then vick had flirted a little with stuart gelding and had always had a cup of tea with him and his wife afterward; these art students appeared to have forgotten that their models were human with legs that ached from holding a position and arms that trembled with very eagerness to move. it was not one bit of fun.
then, after an interminable time, miss craig called out cheerily; "there, that's enough for this morning," and came down to the dory, opening a little crocheted bag. from it she took two crisp one dollar bills. "take this, girls, and divide it. and we are ever so grateful--you were splendid types. we'll have you again some day."
sidney's hand had barely closed over her dollar bill when she spied a woman and a girl slowly walking along the wharf, watching with interest the artists who were still at work. the girl looked startlingly familiar to sidney. she gave a little gasp and ran forward.
"pola!" she called loudly.
the girl turned in astonishment at the sound of her name, stared for a moment, then quickly advanced laughing.
"why, you're the romley girl, aren't you? of all the things! what are you doing here?"
"i'm visiting my aunt," explained sidney, suddenly conscious of her appearance and in consequence painfully ill-at-ease.
"oh, and do they hire you to pose? what fun! i suppose that's a sort of costume they make you wear, isn't it?"
"y--yes," sidney faltered, miserably. pola's manner was prettily condescending and she made no move to join sidney on the beach.
"i'm a wreck myself," pola went on, airily surveying her trim and elegant person. "mother and i are motoring. and i made her bring me down here to see my cousin. he's an artist and lives here summers. he'll just despise seeing us because he comes here to get rid of everything home. and the car's broken down and goodness knows how long we'll have to stay."
"pola!" her mother called sharply.
pola waved her hand toward her mother. "yes, mamma!" then, to sidney, "isn't it simply rare our meeting like this? it shows how small the world is. i must run now! by-by!" she gave the slightest flip of her hand in sign of leave-taking and, turning, ran lightly up the wharf toward her mother.
sidney's eyes followed her, devouring her dainty clothes, the tight-fitting motoring hat, the buckled pumps. pola--the pola she had carried enshrined in her heart! that heart hurt now, to the core. she had dreamed of a meeting sometime, somewhere, had planned just what it would be like and what she'd say and what pola would say. and now pola had turned a shoulder upon it.
mart's laugh behind her roused her.
"who's guinevere, anyway? her ma called her just in time--we might a hurt the doll-baby!"
sidney turned on mart fiercely. "she's a friend of mine," she cried, in a voice she made rough to keep the tears from it. "and she's not a doll-baby."
"all right--go and play with her then--she's crazy about you, i guess." and with that mart swung on her heel and stalked away, her head in the air.
poor sidney hurried back to sunset lane to hide her humiliation and her dismay. for some reason she could not understand she had offended mart. and pola had snubbed her. it had indeed been a cruel fate that had brought pola out on the wharf at that precise moment!
she spent a lonely afternoon in top notch, too miserable to even pour out her heart to "dorothea." then she helped aunt achsa prepare supper and after supper, which was lonely, too, for neither lavender nor mr. dugald were there, she insisted upon clearing up the dishes while aunt achsa went down to tillie higgins'.
swishing her hands in the soapy water sidney pondered sadly the things she had longed to learn of pola. her name--why she hadn't even found out her name! what had her teacher said of that theme she had written on her visit to the romley house? where did pola live? of course she might see her again--pola had said that they'd be in provincetown for a few days, but she did not want to see her; she did not want pola to see sunset lane and the little gray cottage and aunt achsa and lavender. pola would laugh at them and she would hate her!
at that moment footsteps crunched the gravel of the path and a shadow fell across the kitchen door. sidney turned from the table. there stood mr. dugald and with him--pola.
"i've brought my cousin, sidney. she blew out to the cape with that ill-wind we felt this morning. if you know what we can do with her i'll be your slave for life."
playfully pushing dugald allan aside pola walked into the kitchen.
"isn't he horrid? you wouldn't dream that he's really crazy about me, would you? i told him how we'd met, even before this morning. he'd written home that miss green's cousin was here but i never dreamed it was you. i'm so sorry i didn't have a chance to introduce you to mother this morning. but mother wants me to take you back to the hotel. you can have a room right next to mine and we'll have scads of fun--you'll come, won't you?" for sidney's face was unyielding.
like one cornered, sidney stood straight against the table, her hands, red from the hot dish water, clasped tightly behind her back. though she knew that pola was trying to make amends for her rudeness of the morning, something within her heart turned hard. the dusty idol was crumbling to bits of clay.
"she's only inviting me because mr. dugald has told her to," she reasoned inwardly. and aloud she answered in a steady voice:
"i'm sorry, but i simply can't leave aunt achsa. you must come here and we'll find lots of jolly things to do--"
"here?" laughed pola, glancing around the old kitchen.
"why not here?" roared mr. dugald. "as long as you've broken into our secret garden we'll introduce you to some things you've never done before in your life. only sid will have to find some suitable clothes for you, and you'd better leave your complexion on the dressing table."
pola accepted his banter good-naturedly. "i shall be deeply grateful, old dear, if you will introduce me to any sensations i have not experienced before. there, now, will that hold you for awhile?" she turned to sidney. "we quarrel like this all the time, but it's fun and i always have the last word. i make him so mad he can't think of anything withering enough to say and i seize that strategic moment to cease firing. you see, i practice on dug. i will come tomorrow if i may. now, duggie dear, lead me out of this funny lane or else i'll never find my way back to mamma. goodby, miss romley."
behind pola's back mr. dugald cast such a despairing, apologetic and altogether furious look toward sidney as to make sidney suddenly laugh. and with her laugh all her sense of dismay and humiliation vanished. she forgot her red hands and the big gingham apron and the dishes spread about her in her amusement over pola's pathetic attempt to be very grown-up and sophisticated. and so ill-bred! how ashamed mr. dugald had been of her!
then a thought struck sidney with such force that she sat down in the nearest chair. why, if mr. dugald was pola's own cousin, belonged to the grandeur that was pola's, he would never be attracted by poor, plain trude. her beautiful hopes were shattered! she felt distinctly aggrieved.
however, there was vick. sidney hated to give mr. dugald to vick, who always got everything, yet it seemed the only thing to do if any of the sisters were to have him. almost sadly she went to her room, opened her satchel and took from it a small framed photograph of victoria, a photograph which, while it did not flatter victoria, paid full justice to her enticing beauty. considering it, sidney reflected on how lucky it was that at the last moment she had put the pictures of her sisters into her baggage. then she carried it to the kitchen and stood it on the narrow mantel next to the clock where mr. dugald's eyes must surely find it. unlike the snapshot of trude the picture remained there undisturbed.
early the next day pola appeared with mr. dugald in sunset lane in a simple garb that must have satisfied even her exacting cousin. her mood was in accord with her attire as though she had left her sophistication behind with her silks and her rouge. she declared she felt as "peppy as they make them" and ready to do anything anyone suggested. and mr. dugald, resigned to wasting two weeks to entertaining his young cousin, of whom he was really very fond, promptly offered an astonishing assortment of suggestions from which he commanded the girls to choose.
"why, you wouldn't believe there were so many things to do!" cried pola with real enthusiasm. "sidney, you'll have to decide." and sidney at once decided upon a tramp to peaked hill on the ocean side with an early picnic supper.
in the days that followed, sidney's first admiration for pola returned. though pola would never again be the idol she was much more enjoyable as a chum. her spirits, though an affectation, were infectious and gay; in her pretty clothes and with her pretty face she made sidney think of a butterfly, a fragile, golden-winged, dainty flitting butterfly. she professed to enjoy everything they did--even to the picnics. she tramped endlessly in her unsuitable shoes without a murmur of fatigue and sidney suspected that she really did care a great deal for her cousin dugald's approval.
with mr. dugald they motored to highland light and to chatham. they toured the shops at hyannis. they sailed with captain hawkes on the mabel t. they rose very early one morning and went to the coast guard station to watch the drill and then ate ham and eggs with commander nelson. more than once sidney donned the cherry crêpe de chine and dined with mrs. allan and pola and dugald at the hotel, feeling very grand and traveled.
but to sidney's deep regret pola professed an abhorrence of swimming.
"just please don't ask me," she had begged, shuddering. "i loathe it! it's one of my complexes. of course i've gone swimming in almost every body of water on the globe, but i hate it. you'll spoil my fun utterly if you even try to make me!" after that sidney could not urge. she did not know what complexes were, but pola had made them sound real and convincing and a little delicate. though sidney missed the jolly swims with lavender and mart she refrained from even a hint of her feelings.
often when they were together pola waxed confidential over her cousin. "he's a thorn in aunt lucy's side," she explained one day as the girls lounged in pola's room at the hotel, a huge box of candy on a stool between them. "she always wants him to go in for society and to go abroad with her and do all the fashionable resorts on the continent, but couldn't you see him? not for duggie boy, ever! when she starts planning something like that he bolts off somewhere and the next thing you hear is that he's painted a wonderful picture and sold it or had first mention or a gold medal. of course that makes him terribly interesting and there are dozens of single ladies from forty to fourteen itching to catch him. and dug's such a simple old dear that he doesn't know it. but his mother does and she has them all sorted over and the eligible ones ticketed. you see dug will be dreadfully rich some day and goodness knows what he'll do with the money for he hasn't the brains of a child where business is concerned. his father's even richer than dad."
sidney literally blinked before the picture pola drew--blinked and blushed that she had dared angle for mr. dugald herself like the forty-to-fourteen single ladies. mr. dugald belonged to a world that was foreign to the romley girls, pola's dazzling, peacock-world.
sidney felt immensely flattered that pola had taken her in among her peacocks. (secretly, too, she considered that she carried herself well among them. she was most careful of her dress, now!) she did not know that pola's sort instinctively seeks out someone to dazzle, that pola's generosity was a part of the dazzling process. she thought pola wonderful to accept so casually her gilded privileges. why, if pola didn't like a dress or a hat or a pair of shoes she simply didn't wear it; she could buy anything she wanted from any one of the priceless bits of jewelry in the shops at hyannis to the delectable sweets in the tea-rooms on commercial street. she could do just as she pleased--even more than mart, for she never had to darn or mend or wipe dishes or dust or hang up her clothes or brush them. realizing all this sidney came to forgive that first condescension that had stung; she thought pola little short of an angel to be so prettily friendly with them all.
so engrossed was sidney in basking in pola's favor that for a time she felt no compunctions at deserting mart and lavender; in fact she did not even think of them. both mart and lavender had become suddenly very busy with affairs that kept them out of sight. if, once in awhile, sidney wondered what they were doing something of pola's or something pola said quickly crowded the thought from her head. but one afternoon they encountered mart as they strolled toward the green lantern to sit under its gay awnings and drink tea. sidney introduced mart to pola and to cover pola's rude stare she added quickly: "we're going down to the green lantern, mart. won't you come with us?" conscious as she said it that her voice sounded stilted.
"no, thanks. i'm going to do something lots more exciting than sitting there! and i'm in a hurry, too." and with that mart swung on past them, her head high.
sidney had a moment's longing to run after her and coax her to come, but pola's light giggle checked her. "isn't she a riot? i'd have died if she'd come with us!"
"oh, pola--she'll hear you!" pleaded sidney.
she hated herself because she did not tell pola at once how bravely mart shouldered her responsibilities, about gran'ma, who looked to mart for everything. instead she simply walked along with pola and let pola giggle. pola, sensing sidney's feelings, slipped her arm through hers and gave it an affectionate little squeeze.
"you're such a funny child," she said softly. "you'd be nice to anything. i can't, of course, for i go around to so many places and mother's warned me often about strangers. anyway, it's lots nicer for just us two to be together, isn't it?"
but in spite of pola's soft flattery and countless lumps of sugar the tea tasted bitter to sidney and the green lantern, with its futurist awnings, its bizarre hangings and cushions, had no allure. the thought came suddenly to sidney that it had been a whole week since she had even seen mart; in that time she had scarcely exchanged more than a half dozen words with lavender.
to the tune of pola's ceaseless chatter sidney's thoughts kept darting back to that uncomfortable fact. pola always talked of things she had done at home, abroad, at school, of her boy friends whom she called "men." she liked to hint of countless "affairs" which simply must not come to her mother's attention, assuring sidney that she was absolutely the only one to whom she confided these deep intrigues. she had worn guy townsend's fraternity pin the whole winter before and not a soul had known whose pin it was for guy was tabooed by mothers in general and mrs. allan in particular. now pola was simply crazy over a jack sicard who was playing the lead in "hearts aquiver." but not even jack's manly beauty, as described by pola, failed to draw from sidney more than a mild: "he must be cute." pola gave way to vexation.
"you're scarcely listening to me, sidney romley, when i'm telling you things i haven't told a soul! i believe you're still thinking of that ridiculous girl we met."
"she isn't ridiculous!" sidney was prompt enough now in mart's defense. "she looks funny, but you see i've gotten well acquainted with her and she's awfully nice."
"oh, nice, of course! but anyone can be nice! you know perfectly well, sidney, that there's as much class in this country as there is in europe and being nice does not break down social barriers."
sidney had no answer ready for this. curiously into her mind flashed what mr. dugald had said about the solid aristocracy. but somehow she knew pola would not understand this. pola went on:
"i'm a dreadful little snob, anyway. but i suppose that is the result of my education. it would be funny to go to the most expensive schools and have all the culture that europe can offer and not be a snob."
pola mistook sidney's silence for hurt. "you goose, i'm not saying i think i'm any better than you are! but you must see that neither of us are a bit like that native girl!" which admission pola considered most generous.
"i wasn't thinking about whether you are any better than i am or not. i've been brought up, you see," with a rueful laugh, "to believe that my father being a poet set me a little apart from everyone else. and i've hated it. what i was thinking was that there really isn't any class difference in people--except what we make ourselves, like the league building a barrier around me and you thinking you're in another class from mart because you're rich. maybe it isn't really the outside things that count, maybe it's the big things we have got or haven't got inside us--"
"like what?" demanded pola.
sidney was thinking of lav's self-effacing ambition to serve the world from the seclusion of a laboratory, of mart's cheerfulness in the face of her lot and her loyal affection for her exacting and rheumatic grandmother; of the courage of mart's grandfather, ambrose calkins, who had lost his own life in going back to his sinking schooner for the cook who could not swim; of her own ancestor, priscilla ellis. those were the things which set people apart from their fellows, sidney thought, but the understanding was too new in her own heart for her to find words in which she could tell pola of it. "like what?" pola demanded again and this time her voice was a little haughty.
"oh, dug!" laughed pola. "he's nutty about all that! look at the way he lives here on the cape. but mother says he'll get over it when he marries. now i have no intention of getting serious this grand day so let's have another piece of that chocolate fudge cake--it's on me, too, remember!" which was pola's pretty way of pretending she did not know that sidney did not have any money with her. the dollar sidney had earned for posing had long since been spent.
sidney was relieved that pola had rescued her from the "deep water." at the same time she suffered from the sense that she had not made pola see mart in another light. she had failed in loyalty. the sparkling blue of the bay that stretched before them only reminded her that this was the hour she usually went swimming. due to pola's "complex" she had not gone swimming for a whole week.
even with her mouth full of the fudge cake, she vowed to herself that the very next day she would hunt out her chums and her old pastimes. pola and mr. dugald must plan without her!
she had promised to dine again at the hotel with pola and her mother but as soon as she could after dinner she returned to sunset lane. because of her determination her heart was lighter. and her way was made easier, too, for mrs. allan had told pola at dinner that the "truxtons were at chatham bars." pola had been as excited over the truxtons as her mother.
"can we go and see them right away?"
"not tonight. but i have arranged for a car and shields will drive us over tomorrow. we can stay there for a few days. i shall welcome the change for this place has been very stupid for me, my dear."
"poor mamma! i've been selfish. it'll be a lark seeing cora truxton again!" pola had explained to sidney: "we met the truxtons at nice. cora and millicent are both older, but they're the cutest girls. will we go in the morning, mamma?"
pola's manner had indicated that the coming of the truxtons into their plans raised a barrier that now excluded sidney. throughout the dinner she had talked exclusively of the trip on the morrow and the renewing of that acquaintance that had begun in nice. but sidney felt nothing but a sense of escape.
she found aunt achsa alone in the cottage on sunset lane. she was sitting on the doorstep, "coolin' off." sidney sat down beside her.
"where's lavender?" she asked, wishing lavender was at home that she might begin her "making up" at once.
"don't know. and i wish i did. don't know what's gotten into that boy. i'm as worried as can be."
"about lav? oh, what's the matter?" for aunt achsa was close to tears. something must have happened to break her habitual optimism.
"he's acted so queer like lately. cal'late you'd of noticed it if you hadn't been off so much with mr. dugald's folks. i thought it might a' been his stomach and i put a powder into his coffee, but he ain't been a mite different--"
"but what does he do, aunt achsa? he looks all right--"
now aunt achsa hesitated. one tear separated itself from its fellows and rolled down her withered cheek and dropped upon her withered hand. she looked at it, startled, then lifted her hand and dashed it across her eyes.
"aunt achsa, lavender is wonderful. he's talked to me a lot and he's going to be a great man some day, i know. he has the grandest plans shut away in his heart and he is happy--"
aunt achsa looked at her, startled. "plans--how can he when he's--" she bit off the words. her lips trembled.
"aunt achsa, it doesn't matter what one's like on the outside!" now sidney floundered for the second time in one day under the pressure of her own thoughts. "i mean--lav can do anything he wants to do, anyway. and he's working hard reading and studying and some day, after awhile, he'll go away somewhere and study more--"
"sidney romley, you're crazy!" cried aunt achsa, in a quavering voice. "go away! how can he go away when we ain't even the money to go 'sfar as orleans. and he ain't plannin' to go on anyone's charity!"
"oh, i don't mean he's going away soon! i shouldn't have told anyway for lav told me as a secret. but i thought maybe it would make you happier knowing he had great ambitions. and he'll tell you sometime himself."
when aunt achsa spoke it was in a thin, grieved voice.
"it's what i didn't want him to ever take into his head. goin' off somewhere--alone. for i'm too old to go with him and he'll need me!"
"oh i wouldn't have told you if i'd thought it would make you unhappy. he won't go for a long time, aunt achsa. and when he does he'll come back real often."
now aunt achsa sat so still that sidney thought she had consoled her. but aunt achsa was facing in her own way this at which sidney had hinted, drawing for it from that courage of hers that had not yet been exhausted. well, if it was best for lavender some day to go away she'd send him away with a smile even though the heart that had taken him, a wee baby, from the dying mother did burst with loneliness. besides, even if lavender went away she could go on praying to the lord to keep him "happy"--no distance could keep her from doing that!
"it's like as not his plans in his head that's makin' him act so quiet like and short-spoken. and last night he didn't sleep in his bed at all!"
"why, aunt achsa, where was he?" gasped sidney, really startled.
"i don't know, dearie. he used to take to spells like that when he was little. but lately he's got over them. i followed him once and i found him out in the sand dunes lying flat on his face cryin' awful--out loud and beatin' his arms. i let him be. i stole home and i never let on i knew. when he came back all white lookin' i had a nice cake ready--roll jell, his favorite."
"do--do you think he was out in the sand dunes--last night?"
"i don't know. he come in about nine o'clock, awful quiet and i didn't ask him anything, but i just set his breakfast before him as though the morning wa'n't half over. and then he went off again and i ain't seen him sense. i thought mebbe it was these folks of mr. dugald's--"
"what do you mean, aunt achsa?" but sidney knew what she meant.
"like as not lav's plain jealous. mr. dugald hasn't had any time for anything but toting this pola round everywhere and lav notices it. he hasn't any right to be jealous as i can see for miss pola is mr. dugald's own cousin, but lav thinks the sun rises and sets in mr. dugald. and like as not he misses you--"
"i've missed lav dreadfully. i didn't know how much i missed him and mart until today when it came over me suddenly that the things i was doing with pola weren't really much fun--just at first they were because they were different. i'm afraid, aunt achsa, that i love different things! but tomorrow i am going to play all day long with lav and mart, see if i don't. i can't wait for tomorrow to come!"
sidney found it a little difficult to take up the fun with her erstwhile chums where she had left off. when she stopped at the calkins' house directly after breakfast, mart coolly declined to go anywhere with her, and smiled scornfully at her bare legs.
"i s'pose your million-dollar friend is otherwise engaged today!"
sidney truthfully admitted that she was. "she's gone to chatham with her mother to see some people they know. and i'm glad. i've been just dying for a good swim. let's go out to the arabella this morning."
but mart declared she was tired of all that. in fact she was tired of doing lots of the silly things they'd been doing. she'd promised gert bartow to go there right after lunch.
as she wandered slowly toward the town sidney wondered what mart and gert bartow were going to do. gert bartow was a girl of nineteen at least, and much more grown up than even that. mart had pointed her out to sidney. sidney wished mart had asked her to go with her to gert's. she felt very lonely.
perhaps she had spoiled everything. pola would come back, of course, but, somehow, pola's glamour had faded. after all, what, besides tons of candy and quarts of sweet mixtures and much glitter, had there been to it? the sweets and the glitter and pola's endless confidences of "men" had left sidney jaded and bored, though she did not know it; she did know that she was suddenly lonely for mart and lav and the stimulating pastimes they seemed to find always right at hand.
as she approached rockman's, wandering there from force of habit, she saw lav pushing off in a dory. she ran down the wharf, hailing him.
"oh, lav, take me with you!" she pleaded, breathlessly.
he hesitated a moment before he swung the dory back to the wharf. something of the look mart had given her flashed into his eyes.
then: "come on if y'want to," he answered ungraciously.
as she sat down in the bow of the boat sidney wanted to cry more than anything else, but lav's dark face suddenly reminded her of what aunt achsa had told her. perhaps he had been out in the sand dunes last night, lying on his face, sobbing aloud! she began chattering with resolute cheerfulness.
"isn't it hot this morning, lav? where are you going?" lav answered shortly that he was going out to the arabella. sidney noticed a book in his pocket, but said nothing. she ventured other remarks concerning the activities in the bay to which lavender answered in monosyllables, if at all.
"oh, look, the puritan's in, lav!" and even to this lavender only grunted: "it's been in two days!"
by the time they reached the arabella sidney's remorse was yielding to a spark of indignation. lav needn't be quite so mad for, after all, it had been his own precious mr. dugald who had thrown her and pola so constantly together! and if lav had not hidden himself away he most certainly would have been included in all the plans. it was not fair in lav to act so cross.
"i know you came out to read, lav, and i've some thinking to do, so i'm going up in the bow and leave you quite to yourself," sidney said as they boarded the arabella, and if in her tone there was something of mart's tartness, it may be forgiven for sidney had been punished enough.
"i don't care if you hang 'round," lav conceded. "it's too hot to read, anyways. i thought maybe there'd be a breeze out here. what's that?" for he had suddenly spied an object lying on the deck close to the rail as though it had dropped there from someone's pocket.
at almost the same moment sidney spied it, too. both darted for it. lavender reached it first and picked it up and examined it with frowning eyes.
"it's a knife!" cried sidney, at his elbow.
"sure it's a knife. anybody can see that. what i want to know--"
"let me look at it. isn't it mr. dugald's?"
"no, it isn't mr. dugald's. he hasn't been out here for a week. and that knife wasn't here yesterday for i'd a' seen it."
"let me look at it, lav," pleaded sidney, for lav, a curious expression on his face, had covered the knife with his hand.
"it's funny, that's all i got to say. i mean--how it come here."
"lavender green, show me that knife this minute! you act so mysterious and i have a right to know why."
slowly lavender placed the knife in sidney's eager hands. it was an ordinary case knife such as the fishermen carried, but lavender pointed to two initials that had been carved on the case.
"j.s." repeated sidney; then she cried: "why--j.s.! that's jed starrow!"
"sure it's jed starrow!"
"but how did it get on the arabella?"
"that's what i'd like to know."
"he's been on the arabella, lav!"
"or someone of his gang."
"isn't that funny? what would he come here for?"
lavender was silent. and sidney, staring at him as though to read from his face some explanation, suddenly fell silent, too. the secret that cap'n davies had laid upon her weighed heavily. she wished she could tell.
"sid, i haven't played square," lavender suddenly blurted out, flushing. "we promised to tell one another if any one of us found out anything and i did--and i didn't tell!"
lavender's admission faded beside the fact that he knew something.
"oh, what?" sidney cried.
"i wasn't going to tell you. i thought you didn't care anything about the pirates any more. and the laugh's sort o' on me, anyway, because i thought we were all crazy to suspect jed starrow."
"tell me quick, lav," commanded sidney, quivering with excitement.
lav leaned against the rail. to tell his story meant confessing his state of mind.
"i guess i've been sore because you and mr. dugald fooled 'round with those new folks. jealous. i get that way lots of times--all hot inside because i'm different. and i go off somewhere alone and stay there until i fight it down."
"one night i did. stayed there all night. but one evening i went out on the breakwall. there's a place out there where the rocks are piled so's to make a cave. i used to play there a lot when i was a little kid. i crawled into it. and i hadn't been there very long when i heard somebody talking--two men. they were up close so's i heard everything they said."
"and what did they say, lav? oh, tell me quick!"
"i could only get scraps of it. i didn't dare look, i didn't dare move. but one fellow called the other jed. i heard 'em say something about 'risk' and a 'stranger from boston asking too many questions 'round rockman's to be healthy,' and jed starrow--i'm dead sure it was his voice--said, sort of blustering like, 'let them search the puritan! they won't find anything on her now!' and the other fellow answered him: 'there's too much in this, jed, to take any chances.' that's what they said, sid, and then they went on."
"oh, lav, they're pirates!"
"well, not exactly pirates, but they're up to something that's sure. maybe they're rum-runners. there's a lot of that going on. i thought you were crazy, but i guess you weren't."
sidney's lips trembled with eagerness. as long as lavender knew what he knew she felt that she would be justified in telling him what cap'n davies had told her.
"it isn't rum--lav," she whispered, "it's diamonds!"
"diamonds! oh, go on, where did you get that stuff?"
"sid, five thousand dollars!" lavender whistled.
"if someone 'round here's doing it cap'n davies wants to catch him himself. he says he doesn't want the reward but he wants to punish the man who's hurting the honest name of this part of cape cod. i think that's a grand spirit."
lavender's shoulders lifted. why couldn't someone else save the fair name of cape cod--someone like a crippled boy whom most of the towns-people looked upon as a loafer?
"i'd like to catch 'em, myself," he said slowly in such a low voice that sidney barely caught the words.
"oh, lav, why not? we have as good a chance as anyone, knowing as much as we do. what'll we do first?" for sidney was ready for adventure.
suddenly lavender realized that he was gripping the knife in his hand. he looked down at it.
"what we ought to do first is to find out how this knife got here. let's put it where we found it and go back around the other side of that schooner so's no one on the puritan'll see us. then we can come out late this afternoon and if it's gone--well, we'll know someone came to look for it!"
"and then we'd know for sure that someone had been on the arabella."
"that's the idea. you get on quickly for a girl, sid. come on, now, we'll pull the dory round to the starboard side."
sidney caught herself tiptoeing across the deck of the arabella. in her excitement she scarcely breathed. every move, every act, was fraught with significance. lavender took the precaution to beach the dory at an abandoned wharf near sunset lane.
"just as well not to show ourselves 'round rockman's."
"when can we go out to the arabella?"
"not 'till four o'clock. we can go out to swim just like we always do. even if they see us they won't think it's funny for us to do that. they'd think it funnier if we didn't."
sidney admitted the truth of this, but wondered how she could live until four o'clock!
as they walked up sunset lane sidney reminded lavender that, because of their promise, they ought to tell mart. but when they stopped at the calkins' house they found that mart had already gone to gert bartow's.
"oh, dear," sighed sidney, with an added pang of remorse.
at four o'clock sidney and lavender went out to the arabella to swim as they had done always before pola's coming. except for a brightness in sidney's eyes, an alertness about her whole body, and the occasional significant glances that passed between them they both appeared quite normal. lav talked casually of the heat of the day.
"gee, the water'll feel great. this is the hottest day we've had yet."
"i can't wait to get in." most certainly jed starrow, had he been listening, could not have guessed how closely nemesis pressed upon his heels!
lavender pulled up alongside of the arabella and deliberately made the boat fast.
"we got to act as though we haven't found the knife, y'see," he warned. "as though we were going just swimming."
in her eagerness to board the arabella sidney stumbled. lavender had to clutch her to keep her from tumbling into the water.
"oh!" they both cried in one sound as they clambered to the deck--for the knife was gone!
"well, that means they'd been on the arabella. jed starrow dropped that knife and he missed it and came back to look for it!"
"lav, i believe they've hidden their treasure on the arabella!" sidney still reverted to the more romantic terms of buccaneering. "let's look for it now!"
"with 'em watching maybe from the puritan? i guess not. we got to go ahead and swim the way we always do, sid. don't let's even appear to be talking about anything. come on, i'll beat you in!"
for the space of the few minutes while the water closed about her with delicious coolness sidney forgot everything in an intoxication of delight. presently she came back to the arabella and climbed aboard with a sigh of utter content. "thank goodness i haven't any complexes," she laughed, shaking the salt drops from her bobbed head. "and now what?"
lavender pulled on the light sweater he had worn over his bathing suit.
"when it gets dark i'm coming out to the arabella and stay all night. maybe they'll come back and i'll find out why. that fellow said something 'bout rockman's not being safe. they'll learn the arabella isn't safe either!"
"but lav, i'm coming with you!"
"you can't. and this isn't any work for a girl to get mixed up in."
sidney drew herself to her full height.
"lavender green, if you think you're going to lose me now you're mistaken. i guess we went into this in a sort of partnership and it's going to hold. i found out just as much as you did! and if you come out to the arabella, i'm coming, and mart, too, if she's home."
lav still hesitated.
"aunt achsa won't let you. how'd you get away?"
this staggered sidney for a moment, then she thought of a "way." this was wednesday night and miss letty had said that on wednesday night she was going to drive to truro and that sidney might go with her. from truro miss letty was going on to wellfleet. aunt achsa would think sidney wanted to see cap'n davies again. she explained all this breathlessly to lavender. "this is important enough to warrant a fib. and when it's all over aunt achsa will understand. let's go home now and find mart."
unwillingly lavender conceded sidney's right to share with him his night's vigil at any cost. again they beached the dory near sunset lane.
now they found mart at home. sidney put her head in the door, made certain that gran'ma was not in hearing, and cried "hook!"
mart had only to look once at sidney's face to know that something had happened. sidney dragged her out to the lane and there she and lavender, in words as quick as pistol shots, told the story.
"meet us down on the beach near milligan's at eight o'clock," lav whispered, as they parted.
exactly at the appointed hour sidney met lavender on the beach. she was breathless and a little worried for it had been neither easy nor to her liking to deceive aunt achsa. aunt achsa had declared that a storm was "comin'" for she could smell it in the air and tillie higgins had seen sam doolittle start for the backside with his pike pole and that meant a blow for sam didn't waste steps. "'tisn't likely letty vine'll go to truro tonight."
"but i'll see if she's going, anyway," sidney had cried and had raced off, a sweater over her arm.
"i wish i could tell her how very important it is and then she'd understand, but i can't for maybe she wouldn't understand," sidney thought as she hurried to the rendezvous.
"gee, how'd you ever get away?" asked lav, admiringly, but sidney had no opportunity to explain for at that moment mart joined them, eager and excited.
"i put some cookies in my pocket," she exclaimed. "you can't tell what'll happen."
"good. and i've got matches."
sidney wished she had thought of something to bring. lav went on:
"it isn't dark enough to go out yet. we got to be awful careful. you girls sort o' walk up the beach as though we weren't all together."
lavender was actually pale and his eyes burned fiercely. sidney looked at him admiringly. she knew he was not thinking of the reward but of the fair name of the cape.
obediently the girls strolled up the beach. and, as they turned, a voice hailed them. to their consternation pola came flying toward them.
at sight of her sidney bit her lips with vexation. she gave a sidewise glance at mart and saw mart's chin set stubbornly.
"sidney--wait a minute!" pola called and sidney could do nothing but wait until pola came up to them.
"i thought you were going to stay in chatham tonight."
"i should say not!" pola had enough breath to make her answer expressive. "i was never so bored in my life. those truxton girls are stupid. and i kept wondering what you were doing. i coaxed mother to let shields bring me back and she said she would provided i came and stayed with you tonight. can you squeeze me in? dug will give me his room, i know."
sidney cast a wild glance toward mart. she started to answer, then stopped. pola looked from her to mart and back again to sidney.
"what's the mystery? if you don't want me i'll go to the hotel."
"oh, pola, it isn't that. it's--it's--"
the girls turned slowly and walked toward lav and the dory, pola between them.
"it isn't any fun," sidney explained slowly. "it's something serious--and--and dangerous. and you'll have to ask mart and lav if you can come with us."
"you'll let me go, won't you, mart?" pola begged with friendly entreaty, forgetting she had ever thought mart a riot.
sidney introduced pola to lavender and turned away that she might not see the pain that flashed across lavender's face.
"pola came back to stay all night with me. she wants to go with us and if she doesn't i guess i'll have to go back home."
"i'll do anything you say," promised pola. "i'm so curious that i'm fairly bursting."
"i don't care, but you'll have to take off your shoes and stockings," muttered lav, scarcely looking at pola.
"oh, i'll do that! i'll do anything!" pola flopped upon the beach and commenced removing her sport shoes. "and i won't even ask any questions until you're ready to tell me." rising, her small feet pink against the sand, she saluted lav with mock solemnity.
"there, captain lavender green, i'm at your command."
her pretty acquiescence won the girls at once. if any doubt assailed them as to the prudence of letting pola go, their admiration for pola's gameness stilled it. sidney rolled pola's shoes and stockings and her own in her sweater and hid them behind some logs. then the little party waded out to the dory and embarked.
"we're going to the arabella," sidney whispered to pola. she felt pola shiver, but the girl made no protest. "we have to go 'round this way so's no one can see us from the harbor. sh--h!"
silently they boarded the old hull, lavender last. with the line from the dory in his hand the boy considered.
"if anyone comes up and sees the dory they'll know someone's aboard."
"that's true. what'll we do?" whispered sidney, anxiously.
"we can set her adrift. it's an old tub anyway."
"but how'll we get ashore?"
"the tide'll be out towards morning."
"you mean swim?" cried pola. "but i can't swim! i--i--"
true, pola's complex! sidney hastened to reassure her.
"when the tide's out it won't be over your head. and i'll help you."
lavender had already let the line of the dory slip out of his hand. they saw the old boat become a shadowy outline as the tide carried it slowly away, then--nothing. pola caught sidney's hand and held it.
"i'm not frightened--but it's so--spooky!"
it had been decided that they should conceal themselves in the fo'castle cabin. they groped their way forward, sidney guiding pola in the dark, for lavender dared not light any of his matches. stumbling, scarcely breathing, they slipped down the companion ladder and crawled into the small, ill-ventilated cabin. sidney sat down upon some tarpaulins. pola crouched close to sidney's side. lav and mart stowed themselves upon one of the bunks.
"there--now we'll wait!"
"i--i wish i knew what for!" whispered pola. the smell of rank bilge water, the lift and drop of the boat sickened her. the wind was whining and that and the swish of the water against the sides of the boat terrified the girl.
in a few short words lav vouchsafed pola a little information. like sidney he admired the girl's gameness though he was beginning to wish they had not let her come.
"how long do you think we'll have to wait? and what if no one comes?"
"we'll have to wait until most morning anyway before the tide is out. and if no one comes tonight we'll have to come out again, that's all. we're not in this business for any fun!"
"oh--h!" sighed pola, clinging closer to sidney.
the wind howled over their heads with increasing velocity and sidney thought involuntarily of the snugness of miss letty's buggy. miss letty was probably almost to truro now. and aunt achsa thought she was with her!
"is--is the boat tied tight?" asked pola; and lav assured her that it was. "the wind could get a lot worse and you'd be as safe out here as in your bed at home."
after a long while mart muttered, "what's that?" the others leaned forward in the blackness of the cabin. they had all felt rather than heard a soft thud as though something had touched the side of the boat. and in a few moments heavy footsteps came straight toward the fo'castle.
"oh, will they come here?" breathed pola, shaking. and for answer sidney caught pola's arm with a warning clutch.
for an instant it seemed that the footsteps must descend to the cabin. but at the companionway they halted. a voice came, heavy and thick.
"i tell you it ain't safe to take it off now. they got a man on rockman's and another on teal's and no knowin' how many in the bay! every constable on the cape's here, damn them! and old davies's been 'round all day and he ain't rigged up for any picnic!"
"if we don't take it off tonight lav green may find it--or that girl--"
sidney, reaching her hand out instinctively, caught lavender's and held it tight. she felt the writhing of his body.
a new voice broke in above them. "i got a better scheme. listen. we'll--" but the voices suddenly died to silence; the footsteps moved away.
the four, huddled in the darkness of the cabin, drew long trembling breaths.
"lav, those diamonds are on this boat!"
"sh--h. i know it. but we got to be careful. they haven't gone yet. we got to wait. and we'll wait until we find 'em. damn them i'll show them who's crooked!"
"hush," implored sidney. "of course you will"
"isn't it most morning? i--i wish i was home," quavered pola; but no one paid any heed to her.
with the howling of the wind, the slap-slap of the water, it was difficult to make out whether the men had left the boat or not. once lav crawled to the top of the companion ladder but a muttering like a human voice drove him back. queer sounds struck upon their sensitized ears. and the boat seemed to lift to a new motion.
they waited for an interminable time. then mart spoke quickly.
"lav, we're moving!"
lav needed no warning. he, too, had missed the pull of the boat on the anchor rope. he shot up the ladder.
"oh, what's the matter?" cried sidney and pola, forgetting all caution.
mart had no time to explain her fears. in an instant lav was back, fairly throwing himself into the cabin.
"we're drifting! they cut the anchor rope! we're drifting out! fast! way out! to sea!"
that had been the "better scheme." to cut the arabella free from its mooring and let the wind and tide carry it out into the bay. at first starrow had not favored the plan; he had declared that it was too much risk, that the wind was shifting and freshening fast and that the old tub might open a seam, but joe josephs had convinced him with: "the arabella would be good for a week out in a nastier sea than this. it's safer than riskin' runnin' afoul one of phin davies' men ashore. guthrie's sally'll stand this squall and pick up the arabella easy and we can reckon sure on the course the old tub'll take, even 'lowin' for the wind to shift."
as she comprehended what had happened pola screamed. mart and sidney dragged her with them up the ladder. lav was at the side of the boat tearing off his blouse.
"oh, lav, what'll we do! what are you going to do now?" cried sidney.
"it's so black," wailed pola. "i'm--sick!"
"you shan't swim alone, lavender green. we'll all swim. that's nothing of a swim--"
"you can't! you forget--pola."
sidney wheeled in consternation. "pola's complex!" the girl was crouched, now, on the deck, an abject, wailing figure.
"you go with lav, mart," said sidney in a quiet voice. "i'll stay with pola."
"what do you think i am? i guess i'll stay with her too!"
"but your grandmother--"
"oh, gran'ma!" mart's voice choked. "but she'd be the one to tell me to stay--"
"maybe it's too far for you to swim!" sidney was at lavender's side, her hands on his arm. the boy's form in its light underwear showed pitifully crooked but sidney saw him straight and she saw the gleam in his eyes. suddenly she remembered what vick had said so lightly about the grail. ah, she was seeing its gleam now, transcendently beautiful, in lav's eyes! she dropped her hold of his arm.
"you see, i've got to try it, sid." and she understood. he went on: "i'll swim for the lighthouse. they can telephone from there to rockman's. you girls find a light and signal with it. don't lose your nerve, sid." he poised for an instant on the rail then plunged into the black water.
"oh, lav," cried sidney. she leaned far over the side of the boat. she could see nothing but a crest of foam. "mart, he's--he's--drowned!"
pola screamed again.
"there's something wrong!"
in the sunny embrasure of mrs. white's morning room trude romley sorted over the mail that pepper, the butler, had brought in. so gay and colorful was the room itself with its cretonnes, its soft tinted walls, its singing birds, in wicker cages, that it seemed a part of the fragrant garden that crowded close to the french windows. a tiny fountain splashed azure blue water over delicately sculptured nymphs; a flowering vine trailed around the windows.
the mail arranged, trude sat back in the cushions of a great wicker chair and with a long breath of delight enjoyed the beauty around her. each day edgeacres enraptured her anew and roused in her a wonder as to why it should be her lot to be there. "it ought to be vick or issy," she would apologize to the nodding flowers or to mitie, the yellow warbler.
and as might be expected trude had found innumerable ways of making herself useful to mrs. white as an expression of her gratitude. there were telephone calls she could answer, letters she could write, shopping she could do, ordering, she even conferred with old pepper and jonathan, the gardener. she drove with mrs. white in the afternoon and served tea to the callers who flocked to the house from the nearby summer hotels.
"i do not know how i ever got along without you, my dear," mrs. white had said more than once. "what do you do to make yourself so invaluable? it seems as though just to look at you one leans on you! even pepper is saying 'miss trude thinks this and miss trude thinks that--'"
her benevolent interest in her husband's wards, a certain pride in saying to her friends: "my husband, you know, is looking after the daughters of joseph romley, who was a college friend of his," had grown into a real fondness for trude. "i have never appreciated the dear girl when she's been with us before," she declared to her husband. "i suppose it was because we were in town, then, and i was too busy to get acquainted with her. why, she's really pretty. and she makes such a slave of herself to her sisters! she hasn't any life of her own. i don't believe they appreciate it, either. it's a shame she doesn't marry some nice young man--" mrs. white's kind always found virtue's reward in the proverbial "nice young man."
mr. white agreed with her on every point but this. "if she deserted that household it would fall! she's the only one that isn't like her father."
"then she must find someone who'll take the family with her," mrs. white asserted determinedly. but having no godmother's fairy wand she had not been able, during the summer weeks, to bring the prince to edgeacres; her husband's acquaintances were too bald and round to play the part of princes.
trude had not minded the dearth of young men. since her unhappy experience on a former visit she was glad of that dearth. the serenity of the summer, the relaxation and rest from responsibilities had brought a lovely freshness to her face, a brightness to her eyes that was not all a reflection of the brightness about her. the sheer luxury of loafing, of not having to think out petty problems or worry one single minute was all her old-young heart now asked. once in awhile, of course, she fretted because isolde was not enjoying edgeacres with her, or getting to know how really nice aunt edith white was. where vick and sidney were concerned she had no remorse for vick was seeing new lands, doubtless conquering them, and sidney was happy at cape cod; but she could not help thinking that issy must be working too hard at the deerings--getting up early in the morning and typing all through the hot day and doubtless fussing over the housework and the small babies as well.
trude thought of the mail. again there had been no letter from either issy or sidney! sidney really ought to write. perhaps it had not been wise to let her go off alone with relatives of whom they knew nothing!
suddenly a postmark on one of the letters on the little table at her elbow caught her eye. provincetown. trude caught it up apprehensively. that letter might be from their cousin achsa! she turned it over and over, wishing she might open it.
"good morning, my dear! i get up with the birds myself and find that you're up before me!"
trude laughed, to cover her anxiety. "i told jonathan i'd inspect his new beds this morning."
"there, didn't i say you were supplanting me in jonathan's esteem? but he only wants you to admire them and smile at him. he knows you know nothing about gardens, even though you are a very wise young woman! ah, the mail--is there anything there worth looking at before breakfast?"
"two cards, three advertising envelopes and--and two personal letters." trude held out the two letters, her heart beating in her throat.
mrs. white glanced at them indifferently. she turned one as though to tear open the envelope, then stopped to play with mitie. next she gave her attention to pepper who appeared in the door to summon her to breakfast. and all the time trude's eyes were beseeching her to open them--to open one of them quickly.
trude followed her into the breakfast room and sat down across from her. after she had eaten her fruit mrs. white took up the envelope that was postmarked provincetown and studied it while trude waited.
"why, that's from laura craig--a cousin of mine. i remember now she said she was going to study in a summer school on cape cod. i hope the girl's getting on. she's dependent upon her own labor." as she spoke she spread out the sheet. a sketch dropped to the table.
trude drew a long breath. she had not known how worried she was. she wanted to laugh aloud now from sheer relief. because she had to do something she took up the sketch with a murmured: "may i?"
"laura writes it's a little sketch she made in class. 'this will show you i am improving. it's from life. it will give you an idea of the delightful types we find around here, types that you will not find anywhere else. these are two little vagabonds whom you see almost anytime on the beach or around the wharves--as wild and free and beautiful as the seagulls--'"
mrs. white looked up from the letter to take the sketch and exclaimed aloud at trude's face. it had gone deathly white.
"my dear, what is it?"
for a moment trude could not answer. she was staring at the sketch as though she could not take her eyes from it.
"read that again! these are types--you find these girls any time on the wharves--wild--vagabonds! oh, aunt edith that's--that's--sidney!"
"why, it can't be, trude. you said--"
trude shook her head. "i can't help what i said. it's sidney. i--know. the likeness is true--there can't be anyone else who looks like sidney! but she's barefooted--and--and so--slovenly--and--her hair! she's cut her beautiful hair!"
mrs. white took the sketch forcibly from trude. she frowned over it. one of the girls certainly did look like sidney as she remembered the child from their one meeting.
"how do you explain it, trude?"
trude sighed heavily. "i can't explain it. there's something wrong somewhere. and it's my fault, aunt edith. i--i consented--we all consented to let sidney go off down there just so that we could go ahead with our own plans. but we thought--we felt certain that these cousins were very nice--i--i mean had a lovely home and were rich so that sidney might get something out of her visit that she couldn't get at home. it sounds shameful to say it."
"i understand, my dear. but what made you think so?"
"the--the letter this cousin achsa wrote. it was a very nice letter!"
"well, i have always thought you could judge anyone's character and background by a letter. there must be something wrong. this girl--" pointing to the sketch, "is positively shocking! at least she would be around here."
"i remember now something sidney said--when she was begging us to let her go away. 'i want to be different! i want to go somewhere where i won't be joseph romley's daughter. i want adventure and to do exciting things--' those were her very words! i didn't take them seriously then, but, oh, aunt edith, perhaps she meant them more than we guessed!" poor trude rose quickly to her feet. "aunt edith, i simply must go to provincetown at once. may i ask pepper to find out about trains? you'll--you'll understand, won't you? i can't be happy one minute until i see the child. i feel that it's all my fault."
mrs. white was all concern. she summoned pepper and instructed him to find out the first train; she sent her maid to trude's room to pack her clothes. and last she wrote a generous check.
"you may need it, my dear. it is nothing. don't thank me. i wish i could do more. somehow your shoulders seem too young to carry so much responsibility!"
so on the selfsame day that sidney and the others set out upon their adventure trude was journeying to cape cod. she missed connections at boston and hired an automobile to take her to provincetown, in her heart thanking mrs. white for the check that made this possible. two blow-outs delayed her journey so that it was midnight when she reached her destination. she could scarcely hunt out the greens and sidney at that hour. she took a room at the hotel for the night and sat for a while at its window straining her eyes out into the darkness. the howling of the wind intensified her apprehension; somewhere out in that strange blackness that enwrapped her was her little sister. perhaps sidney needed her that very moment!
"what the night held"
"oh--h, take me back to the cabin!" moaned pola.
"i guess we might as well," muttered mart. their matches had been long since exhausted; they had been of little avail for the one ship's light on the boat was without oil.
one on each side of her, mart and sidney helped pola down into the cabin. the boat was rolling heavily now in the rough sea, each lift and drop sending terror to the three young hearts. in the blackness of the night the waves looked mountain high. even mart was glad to shut them from view.
"if--if we're going to drown i'd rather drown in--a--room," gasped pola, clinging to sidney and burying her face in sidney's shoulder.
it seemed to the girls as though months had passed since lav had plunged to what they felt certain was his death. the arabella had tossed about on the roughening water like some wild thing, her old timbers creaking and groaning under their new living. just at first sidney and mart had been too concerned in quieting the panic-stricken pola to face their danger; not until pola had exhausted herself did they think of their possible fate.
unless lav succeeded in reaching the beach and giving an alarm, they might toss about for days or be dashed to pieces on some reef. or, worse fate, jed starrow and his gang might find the boat and--
"wh-at are you thinking about, mart?" whispered sidney after a long time of silence, broken only by the howling of the wind and the pounding of the water. "let's talk--and then we can't hear--"
"don't be afraid, sidney," mart spoke calmly. "you sort o' belong to the cape and we cape folks don't think anything of drowning. we sort of expect to, sometime--" but here her voice broke with a tremble. "i--i was thinking of gran'ma. i wish i'd been better to her. i talk back to her lots of times when i shouldn't."
"honest, sid, was your father a poet? and you can write it yourself? gee," softly. "i wish i could do something like that. i'd rather be like that than anything else. i just pretend that i hate school and books and such things--it's because i had to stop going to school to stay with gran'ma that i've put on that i didn't have any use for it. even when i was sort of laughing at you, sid, down in my heart i was feeling aw'fly proud that you'd want to fool 'round with anyone like me--i'll always be proud."
"oh, mart--" sidney faltered. "i wish i could put into words what mr. dugald taught me when i first came here. that it's the big inside things that really count. he told me so's i'd see aunt achsa and lav as they really are. and, mart, your giving up school to take care of your grandmother is a big thing, a real thing! you don't want to forget it."
"oh, i'm--i'm--sick!" broke in pola.
"sit up straight and talk and you won't think about it," commanded mart, so sternly that pola straightened, her white face wan in the darkness.
"i don't see how you can talk when you're--may be--going--to die!"
"well, talking helps you more than crying."
"but i--i don't want to--die."
"who does?" retorted mart roughly. nevertheless, touched by pola's helplessness, she found pola's hand and held it close in hers. "but let's face whatever happens with our heads up!"
"to the wind," breathed sidney, shivering.
"i--i just can't be brave like you two. i--i'm an awful coward. i can't help it. i've always been afraid to even try to swim. i'm afraid of lots of things. oh, i'm afraid to--to--"
sidney caught pola's other hand.
"don't say it, pola. maybe someone will find us. and probably you can't help feeling afraid."
mart suddenly remembered the cookies she had brought. she found them where she had hidden them at the back of one of the bunks.
"here, eat a cookie and you'll forget things. i'm hungry, aren't you, too?"
pola ate with nervous greed. sidney bit off a piece but found it dry in her mouth. she was thinking of her sisters and the safety of the dear old house; as vividly as though it hung in a picture before her eyes she saw the little circle around the dining room table, the embroidered square of indian cloth, the green shaded lamp, issy's books and trude's sewing, vick's sketching things, the girls at their beloved tasks--and her chair empty! oh, what if she never sat again in that dear circle? her heart broke in an agony of longing for trude.
a sudden thought roused pola to a feeble show of spirit.
"if i had known how to swim we'd all be ashore now! and you two stayed with me! i--i don't believe i'm worth that, girls." she spoke with gloomy conviction.
but mart answered with a promptness that settled that question forever. "forget it. why, you don't think we could a' done anything else, do you? and now i'm going up on deck and get some air. we must be most to halifax by this time."
"halifax!" but this time pola did not scream.
lavender, after his first plunge, had struck out toward the lighthouse. his mr. dugald had taught him the science of swimming and because it was the one thing he could do easily and well, in spite of his misshaped body, lavender had taken pride in perfecting the practice. his assurance helped him now; he had no fear, he knew how to save his strength; he swam first with one stroke, then with another, always keeping in sight the beacon of light.
but after a little it came to him that the yellow gleam did not seem any closer; in fact, it grew fainter; he knew then, with a moment's panic, that the tide and wind were too strong for him. he cursed his frail strength, with a smarting in his eyes that did not come from the salt water.
there was only one thing he could do. turn his back on the friendly light and strike out in the direction of the beach. it would be further, but the cross currents of the tide would not impede his progress so much.
for a long time he fought ahead stubbornly, changing his strokes, even swimming on his back. but his breath came with increasing difficulty, a sharp pain stabbed at his side. he labored on. the pain grew sharper and caught at him like a horrible vise. once he yielded to it and sank down, down into the black water. but it passed and, as he rose, he struck out again, blindly, now, for he had lost all sense of direction.
"oh, god! oh, god!" he shouted in his heart. his aunt achsa's god, whose all-embracing love he had questioned because that god had made him crooked, must help him now! "i got to get help!" god must hear him.
a great exhaustion seized him. he sank again with a quivering breath. but now his feet touched sand. with new strength he plunged ahead. again he was in deep water but he swam with eager strokes. the dreadful pain stabbed but he did not heed. now he saw moving lights. he was near the beach! with a heartbreaking effort he fought the strength of the water, finally gaining the shallow depths. he heard voices nearby in the darkness.
knee-deep in the water he tried to shout but he had no strength. a terrible faintness was creeping over him. his arms outstretched, he stumbled forward toward the voices. oh, he must not yield to that overpowering sleepiness until he had made them know!
"help--help!" he gasped, reeling toward the shadowy forms.
"what the blazes--" a man ran forward. two others came at his heels.
"why, it's lav green!" one of them cried.
"the arabella--adrift out there--sidney's on it--oh--help! and then lavender slipped into the strong arms that reached out to catch him.
"quick, the sally! she's at rockman's!" captain davies ran toward rockman's wharf. before jed starrow's men, concealed behind the shed could guess their intention, three men had jumped into the big motor boat and had swung her free of the wharf.
"what the hell--" shouted an ugly voice after them, but the sally only chugged out into the darkness of the bay.
"look, sid--light! it's--it's--morning!" mart's voice came in a thin whisper. for a long time the girls had lain huddled against the taff-rail of the boat, too weary and disheartened to even talk.
sidney lifted her face to the tiny streak of light that gleamed palely in the east.
then she shook pola ever so slightly. poor pola had fallen into a sleep of exhaustion. she stirred now with a little cry. "what is it?"
"it's morning--daylight. see--there--"
"oh--h!" pola whimpered. "is that all?" she clung to sidney in fresh terror. "if we're going to die--i'd rather not see--"
"hark," cried mart, suddenly leaning forward. "don't you hear something? girls, that's a motor boat! i know! quick. let's signal! yell! wave something! anything!" she sprang to her feet, leaning her body against the rail for support as the boat rolled in the heavy sea. she cupped her hands to her lips and shouted lustily. "come on, girls!" she commanded.
"maybe it's the pirates," wailed pola.
"i don't care if it is! i don't care what it is!" and mart and sidney lifted their chorus.
out of the mist that lay over the surging water a small, gray object gradually shaped. the chug-chug of an engine now came distinctly to their ears. after a little they could make out the forms of two men standing. and then someone shouted faintly.
pola, a solemn happiness transfiguring her face, clung to sidney.
"girls," she whispered, "we're going to be saved! and i'll never forget this night--never. or you two. or what you've done! or what you are. and i'm never going to get over being ashamed of myself!"
sidney had some solemn resolutions of her own shaping in her heart but the moment gave her no time to pronounce them.
"mart!" she cried. "it's not jed starrow! it's--it's--cap'n phin davies! and that means that--lav--made--it!" and happy tears ran down her cheeks.
under the skilled guidance of the man at its wheel the sally soon came alongside of the arabella. cap'n davies promptly boarded the schooner and the next instant sidney was in his arms.
"all i'll say is praise be to god!" the old mariner muttered. "and now i cal'late you and your mates here are 'bout ready to abandon your cruisin'--"
"lav, is he--all right?" demanded sidney, still clinging to cap'n phin.
"well, he jest about made port and how he is now i can't say for i didn't waste any time shippin' in the sally. lucky for us it was lyin' there at rockman's. give us a hand, saunders, while we load on this cargo of distress!" a roughness in the old man's voice betrayed that the big heart was not as light as he would have the girls think. for hours they had searched the bay with only their knowledge of tides and winds to guide them; more than once the others had been ready to abandon the search as futile, but the captain had held them stubbornly to it.
pola needed no urging but leaped into the sally and sank to its bottom with a long gasp of relief. sidney and mart were about to follow her example when a word from cap'n davies held sidney.
"we'll let a government boat pick up the arabella. we'll take no chances tryin' to tow her in with the sally." and then sidney thought of the treasure.
"but the diamonds!" she cried.
"diamonds--" cap'n davies stared at her, his mouth open.
"why, yes, they're on this boat. they must be! we were in the forward cabin watching and jed starrow came on board and they talked right where we could hear. they were going to take them off and then they decided it wasn't safe and they'd wait and they went away. and then they must have cut the boat adrift. but we're sure they're on this boat."
"so that was it! of all the low-down dastardly tricks! well, never mind your diamonds, now. we got to get back to shore and let a few folks know--"
"but i won't go until we've looked!" sidney protested, almost in tears. "why, that was why we risked everything! and lav wants to save the name of the cape--the--the way--you do! oh, please look!"
the old captain dropped his hold of the girl's arm. "well, i'll be ding-blasted!" he stormed. but he motioned to saunders. "climb aboard and give us a hand. 'taint likely they'd hide their stuff above deck. you look round the stern and the girls and me'll give a hunt forward. of all the stubborn, crazy-headed female pieces you'll beat 'em all!"
while saunders searched the stern of the schooner the captain and sidney and mart searched the fo'castle cabin. sidney, tugging away the heavy tarpaulins, disclosed a small wooden box.
"i'm sure it wasn't there before--" she cried. "why--why, i was sitting on it--"
cap'n davies lifted the box. "it's pretty big to be diamonds but it looks suspicious like! and you're sure it wasn't there before? that it ain't the property of that summer boarder of miss green's?"
sidney's face was flaming with excitement. "oh, i'm sure! the other stuff was there but there wasn't any box under it. if i hadn't been so excited listening i'd have realized i was sitting on something different. can't we look inside?"
"we won't take the time to look at anything now, mate. we'll get ashore. i reckon by this time there are folks strainin' their eyes for a sight o' you--"
he fairly pushed sidney and mart ahead of him and toward the sally. saunders lifted the girls into the smaller boat, then took the box.
"to rockman's. quick as you can make it," snapped cap'n phin.
"you need a big brother"
aunt achsa had not slept through the storm. accustomed though she was to the howl of the wind and the roar of the pounding surf, tonight it filled her heart with dread. lavender had not come home.
twice during the night hours she crept to the door of his small room and peered in, shielding her candle with a trembling hand. for a long while she sat in the window straining her eyes into the darkness. the cats came and rubbed her bare ankles and nip meowed plaintively. she picked him up and cuddled him to her.
suddenly a moving object in the lane caught her attention. it separated itself into the forms of men, men moving slowly as though they bore a burden. they turned into the garden patch.
"lavender!" aunt achsa cried, jumping up quickly, shaking. "oh--my boy!"
but that was the only sound she made. she opened the door as though she had been waiting for these men with their limp burden. she directed them to carry the boy to his own room. she moved aside for doctor blackwell who had come with the others, an old pair of flannel trousers drawn over his night shirt. she felt mr. dugald put a restraining arm over her shoulders and nodded as though to say: "i'm all right--just look out for lavender."
one of the men coming back from lavender's room offered an explanation. "those young 'uns were on the arabella and it broke from its moorin's. the boy swum ashore to give an alarm. plucky, i say--don't know how he did it."
"those young ones--who?" cried dugald allan.
"why, i cal'late that gal sidney and i don't know who else--"
"sidney went with miss vine!" protested achsa.
but at that moment miss letty appeared in the door, as scantily clad as the doctor had been. from her window which faced doctor blackwell's house, she had heard the men summoning him. she had lost no time in getting to sunset lane.
"who went with me? where? what's happened?"
now aunt achsa let her whole weight drop against mr. dugald.
"didn't sidney go 'long to truro with you?" she asked falteringly.
"i didn't go to truro. knew this storm was comin'. where--"
"oh--h!" aunt achsa moaned mr. dugald motioned to miss vine.
"take care of things--here. i'm off--"
"cap'n davies and jim saunders and pete cady's gone out in the sally," cried one of the men who had brought lavender home. but dugald allan had plunged into the darkness without hearing him. the men rushed after him.
miss vine pushed aunt achsa into a chair.
"you're not going to cross any bridges 'til you come to them, achsy green. doctor blackwell brought lav into this world and he isn't going to let him quit it without putting up a pretty good fight. jeremiah berry's in with him and he's as good as two women. you wrap that shawl 'round you 'til i can light a lamp and get you some clothes. you're shivering like it was december. i'll put the kettle over, too--"
oddly huge and gaunt in the shadowy room, miss vine moved and talked briskly to keep up aunt achsa's nerve and her own against the black fear that held them.
mr. dugald ran with all speed to rockman's, the other men after him. as their hurrying steps echoed through the silent street heads popped out of windows, doors opened. then more men, half-dressed and dressing as they ran, rushed after them toward rockman's. they knew, with that intuition inbred in seacoast communities, that something was wrong. old simon tibbetts, too crippled to join the gathering crowds, rang up commander nelson at the life guard station on the backside.
when, in the gray light of the dawn, the sally chugged up to rockman's wharf with its precious cargo sidney and mart found a weary, anxious crowd of men and women gathered there. and as cap'n davies and saunders lifted the girls ashore a lusty shout of rejoicing went up--eager hands reached out to touch the rescued as though to make certain they were safe and sound.
sidney had eyes only for mr. dugald who seemed to tower above them all, his eyes dark lined with the strain of anxious watching, his mouth set sternly. and strangely enough, at first, dugald allan saw only sidney, yet it was not strange, for the white-faced, shrinking, abject girl, barefooted and disheveled, who was hiding behind mart and sidney, had little semblance to his gay young cousin.
mr. dugald opened his arms and sidney ran into them like a little child, and clung to him. he felt her slender body shaking.
"i--i can't help crying. i wanted trude--so much!"
"i was thinking of trude, too. thank god!" but sidney was too moved at the moment to wonder at his words or that the cheek he bent to hers was wet with tears.
then dugald allan spied pola shivering forlornly behind mart and sidney. "you--" he cried, pushing sidney aside. "i thought you were at chatham!" his mouth tightened in a straight, stern line. "what is all this? but wait, i must get sidney back to aunt achsa. you shall explain things as we go along."
he hurried the girls through the crowd which parted, smilingly, to let them pass. on commercial street he hailed old hiram moss, who with an eye to business in the midst of tragedy, had harnessed his horses to his ancient cab and had them ready for an emergency.
after he had bundled his charges in dugald allan turned to sidney.
"now give me some inkling of what started this crazy adventure. thank god it has not ended as it might have ended though lavender is still fighting for his life! answer me, sidney."
but before sidney could begin her tale she had to know what had happened to lavender.
"fighting for his life? but--he got here, didn't he?"
"yes--he reached shore, by an effort so great as to completely prostrate him. they took him home. i left doctor blackwell with him." dugald allan spoke shortly and his crisp sentences had the effect of stunning poor sidney. she shivered and leaned close to him. her voice, when she spoke, came with a childish tremor.
"oh, lavender can't die. if he does--it will be all my fault! i started everything. i--i told him about the diamonds--"
"yes--the diamonds. that's why we went out on the arabella--" in broken sentences sidney told the story; she wanted mr. dugald to know that they had cared most for the honor of cape cod!
"and we found them--a big box--at least we think it's the diamonds! cap'n phin davies says it's something queer!"
dugald allan's exclamation had much the character of an explosion. "diamonds! what nonsense! you've risked bereaving three homes for what is probably nothing more than a case of rum. if ever a girl needed a big brother to keep her in check, you do!"
during the early morning hours of that summer day that sidney was destined never to forget, the girl passed through every emotion that a fifteen-year-old heart can suffer.
first, to her dismay no one at the cottage had seemed to rejoice, as the crowd on the wharf had rejoiced, at her rescue. when mr. dugald led her in miss vine was making coffee at the stove and all she said was: "well, you're all right! better go to bed now as quick as you can and keep out from under foot." then mr. dugald had taken pola back to the hotel. aunt achsa was with doctor blackwell and lavender. sidney had tried to summon sufficient courage to ask miss vine's forbidding back for some word of lavender, but the words failed in her throat. cold, forlorn, hungry, she crept to her room, threw off her clothes and huddled down into the bed-clothes.
they would all blame her--miss vine and mr. dugald, aunt achsa, doctor blackwell. probably now pola would have more complexes to suffer; pola's mother would be angry and they could never be friends again. and mart--aunt achsa had said old mrs. calkins could be terrible when she was "worked up!" even if lavender lived aunt achsa would never forgive her and if he didn't live--mr. dugald had said he was fighting. those boards creaking faintly meant that doctor blackwell and aunt achsa were helping lavender fight. dear old lav with his fine dreams!
the desperate longing for trude shook her. she sobbed into her pillow. and yet the longing brought only added remorse. trude would scold her. trude would take her home. that meant stinging humiliation. how vick would laugh at her when everything was over. a case of rum! sidney writhed under the soft covers.
somewhere boards creaked again--lavender's fight. sidney pictured the doctor and aunt achsa bending over him. and outside everything was so quiet and gray. that was the way death probably came, sidney thought.
on the morrow they would send her home--in disgrace. she might not even be allowed to see lavender, or mart, or pola--or mr. dugald. someone would telegraph to trude and trude would meet her back at middletown. she would live a long, sad life of penance behind the crumbing stone wall she had so detested.
she sat bolt upright and rubbed her eyes. then she flung out her arms with a low glad cry that was half sob.
trude held her long and close, stroking the shorn head, murmuring soothing words. finally sidney wriggled from her.
"have you come to take me home? but how could they send for you so quickly? how long have i been asleep? oh, lavender--is he--is he--"
"one question at a time, sid. lavender is better. he'll be all right, the doctor says, after a good rest. yes, i think i'd better take you home. no, they did not send for me." briefly, as though now that earlier concern was of little consequence, trude told of the sketch that had so bewildered and alarmed her.
"i couldn't understand," she finished.
"i couldn't either, at first. you see the boarder--the man who has boarded here so long and is dreadfully fond of aunt achsa wrote that letter to me and wrote it nice so as to please her, and, at first--but, oh, trude, aunt achsa is wonderful and so is lavender, really, truly, even though they are poor--"
"hush, sidney." trude's eyes darkened with feeling. "you do not have to tell me that. i have learned that in only a few hours. oh, i have seen straight into souls--those kind men on the street, as concerned as though you belonged to them, and here--aunt achsa with her great courage and her love. and that miss vine--they're so simple--and so fine--it made me ashamed of my silly standards, my fears."
"and lavender is best of all--"
now quick tears shone like stars in trude romley's eyes. she reached out her hands and caught sidney's.
"oh, lavender--when i think what he did i--i--" she could not finish, but sidney understood the gratitude that was in her heart. she leaned her face against trude's shoulder with a long sigh.
"i'm cured of lots of things, trude. i wanted something different but i didn't want all this to happen! you see i made lavender and mart believe it was diamonds jed starrow was hiding when it was probably only a case of rum--"
suddenly trude straightened. "i almost forgot. a boy came here and said a captain davies wanted you to come down to rockman's wharf as soon as you could. that was two hours ago. you see it is nearly noon now. you'd better dress quickly and i'll go out and fix you some breakfast."
sidney obeyed reluctantly. in her mingled remorse and humiliation she shrank from facing the world. she was not even curious as to why cap'n phin wanted to see her.
by the time she had dressed trude had a poached egg and a glass of milk ready for her. miss letty was with lavender and aunt achsa had gone to bed.
sidney begged so hard that trude accompany her to rockman's that trude put on her hat and went with her. and poor sidney needed trude's support for sunset lane was thronged with curious men and women; as they walked along the waterfront fishermen and tourists and boys and girls stared and nodded and sidney's sensitive soul mistook their obvious interest for ridicule. she walked with lowered eyes lest she encounter mrs. calkins or pola's mother.
cap'n phin was waiting outside the door of the shed on rockman's wharf. he nodded to sidney and trude and beckoned them inside. at any other time, in any other state of mind, sidney would have thrilled to his air of mystery.
four men sat in wooden chairs tipped at various angles and on the floor before them stood the wooden box from the arabella. the men nodded and smiled at sidney and brought their chairs to the floor as though to attention.
cap'n davies solemnly motioned sidney and trude to two vacant chairs and then cleared his throat.
"i cal'late, miss sidney, that you've a sort o' interest in this cargo we brought in on the sally so we stood by 'til you hove in sight. now, mebbe it's what we think it is and mebbe it isn't. si, give a hand and unload."
one of the men knelt down by the box and proceeded to open it with a hammer and a chisel. the others leaned forward with interest. sidney held her breath.
the man si, having torn off the cover, put his hands into the paper wrappings and drew forth yards and yards of magnificently embroidered fabric that made sidney and trude gasp in admiration and astonishment. but the others were plainly disappointed. a low murmur of disgust went around the room.
"give it here," one of the men asked. and as si handed over the contraband it slipped from his hands. he caught at it quickly to save it from the dirt of the floor. suddenly something small and gleaming fell from the folds and rolled upon the floor.
"i'll be ding-blasted!" roared cap'n phin. someone swore softly. the man si dropped to his knees. sidney blinked.
cap'n phin seized the silk and unwound it. and among the countless folds he found a cunningly contrived pocket filled with hundreds of the priceless gems.
for a moment no one spoke. the daring of it all, the wealth of the glistening jewels, held each man in the room. cap'n phin folded the gorgeous silk and passed it to one of the men.
"i guess this belongs to you in trust for uncle sam," he said gravely. "our business is with one jed starrow." he turned to sidney who was trembling violently. "now, matie, will you tell these men how you happened to ship aboard the arabella last night?"
sidney's story tumbled out in quick, eager words and in careful detail. the men listened closely. the one who had taken the diamonds "in trust for uncle sam" made notes in a small black book. when she had finished cap'n phin nodded, his face serious.
"reckon we'd better not question lav green just yet, he's pullin' out of the fog. we got enough as 'tis to hold jed starrow. if i ain't much mistaken he'll turn yellow when we face him and squeal on the folks higher up what's paid him to hurt the name of the cape. that'll do for now, little gal."
“by the way, i think your old admirer, severance, must be about to put himself in silken fetters, as boswell would say. i caught him buying an unusually fine sapphire in tiffany’s yesterday. said it was for his sister. h’m—h’m.”
“ah! i wonder who it can be?”
“don’t know. hasn’t looked at a woman since you left. but i have a strong suspicion that it is some one here in newport.”
“here! i wonder if it can be edith?”
“miss decker? sure enough. never seemed to pay her much attention, though. she’s not my style; too much like sixteen dozen other new york girls.”
he buttoned up his coat, braced himself against it, and gave his moustache a frantic twist.
“mrs.—jessica!” he ejaculated desperately, “you are engaged to me—won’t you—won’t you—”
she drew herself up and glanced down upon him from her higher chair with a look of sad disapproval.
“i did not think it of you, teddy,” she said. “and it is one of the things of which i have never approved.”
“but why not?” asked teddy, feebly.
“i thought you knew me better than to ask such a question.”
“i know you are an angel—oh, hang it! you do make me feel as if you were my mother.”
“now, don’t be unreasonable, or i shall believe that you are a tyrant.”
“a tyrant? i? horri—no, i wish i was. what a model of propriety you are! i never should have thought it—i mean—darling! you were always such a coquette, you know. not that i ever thought so. you know i never did—oh, hang it all—but if i let you have your own way in this unreasonable—i mean this perfectly natural whim—you might at least promise to marry me in a month. and, indeed, i think that if you are an angel, i am a saint.”
“well, on one condition.”
“it must be an absolute secret until the wedding is over. i hate congratulations, and if we are going to have a sensation we might as well have a good concentrated one.”
“i agree with you, and i’ll never find fault with you again. you—”
miss decker almost ran into the room.
“jessica!” she cried. “oh, dear mr. dedham, how are you? jessica, mother has one of her terrible attacks, and i must ask you to stay with her while i go for the doctor myself. i cannot trust servants.”
“let me go! let me go!” cried teddy. “i’ll bring him back in a quarter of an hour. who shall—”
“coleman. he lives—”
“i know. au revoir!” and the girls were alone.
“there!” exclaimed miss decker, “we have got rid of him. now for the others. you slip upstairs, and i’ll dispose of them one by one. you are taken suddenly ill. teddy will not be back for an hour. dr. coleman has moved.”
a lamp burned in the sea-room, and the two girls were sitting in their evening gowns before a bright log fire. miss decker was in white this time—an elaborate french concoction of embroidered muslin which made her look like an expensive fashion plate. jessica wore a low-cut black crêpe, above which she rose like carved ivory and brass. the snakes to-night were held in place by diamond hair-pins that glittered like baleful eyes. in her lap sparkled four rings.
“what shall i do?” she exclaimed. “if my life depended upon it, i could not remember who gave me which.”
“let us think. what sort of a stone would a politician be most likely to choose?”
mrs. pendleton laughed. “a good idea. if couleur de rose be synonymous with conceit, then i think the ruby must have come from mr. trent.”
“i am sure of it. and as your author is always in the dumps, i am certain he takes naturally to the sapphire.”
“but the emerald—”
“is emblematic of your deluded teddy. the solitaire therefore falls naturally to mr. severance. well, now that you have got through the first interviews in safety, what are you going to do next?”
“edith, i do not know. they are all so dreadfully in earnest that i believe i shall finally take to my heels in down-right terror. but no, i won’t. i’ll come out of it with the upper hand and save my reputation as an actress. i will keep it up for two or three days more, but after that it will be impossible. they are bound to meet here sooner or later. thank heaven, we are rid of them for to-night, at least!”
the manservant threw back the portière.
“heavens!” cried edith, under her breath; “i forgot to give orders that we were not receiv—how do you do, mr. trent?”
“it is very soon to come again,” he said, “but i simply had to call and inquire if you felt better. i am delighted to see that you apparently do.”
“i am better, thank you.” her voice was weak. “it was good of you to come again.”
“whose ring is that?”
“jessica!” cried miss decker, “have you gone off with my ring again? you are so absent-minded! i hunted for that ring high and low!”
“you should not be so good-natured, and my memory would turn over a new leaf. here, take it.” she tossed the ring to miss decker and raised her eyes guiltily to trent’s. “shall i go up and get the other?”
“no. but i thought you promised never to take it off.”
“i forgot that water ruins stones.”
“well, it is a consolation to know that water does not ruin a certain plain gold circlet.”
jessica gasped and looked at the flames. a crisis had come. would she be clever enough? then the situation stimulated her. she held out her hand to boswell.
“you have come to see me?” she cried delightedly. “mr. trent has just been telling us that you came down with him, and i hoped you would call soon.”
“yes, to be sure—to be sure. you might have known i would call soon.” he bowed stiffly to trent, and, seating himself close beside jessica, murmured in her ear: “cannot you get rid of that fellow? how did he find you out so soon?”
“why, he came to see edith, of course. do you not remember how devoted he always was to her?”
“i do not—”
“may i ask what you are whispering about, mr. boswell?” demanded trent, breaking from miss decker. “is he confiding to you the astounding success of his last novel, mrs. pendleton? or was it a history of the united states? i really forget.”
“not the last, certainly. i leave it to you to make history—an abridged edition. my ambition is a more humble one.”
“oh, you will both need biographers,” said mrs. pendleton, who was beginning to enjoy herself. “i will give you an idea. join the theosophists. arrange for reincarnation. come back in the next generation and write your own biographies. then your friends and families cannot complain you have not had justice done you.”
“ha! ha!” said trent.
“you are as cruel as ever,” said boswell, with a sigh. “where is my ring?” he whispered.
“it was so large that i could not keep it on. i must have a guard made.”
“dear little fingers—”
“you may never have been taught when you were a small boy, mr. boswell,” interrupted trent, “that it is rude to whisper in company. therefore, to save your manners in mrs. pendleton’s eyes, i will do you the kindness to prevent further lapse.” and he seated himself on the other side of jessica and glared defiantly at boswell.
“mr. severance and mr. dedham!”
severance entered hurriedly. “i am so glad to hear—ah, boswell! trent!”
“how odd that you should all find your way here the very first evening of your arrival!” and jessica held out her hand with a placid smile. miss decker was more nervous, but five seasons were behind her. “ah!” continued mrs. pendleton, “and mr. dedham, too! this is a most charming reunion!”
“charming beyond expression!” said severance.
trent and boswell being obliged to rise when miss decker went forward to meet the newcomers, severance took the former’s chair, dedham that of the future statesman.
“you are better?” whispered severance. “i have been anxious.”
“oh, i have been worried to death!” murmured teddy in her other ear. “that wretched doctor had not only moved but gone out of town; and when i came back at last and found—”
“mr. severance,” exclaimed trent, “you have my chair.”
“is this your chair? you have good taste. a remarkably comfortable chair.”
“you would oblige me—”
“by keeping it? certainly. you were ever generous, but that i believe is a characteristic of genius.”
“mrs. pendleton,” said boswell, plaintively, “as mr. dedham has taken my chair, i will take this stool at your feet.”
trent was obliged to lean his elbow on the mantelpiece, for want of a better view of mrs. pendleton, and miss decker sat on the other side of dedham.
“how are you, teddy?” she said.
“young and happy. you must let me congratulate you.”
“i see you wear severance’s ring. ah, sev, did the ring suit your sister?”
“to a t. said it was her favourite stone.” he stopped abruptly. “what the deuce—” below his breath; and jessica whispered hurriedly:—
“edith was looking at it when mr. trent came in, and forgot to return it.”
“ah! boswell, i am sure you are sitting on mrs. pendleton’s foot. by the way, how is your aunt?”
“i wonder you could tear yourself away so soon,” said trent, viciously. “you’d better be careful. she might make a new will.”
“don’t worry. i spent the happiest fifteen minutes of my life with her this afternoon. she promised me all.” he turned to severance. “you have been breaking hearts on the beach, i suppose.”
“which is better, at all events, than breaking one’s head against a stone wall.”
“politics brought you here, i suppose, mr. trent,” interrupted miss decker. “i hear you made a stirring speech the other night.”
“i did. it was on the question of radicalism in the press versus civil service reform. something must be done to revolutionise this hotbed of iniquity, american politics. such principles need courage, but when the hour comes the man must not be wanting—”
“that was all in the paper next morning,” drawled boswell. “mrs. pendleton, did you receive the copy of my new book i sent a fortnight ago? unlike many of my others, i had no difficulty in disposing of it. it was lighter, brighter, less philosophy, less—brains. the critics understood it, therefore they were kind. they even said—”
“don’t quote the critics, for heaven’s sake,” said severance. “it is enough to have read them.”
“oh, mrs. pendleton,” exclaimed teddy, “if you could have been at the yacht race! such excitement, such—”
“to change the subject,” said trent, with determination in his eye, “mrs. pendleton, did you receive all the marked papers i sent you containing my speeches, especially the one on jesuitism in politics?”
“don’t bother mrs. pendleton with politics!” exclaimed boswell, whose own egotism was kicking against its bars. “you did not think my book too long, did you? one purblind critic said—”
“good night, mrs. pendleton,” said severance, rising abruptly. “good evening,” and he bowed to miss decker and to the men. jessica rose suddenly and went with him to the door.
“i am going to walk on the cliffs—‘forty steps’—at eleven to-morrow,” she said, as she gave him her hand. “this may be unconventional, but i choose to do it.”
he bowed over her hand. “mrs. pendleton will only have set one more fashion,” he said. “i shall be there.”
as he left the room by one door, jessica crossed the room and opened another.
“good night,” she said to the astounded company, and withdrew.
severance sauntered up and down the “forty steps,” the repose of his bearing belying the agitation within.
“why on earth doesn’t she come?” he thought uneasily. “can she be ill again? she is ten minutes behind time now. what did it mean—all those fellows there last night? she looked like an amused spectator at a play, and miss decker was nervous, actually nervous. damn it! here they all come. what do they mean by keeping under my heels like this?”
dedham, trent, and boswell strolled up from various directions, and, although each had expectation in his eye, none looked overjoyed to see the other men. there were four cold nods, a dead pause, and then teddy gave a little cough.
“beautiful after—i mean morning.”
“it is indeed,” said severance. “i wonder you are not taking your salt-water constitutional.”
“i always take a walk in the morning;” and teddy glanced nervously over his shoulder.
boswell and trent, each with a little missive burning his pocket, turned red, fidgeted, glared at the ocean, and made no remark. severance darted a glance at each of the three in succession, and then looked at the ground with a contemplative stare. at this moment mrs. pendleton appeared.
three of the men advanced to meet her with an awkward attempt at surprise, but she waved them back.
“i have something to say to you,” she said.
the cold languor of her face had given place to an expression of haughty triumph. a gleam of conscious power lay deep in her scornful eyes. the final act in the drama had come, and the dénouement should be worthy of her talents. she looked like a judge who had smiled encouragement to a guilty defendant only to confer the sentence of capital punishment at last.
“gentlemen,” she said, and even her voice was judicatorial, “i have asked you all to meet me here this morning”—(three angry starts, but she went on unmoved)—“because i came to the conclusion last night that it is quite time this farce should end. i am somewhat bored myself, and i have no doubt you are so, as well. your joke was a clever one, worthy of the idle days of autumn. when i received your four proposals by the same mail, i appreciated your wit—i will say more, your genius—and felt glad to do anything i could to contribute to your amusement, especially as all the world is away and i knew how dull you must be. so i accepted each of you, as you know, had four charming interviews and one memorable one of a more composite nature; and now that we have all agreed that the spicy and original little drama has run its length i take pleasure in restoring your rings.”
she took from her handkerchief a beautiful little casket of blue onyx, upon which reposed the pendleton crest in diamonds, touched a spring, and revealed four rings sparkling about as many velvet cushions. the four men stood speechless; not one dared protest his sincerity and see ridicule in the eyes of his neighbour.
mrs. pendleton dropped her judicial air, and taking the ruby between her fingers, smiled like a teacher bestowing a prize.
“mr. boswell,” she said, “i believe this belongs to you;” and she handed the ring to the stupefied author. he put it in his pocket with never a word.
she raised the emerald. “mr. trent, this is yours?—or is it the sapphire?”
“the emerald,” snorted trent.
she dropped it in his nerveless palm with a gracious bend of the head, and turned to teddy.
“you gave me a solitaire, i remember,” she said sweetly. “a most appropriate gift, for it is the ideal life.”
teddy looked as if about to burst into tears, gave her one beseeching glance, then took his ring and strode feebly over the cliffs. trent and boswell hesitated a moment, then hurried after.
jessica held the casket to severance, with a little outward sweep of her wrist. he took it and, folding his arms, looked at her steadily. a tide of angry colour rose to her hair, then she turned her back upon him and looking out over the water tapped her foot on the rocks.
“why do you not go?” she asked. “i hate you more than any one on earth.”
“no. you love me.”
“i hate you! you are a brute! the coolest, the rudest, the most exasperating man on—on earth.”
“that is the reason you love me. my dear mrs. pendleton,” he continued, taking the ring from the casket and laying the latter on a rock, “a woman of brains and headstrong will—but unegoistic—likes a brutal and masterful man. an egoistical woman, whether she be fool or brilliant, likes a slave. the reason is that egoism, not being a feminine quality primarily, but borrowed from man, places its fair possessor outside of her sex’s limitations and supplies her with the satisfying simulacrum of those stronger characteristics which she would otherwise look for in man. you are not an egoist.”
he took her hand and removed her glove in spite of her resistance.
“don’t struggle. you would only look ridiculous if any one should pass. besides, it is useless. i am so much stronger. i do not know or care what really possessed you to indulge in such a freak as to engage yourself to four men at once,” he continued, slipping the ring on her finger. “you had your joke, and i hope you enjoyed it. the dénouement was highly dramatic. as i said, i desire no explanation, for i am never concerned with anything but results. and now—you are going to marry me.”
“i am not!” sobbed jessica.
“you are.” he glanced about. no one was in sight. he put his arm about her shoulders, forcing her own to her sides, then bent back her head and kissed her on the mouth.
“checkmate!” he said.
gertrude atherton was born in san francisco and received her early education in california and kentucky, but her best training was in her grandfather’s library, a collection, it is said, of english masterpieces only, containing no american fiction whatever. yet mrs. atherton is as thorough an american as a niece, in the third generation, of benjamin franklin should be.
it seems to have been the english critics who first recognised her originality, power, intensity, vividness, and vitality, but from her first book, “what dreams may come,” published in 1888, her writings have revealed the unusual combination of brains and feeling. this gives her work both keen, clever strength and brilliancy of colour, developed through years of hard work, many of which were spent abroad, and reaching their best manifestation in her latest fiction, the one quality in “the conqueror” and the other in “the splendid idle forties.” both of these books go to prove the foresight of mr. harold frederic, who, shortly before his death, declared her to be “the only woman in contemporary literature who knew how to write a novel,” and that her future work would be her best. another eminent english critic, dr. robertson nicholl, spoke for some of the best students of modern literature in saying:—
“gertrude atherton is the ablest woman writer of fiction now living.”
in her most notable novel, “the conqueror,” gertrude atherton has chosen in “the true and romantic story of alexander hamilton” a subject which would have attracted few woman writers, and has handled those parts of it with which many men have busied their brains in such a way that the new york times saturday review remarked that it
“holds more romance than nine-tenths of the imaginative fiction of the day and more veracity than ninety-nine hundredths of the history. she is master of her material.”
“certainly this country has produced no writer who approaches mrs. atherton,” says one critic, while another adds that to have so “re-created a great man as mrs. atherton has done in this novel is to have written one’s own title to greatness.” all alike regard it as “a thing apart” (the critic); “a remarkable production, full of force, vigour, brains, and insight” (boston herald); “an entrancing book . . . brilliantly written” (glasgow herald). “it is hardly too much to say that she has invented a new kind of historical novel” is the comment of the athenæum (london), with the addition that “the experiment is a remarkable success.”
equally strong in fascination and vigour is “the splendid idle forties,” but as far removed from “the conqueror” as were the eastern and western seaboards of this country in the times of which the stories treat, “the long, drowsy, shimmering days before the gringo came,” to the california of which she writes. “pointed, spirited, and spanish” are these “rich and impressive” stories; “such as could hardly have been told in any other country since the bagdad of the ‘thousand and one nights.’ the book is full of weird fascination, and will add to mrs. atherton’s deservedly high reputation,” says the athenæum.
“in this book even more than in her others is shown that imaginative brilliancy so striking as to set one wondering what is the secret of the effect. . . . for the rest, her charm lies in temperament, magnetic, restless, assertive, vivid.”—washington times.
in close relation to “the conqueror” stands mrs. atherton’s still more recent selection of “a few of hamilton’s letters,” chosen from the great bulk of his state papers and other letters in such a way as to bring to the average reader the means of estimating the personality of this remarkable man from his own words. incidentally it is the surest refutation of some of the hasty criticisms upon the picture of him in “the conqueror,” where, as mr. le gallienne justly observes, “it was reserved for mrs. atherton to make him really alive to the present generation.”
the macmillan little novels
by favourite authors
philosophy four a story of harvard university by owen wister author of “the virginian,” etc.
man overboard by f. marion crawford author of “cecilia,” “marietta,” etc.
mr. keegan’s elopement by winston churchill author of “the crisis,” “richard carvel,” etc.
mrs. pendleton’s four-in-hand by gertrude atherton author of “the conqueror,” “the splendid idle forties,” etc.
the macmillan company 66 fifth avenue, new york
spelling and hyphenation have been retained as in the original publication. punctuation errors have been corrected without note.
canada team (http://www.pgdpcanada.net) from page images generously made available by internet archive/american libraries (https://archive.org/details/americana)
note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 51064-h.htm or 51064-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/51064/51064-h/51064-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/51064/51064-h.zip)
images of the original pages are available through internet archive/american libraries. see https://archive.org/details/rubiytofmoto00well
rubáiyát of a motor car
rubáiyát of a motor car
author of idle idyls, folly for the wise, a nonsense anthology, &c.
with illustrations by frederick strothmann
¶to the crank that makes the machine go
rubáiyát of a motor car
wake! for the “honk,” that scatters into flight the hens before it in a flapping fright, drives straight up to your door, and bids you come out for a morning hour of sheer delight!
come, fill the tank, adjust the valve and spring, your automobile garments 'round you fling; the bird of time wants but to get away; (i think that name’s a rather clever thing!)
and as the corkscrew drawing out the cork, i crank my car and try to make it work. you know how little while we have to ride; and once departed, may go to new york.
whether at naishápúr or babylon, whether the car shall jerk or sweetly run, the wine of life is in a motor trip, (though all the parts keep breaking one by one!)
why, if the soul can know this glorious game, all other stunts seem dry and dull and tame; this is the ultimate, triumphant joy, automobile elation is its name!
would you your last remaining thousands spend about the secret? quick about it, friend! a hair perhaps divides this make from that— and on that hair, prithee, may life depend!
now the new year reviving old desires, the thoughtful soul to catalogues retires; he scorns his last year’s runabout, and to the newest, biggest touring car aspires!
each year a hundred models brings, you say; yes, but who buys the car of yesterday? and every mail brings in new catalogues that make a last year’s model fade away!
waste not your hour nor in the vain pursuit of demonstrators who will loud dispute; “this one is best, because it’s painted red!” “that one, because it has a louder toot!”
’tis only a beginner, young and green, who thinks he wants an odorless machine; what fragrance is to rose or violet, so to the motor-car is gasolene.
some advocate gear-driven cars, and some sigh for a jockey-pulley yet to come; oh, crank your car, and let the old thing go! nor heed the brake upon your sprocket drum.
’tis but a toy on which one spends a pile, and brags about it for a little while; ambition rises—and the foolish man sighs, and prepares to buy another style.
you know, my friends, with what a brave carouse i put a second mortgage on my house so i could buy a great big touring-car, and run down chickens, dogs, and even cows!
for it my future income did i owe, and with mine own hand wrought to make it go; and this was all the wisdom that i reap’d— “we cost like thunder and like lightning go!”
and those “accessories” advertisements that offer you supplies at slight expense; you read them over, and they always make your own belongings look like thirty cents.
look to the blowing horn before us—“lo,” “gaily,” it says, “into the world i blow!” behold its lovely bulb, and sweet-toned reed,— (the most expensive in the garden show!)
i had to have a snakeskin auto-coat, a leather foot-muff, lined with thibet goat; a steering-apron, and a sleeping-bag; for these things help a motorer to mote.
and then my luncheon-kit, and hamper, swell, robbed me of many a hard-earned dollar! well, i often wonder what the dealers buy one-half so easy as the folks they sell.
myself when young, did eagerly frequent garage and club, and heard great argument about it and about,—yet evermore came out more addled than when in i went.
indeed, with my big car i’ve run so long it seems to me there’s always something wrong; faulty ignition, or a blown out shoe, or maybe the compression is too strong.
then to the laughing face that lurks behind the veil, i lifted up mine eyes to find two pouting lips, demurely murmuring, “i don’t see why you ever bought this kind!”
indeed, i’ve learned to treat it as a joke when nuts work loose, or carburetors choke; and then, and then—the spring, and then the belt, a punctured tire, or change-speed lever broke!
a look of anguish underneath the car, another start,—a squeak,—a grunt,—a jar! the aspiration pipe is working loose! the vapor can’t get out! and there you are!
for i remember stopping by the way to tinker up the old machine one day, and with a reckless and unbridled tongue, i muttered,—well, i wouldn’t like to say!
why, even saints and sages would have cuss’d if, speeding through the world, their tires had bust! like foolish people now, whose words of scorn are utter’d while their mouths are stopt with dust.
when suddenly, an angel shape was seen approaching in an up-to-date machine, bearing a vessel which he offered me, and bid me smell of it. ’twas gasolene!
the stuff that can with logic absolute the two-and-seventy jarring parts confute; the sovereign alchemist that in a trice a drop of oil will into power transmute.
whose secret presence through the motor’s veins running quicksilver-like defies our pains; cutting up tricks from here to jericho,— we try to start the car,—but it remains!
strange, is it not, that of the myriads who have empty tanks and know not what to do, not one will tell of it when he returns! as for ourselves,—why, we deny it too.
what! out of oily nothing to invoke a powerful something, born of fire and smoke! an unremitting pleasure, if it goes; an everlasting worriment, if broke.
we are no other than a moving row of automobile cranks that come and go. and what with goggles and tale-windowed veils, in motoring get-up, we’re a holy show!
but helpless pieces of the game bestowed upon the checker-board of hill and road; hither and thither moved and sped and stopped, and one by one back to the garage towed.
the car no question makes of ayes or noes, but here or there as strikes its fancy goes. but the bystander, offering advice, he knows about it all—he knows—he knows!
and if in vain down on the stubborn floor of earth you lie. and weary, cramped and sore, you gaze to-day; you may be jolly sure to-morrow ’twill be worse than ’twas before!
yesterday’s troubles made you mad for fair. to-morrow’s trials too, will make you swear. crank! for you know not what’s the hitch nor why! crank! for you know not when you go, nor where!
each morn a thousand troubles cause delay. yes: but you left some unfixed yesterday; and this first impulse that should bring the spark— confound this old igniter, anyway!
you thaw your freezeless circulation first; then mend your puncture proof tire where it burst. helpless you skid upon your anti-skids, but starting a self-starter is the worst!
perhaps you get out your repairing-kit, and try to regulate the thing a bit; you test the coil, adjust the shifting-gear,— and then it goes? not so you’d notice it!
ah, love, could you and i with him conspire to fix this sorry scheme of things entire, would we not take it all apart, and then remodel with no danger of back-fire?
ah, make the most of time we yet may spend before we too, into the dust descend; dust unto dust. under the car to lie, sans coat, sans breath, sans temper, and—sans friend!
and that reviving herb, whose tender green upon the julep cup is sometimes seen, ah, interview it lightly, for you know you’ll need your wits to manage your machine.
ah, my beloved, fill the lamps that shed a steady searchlight on our path ahead; to-morrow!—why, to-morrow i may be myself with yesterday’s seven thousand dead.
why, if your car can fling the dust aside, and flying, through the air of heaven ride, were’t not a shame, were’t not a shame, i say, within speed limit, tamely to abide?
what! without asking, stop our speed immense? and, without asking, jailward hurried hence! oh, many a cop of this forbidding mien, must rue the memory of his insolence!
and fear not lest a smashup closing my account and yours, machines no more shall fly; the eternal motorist has ever bought millions of bubbles like ours, and will buy.
i sometimes think that every shining star is but the tail lamp of a motor car; which leap’d from earth in its mad ecstasy, and into space went speeding fast and far.
and this i know. though in a magazine perfectly-running motor cars i’ve seen, it’s quite a different proposition when they’re on the road, and filled with gasolene!
the moving motor speeds, and having sped, moves on. nor all the cries and shrieks of dread shall lure it back to settle damage claims; not even if the victims are half dead!
then in your glorious success exult! when your car plunges like a catapult, sit tight! hold hard! pass everything in sight! and you will be surprised at the result!
spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained as in the original publication.
note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 51070-h.htm or 51070-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/51070/51070-h/51070-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/51070/51070-h.zip)
images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/raidersofsarhadb00dyeruoft
text enclosed by underscores is in italics (italics).
the raiders of the sarhad
the raiders of the sarhad
being the account of a campaign of arms and bluff against the brigands of the persian-baluchi border during the great war
brigadier-general r. e. h. dyer, c.b.
with numerous photographs and two maps
with the greatest diffidence i have at last made up my mind to write the story of my small campaign with the sarhad raiders in 1916.
this campaign sinks into utter insignificance when compared with the great deeds done in other theatres of war by men who said nothing about them. but, insignificant as it was, it forms part of the mosaic of the great war, and for this reason may be of some general interest.
i take this opportunity of paying a tribute to all the officers who took part in this little campaign. their untiring devotion to duty, and their efforts to do their utmost under conditions that were often more than trying, accounts for its success.
i would like, in particular, to mention major landon of the 35th scinde horse, whose great knowledge of the people and their country was invaluable; major sanders of the 36th sikhs; colonel claridge of the 28th light cavalry; captain brownlow and captain hirst, both of the 28th light cavalry; major lang; captain moore-lane; lieutenant bream of the hazara pioneers, and captain english, r.a.
in addition i would mention how much, not only i, but the old country owes to khan bahadur, the sarhad-dar, and to idu, non-commissioned officer of the chagai levies.
the photographs are from snapshots taken by various officers during the campaign.
the road to robat
a plan of campaign
bluff and arms
khwash and more bluff
a full bag of prisoners
the race for khwash
khwash and the second surrender
treachery and its sequel
failure and fresh plans
success in miniature
victory and peace
list of illustrations
the raiders of the sarhad
orders for the west
i receive my orders--german agents and india--their routes--a deal in chauffeurs--concerning an appetite and sausages--nushliki--the last of civilisation--further information--sand-holes and digging--petrol in the desert.
towards the end of february, 1916, general kirkpatrick, chief of staff at delhi, sent for me and gave me orders to take charge of the military operations in south-east persia.
although persia, as a country, was neutral during the war, there is a certain district in the south-east, abutting on to the frontiers of afghanistan and of baluchistan, and known as the sarhad, which is occupied by a number of nomad tribes who claim absolute independence. at this time these tribes were causing considerable embarrassment and difficulty to the indian government.
the germans and their agents, who were past masters in the art of propaganda, were still endeavouring, as they had done for years before the outbreak of hostilities, to work upon the discontented portion of the indian population in the hope of rousing them into open rebellion. they believed this to be quite possible, in spite of the magnificent way in which india had offered her resources of men and money to the british raj, and hoped thereby to handicap us still further in our great struggle in the west.
they were pouring their agents, with their lying propaganda, into india via persia and afghanistan. afghanistan, like persia, was nominally neutral, but she was breaking her neutrality by many open acts of aggression, and was offering every facility in her power to the german agents in their passage through her territories, and thence into the punjab.
to reach afghanistan, however, the german agents had to pass through some part of persia. the persian government placed no restrictions on the movements of either british or germans, of which fact the latter took full advantage.
a glance at the map will show that apparently the easiest route for them to take across persia was in the north, in the russian sphere of influence, and to approach afghanistan through korasan; or, failing this, by a route rather farther south, across the lut desert, in the direction of birjand. as a matter of fact they had tried both these routes, but without much success, owing to the inhospitable nature of the country through which they had to pass and also to the opposition they met with from the hazara tribes round herat, who, belonging as they do to the shiah section of the mahommedan religion, are at daggers drawn with the afghans, who belong to the sunni section.
therefore the germans had to try yet another road, and succeeded farther south where they had failed in the north. by taking the longer route through kerman and narmashir in the south and south-east of persia, they found easy ingress into afghanistan.
to effect this, however, they had to make friends with the nomad and war-like tribes of the sarhad. these tribes were traditionally friendly to the british, but the germans had bribed them heavily and had moreover assured them that germany had turned islam and that the kaiser william himself was a convert to their religion. as the sarhad tribes were always out for a good thing for themselves, and as they believed the lie about the german conversion, they had allowed themselves to be tricked into helping the germans. this they were doing not only by permitting them to pass through their territory, but also by harassing the lines of communication between the inadequately small british frontier posts.
the story of germany having turned mahommedan, farcical as it was, was nevertheless a potential source of grave danger for us in india. it must be remembered that germany's ally, turkey, was mahommedan, and that in helping us against germany, the mahommedans of india were already being called upon, indirectly, to fight against their own co-religionists. when, in addition, india was assured that powerful germany was winning, so her agents avowed, in every theatre of war, it was inevitable that in time her loyalty to us must suffer.
it was vital to stop this lying but insidious propaganda, and the first step was to prevent german agents from entering india at all. to do this the nomad tribes of the sarhad must be brought back into line with their old policy of friendship with britain. hence my orders from general kirkpatrick.
he instructed me to proceed without a moment's unnecessary delay to quetta, where i was to receive more detailed instructions.
on leaving him i hurried, with car and native chauffeur, to the railway station, and asked for a truck on which to place the car for entrainment to nushki. the station-master assured me i was asking for an impossibility. a great maharajah, then travelling, had commandeered every available truck for his suite, luggage and cars. i told him that the government business on which i had been sent was all important, and, by a little persuasion, soon had myself on the way to pindi and the car on the way to nushki.
arrived at pindi i found i had exactly one hour left in which to catch the train for quetta. there was no time to pack, sort out kit, or decide what should, or should not, be taken on a campaign which might last only a few weeks or many months, and which might assume a political aspect sooner than expected. my servant, allah-dad, was therefore directed to take everything for sorting out when time could be spared, and i rushed off to try and "do a deal" with general sir gerald kitson, before starting.
i realised that a motor-car might play an important part in this prospective campaign, as it would be necessary to travel for long distances in a land of no railways and no regular roads, the best road to be hoped for probably being a sandy track used by camel caravans. i had already had some experience of difficult motoring with an inefficient chauffeur, so naturally wanted to secure the best man that could be got.
i must here explain that i possessed an english chauffeur, allan by name, and that general kitson employed his brother in the same capacity. now, without any disparagement of my allan, i knew his brother to be a more practical and experienced man. general kitson generously gave his consent to an exchange of chauffeurs.
i may as well say, at once, that it was a lucky day for me that saw allan of the 9th middlesex regiment enter my service, for, during the months to come, he was as cheery and full of resource as he was ready for any event, however untoward. his appetite stood forth as the only thing that ever caused me uneasiness, and i must admit that i have never met a man with one of such colossal proportion. as an instance--on one occasion, when camped out in the desert, between nushki and robat, and supplies were none too plentiful, we cooked twelve sausages for breakfast.
i had one, and then was persuaded by allan to attempt a second. i only succeeded in disposing of half of it. i then got up and left allan to have his own breakfast. allah-dad, being a mahommedan, of course refused to touch sausage.
at lunch-time allah-dad asked what i would have to eat, and got the answer, "oh, some of the cold sausages left from breakfast."
allah-dad replied, "but there are no sausages, sahib. allan has eaten them all."
i expostulated, maintaining that it was impossible. no normal man could have eaten ten and a half large sausages. but allah-dad was not to be shaken. it may be well imagined that the feeding of my chauffeur during the months to come loomed up as one of my minor anxieties.
from pindi i went to quetta by train, my car, with the native chauffeur having gone direct to the then rail-head at nushki, in the north of indo-baluchistan.
at quetta i laid in a store of petrol, spare tyres, a few personal necessities, reported to general grover for orders and information, and then proceeded to nushki; which place was reached, and the car picked up, on, if i remember rightly, the 25th of february.
this day in nushki was to prove the last in a civilised town for many months to come. the look of the country lying before us so intimidated my native chauffeur that he came to me, a short time before we were due to start, with a countenance torn with grief and, with lamentations and protestations of sorrow, told me that both his father and mother were ill, and that it was vital for him to return and succour them. as i had been in two minds as to the advisability of taking the rascal with me, this sign of the white feather at the very outset at once decided the point, and i gave him to understand that he could go and bury as many of his relations as he pleased. with a countenance swiftly transformed to cheerfulness he left me.
just before starting a wire was handed in from a high political official at quetta informing me that the baluch raiders had already cut our lines of communication, were right across my path, and he advised, if not ordered, me not to proceed.
however, as explicit military instructions were to endeavour to reach robat (near the koh-i-maliksia), a hill at which the baluch, afghan and persian frontiers meet, as well as that of the district known as the sarhad, with the least possible delay, and as i knew the raiders were across my path even before i left quetta, i saw no reason for altering previously made plans or for delaying my departure.
accordingly i started on the journey to robat early on the morning of the 27th. i reckoned it would take at least five days to reach that town, as the route it would be necessary to follow would be fully three hundred and seventy-five miles. i already knew that it would be essential to make many long détours round freshly formed sand dunes and other obstacles, for it must be remembered that there was no proper road but only a rough camel-track continually blown over and obliterated by sand, along which supplies were taken from india to robat, and the small garrison posts which we had established at various points northward.
the mention of small garrison posts may lead the reader to suppose that this area of wild activity was fairly well policed, but, as a fact, one battalion of indian infantry, a regiment of indian cavalry and, i believe, four mountain guns, constituted the entire force of regulars holding a front of close upon three hundred miles. it was small wonder, then, that the sarhad tribes, commonly known as raiders, from their raiding proclivities, who knew every inch of the country, could climb like cats, and could do long marches on short rations, had succeeded in cutting our lines of communication, and in carrying off our supplies.
i could, therefore, look for no further help for the time in the matter of supplies and so took with me all that i thought would be necessary for our three hundred and seventy-five mile trek across the sandy wastes lying between nushki and robat.
petrol was, at the moment, the most important of our needs; we had, therefore, to carry with us all we should require, making allowance at the same time for mishaps. moreover, we had to take enough food and water to last allan, allah-dad and myself for five or six days.
as regards personal luggage we travelled absolutely light, leaving all kit to follow at a slower pace on camels, together with my horse, galahad. i had some compunction in leaving the latter behind, but my orders were concise and urgent--to reach robat, endeavour to get into touch with all our scattered posts, and effect a combination against the raiders at the earliest possible moment.
a start was made very early in the morning, but the first day's journey proved disappointing. instead of doing the ninety miles planned, we only accomplished thirty. the track was even worse than i had expected, for we constantly ran into sand-hills, and had to dig the car out. i have never done so much digging in my life as i did on that journey to robat. sand-hills were, however, only a portion of our afflictions, for, in addition, there were many water pools and small shallow lakes--due to recent rain--which had to be taken at a rush, or somehow circumvented.
so serious, at last, did our rate of progress become that, as we approached what seemed to be the hundredth of these wide, shallow pools, i lost patience and ordered allan to drive straight through.
he attempted to carry out the order, but about half-way we sank up to the axle and stuck. no power on earth would induce the car to budge another inch, and, though we all three got out into the water, and lugged, pushed and dragged at the wretched car, no impression could be made upon her.
so we remained till, at last, about two a.m., i caught sight of a light on a small hill not very far away in the west, and, on going over to it, found a sort of recluse, or holy man, quietly cooking his food. after the usual courtesies i asked him to come and help me to pull my car out. he replied that he was an old man and could not do much by himself, but that a caravan of nomads, who had arrived the evening before, were encamped close by. so off i went again, flushed my "quarry", and, with the help of large bribes, persuaded all the able-bodied men to come back to the car. fortunately we carried a good strong rope as part of our kit, so soon had the car out and running again.
allan was never again ordered to drive through water on that route.
on the second day our troubles recommenced, for we had barely done a dozen miles than we stuck in another sand-hill, and the laborious digging-out process had to be done all over again. fortunately, the party who had got the car out of the lake the night before were close behind, and for an obvious reason. they had been given so many rupees for their timely help that, knowing the difficulties lying ahead, they had followed in the hope of further largesse. they got it.
once safely out again i made a tour of inspection round the car, but only to find more trouble.
"hullo, what on earth is this, allan? she's leaking!"
allan smiled a superior smile. "i don't think so, sir. my cars don't leak."
but a moment later his superiority turned to consternation, and he was burying his head in the bowels of the car.
after a moment's inspection he showed a face of such utter dismay that it would have been comical had not the situation been so serious.
"great scott, sir! i must have left the petrol tap turned on, and the tank is nearly empty."
here, i'm afraid, my language was violent, and it was some minutes before allan was able to ascertain exactly how much petrol we had left. his calculations established the fact that we had lost some fourteen gallons. this meant that we should have to walk the greater part of the last two hundred miles of our journey. a pleasant prospect in that forbidding country. but orders were to go on, and go on we did.
that day we made good time, and before evening had done the ninety miles set as a day's march. but, as we had lost so much ground the previous day, i determined to go on as long as allan could stick at the driving wheel, and we went on--to a post called yadgar.
i should explain that in this barren, townless, roadless district there are occasional small rest-houses, very modest types of dâk bungalows, established by the indian government for the benefit of travellers, or soldiers on their way to frontier duty. they are quite bare except for a camp bed or two, a tub, a table, a few chairs and a wash-hand basin, with a chokidar, or keeper, in charge.
such a rest-house we found at yadgar, and being not only very tired and dusty, but filthily dirty, as the result of our struggles with the car, we pulled up to try and get a superficial wash.
i jumped out and tried the door. it was locked, and i banged loudly without getting any answer. it would not do to lose an unnecessary minute, for the many miles we should have to walk later on loomed unpleasantly ahead, but i knew there were pretty certain to be water and washing-basin behind that door, and did not intend to leave them unused if i could help it, chokidar or no chokidar. so, i took a butting run with my shoulder, the door gave, and i set out in search of the water tub.
an open door on my right showed me a small room, absolutely empty, except for a row of tins against the wall. knowing that petrol was carried in such tin drums i went and examined them. the next moment allan heard a shout that brought him hastily inside, wondering whether i had gone mad, had been bitten by a wild beast, or was being murdered.
"look!" i cried, as he came running up to me. "look at those tins and tell me what's inside!"
allan seized hold of one of the drums, read what was written on it, gave it a shake, and we could both hear the blessed sound of lapping inside.
"it's petrol, sir," he whispered in an awed voice.
petrol in the desert--petrol where one would as soon have expected to find a bond street jeweller!
at first we could neither of us believe it. personally i imagined we had both got temporary jim-jams, but allan, with his usual stolid, common sense, opened one of the drums, tested the contents, and pronounced it to be first-class petrol. there were seven drums, each containing four gallons.
"this means we'll motor, not walk into robat after all, sir," said allan, with a grin and sigh of relief. the thought of those miles of desert--nearly two hundred of them--which confronted us after the mishap had been haunting us both like a nightmare.
at this moment the chokidar returned, in great trepidation, fearing a dressing-down for being absent from duty. but i was far too elated at the turn of events to want to swear at anyone.
i asked him where the petrol had come from, and whose it was. he shook his head, and said he had no idea. it had always been there. it belonged to no one, and no one had put it there, so far as he knew. he had never seen a car there before; in fact, he had never seen a car anywhere before, and could not understand how it was that men could travel on a thing which was not alive, which was not like any horse or camel he had ever seen.
this was all very good hearing, so i proceeded to tell him that the petrol belonged to me, and, as he quite cheerfully acquiesced, i gave him a receipt which he could show to any government official in case of needed absolution in the future. as we now had means to finish our journey by car, i decided to spend the night at the rest-house.
after a simple camp meal allan, worn out with the strenuous work of the past two days and night, was quickly snoring in the deep sleep of exhaustion, so i went for a stroll.
as i paced up and down i tried to draw up some preliminary plan for the coming campaign. but such occupation was somewhat futile, as, until i could reach robat, i had no knowledge at all as to the strength and composition of the force that would be at my disposal. but upon one thing i made up my mind--even at that early stage--i would do my utmost to show these raiders, who were doing us so much harm, that they could not do this with impunity. the lesson once driven home, an endeavour should be made to become friendly with them, to win them back to our side, and, so to speak, appoint them as doorkeepers of the baluchistan frontier; but doorkeepers with their rifles pointed at our enemies instead of at ourselves.
in the midst of these meditations i found myself stumbling with fatigue, so, with a last look at the beauty of the night, i turned indoors, and in a few minutes was sound asleep, and making up for the "whiteness" of the night before.
the road to robat
mushki-chah--the native contractor--an evening rencontre--idu of the chagai levies--the native idea of an airship--idu the invaluable--robat.
on the third day we made good progress, fate being kind in helping us to avoid the sandy pitfalls which had hitherto been our undoing, and, by nightfall, we found ourselves approaching the post of mushki-chah.
here we found the road blocked with a number of camel caravans carrying government food supplies for our scattered posts along the frontier. these posts were already in difficulties owing to the raiders' interference with their commissariat.
as can be imagined there was a great deal of noise, the native drivers gesticulating and talking in a way which proved that something was afoot. i got out of the car and asked who was in charge of the caravan. a huge native contractor was pointed out to me, and, summoning him to my side i asked him what all the hubbub was about.
he was in a state of great agitation and told me that he had received information from several reliable sources that the whole of the countryside ahead of them was in the hands of the raiders, and that, therefore, it was useless to go a step further.
i expostulated with the man, pointing out that, by the terms of his contract, he must go on, and that if he did not the soldiers for whom he was bringing supplies would die of starvation.
but he was dogged. he knew too well the methods of the raiders with the men they captured.
"it's no use, sahib," he said, respectfully but firmly. "my men will not go on as they are unarmed, and a single armed raider is enough to hold up the whole caravan."
i knew the man was right, but persisted in my efforts to persuade him to chance it, pointing out that he might be lucky enough to elude the raiders and to win through.
"if the government will give me a military escort i will go, but not without," was his final word.
i had no authority to compel him to go on, so gave up the struggle. but i realised more than ever how imperative it was to endeavour to reach robat without a moment's unnecessary delay, and start conclusions with the raiders, whose menace was growing more dangerous every day.
we were, therefore, on the road very early next morning, for i hoped to make saindak that night. i had intended to go by borgar, but now that i knew--for i had verified the contractor's statements, and believed them to be correct--that that place was in the hands of the raiders, i elected to go by an alternative route, known as the webb-ware route, which is practically out of use nowadays, hoping, thereby, to avoid the enemy.
it was still dark when we set off on the most strenuous part of our journey; climbing, making détours, digging the car out again and again till we were all three worn out in body and temper. we hardly halted that day, for the necessity for speed was as fully realised by allan as by myself.
when night fell we had not yet sighted saindak, but i knew we could not be very far off, and cursed the coming of the night which made it impossible to see where we were. i knew we had got off the camel track somehow, for the ground was even more bumpy than it had been, and was frequently intersected by nullahs or rocky ravines, which made the going positively dangerous. if the car were knocked right out of action our difficulties would reach the last stage of disaster.
at last, in despair, allan stopped, saying it was useless going on any further. we might overturn the car at any moment and smash it as well as ourselves. he submitted that the only sane thing would be to camp just where we were and wait for daylight, when we might regain the camel track.
i knew he was right, but said i would make one final effort on foot to find the track, and directed him to give me the hurricane lamp we carried on the car.
stumbling and slipping over the broken ground in the pitch darkness, the lamp barely lighting up my immediate path, i had wandered some distance from the car when i heard voices. instantly i thought of the raiders who were over-running the district. it would be too galling, too humiliating to be captured by them before the campaign, on which i was building such high hopes, had even begun.
noiselessly i put out the lamp and listened in the dense darkness. there was absolute silence for some minutes, and i stood stock still. then voices sounded again, and i conjectured that there were not more than two, or at the most three, speakers.
i thought rapidly, and finally decided that there would not be many men in front of me. had there been anything approaching an encampment of the raiders in the neighbourhood, there would have been lights, camp fires and considerable noise. the voices i had heard probably belonged to men who had seen the lights of the car, and had come to find out what it was.
i turned swiftly and made my way back to the car, where i had foolishly left my revolver. recovering my weapon i warned allan in a whisper of the voices i had heard, and told him to be ready to stand by. then i made my way back in the darkness, and when i had regained the spot, called out loudly, in hindustani, "who's there?"
instantly a voice answered, "i am idu of the chagai levies, friendly to the british government."
i then called out who i was, and, immediately, three fully armed men came forward in the darkness.
i asked them what they were doing there, and the voice that had answered me before replied that they were all three members of the chagai levies, and that they, and about fifty others, had come out to fight me.
"to fight me?" i exclaimed. "whatever for?"
i reassured them as completely as i could, adding that i was delighted to meet such redoubtable warriors, and hoped that now they would come with me and help me, as my business was to fight germans, airships and all. this was strictly true, for, but for german influence, there would have been no need to wage war on the raiders who had only been induced to become our enemies by lying german propaganda.
idu said they would be only too glad to go with the sahib and to help him fight the enemies of the british raj. he also told me that he had already saved my life once that evening.
"how was that?" i asked, my spirits rising as i gazed through the darkness at my first three recruits.
"well, sahib," returned idu, "when the airship, which you say is no airship, stopped, in a little while we saw the figure of a man, carrying a lantern moving towards us, and halil here," laying his hand on the shoulder of one of his pals, "lifted his rifle and was about to shoot. but i said, 'nay. see, it is but one man. let us wait and see who he is.' and then the lantern went out and there was no longer a target."
"you did well, idu," i said solemnly. "you have most certainly saved my life, and as you seem to be as intelligent as you are brave, i shall appoint you to my personal staff. i am the officer who has been sent out to take command of the forces along the sarhad, and in seistan. but at the present moment my chief concern is to find the right road to saindak. can you show it to me?"
idu laughed. "i could lead you there blindfold, sahib."
i felt the difficulties of the road were now over, and, piloted by these three stalwarts, the car--a source of the utmost excitement and wonderment to them--allan, allah-dad and my weary self were, ere long, safe in the rest-house of the small mud fort at saindak.
the following morning, after a good night's rest, i had a long talk with idu, and the very favourable impression i had formed of the man the night before was greatly increased. i found him by daylight to be a highly intelligent-looking, splendidly proportioned fellow of about five feet eight, with a big black beard. i had glimpses, even then, of the keen sense of humour which was to do so much to lighten the difficulties of the ensuing campaign. never once in all the months to come did i find his wit and humour fail.
as after-events proved he was absolutely invaluable. in fact, i often called him, and told him that i called him, my "head." not only did he know every yard of the country, but he knew by name practically every one of the raiders, knew their peculiarities and their weak points as well as their strength. idu was a man in a million, and i should like to think that, some day, this public appreciation of him, and of what he did to help in this campaign, may reach him.
after breakfast and my talk with idu, we set out on the last march of the first phase of my journey, and reached robat by two o'clock in the afternoon.
a plan of campaign
an "intelligent" officer--matters political--three tribes and a fourth--their women and inter-tribal laws--sarhad conditions--a summons to the chiefs--a bid for rank--telegraph wires and sheitan--two first-class liars--a strategic scheme--an ungazetted general--lost kit--swallows and flies--forces available--communications freed--the kacha levy and a shock--mirjawa.
my first visit in robat was to the officer who had been commanding the scattered british forces up to that date. he was a very sick man, and had been holding out with the utmost difficulty until he could be relieved. here i met major landon of the 35th scinde horse, one of the three intelligence officers employed by the indian government in persia.
i very quickly realised that landon was an officer of very high intelligence, as well as an intelligence officer, and that he had a fund of information concerning the country, and the conditions and characteristics of the inhabitants of both persia and baluchistan. in fact, i judged that he would be such an asset that, then and there, i invited him to become my brigade-major, although i ruefully remarked that i had, at present, no brigade!
he was keen to accept, but did not know how the authorities at simla would view his acceptance of such a post, and asked me whether i should be willing to shoulder the responsibility of annexing him for the campaign. considering that my shoulders were broad enough, i promptly replied that my orders had been to take command of all the scattered forces i could find and co-ordinate them, and that i looked upon him as my second "find," idu and his two companions being the first. further, that he was here as intelligence officer and would acquire no intelligence sitting down in robat, whereas, if he came with me, he would get all he wanted at first hand!
i set myself to pick up all the information i could about the conditions of british "influence" in this part of persia, and on the borders of afghanistan. to make it in any way clear why we had any influence here at all we must revert to the old fear of the threatened advance of russia on india, in the days before russia became our ally in the great war.
slowly and gradually russia had been extending her influence in the pamirs until her outposts on the oxus river were only eight marches from chitral. evidently, as a wide counter, strategic move, the indian government had sought to increase its own influence with persia and afghanistan by pushing forward her outposts to robat and nasaratabad.
consequently, at the time of which i am writing, robat, nasaratabad and birjand were held lightly by chains of small posts composed entirely of indian troops and some local levies commanded by british officers. our lines of communication running from birjand to nushki, a distance of about six hundred miles, were held, in widely scattered posts, by only one battalion of indian infantry and one regiment of indian cavalry and four mountain guns. thus it will be seen that it was very difficult to obtain any troops for a movable column.
a british consulate had also been established at nasaratabad, which is on the borders of afghanistan and persia. during the war the importance and influence of the consul increased considerably, as he was in a position to gather information which was of great value to the military commanders, who constantly sought his advice.
there was also a baluch political officer, known as the sarhad-dar, who worked under orders from the british political officer at quetta. the sarhad-dar, to a certain degree, controlled the sarhadi raiders, occasionally with the help of the chagai levies, which were raised by the indian government for this particular work.
supplies were brought to these scattered posts by camel caravans from india.
communication with india was maintained by means of the telegraph. later on it became necessary to send out a wireless troop from india to establish communication between my force at khwash and saindak.
at the same time i did my best to learn all i could about the tribes amongst whom i was going to operate, their ways and customs, and the nature of the country in which they lived.
a glance at the map will show the situation and boundaries of the sarhad--literally meaning boundary. it will be seen that it extends from jalk in the east to galugan in the west. the eastern part, from jalk to safed-koh, is held by a tribe known as the gamshadzais, under their notable leader, halil khan.
the central portion is held by the yarmahommedzais under jiand khan, an elderly man, who has been undisputed chief, and a sort of over-lord of the whole of the sarhad, for very many years. he has been looked upon by his own and neighbouring tribes as well-nigh a demi-god. as jiand enters later, and largely, into this narrative all further description of him will be reserved till actual contact is established with him.
khwash--known also as vasht or washt--is the capital of the sarhad, and is situated within jiand's jurisdiction, although he is not the actual owner of the town. the word khwash literally means "sweet," and, i believe, owes its name to the water, which is, by the way, quite warm when it appears at the surface of the ground in the immediate vicinity.
the western portion of the sarhad, extending roughly from khwash to galugan, is held by the ismailzais under their redoubtable leader, juma khan.
all three of these tribes possess approximately one thousand families apiece, and, of course, each family has many members, as well as large numbers of camels, and herds of sheep and goats.
each of these tribes, at the time of which i write, could muster, roughly, from one to two thousand riflemen, chiefly armed with mauser courage. as the man emerges upon the narrow platform, he is engulfed in the swirling flakes, and often is pinned against the masonry so tightly by the wind that he cannot move a limb; at other times he is swept almost off his feet. while engaged in his freezing task, he also runs the risk of being drenched by a rising comber.
by permission of the “syren and shipping.”
the men on the lonely, exposed tillamook rock, off the oregon coast, have had more than one occasion to respect the storm-fiend. one night, while a fearful gale was raging, a huge mass of rock was torn away from the islet, snatched by the waves, and thrown high into the air. it fell with terrific force upon the dome of the lantern, splintering the roof and smashing the light, so that no welcome rays could be thrown from the tower again that night. the keepers at once set to work with the fog-signal, and during the hours of darkness worked like slaves, blaring out a warning by sound which they were unable to give visually.
fortunately, such an experience as befell the keepers of the american thimble shoal light is very rare. this beacon marks the shoal of that name, and is, or rather was, a screw-pile iron lighthouse, marking 11 feet of water at the entrance to chesapeake bay, virginia, u.s.a. on december 27, 1909, the keepers were immersed in their tasks, when there was a terrible crash followed by a dismal rending and splitting. the building shivered from top to bottom. the keepers were thrown off their feet, and when they regained their wits they found that the schooner malcolm baxter junior, while being towed by a tug, had blundered into them, and had carried a considerable portion of the building away. the impact upset the light; the scattered oil burst into flame, and within a few minutes the lighthouse was blazing like a gigantic bonfire. the keepers stuck to their posts, and endeavoured frantically to extinguish the outbreak, but their efforts were too puny to make any impression. at last, when a foothold was no longer possible with safety, and under extreme pressure, they abandoned their charge. when the flames had completed their destructive work the lighthouse presented a sorry sight, being a mass of broken and twisted ironwork. a wooden tower was erected with all despatch, and a fog-signal was installed, so that the men could carry on their duties while the reconstruction of the station was hurried forward.
the keepers turn their hands to strange occupations. fretwork, wood-carving, poker-work, and similar hobbies, are practised freely. a few devote their leisure to intellectual improvement to fit them for other walks in life. the keeper of windward point, guantanamo bay, cuba, devoted his energies to studying, and obtaining diplomas in, mechano-therapy and suggestive therapeutics, as well as becoming proficient in esperanto. the keepers of two other american lights set themselves to the mastery of jurisprudence, and in due course resigned their positions and rented offices in the city, where in the course of a few years they built up very remunerative legal practices. as a rule the lighthouse-keeper is an expert handy-man, as he is compelled to complete a whole list of duties in addition to maintaining the lights. in the summer the metal and wooden lights have to be given a coat of paint, while plumbing and other displays of skill in metal have to be carried out, even if only temporarily.
the calling is exceedingly healthy, which accounts for the immunity from illness which these men enjoy. also, as a rule, the land-lights are set amidst wild romantic surroundings. some years ago a number of american families, in the search for a quiet, health-restoring rest, were in the habit of spending their vacations at lighthouses, to the financial profit of the keepers. eventually, however, the authorities, fearing that the keeper might be distracted from his duties, issued a summary order forbidding this practice, much to the disgust of the men, and “attractive lighthouse apartments” became a thing of the past. in great britain an order was issued that “no ale or other intoxicating liquor be allowed to be sold in any lighthouse.” the precise reason for this strange ordinance is not quite clear, but it is significant to note that it came into force immediately after the disastrous fire at the leasowe lighthouse, on the wirral shore.
the lighthouse invariably is an object of attraction among the general public, but this interest seldom goes to the length narrated by a keeper of one of the west indian lights. one night two of the men at this particular station decided to hunt for red crabs on the beach below. they started off with a hurricane lamp, but were astonished, when they gained the foreshore, to see a large sloop hard and fast on the reef, although the night was beautifully clear and the light was burning brilliantly. with much effort the keepers got out their dory, put off to the wreck, and endeavoured to get the sloop out of her uncomfortable position, but, finding her too well fixed, took off the passengers. the survivors were housed in the keepers’ quarters until next morning, when they were succoured. the head-keeper asked the captain how he managed to get into such a position, and to his surprise learned that, as the passengers were anxious to obtain a clear close view of the light, the master had stood inshore, not knowing that the reef over which vigil was mounted ran out far into the water. that navigator paid dearly for his attempt to satisfy curiosity. his sloop broke up, since she was impaled too firmly to be salvaged.
it is not often that the utter loneliness and monotony of the daily round unhinges a keeper’s mind, but this awful fate overtook the warden of a somewhat isolated american light. the man had served with admiral dewey off manila, and upon his return home the government placed him in charge of a station as an occupation for the evening of his life, and as a recompense for faithful service. he settled down with his wife and family, but the isolation soon began to affect his brain. for days he would absent himself from the light, which would soon have failed had it not been for the unswerving devotion of his wife and the assistance of one of two friends living in the locality. they spared no effort to keep the beacon burning, lest the authorities might hear about the keeper’s strange behaviour, and deprive him of his charge, and, incidentally, of his livelihood. in due course the incident did reach the authorities, and, not knowing what was the matter with the man, they took action accordingly. as the keeper entered the station after one of his inexplicable expeditions of a fortnight’s duration, he was arrested for desertion. he was examined promptly by two doctors, who found him hopelessly insane, and was incarcerated in an asylum, where in the course of a few days he became a raving lunatic.
often the keepers, although only condemned to imprisonment for a certain period at a time, have to tolerate a longer stay, owing to the relief-boat being unable to approach them. in some instances the delay may run into five weeks or more. during the winter the relief of the eddystone, longships, wolf, fastnet, skerryvore, and dhu-heartach lights is always a matter of extreme uncertainty. although the men have to provide themselves with supplies, a reserve is maintained at the station by the authorities for such emergencies. even some of the land stations are not approachable readily. there is the punta gorda light-station on the californian coast, the situation of which is wild and forbidding. there is a landing about eight miles above the station, but it is extremely precarious. still, unless a certain element of risk is accepted in coming ashore here, it is necessary to face a tramp or stage journey of nearly fifty miles across country in order to gain the lighthouse.
the lighthouses in the red sea are, perhaps, among the most unenviable and trying in the world. this stretch of water, lying between two blistered coasts of sand, is no more or less than an oven, where even the strongest constitution finds it difficult to hold out for long. moreover, the absence of civilization, owing to the extreme aridity of the country, renders the life exceptionally depressing. in the summer the heat is wellnigh intolerable. the thermometer hovers between 95° and 110° f. in the shade throughout the twenty-four hours, so that night brings no relief to the oppressiveness.
at some of the stations the men seek a little diversion, and incidentally add occasionally to their pocket-money, by shark-catching, which is a tolerably profitable pursuit, since these waters are thickly infested with this fish. the jawbone and backbone invariably find ready purchasers, the former being mounted as a curiosity, while the backbone forms a novel and serviceable walking-stick.
one method of trapping these monsters which affords keen delight was related to me. the requirements are an electric battery, some rope, a few feet of electric wire, a cartridge, and an empty box, with a chunk or two of bad meat. the cartridge is fitted with an electric primer, the wire of which stretches to the battery. this cartridge is buried in a hunk of meat, the whole being dangled from a box--an empty cask is better--which serves as a float, while a rope is stretched from the box to the shore, with the electric wire spirally wound round it. a short length of chain is preferable, if available, to attach the bait to the float, but a short piece of rope will do. this novel line is thrown into the water, and the man keeps his eye on the float, with one finger on the battery. the hungry shark, espying the tempting morsel, makes a grab and swallows it, but the chain prevents him tearing away with it. the pull causes the float to disappear, the man’s finger presses the button, and the trick is done. there is an explosion, and pieces of shark and showers of water fly into the air. the incident is all over too quickly for the fish to marvel about the strange indigestibility of the tainted meat he grabbed so greedily. the men enjoy this sport hugely when it can be followed, as they regard the shark with intense detestation.
by permission of the “syren and shipping.”
despite the vigilance of the various powers, slave-running is still a lucrative business on these forbidding coasts. now and again a forced labourer gets away from his taskmaster, and comes panting into the lighthouse territory. this is sanctuary to the hapless wretch, and although the keepers invariably receive a call from the runaway’s master, he meets with scant courtesy, while his demand for the surrender of the fugitive is answered by a point-blank refusal. the slave-driver may storm, threaten, and abuse, to his heart’s content, and, as he is generally a past-master in arabian invective, the keepers have to listen to a pretty tune. but the slave is kept in the lighthouse until the relief-tender makes its periodical call, when he is taken back to suez and liberated.
fortunately, owing to the extreme care that is manifested by the authorities, mishaps at a lighthouse are few and far between. the men are supplied with rules and regulations which are drawn up with an eye for every possible emergency. yet accidents will happen, due in the majority of instances to familiarity bred of contempt. the majority of these calamities occur in connection with the explosive fog-signalling apparatus, although every device is adopted to safeguard the men. at one of the scottish stations a keeper was manipulating the fog-signal, but, flying in the face of instructions, he caused the charge to explode prematurely. the man escaped injury, but the detonation shattered several panes of glass in the lantern.
one of the keepers of the rathlin light, on altacarry head, was not so fortunate. the white star canadian liner megantic was rounding the corner of ireland to enter the last lap of the homeward journey one saturday evening, when the captain’s attention was arrested by a signal of distress flying from the lighthouse. the interpretation of the signal revealed the fact that a doctor was wanted, so, easing up the ship, he lowered a boat, and the doctor was sent away to the island. upon landing he found one of the men in dire straits. he had been cleaning the fog-gun, when a charge, which had been left in the weapon inadvertently upon the last occasion it was used, exploded. the man’s arm had been wrenched off, and he was burned terribly. it was a stroke of luck that the liner hove in sight at the moment she did. there was no chance of extending succour to the injured man on the spot, and he would have died before a doctor could have been summoned by boat from ballycastle, nine miles away. the surgeon bound up the man’s injuries, lowered him into his boat, and, on regaining the liner, placed him in the hospital, where he was tended until the vessel’s arrival in liverpool, where he was landed and placed in hospital.
by permission of “syren and shipping.”
a lighthouse bedroom.
more remarkable was the accident which happened at the flannen islands light-station in 1900; it remains an unsolved mystery to this day. this is one of scotland’s lonely lights, mounting guard over a group of islets fifteen miles off the hebrides. on december 26 the relief-tender approached the station on her usual fortnightly visit, but, to the amazement of those on board, no signs of the keepers or the usual signals were to be seen, while the lantern was not dressed in its daylight garb. the crew landed hurriedly, wondering what was amiss. they found the lighthouse absolutely deserted; not a sign of any of the three keepers was to be seen or heard. they examined the log, and found that the light had not been burning for some days, the last entry being made about 4 a.m. nearly a week previously. the rock was searched, but yielded no clue to the mystery of the complete disappearance of the men. the light had not been abandoned; it had simply burned itself out. it was a fortunate circumstance that very little shipping frequents these seas during the winter, or there would have been one or two marine disasters, as the islands are often wrapped in fog.
it is surmised that one of the men ventured outside on to a rocky ledge in the early hours of the morning. according to the log, a vicious storm was raging at the time, and probably in the darkness the man was swept off his feet and carried into the sea. the second keeper on duty, marvelling at the non-return of his assistant, evidently had roused his other companion, and the two had instituted a search in the storm, only in turn to be caught by a wave and carried away.
in great britain, since 1860, men only have been employed by the trinity house brethren for the maintenance of the lights, but in the united states women still are engaged in this duty. some of the british lights have been controlled by one family through two or three generations. it was only a few years ago that a darling retired from the vigil on the longstones of farne islands, the scene of grace darling’s heroism, while for a century and a half one family kept the south foreland light faithfully. the casquets light off alderney, in the channel islands, was maintained by one family, some of the children spending the whole of their lives on the rock, son succeeding father at the post of duty.
on the american coast, however, women are more extensively employed. seeing that many of the lights are burned in a low tower projecting from the dwelling-house, this circumstance may be readily understood, as the duties beyond the maintenance of the light are not exacting. one of the most notable instances, however, is the point pino light at the entrance to monterey bay, on the californian coast, the guardianship of which has been in feminine hands for the past thirty years. for something approaching half a century a woman maintained the michigan city harbour light on the great lake of that name. indeed, the associations were so deep-rooted and long that the beacon became popularly known as “miss colfax’s light,” after the name of its keeper. even when she attained the age of eighty years she was as active and attentive to her charge as on the day, in 1861, when she first assumed responsibility for its safe-keeping.
in 1886 the pier tower was taken out of her hands for ever. a furious gale, such as is peculiar to these inland seas, and which cannot be rivalled on the ocean for fury, was raging. at dusk she started on her usual journey. time after time she was wellnigh swept off her feet, so that she staggered rather than walked, for the spray and sand flecking her face nearly blinded her. when she gained the tower she paused, and observed that it was trembling violently. undismayed, she ascended, lit the light, and tramped back to the shore. scarcely had she gained the mainland, when, glancing seawards, she saw the light sway from side to side for a second or two, and then make a dive into the water. a few moments later a crash reverberated above the noise of the storm: the decrepit pier had succumbed at last. hers was a lucky escape, but she hurried home, and sat by the main light gleaming from her roof all that night, apprehensive that some vessel might endeavour to make the harbour and come to grief. when the pier was rebuilt, a new beacon was placed on its extremity, but its upkeep was taken over by the harbour authorities, leaving only the shore light in the trusty woman’s keeping, the wicks of which for over forty years were trimmed and lit at dusk, and extinguished with the dawn, with her own hands.
during the migratory season of the birds extraordinary sights are witnessed around the light at night. the brilliant glare attracts enormous flocks, which flit to and fro. as the monster flaming spoke swings round, the birds, evidently blinded by the glare, dash with such fury against the glass panes of the lantern as to flutter to the floor of the gallery with broken necks and wings, while large numbers, dazed or killed, fall into the water. the birds are of all species, and at times may be picked up by the basketful. then the light-keepers are able to secure a welcome change in their dietary. moths, too, often hover in clouds round the light, and are of such variety that an hour on the gallery would bring infinite delight and rich harvests to the youthful entomologist who has to be content to hunt around electric lamps in quiet streets at night.
bungaree norah. see norah head
inchcape. see bell rock
ouessant, ile d’. see ushant
sea-rock lighthouses, construction, 20 et seq.
seven hunters. see flannen islands
sydney lighthouse. see macquarie tower
billing and sons, ltd., printers, guildford
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.
ditto marks in the index have been replaced by the actual text.
empty, featureless areas along the side(s) of some illustrations have been removed by transcriber. this allowed those illustrations to be shown larger and with greater detail.
page 233: “ly-ce-moon” likely is a misprint for “ly-ee-moon”.
(http://mormontextsproject.org), with thanks to trevor nysetvold for proofreading.
defense of the faith
and the saints
b. h. roberts
"outlines of ecclesiastical history"
"new witness for god"
"mormon doctrine of deity"
salt lake city
no word of preface is necessary to this volume, except to say that in presenting it to his readers, the author feels that that he is fulfilling a promise made to them when volume i of the series was issued.
a word of explanation will be found as an introduction to each subdivision of the book, which excludes the necessity of making any reference to such subdivisions in this general forward.
salt lake city, january, 1912.
table of contents
origin of the book of mormon.
the appearing of moroni.
the book of mormon.
description of the nephite record.
the origin of the book of mormon.
by theodore schroeder.
solomon spaulding and his first manuscript.
spaulding's rewritten manuscript.
erroneous theories examined.
how about sidney rigdon?
rigdon's prior religious dishonesty.
rigdon had opportunity to steal the manuscript.
rigdon's only denial analyzed.
rigdon and lambdin in 1815.
rigdon exhibits spaulding's manuscript.
rigdon foreknows the coming and contents of the book of mormon.
rigdon visits smith before mormonism.
rigdon's miraculous conversion.
the plagiarism clinched.
for the love of gold, not god.
the origin of the book of mormon.
by brigham h. roberts.
justifications for replying to mr. schroeder.
various classes of witnesses.
conflicting theories of origin.
mr. schroeder's statement of his case.
the facts of the spaulding manuscript.
the task of the present writer.
the enemies of the prophet.
"dr." philastus hurlburt.
the "second" spaulding manuscript.
the failure of howe's book.
the conneaut witnesses.
e. d. howe discredited as a witness.
the davidson statement.
alleged statement of mrs. davidson, formerly the wife of solomon spaulding.
the haven-davidson interview.
mrs. ellen e. dickinson's repudiation of the davidson statement.
reverend john a. clark and the davidson statement.
mutilation of the haven-davidson interview.
mr. schroeder and the davidson statement.
why mr. schroeder discredits the spaulding witnesses.
the connection of sidney rigdon with the spaulding manuscript.
of rigdon's alleged "religious dishonesty."
rigdon's opportunity to steal spaulding's manuscript.
did rigdon exhibit the spaulding manuscript.
did rigdon foreknown the coming and contents of the book of mormon?
the aim of this book is to serve as a companion to the mennonite hymnary. it seeks to explain, as far as possible, the origin of the words and music of every hymn in the hymnary.
the great lyrics of the church, contributed by every age since the days of the apostles, are a precious heritage, and a source of inspiration and power. this work is intended to foster an understanding of and love for our hymns, new and old, and to stimulate the time-honored and blessed practice of congregational singing in the church today.
the handbook may be found useful as an aid (1) in the private study of hymns or their use in family devotions; (2) in selecting suitable hymns for the many and varied services of public worship; (3) in preparing special music services or hymn sings where such occasions are planned to improve the singing in the church; (4) for study groups in hymnology in churches and schools. the historical development of hymnology may be followed in the brief “introduction to our hymns and tunes.”
the author has endeavored to make the work as comprehensive as possible without overburdening the reader with too many details. many hymns have interesting stories connected with their origin and use while others, equally valuable, were just written, without drama or incident, the poet scarcely knowing how or why, except that the inner voice spoke. the apocryphal tales which have been circulated concerning some hymns have been studiously avoided. the aim has been to include only such material as seems to bear genuine marks of authenticity. the bibliography of “principal works consulted,” found elsewhere in the book, indicates the main sources.
the original versions of translated hymns are not always readily available and for that reason they are reproduced in the handbook. translated hymns are usually selections from a much larger number of stanzas and it is often instructive to be able to study the whole structure of the original work.
the book, written during spare moments of a busy pastorate, is sent forth with the prayer that, in spite of errors and imperfections, it may inspire all who use it to sing with greater devotion the praises of him who loved us and redeemed us.
in the interest of brevity and to avoid repetition, certain recurring words are abbreviated:
hymnary is used for mennonite hymnary.
c. (circa) means approximate date.
tr. is prefixed to the names of all translators.
anon. (anonymous) means without any name acknowledged, as that of author or composer.
the word “number” has been omitted: thus hymn 22 means hymn no. 22.
cf. means compare. (latin: confer).
the original texts of german hymns found throughout the handbook, especially in the section of chorales, book iv, are the versions used in one or more of the following works: gesangbuch mit noten, (berne, ind., 1890); gesangbuch der mennoniten, (canadian, 1942); the handbook to the lutheran hymnal, (concordia pub. house, 1942); gesangbuch zum gottesdienstlichen und häuslichen gebrauch in evangelischen mennoniten-gemeinden, (konferenz der süddeutschen mennoniten zu ludwigshafen a. rh. 1910); and knapp, evangelischer liederschatz. many variations occur in the texts as found in these versions, the explanation of which would require a much greater knowledge of german hymnody than the author possesses. an effort has been made to bring the spelling into conformity with the modern german practice of omitting the “h” where it was formerly used with the “th”; the use of “ss” instead of “sz”; and printing the initial letter of the pronouns referring to deity, in lower case rather than with capitals.
an introduction to our hymns and tunes
with illustrations from the hymnary
1. definition of a hymn. 2. the beginnings of christian song. 3. hymns of the eastern church: greek and syriac. 4. hymns of the western church: latin. 5. hymns of the bohemian brethren. 6. hymns of the reformation: the german chorales. 7. hymns of the reformation: the metrical psalms. 8. psalm versions. 9. english hymnody. 10. american hymns. 11. the gospel songs. 12. women hymn writers. 13. mennonite hymnody. 14. antecedents of the mennonite hymnary. 15. the translation of hymns. 16. church unity in the hymn book. 17. hymn meters. 18. hymn tunes. 19. john wesley’s rules for singing.
1. definition of a hymn.
st. augustine, 354-430, gave a definition of a hymn, which has been widely accepted:
a hymn is the praise of god by singing. a hymn is a song embodying the praise of god. if there is merely praise but not praise of god it is not a hymn. if there be praise, and praise of god, but not sung, it is not a hymn. for it to be a hymn, it is needful, therefore, for it to have three things—praise, praise of god, and these sung.
a recent definition, accepted by the hymn society of america, is that of the late carl f. price:
a christian hymn is a lyric poem, reverently and devotionally conceived, which is designed to be sung and which expresses the worshiper’s attitude toward god, or god’s purposes, in human life.
l. f. benson, america’s foremost hymnologist, defines a hymn in these simple words:
the christian hymn ... is a form of words appropriate to be sung or chanted in public devotions.
a hymn is to be sung by a congregation. its message must be simple, not subtle. it must read well and sing well. in modern usage, the hymn is not limited to the praise of god but includes other moods of worship such as resignation and consecration.
2. the beginnings of christian song.
be filled with the spirit; speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the lord. eph. 5:18, 19.
let the word of christ dwell in you richly in all wisdom; teaching and admonishing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with grace in your hearts to the lord. col. 3:16.
i will sing with the spirit, and i will sing with the understanding also. i cor. 14:15.
besides the psalms, the early church sang the nativity lyrics that adorn the first two chapters of the gospel of luke. it also made extensive use of hallelujah as a part of the people’s praise, adding, in the course of time, the gloria patri, the sanctus, the te deum, and other canticles.
the nativity hymns in luke, five in all, are extensively used in roman catholic and anglican services.
ave maria (hail mary). 1:28-29, 42-45. the salutation of gabriel and of elizabeth.
magnificat. “my soul doth magnify the lord....” 1:46-55. hymn of the virgin mary.
benedictus. “blessed be the lord god of israel....” 1:68-79. song of zacharias.
nunc dimittis. “lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.” 2:29-32. song of simeon.
gloria in excelsis. “glory to god in the highest....” 2:14. song of the angels. used as a part of the roman mass and often found in protestant hymns, e.g., “angels we have heard on high” 82.
beginnings of christian song in the hymnary
psalms. book five. 575-600. gloria patri 606-7. ter sanctus (trisagion) “holy, holy, holy” 601-2. te deum. “holy god we praise thy name” 519. a metrical translation of an ancient version.
3. hymns of the eastern church: greek and syriac.
the ancient eastern church developed a rich hymnody, rising steadily in the fourth century until it reached its culmination in the eighth and ninth centuries. since it employed the greek and syriac languages, its hymnic treasures remained almost completely hidden and unknown to the english speaking churches for many centuries. it is only in recent years, through the efforts of scholars like john mason neale and edward caswall that some of the eastern hymns have been translated and made available for modern use. eastern hymns are characterized by an objective, dignified, contemplation of god. except when confessing sin and unworthiness, they contain nothing of the subjective feelings of the worshipper such as is found in many modern hymns. though there is very little in the hymnary from the eastern church, our collection is enriched by the inclusion of a small number of hymns from this source.
greek hymns in the hymnary
clement of alexandria, 170-220, “shepherd of tender youth” (398) candle lighting hymn, “o gladsome light” (34) synesius, c. 375-430, “lord jesus, think on me” (196) st. germanus, 634-734, “a great and mighty wonder” (526) st. john of damascus, 8th century, “the day of resurrection” (115) “come, ye faithful, raise the strain” (113) st. stephen the sabaite, 725-94, “art thou weary, heavy-laden” (143) candle lighting hymn, “darkening night, the land doth” (32)
4. hymns of the western church: latin.
two great names are associated with the music of the western church: ambrose, c. 340-97, known as the “father of hymnody in the western church;” and gregory the great, 540-604, the missionary-minded pope, and reformer of church music.
ambrose, bishop of milan, not only composed hymns and music but stimulated others to do the same. under his leadership there developed a large body of church music based upon four scales, which came to be known as ambrosian chant. although widely known as a scholar, theologian, and preacher, ambrose’s most lasting influence was upon the music of the church. none of his hymns are found in our collection.
gregory the great, two centuries later, carried forward the work of ambrose. he added four more scales or modes to the ambrosian system, thus giving to the repertory of church music more definiteness and variety. the music that developed during the papacy of gregory came to be known as gregorian chant, or plainsong, or plainchant. it is “plain” because unadorned, unharmonized and unmeasured. its rhythm is the free rhythm of speech, the beats falling irregularly. the gregorian chant remained the music of the church for a thousand years and forms the basis of all roman catholic music today. some of these chants were adapted by luther for congregational singing, and set to words in the vernacular of the people. a few of the tunes, usually in a form scarcely recognizable from the original, are used today in protestant hymnals, as for instance, the tune “hamburg.” some of the music in the amish church services is traceable to the gregorian chant.
the singing in the medieval church was liturgical in character and confined to the clergy and trained choirs. this was its weakness. the laity was not expected to sing, neither were they able to do so. congregational singing, so important in our worship today, had for centuries been unknown in the roman catholic church. reform was inevitable and it came in due time.
while only remnants of the music survive, many hymns from the western church have been translated from the latin and a few choice ones have found their way into the hymnary.
latin hymns in the hymnary
prudentius, 348-c. 413, “bethlehem, of noblest cities” (88) gregory the great, 540-604, “father, we praise thee” (24) anonymous, 6th or 7th century, “christ is made the sure” (277) “joy dawned again on easterday” (415) theodulph of orleans, 9th century, “all glory, laud, and honor” (100) bernard of clairvaux, 1091-1153, “jesus the very thought” (155) “o sacred head, now wounded” (539) bernard of cluny, 12th century, “jerusalem, the golden” (262-3) anonymous, 12th century, “o come, o come, emmanuel” (67) savonarola, 1452-98 (italian), “jesus, refuge of the weary” (536) anonymous, 17th-18th centuries, “o come, all ye faithful” (80) “the year is gone beyond recall” (382)
5. hymns of the bohemian brethren.
if laymen are forbidden to preach and interpret the scriptures, much more are they forbidden to sing publicly in the churches.
as a result of their persecution, the brethren in 1508 sent out messengers to search for true christian people into whose communion they might apply for admission—one to russia, one to greece, one to bulgaria, and one to palestine and egypt. all returned unsuccessful. no such christians had been found. they therefore remained in their own country, giving themselves assiduously to the translation and printing of the bible.
two centuries later, the brethren, known now as the moravians, settled on count zinzendorf’s estates in saxony, spreading rapidly from thence into other countries in europe and to the united states. one of england’s foremost hymn writers and hymnologists, james montgomery, was an adherent to their faith.
bohemian brethren and moravian hymns in the hymnary
michael weisse, 1480-1534, “christ, the lord, is ris’n again” (544) tunes: “mit freuden zart” (512), “ravenshaw” (292) von zinzendorf, nikolaus l., 1700-60, “jesus, still lead on” (574) von zinzendorf, christian r., 1724-62, “man of sorrows” (537) henriette luise von hayn, 1724-82, “i am jesus’ little lamb” (430) james montgomery, 1771-1854, “hail to the lord’s anointed” (65) “angels from the realms of glory” (81) “go to dark gethsemane” (107) and many others
6. hymns of the reformation: the german chorales.
the movement toward congregational singing, inaugurated by the bohemian brethren, was soon to be merged into the greater reformation movement. luther’s influence on the worship and music of the church was revolutionary. for a thousand years the laymen had had no part in church song. congregational singing was unknown. ambrosian music had at first been introduced for congregational use but it became more and more liturgical, thrusting the laity into the background. the gregorian chant which followed was never intended for use except by the priests and trained choirs. the followers of hus pioneered in congregational singing; but it was luther and his followers who brought it into full fruition.
luther was a born music lover and a musician of adequate training. moreover he possessed a remarkable gift for writing hymns in clear thought to bring the word of god home to the hearts of the common people. he and his followers put songs on the lips of the german people and they sang themselves into the reformation. so effective were these songs that his enemies in the roman church declared that “luther’s songs have damned more souls than all his books and speeches.”
chorales. the word “chorale” (“choral” in german) refers to the hymn tunes of lutheran protestantism, though in common usage the term includes the words associated with the tunes. the melodies had much to do with the popularity of the songs. they came from various sources. many of them were original compositions by luther and others; some were borrowed from the hymn books of the bohemian brethren; a considerable number were adaptations of plainsongs used in the catholic church; still others were adopted from beloved folksongs. luther was an eclectic in his choice of music. he used any tune from any source that suited his purpose. many thousands of chorales came into existence in germany during his time and the two centuries that followed. the hundreds still in use represent the best in church music today. they are characterized by a plain melody, a strong harmony, and a stately rhythm; all of which adapts them well for effective congregational singing.
the chorales at first did not have the regular rhythms that they later took on. the steady progression of even notes, invariable in bach’s day, had come only gradually into use. some of the recent hymnbooks, in the interest of greater variety of rhythm, are returning to the original “rhythmic chorales.”
though unison singing has been widely practiced and is advocated today by some good authorities in church music, luther encouraged part singing. in his first preface to the geystliches gesangbücklin, 1525, he wrote:
these songs have been set in four parts, for no other reason than because i wished to provide our young people (who both will and ought to be instructed in music and other sciences) with something whereby they might rid themselves of amorous and carnal songs, and in their stead learn something wholesome, and so apply themselves to what is good with pleasure, as becometh the young.
the period of the german chorales may be said to have begun with luther, 1483-1546, and ended two centuries later with j. s. bach, 1685-1750. bach brought the chorale tunes to their highest perfection, using many of them in his larger choral works. he composed about 30 original chorale melodies, wrote reharmonizations for approximately 400, and composed many chorale preludes for the organ which are in wide use today.
the german hymns and chorale tunes, used constantly in the home and school, as well as in the church, have been of great importance in our mennonite worship in the past. they constitute the main body of material in all our german collections of hymns. in an effort to preserve and emphasize this rich heritage, there was incorporated into the hymnary, a special section, book iii, made up exclusively of chorales.
german chorales in the hymnary
16th century martin luther, 1483-1546, “a mighty fortress is our god” (549) “from heaven above to earth i come” (527) “out of the depths i cry to thee” (531-2) nicolaus selnecker, 1532-92, “now cheer our hearts” (557) philipp nicolai, 1556-1608, “wake, awake, for night is flying” (522) “how brightly shines the morning star” (529) 17th century (1)—period of the thirty years war—1618-48 johann heerman, 1585-1647, “ah, dearest jesus” (534) josua stegman, 1588-1632, “abide with us, our savior” (559) matthaus von löwenstern, 1594-1648, “lord of our life” (278) georg weissel, 1590-1635, “lift up your heads” (523) heinrich albert, 1604-51, “god who madest earth” (573) ernst homburg, 1605-81, “christ, the life of all the living” (535) michael schirmer, 1606-73, “o holy spirit, enter in” (546) paul gerhardt, 1607-76, “o sacred head, now wounded” (539) and others gerhard tersteegen, 1697-1769, “god reveals his presence” (506) “o power of love, all else transcending” (517) (2)—later 17th century johann franck, 1618-77, “deck thyself, my soul,” (552) tobias clausnitzer, 1619-84, “liebster jesu, wir sind hier” (553a) georg neumark, 1621-81, “he who would be in god” (571) johann scheffler, 1624-77, “i am the lord, o hear my voice” (565) joachim neander, 1650-80, “heaven and earth, the sea” (510) 18th century johann mentzer, 1658-1734, “o that i had a thousand voices” (509) erdmann neumeister, 1671-1756, “sinners jesus will receive” (466) benjamin schmolck, 1672-1737, “my jesus, as thou wilt” (250) philipp f. hiller, 1699-1769, “o son of god, we wait for” (524) “what mercy and divine compassion” (562) christian f. gellert, 1715-69, “how great, almighty is thy” (516) johann sebastian bach, 1685-1750. the life of the great musician marks the close of the german chorale period and for that reason his name is placed here. none of bach’s original chorale melodies are found in the hymnary but use is made of a number of his harmonizations. see 539, 545, 556, 557, 564, 566.
7. hymns of the reformation: the metrical psalms.
while the german people, under the leadership of luther, were singing chorales set to original religious poems, a large section of protestantism, under the influence of john calvin, confined itself to the singing of psalms. to the french reformer, now preaching at geneva, hymns were “man-made,” whereas the psalms were the inspired word of god and the only proper vehicle for the praise of god. calvin, unlike luther, was not a musician, and at first permitted only unison singing, unaccompanied. part singing and instrumental accompaniment seemed to savor of the frivolous and worldly, an opinion which calvin, however, was soon to modify. for two hundred years the calvinistic churches on the continent and in britain were influenced in their worship song by the strict views of calvin, limiting themselves to the metrical psalms and scriptural paraphrases. the german people in the meantime produced a rich treasury of original religious lyrics, contributed by some of their best poets.
psalter tunes and metrical psalms in the hymnary
genevan psalter tunes, 1551. o seigneur (19) old 134th (128, 132, 616) rendez à dieu (306) old 124th (354) old 100th (594) scottish psalter, 1650. book five (575 to 600) with a few exceptions new version, 1696, tate and brady. “through all the changing scenes of life” (583) “as pants the hart for cooling streams” (586) “o come, loud anthems let us sing” (18) “while shepherds watched their flocks by night” (73-4)
8. psalm versions.
the use of the psalms in singing, first on the continent, then in england and scotland, and later in america, brought forth many metrical versions of the psalter, the principal ones being the following:
a. the genevan psalter, begun 1539, published complete in 1562. it was made at the request of john calvin by clément marot, court poet of france, and theodore beza, a french scholar. it became the psalm book for the reformation churches on the continent, and is spoken of as the most famous book of praise the christian church ever produced. it was issued in at least one thousand editions and translated into a number of tongues. some of the original tunes are still in use, e.g., “old hundredth.”
b. the anglo-genevan psalter, geneva, 1556. this was used by john knox, the scottish reformer, and his followers who fled the persecutions of “bloody mary,” and formed a congregation at geneva. the book incorporated some of the sternhold and hopkins versions which were in use in england, and added others.
c. the old version, sternhold and hopkins, completed in 1562. used in england for 134 years. it is entitled, the whole booke of psalmes, but came to be known as the “old version.”
d. the bay psalm book, boston, 1640. this was the first book printed in english-speaking america. it was made to obtain greater literalness to the hebrew original than was found in the versions then in use. the book reigned supreme among the english churches in new england for over a century. seventy editions of it were printed in america, the last in 1773. eighteen editions appeared in england, and twenty-two in scotland. there were no tunes given it until 1698, then only 13, with the air in the bass.
e. the scottish psalter, completed 1650. special mention is made of this version of the psalms because it is the source of nearly all the selections of metrical psalms which constitute book five of the hymnary. the number of versions and editions of psalms which appeared on the continent and in england were numerous and confusing, each claiming its own special merits. finally, in the interests of better literary diction and greater unity in singing in the scottish presbyterian churches, the general assembly authorized a new version. the result, after many years’ work, was the famous scottish psalter of 1650 which remains the standard work in scotland today.
there is a certain “dignified crudeness” in some of the literary expressions but the psalms have long been learned in this version and have become an important part of the religious training and experience of millions of english speaking people, especially in scotland.
the scottish psalter first appeared with words only. there were no notes and no suggestions for melodies. the succeeding one hundred years were a time of confusion. the tunes used were few in number, such as the leaders had learned from various sources, and passed on to succeeding generations by rote. the time came when better singing and better tunes were demanded and gradually the psalter appeared with tunes. early tune versions put the melody invariably in the tenor. the latest edition, printed in 1929, by the oxford press, contains the best psalm tunes which had gradually come into use, many of them arranged with “faux-bourdon” (wherein the congregation sings one or more verses to the melody while the choir supplies the harmony), and “descant” (a second melody over that of the tune).
f. the new version, tate and brady, london, 1696. this version gradually supplanted the old version of sternhold and hopkins, and held its place in the worship of the church for 150 years. it was adopted, in 1789, by the protestant episcopal church in the united states and bound with the prayer book of that communion.
the above versions are only a few of the large number of psalters that were published by the calvinistic churches on the continent, in great britain, and in america. the metrical psalms were designed for the singing church. they were intended to restore song to the people in their worship, serving in this respect a similar purpose to the chorales in germany.
some of the psalm books were published without music, some with the melody only, and others in four-part harmony. the statement is frequently made that calvinistic protestantism approved only unison singing. the appearance of numerous books, complete with four voice parts, points to the contrary. it is true that calvin at first encouraged unison singing only, regarding harmony more in the nature of amusement than the worship of god; but upon observing the effectiveness of singing in germany, he soon changed his views and became more liberal in this respect.
9. english hymnody.
the youthful, courageous isaac watts, 1674-1748, an ardent dissenter, pioneered the movement which resulted in a flood of hymns and hymnbooks in the english churches. watts was not satisfied with the psalm singing of his time, which by now had become formal and lifeless. parts of the psalter, he pointed out, were obviously not written in the spirit of the gospel. “by keeping too close to david,” he wrote in one of his prefaces, “the vail of moses is thrown over our hearts.” watts removed that “vail,” christianizing the psalms and composing during his lifetime more than 600 original hymns, expressing in the language of the time, the thoughts of the worshippers. through his influence, his age, the 18th century, became the first age of hymn singing in england.
john and charles wesley, following watts, made enormous use of hymn singing in their evangelistic work, giving the movement for congregational singing a powerful impetus. charles is said to have composed over 6,000 hymns.
from the wesleys onward through the 19th century, the hymn writers in england became numerous. the restrictive shackles of psalm singing had been broken and the creative urge to worship in new forms resulted in a vast number of original religious lyrics and the publication of hundreds of hymnbooks. the development can be summarized here only in outline form.
english hymnody in the hymnary
early—17th century henry wotton, 1568-1639, “how happy is he” (208) george herbert, 1593-1633, “teach me, my god and king” (226) john milton, 1608-74, “let us with a gladsome mind” (64) “how lovely are thy dwellings fair” (592) thomas ken, 1637-1711, “awake, my soul, and with the sun” (25) “all praise to thee, my god, this night” (33) “praise god, from whom all blessings flow” (618) joseph addison, 1672-1719, “the spacious firmament on high” (50) “how are thy servants blest” (338) 18th century 1. two independents: isaac watts, 1674-1748, “father of english hymnody” “when i survey the wondrous cross” (105-6) “joy to the world! the lord is come” (70) “god is the refuge of his saints” (257) and many others philip doddridge, 1702-51, “how gentle god’s commands” (56) (and 128, 167, 218, 383, 465) 2. the wesleys and their associates: john wesley, 1703-91, translations (170, 226, 246, 508, 558) charles wesley, 1707-88, “bard of methodism” “come, thou long-expected jesus” (69) “jesus, lover of my soul” (158-9) “love divine, all loves excelling” (178-9) and many others william williams, 1717-91, “sweet singer of wales” “guide me, o thou great jehovah” (160) john cennick, 1718-55, “lo, he comes, with clouds” (130) “jesus, my all, to heav’n is gone” (468) thomas olivers, 1725-99, “the god of abraham praise” (14) edward perronet, 1726-92, “all hail the power of jesus” (3, 4, 5) 3. a calvinistic antagonist of wesley augustus toplady, 1740-78, “rock of ages, cleft for me” (148) 4. the olney hymnists: john newton, 1725-1807, “glorious things of thee” (274) “safely through another week” (284) “amazing grace! how sweet the sound” (463) william cowper, 1731-1800, “god moves in a mysterious way” (60) “o for a closer walk with god” (197) “there is a fountain filled with blood” (492) 5. others—18th century: anne steele, 1716-78, “father, whate’er of earthly bliss” (251) joseph grigg, c. 1720-68, “behold a stranger at the door” (141) “jesus, and shall it ever be” (192) robert robinson, 1735-90, “mighty god, while angels bless” (46) “come, thou fount of every blessing” (189) john fawcett, 1740-1817, “blest be the tie that binds” (41) “lord, dismiss us with thy blessing” (45) modern english—19th century 1. earliest: thomas kelly, 1769-1854, “look, ye saints, the sight” (119) “hark, ten thousand harps and voices” (123) “on the mountain top appearing” (336) james montgomery, 1771-1854, “prayer is the soul’s sincere” (184) “angels, from the realms of glory” (81) “in the hour of trial” (195) and many others robert grant, 1779-1838, “o worship the king” (7) “savior, when, in dust to thee” (145) reginald heber, 1783-1826, “holy, holy, holy” (1) “bread of the world in mercy broken” (304) “from greenland’s icy mountains” (333) charlotte elliott, 1789-1871, “just as i am, without one plea” (458) “o holy savior, friend unseen” (233) “my god and father, while i stray” (245) henry milman, 1791-1868, “ride on, ride on in majesty” (101) john bowring, 1792-1872, “in the cross of christ i glory” (110) “watchman, tell us of the night” (66) “god is love; his mercy brightens” (55) henry f. lyte, 1793-1847, “abide with me” (40) 2. the oxford group: john keble, 1792-1866, “new every morning is the love” (22) “sun of my soul, thou savior dear” (30) matthew bridges, 1800-94, “crown him with many crowns” (118) john henry newman, 1801-90, “lead, kindly light” (162-3) richard trench, 1807-86, “lord, what a change within” (183) frederick faber, 1814-63, “there’s a wideness in god’s mercy” (58) “faith of our fathers” (154) mrs. cecil frances alexander, 1823-95, “there is a green hill” (104) (translators of latin and greek hymns) john chandler, 1806-76, “christ is our cornerstone” (9) “what star is this” (87) edward caswall, 1814-78, “bethlehem, of noblest cities” (88) “jesus, the very thought of thee” (155) john m. neale, 1818-66, “o come, o come emmanuel” (67) “all glory, laud, and honor” (100) 3. translators of german hymns: catherine winkworth, 1829-78, “wake, awake for night” (522) and 24 others frances e. cox, 1812-97, “sing praise to god” (512) “jesus lives” (543) jane l. borthwick, 1813-97, “be still, my soul” (54) “my jesus, as thou wilt” (250) “jesus, still lead on” (574) sarah borthwick findlater, 1823-1907, “o happy home” (358) 4. other hymnists—19th century: christopher wordsworth, 1807-85, “gracious spirit,” (174) “o day of rest and gladness” (285) horatius bonar, 1808-89, “i heard the voice of jesus say” (142) “i lay my sins on jesus” (444) “when the weary, seeking rest” (203) and others alfred tennyson, 1809-92, “strong son of god” (149) “sunset and evening star” (265) “ring out, wild bells” (379) henry alford, 1810-71, “we walk by faith, and not by sight” (152) “come, ye thankful people, come” (377) w. w. how, 1823-97, “o jesus, thou art standing” (144) “for all the saints who from their labor rest” (317) “o word of god incarnate” (289) and others godfrey thring, 1823-1903, “from the eastern mountains” (89) “thou to whom the sick and dying” (370) adelaide proctor, 1825-64, “my god, i thank thee” (177) “i do not ask, o lord” (471) edward h. bickersteth, 1825-1906, “peace, perfect peace” (256) john ellerton, 1826-93, “savior, again to thy dear name” (43) “now the laborer’s task is o’er” (315) “throned upon the awful tree” (109) and others s. baring-gould, 1834-1924, “now the day is over” (29) “onward, christian soldiers” (225) edwin hatch, 1835-89, “breathe on me, breath of god” (135) frances r. havergal, 1836-79, “take my life, and let it be” (215) “lord, speak to me, that i may speak” (296) “thou art coming, o my savior” (126) and others samuel stone, 1839-1900, “the church’s one foundation” (273) george matheson, 1842-1906, “o love that wilt not let me go” (175) recent english hymns rudyard kipling, 1865-1936, “father in heav’n” (401) stopford a. brooke, 1832-1916, “let the whole creation cry” (49) john oxenham, 1852-1941, “in christ there is no east” (320) “peace in our time, o lord” (357) percy dearmer, 1867-1936, “remember all god’s children” (436) richard roberts, 1874—, “for them whose ways” (166) laurence housman, 1865—, “father eternal” (354)
10. american hymns.
the english speaking colonists who settled in america during the 17th century continued the psalm singing traditions of their forebears in england. the practice prevailed in their churches for two hundred years. the first book printed by them was the bay psalm book, in 1640, at cambridge, massachusetts. it contained no original hymns. the singing of psalms, and later of hymns borrowed from england made up nearly the entire repertory of church music until the middle of the 19th century.
in the meantime there was very little original hymnody produced in america, with the exception of the work of the wesleys during their brief experiment in georgia, and the composition of certain hymns and tunes by the german people of pennsylvania, which have remained, until recently, in manuscript form. timothy dwight’s hymn on the church, “i love thy kingdom, lord” (275) is probably the earliest american hymn still in use.
after the middle of the 19th century the number of hymn writers became large and their works came into increasing use, some choice examples finding their way into english hymnbooks. america’s original contribution to christian hymnody has not been only the gospel songs represented by the writings of fanny crosby, but the more permanent works of whittier, george w. doane, hosmer, samuel longfellow, washington gladden, s. f. smith, and many others. our musical contributions have been less conspicuous, but the tunes of mason are coming into their own again and many of them will doubtless survive for a long time, as will also those of bradbury, hastings, and others.
the tendency today in american hymnbooks is to unite the best in english and german traditions. the hymnary illustrates this trend. it makes large use of the english hymns while at the same time preserving a considerable body of the german chorales. in keeping with this trend, the recent hymnbooks of the episcopal, presbyterian, methodist and other churches of english origin, incorporate some of the german chorale tunes and in some cases the translations of the words. the hymn books of our time have become the channels through which flow the rich contributions to the stream of christian hymnody from christian people of all times and places.
american hymns in the hymnary
early american timothy dwight, 1752-1817, “i love thy kingdom, lord” (275) thomas hastings, 1784-1872, “hail to the brightness” (332) henry ware, jr., 1794-1843, “happy the home when god” (361) wm. b. tappan, 1794-1849, “’tis midnight; and on olive’s brow” (103) francis scott key, 1779-1843, “lord, with glowing heart” (511) george w. doane, 1799-1859, “softly now the light of day” (36) 19th century leonard bacon, 1802-81, “o god, beneath thy guiding hand” (367) john g. whittier, 1807-92, “dear lord and father” (181) ray palmer, 1808-87, “my faith looks up to thee” (150) s. f. smith, 1808-95, “the morning light is breaking” (324) oliver w. holmes, 1809-94, “lord of all being, throned afar” (53) e. h. sears, 1810-76, “it came upon the midnight clear” (75) w. h. burleigh, 1812-71, “lead us, o father, in the paths” (164) harriet beecher stowe, 1811-96, “still, still with thee” (23) sylvanus phelps, 1816-95, “savior, thy dying love” (220) arthur c. coxe, 1818-96, “o where are kings and empires” (276) elizabeth payson prentiss, 1818-78, “more love to thee” (472) edward hopper, 1818-88, “jesus, savior, pilot me” (161) george duffield, jr., 1818-88, “stand up, stand up for jesus” (193) samuel longfellow, 1819-92, “holy spirit, truth divine” (136) james russell lowell, 1819-91, “once to every man” (346) anna warner, 1820-1915, “we would see jesus” (201) john h. hopkins, 1820-91, “we three kings of orient are” (90) eliza scudder, 1821-96, “thou grace divine, encircling all” (57) samuel johnson, 1822-82, “father, in thy mysterious” (188) jeremiah e. rankin, 1828-1904, “god be with you” (365) joseph h. gilmore, 1834-1918, “he leadeth me” (478) phillips brooks, 1835-93, “o little town of bethlehem” (84) recent american hymns washington gladden, 1836-1918, “o master, let me walk” (223) frederick l. hosmer, 1840-1929, “not always on the mount” (98) mary lathbury, 1841-1913, “day is dying in the west” (31) “break thou the bread of life” (288) frank mason north, 1850-1936, “where cross the crowded” (222) m. woolsey stryker, 1851-1929, “almighty lord, with one” (390) henry van dyke, 1852-1933, “joyful, joyful, we adore thee” (10) louis f. benson, 1855-1930, “o sing a song of bethlehem” (92) maltbie d. babcock, 1858-1901, “this is my father’s world” (48) katherine lee bates, 1859-1929, “o beautiful for spacious” (343) milton s. littlefield, 1864-1934, “o son of man, thou” (373) jay t. stocking, 1870-1936, “o master workman” (93) wm. m. vories, 1880—, “let there be light, lord god” (353) harry webb farrington, 1880-1931, “i know not how that” (99) w. russel bowie, 1882—, “lord, through changing days” (402) howard arnold walter, 1884-1918, “i would be true” (207) earl marlatt, 1892—, “‘are ye able,’ said the master” (392)
11. gospel songs.
during the latter part of the 19th century there came into use, both in the united states and in england, a type of religious song known as the gospel song. less dignified than the chorales or the english hymns, these songs made a popular appeal and were widely used in prayer meetings and revivals.
the words of the typical gospel song are usually simple and easily remembered and concern themselves largely with the individual’s salvation. the personal pronouns “i” and “my” predominate. the tunes are rhythmic and catchy and always have a refrain added. their harmonies are largely built on the simple tonic, dominant, and subdominant chords. the masses of the people readily learned to sing these tunes and experienced a thrill in singing them which the use of the more stately and solid hymns failed to effect.
the great bulk of these songs were produced in america during the latter half of the 19th century and were found extremely useful in large mass meetings. the evangelistic work of moody and sankey during the 1870’s, 1880’s, and 1890’s brought the gospel songs into special prominence and the salvation army has made them known in nearly every country in the world. collections of gospel songs sold by the millions of copies and every denomination was affected, to a greater or lesser extent, by this type of singing.
since the standard of music and words in the gospel songs is considerably below that which prevails in our best hymnals as well as in secular music and literature taught in the public schools, churches should seriously consider the ultimate effect of their too frequent use. it is a fallacy to assert that the people will respond to nothing better. gospel songs have a legitimate place, particularly in special services and revivals, but they leave much to be desired in the total work and worship of the church. neither the music nor the words possess the strength and dignity entirely adequate for the worshipful praise of the eternal.
the principal names associated with gospel songs are the following:
it should be noted that there is no absolute line of demarcation between hymns and some of the gospel songs. some of the numbers in the gospel songs section of the hymnary might well be classified as hymns, e.g., nos. 441, 444, 447, 458, 463, 468, 470, 471, 472, and 492. either words or music meet the generally accepted standards of a hymn.
12. women hymn writers.
there have been no outstanding women composers of church tunes but some of our finest lyrics have been contributed by women, as the following list from the hymnary will show:
german katharina von schlegel, b. 1697, “be still, my soul” (54) henriette luise von hayn, 1724-82, “weil ich jesu” (430) english anne steele, 1716-78, “father, whate’er of earthly bliss” (251) marianne nunn, 1778-1847, “one is kind above all others” (447) harriet auber, 1773-1862, “our blest redeemer” (138) dorothy ann thrupp, 1779-1847, “saviour, like a shepherd” (395) charlotte elliott, 1789-1871, “just as i am, without one plea” (458) margaret mackay, 1802-87, “asleep in jesus” (314) sarah flower adams, 1805-48, “nearer my god, to thee” (202) jemima luke, 1813-1906, “i think when i read that sweet” (427) anne brontë, 1820-49, “believe not those who say” (210) cecil frances alexander, 1823-95, “there is a green hill” (104) adelaide proctor, 1825-64, “my god, i thank thee” (177) elizabeth clephane, 1830-69, “beneath the cross of jesus” (112) anna l. coghill, 1836-1907, “work, for the night is coming” (221) frances r. havergal, 1836-79, “take my life and let it be” (215) dorothy blomfield, 1858-1932, “o perfect love, all human” (312) jessie adams, 1863—, “i feel the winds of god today” (391) (translators) frances cox, 1812-97, “sing praise to god” (512) jane l. borthwick, 1813-97, “be still my soul” (54) sarah borthwick findlater, 1823-1907, “o happy home” (358) catherine winkworth, 1829-78. numerous hymns. foremost translator of german chorales. american harriet beecher stowe, 1811-96, “still, still with thee” (23) he began to cough. joyce put his arm around him for support, and tended him gently.
“you have a lot to do, old man,” he said soon after. “the foolscap has come, and a great jar of ink, and you can start copying out the manuscript to-morrow.”
“ah yes, i can do that,” said noakes.
“yes, old man.”
“make me a promise.”
“bury that dear lady’s letter with me.”
“will it make you happy to promise?”
“then i promise,” said joyce, humouring him. “now i’m not going to talk to you any more.”
a few minutes later, his breathing told joyce that he slept. the newspapers fell from joyce’s hand, and he put his elbows on his knees and crouched over the smouldering logs. noakes spoke truly. there was little chance of recovery. he would be left alone again soon. it would be very comfortless. the poor wreck who was dragging out his last days upon that wretched bed had been an unspeakable solace to him. without his womanlike devotion he would have died of fever six months back on the arato goldfield. without the influence of his calm fatalism, he would have given up heart long ago. without his steadfast purity of soul, he would have gone recklessly to the devil. the thought of losing him was a great pang.
he himself, too, was far from strong. the climate, the hard manual labour for which he was physically unfit were telling upon him heavily. he yearned for home, for civilised life, for the lost heritage of honour. yvonne’s letter, telling of the little commonplaces of the lost sweet life of decent living, had revived the ever dormant longing. he began to dream of her, of that last day he had seen her, of her voice singing gounod’s serenade.
it was difficult to picture her as married to his cousin everard, whom, in the days of his vanity, he had despised as a prig and now dreaded as a scornful benefactor. it was a strange mating. and yet she seemed happy and unchanged.
the wind blustered outside. the cold draught whistled through the room. joyce rose to his feet with a shiver, went to a corner for a couple of sacks, which he threw over the sleeping man, and, after having wistfully read yvonne’s letter once more, ascended the ladder to the loft, where the shapeless mattress of dried grass and sacking awaited him.
chapter xii--histoire de revenant
such was mrs. winstanley’s passing thought one day. she was there with sophia and evan wilmington. it was always a great pleasure, she used to say, to have young people about her; and very naturally, since young people can be particularly useful in strange places to a middle-aged lady. the brother and sister fetched and carried for her all day long, which was very nice and suitable, and mrs. winstanley was in her most affable mood. on the day in question, however, she saw, to her astonishment and annoyance, canon chisely and yvonne making their way towards her through the crowded lines of tables.
“so we are,” replied the canon. “we have broken our journey. and as for getting here, we took the boat from dover and then walked.”
“the frivolity of the place is infecting you already, canon,” cried sophia, with a laugh. “i hope you are going to stay a long time.”
“oh, not too long,” said yvonne. “it wouldn’t be fair to the canon, who needs some mountain air. this is just a little treat all for me.”
she glanced at him affectionately as she spoke. it was good of him to tarry for her sake in this vanity fair of a place.
“we were going by calais, as you know,” said the canon, explanatively to mrs. winstanley. “we only changed our minds a day or two ago--we thought it would be a little surprise for you.”
“of course it is--a delightful one--to see dear yvonne and yourself. where are you staying?”
“at the océan,” said the canon, “and you must all come and dine with us this evening.”
“and will you come to the bal here afterward?” asked sophia. “evan has run across some college friends--or won’t you think it proper?”
“i am going to wear the whole suit of motley while i am here,” replied the canon gaily.
he kept his word, not being a man of half measures. no check should be placed on yvonne’s enjoyment. she had been moping, as far as yvonne could mope, during the latter dullness of fulminster; now she expanded like a flower to the gaiety around her. the canon found an aesthetic pleasure in watching her happiness. her expressions of thanks too were charmingly conveyed. since that unfortunate attempt on his part, over a twelvemonth back, to instruct her in the responsibilities of her position, she had never exhibited toward him such spontaneous feeling. he let her smile upon whom she would, without a twinge of jealousy.
yvonne enjoyed herself hugely. she danced and jested with the young men; she chattered in french to her table d’hôte neighbours, delighted to speak her mother’s tongue again; she staked two-franc pieces on the public table, and one afternoon came out of the gaming-room into the great hall where the canon was sitting with mrs. winstanley, and poured a great mass of silver on to the table--as much as her two small hands joined could carry.
“i thought gambling was against your principles, everard,” said mrs. winstanley, after yvonne had gone again.
“i am sacrificing them for my wife’s happiness, emmeline,” he replied, with a touch of irony.
“yes, it would be a pity to spoil her pleasure. she is such a child.”
“i wish we all had something of her nature,” said the canon.
mrs. winstanley noted the snub. she was treasuring up many resentments against yvonne. in her heart she considered herself a long-suffering woman.
“you seem to enjoy it too, everard,” said yvonne to him that evening. they were sitting near the entrance watching the smartly-dressed people. “and i am so glad to be alone with you.”
he was pleased, smiled at her, and throwing off his dignity, entered into the frivolous spirit of the place. yvonne forgot the restraint she had always put upon her tongue when talking to him. she chattered about everything, holding her face near him, so as to be heard through the hubbub of thousands of voices, the eternal shuffling of passing feet, and the crash of the orchestra in the far gallery.
“it is a revue des deux mondes,” she said, looking rapidly around her, with bright eyes.
“how?” asked the canon.
“the beau and the demi,” she replied, wickedly. she shook his knee. “oh, do look at that woman! what does she think a man can see in her!”
“powder,” answered the canon. “she has been using her puff too freely.”
“she has been putting it on with a muff,” cried yvonne.
he laughed. yvonne had such a triumphant air in delivering herself of little witticisms.
a magnificently dressed woman, in a great feathered hat and low-dress, with diamonds gleaming at her neck, passed by. “you are right, i fear, about the two worlds,” said the canon.
“are n’t there crowds of them? i like to look at them because they wear such beautiful things. and they fit so. and then to rub shoulders with them makes one feel so delightfully wicked. you know, i knew a girl once--she went in for that life of her own accord and she was awfully happy. really. is n’t it odd?”
“my dear yvonne!” said the canon, somewhat shocked, “i sincerely trust you did not continue the acquaintance, afterwards.”
“oh, no,” she replied, sagely. “it would not have done for me at all. a lone woman can’t be too careful. but i used to hear about her from my dressmaker.”
her point of view was not exactly the canon’s. but further discussion was stopped by the arrival of the wilmingtons, who carried off yvonne to the dancing-room. the canon, drawing the line at his own appearance there, strolled back contentedly to the hotel to finish the evening over a book.
two mornings afterwards yvonne was walking by herself along the digue. they were to leave for switzerland the next day, and she determined to make the most of her remaining time. sophia wilmington, for whom she had called, had already gone out. the canon, who was engaged over his correspondence, she was to meet later at the kursaal. it was a lovely morning. the line of white hotels, with their al fresco breakfast tables spread temptingly on the terraces, gleamed in the sun. the digue was bright with summer dresses. the sands below alive with tennis players, children making sand-castles, and loungers, and bathers, and horses moving among the bathing-machines. yvonne tripped along with careless tread. her heart was in harmony with the brightness and movement and the glint of the sun on the sea. once a man, meeting her smiling glance, hesitated as if to speak to her, but seeing that the smile was addressed to the happy world in general, he passed on his way. it was easy to kill time. she went down the rue flammande and looked at the shops. the jewelry and the models of paris dresses delighted her. the display of sweets at nopenny’s allured her within. when she returned to the digue, it was time to seek the canon at the kursaal.
the liveried attendants lifted their hats as she ran up the steps and passed the barrier. she gave them a smiling “bonjour.” neither the canon nor any of the friends being visible on the verandah, she entered the great hall, where the morning instrumental concert was going on. she scanned the talking, laughing crowd as she passed through. many eyes followed her. for yvonne, when happy, was sweet to look upon. she was turning back to retrace her steps, when, suddenly, a man started up from a group of three who were playing cards and drinking absinthe at a small table, and placed himself before her.
“tiens! c’est yvonne!”
she stared at him with dilated eyes and parted lips and uttered a little gasping cry. seeing her grow deadly white and thinking she was going to faint, the man put out his arm. but yvonne was mistress of herself.
“allons d’ici,” she whispered, turning a terrified glance around.
the man raised his hat to his companions and signed to her to come. he was a handsome, careless, dissipated-looking fellow, with curly hair and a twirled black moustache; short and slightly made. he wore a tyrolese hat and a very low turned-down collar and a great silk bow outside his waistcoat. there was a devil-may-care charm in his swagger as he walked--also an indefinable touch of vulgarity; the type of the cabotin in easy circumstances.
yvonne, more dead than alive, followed him through the deserted salle des jeux on to the quiet bit of verandah, and sank into a chair that he offered. she looked at him, still white to the lips.
“yes,” he said laughingly, “why not? it is not astonishing.”
“but i thought you dead!” gasped yvonne, trembling.
“a la bonne heure! and i seem a ghost. oh, i am solid. pinch me. but how did you come to learn? ah! i remember it was given out in paris. a canard. it was in the hospital--paralysis, ma chère. see, i can only just move my arm now. cétait la verte, cette sacrée verte--”
“absinthe?” asked yvonne, almost mechanically.
he nodded, went through the motions of preparing the drink, and laughed.
“but if it will kill you?”
“bah. what do i care? when one lives, one amuses oneself. and i have well amused myself, eh, yvonne? for the rest, je m’en fiche!”
he went on talking with airy cynicism. to yvonne it seemed some horrible dream. the husband she had looked upon as dead was before her, gay, mocking, just as she had known him of old. and he greeted her after all these years with the-same lightness as he had bidden her farewell.
“et toi, yvonne?” said he at length. “ça roule toujours? you look as if you were brewing money. ravishing costume. crépon--not twenty-five centimes a yard! a hat that looks like the rue de la paix! gants de reine et petites bottines de duchesse! you must be doing golden business. but speak, petite, since i assure you i am not a ghost!”
yvonne forced a faint smile. she tried to answer him, but her heart was thumping violently and a lump rose in her throat.
“i am doing very well, amédée,” she said. the dreadfulness of her position came over her. she felt sick and faint. what was going to happen? for some moments she did not hear him as he spoke. at last perception returned.
“but i am already married!” cried yvonne.
“thinking me dead?”
he looked at her for a few seconds, then slapped his thigh and, rising from his chair, bent himself double and gave vent to a roar of laughter. the tears stood in yvonne’s eyes.
“oh, but it’s comic. you don’t find it so?”
he leant back against the railings and laughed again in genuine merriment.
“why, it’s all the more reason to come back to me. ça y met du salé. have you any children?”
yvonne shook her head.
“eh bien!” he exclaimed, triumphantly, stepping towards her with outstretched hands. but she shrank from him, outraged and bewildered.
“never, never!” she cried. “go away. have pity on me, for god’s sake!”
amédée bazouge shrugged his shoulders carelessly.
“it’s a comedy, not a tragedy, ma chère. if you are happy, i am not going to be a spoilsport. it is not my way. be tranquil with your good fat englishman--i bet he’s an englishman--in two years--bah! i can amuse myself always till then--my poor little yvonne. no wonder i frightened you.”
the affair seemed to cause him intense amusement. a ray of light appeared to yvonne.
“you won’t interfere with me at all, amédée--not claim anything?”
“oh, don’t be afraid. dès ce moment je vais me reflanquer au sapin! i shall be as dead as dead can be for you. suis pas méchant va!”
“thank you,” said yvonne. “you were always kind-hearted, amédée--oh, it was a horrible mistake--it can’t be altered. you see that i am helpless.”
“why, my child,” said he, seating himself again, “i keep on telling you it is a farce--like all the rest of life. i only laugh. and now let us talk a little before i pop into the coffin again. what is the name of the thrice happy being?”
“oh, don’t ask me, i beg you,” said yvonne shivering. “it is all so painful. tell me about yourself--your voice--is it still in good condition?”
“never better. i am singing here this afternoon.”
“in the kursaal?”
“why, yes. that’s why i am here. oh, ca marche--pas encore paralysée, celle-là. come and hear me. et ton petit organe à toi?”
“i am out of practice. i have given up the profession.”
“ah, it’s a pity. you had such an exquisite little voice. i regretted it after we parted. two or three times it nearly brought me back to you--foi d’artiste!”
“i think i must go,” said yvonne after a little. “i am leaving ostend to-morrow and i shall not see you again. you don’t think i am treating you unkindly, amédée?”
he laughed in his bantering way and lit a cigarette.
“on the contrary, cher ange. it is very good of you to talk to a poor ghost. and you look so pathetic, like a poor little saint with its harp out of tune.”
she rose, anxious to leave him and escape into solitude, where she could think. she still trembled with agitation. in the little cool park, on the other side of the square below, she could be by herself. she dreaded meeting the canon yet awhile.
“do give up that vile absinthe,” she said, as a parting softness.
“it is the only consoler that remains to me--sad widower.”
“well, good-bye, amédée.”
“ah--not yet. since you are the wife of somebody else, i am dying to make love to you.”
he held her by the wrist, laughing at her. but at that moment yvonne caught sight of the canon and mrs. winstanley, entering upon the terrace. she wrenched her arm away.
“there is my husband.”
“nom de dieu!” cried bazouge, stifling a guffaw before the austere decorum of the english churchman. “ça? oh, my poor yvonne!” she shook hands rapidly with him and turned away. he bowed gracefully, including the new-comers in his salute. the canon responded severely. mrs. winstanley stared at him through her tortoise-shell lorgnette.
“we have been looking all over the place for you,” said the canon, as they passed through the window into the salle des jeux, leaving bazouge in the corner of the verandah.
“i’m sorry,” said yvonne penitently.
“and who was that rakish-looking little frenchman you were talking to?”
“an old friend--i used to know him,” said yvonne, struggling with her agitation. “a friend of my first husband--i had to speak to him--we went there to be quiet. i could n’t help it, everard, really i could n’t.”
“my dear child,” said the canon, kindly, “i was not scolding you--though he did look rather undesirable.”
“i suppose you had to mix with all kinds of odd bohemian people in your professional days?” said mrs. winstanley.
“of course,” faltered yvonne.
they went through the great hall. at the door they parted with mrs. winstanley, who was waiting for the wilmingtons. “we will call for you on our way to the concert this afternoon,” said the canon.
“thanks,” said mrs. winstanley, and then, suddenly looking at yvonne--
“mercy, my dear! how white you are!”
“there’s nothing the matter with me,” said yvonne, trying to smile.
“it’s past our déjeuner hour,” said the canon, briskly. “you want some food.”
“perhaps i do,” said yvonne.
she went with the canon on to the digue, and walked along the shady side, by the hotels, past the gay terraces thronged with lunching guests. but all the glamour had gone from the place. an hour had changed it. and that hour seemed a black abyss separating her from happiness.
an hour ago she had looked upon this kind, grave man who walked by her side as her husband. now what was he to her? she shrank from the thought, terrified, and came nearer to him, touching the flying skirt of his coat as if to take strength from him.
they entered the crowded dining-room, where the maître d’hôtel had reserved them a table. she struggled bravely through part of the meal, strove to keep up a conversation. but the strain was too great. another five minutes, she felt, would make her hysterical. she rose, with an excuse to the canon, and escaped to her room.
there she flung herself down on the bed and buried her face in the cool pillows. it was a relief to be alone with her fright and dismay. she strove to think, but her head was in a whirl. the incidents of the late scene came luridly before her mind, and she shivered with revulsion. a rough hand had been laid on the butterfly and brushed the dust from its wings.
the canon came later to her room, kindly solicitous. was she ill? would she like to see a medical man? should he sit with her? she clasped his hand impulsively and kissed it.
“you are too good to me. i am not worth it. i am not ill. it was the sun, i think. let me lie down this afternoon by myself and i shall be better.”
surprised and touched by her action, he bent down and kissed her.
“my poor little wife.”
he stepped to the window and pulled the curtain to shield her eyes from the glare, and promising to order some tea to be brought up later, he went out.
the kiss, the term, and the little act of thoughtfulness comforted her, gave her a sense of protection. she had been so bruised and frightened. now she could think a little. should she tell everard? then she broke down again and began to cry silently in a great soothing pity for herself.
“it would only make him unhappy,” she moaned. “why should i tell him?”
she grew calmer. if amédée would only keep his promise and leave her free, there was really nothing to fret about. she reassured herself with his words. through all his failings toward her he had ever been “bon enfant.” there was no danger.
suddenly a thought came that made her spring from her bed in dismay. the concert. she had forgotten that amédée was singing there. everard was going. he would see the name on the programme, “amédée bazouge.” there could not be two tenors of that name in europe. everard must be kept away at all costs.
she rushed from the room and down the stairs, in terrible anxiety lest he should have already left the hotel. to her intense relief, she saw him sitting in one of the cane chairs in the vestibule smoking his after-lunch cigar. he threw it away as he caught sight of her at the head of the stairs, breathless, and holding the balusters, and went up to meet her.
“my poor child,” said he in an anxious tone. “what is the matter?”
“oh, everard--i don’t want any more to be left alone. don’t think me silly and cowardly. i am afraid of all kinds of things.”
“of course i ’ll come and sit with you a little,” he replied kindly.
they entered her room together. yvonne lay down. her head was splitting with nervous headache. the canon tended her in his grave way and sat down by the window with a book. yvonne felt very guilty, but yet comforted by his presence. at the end of an hour, he looked at his watch and rose from his seat.
“are you easier now?”
“you are not going to the kursaal, everard?”
“i am afraid emmeline is expecting me.” she signed to him to approach, and put her arms round his neck.
“don’t go. send her an excuse--and take me for a drive. it would do me good, and i should so love to be alone with you.”
it was the very first time in her life that yvonne had consciously cajoled a man. her face flushed hot with misgivings. it was with a mixture of her sex’s shame and triumph that she heard him say.
“whatever you like, dear. it is still your holiday.”
chapter xiii--dis aliter visum
but the best laid schemes of yvonnes and men often come to nothing. while she was devising, on her drive along the coast, a plan for spending a quiet dangerless evening at the hotel, mrs. winstanley was sitting in solitary dignity at the concert, nursing her wrath over professor drummond’s “natural law in the spiritual world,” a book which she often perused when she wished to accentuate the rigorous attitude of her mind.
yvonne had reckoned without mrs. winstanley. otherwise she would have offered her a seat in the carriage. as it was, mrs. winstanley felt more resentful than ever. under the impression that the canon was to accompany her to the kursaal, she had graciously dispensed with the escort of the wilmingtons, who had gone off to see bicycle races at the vélodrome. she was left in the lurch.
to dislike this is human. to wrap oneself up in one’s sore dignity is more human still, and there was much humanity that lurked, unsuspected by herself, in mrs. winstanley’s bosom. it asserted itself, further, in certain curiosities. she had seen that morning what had escaped the canon’s notice--the stranger’s grasp on yvonne’s arm and the insolent admiration on his face. this fact, coupled with yvonne’s agitation, had put her upon the track of scandal. the result was, that at the concert she made interesting discoveries, and, piecing things together in her mind afterwards, bided her time to make use of them.
it would be for the canon’s sake, naturally. a woman of mrs. winstanley’s stamp is always the most disinterested of god’s creatures. she never performed an action of which her conscience did not approve. but she was such a superior woman that her conscience trembled a little before her, like most of the other friends whom she patronised. she did not have to wait long. the canon called upon her soon after his return to invite herself and the wilmingtons to dinner. it was his last evening at ostend, and yvonne was not feeling well enough to spend it, as usual, at the kursaal.
“yvonne is still poorly, everard?” she asked, with her air of confidential responsibility.
“has it not occurred to you that her encounter this morning may have had something to do with it?”
“of course not,” replied the canon, sharply. “it would be ridiculous.”
“i have reasons for not thinking so, everard. the man was singing at the kursaal this afternoon. here is his name on the programme.” she handed him the slip of paper. he read the name among the artistes. “m. bazouge.” he returned it to her.
“does it not seem odd to you?”
“not at all. a relation of her first husband’s, i suppose. in fact yvonne said as much.”
“i could not help being struck by the name, everard. it is so peculiar. i remembered it from the publication of the banns.”
“i compliment you on your memory, emmeline,” said the canon.
mrs. winstanley drew herself up, offended.
she walked from the window where they were standing to a table, and fetched from it a newspaper.
“do you remember the christian name of yvonne’s first husband?”
the canon drew himself up too, and frowned.
“what is the meaning of all this, emmeline? what are you trying to insinuate?”
“if i thought you were going to adopt this tone, everard, i should have kept my suspicions to myself.”
“i certainly wish that you had,” said he, growing angry. “it is an insult to yvonne which i cannot permit. my wife is above suspicion.”
“duty is one of the chief instruments of the devil, if you will excuse my saying so,” replied the canon.
“oh, very well then, everard,” she said hotly. “you can go on being a fool as long as you like. i saw your wife struggling in this man’s embrace, more or less, this morning. two or three strange coincidences have been forced upon my notice. for your sake i have been excessively anxious. my conscience tells me i ought to take you into my confidence, and i can do no more. you can see the christian name of this bazouge in the visitors’ list, and adopt what course of action you think fit. i wash my hands of the whole matter. and i must say that from the very beginning, two years ago, you have treated me all through with the greatest want of consideration.”
the canon did not heed the peroration. he stood with the flimsy sheet clenched in his hand and regarded her sternly. she shrank a little, for her soul seemed to be naked.
“you have tried to ferret this out through spite against yvonne. whether the horrible thing you imply is true or not, i shall find it hard to forgive you.”
mrs. winstanley shrugged her shoulders. “in either case, you will come to your senses, i hope. meanwhile, considering the present relations, it might be pleasanter not to meet at dinner to-night.”
“i am sorry to have to agree with you, emmeline,” said the canon.
she made him a formal bow and was leaving the room; but his voice stopped her.
“your anxiety cannot be very great, or you would wait to learn whether your suspicions are baseless or not.”
she paused, in a dignified attitude, with her hand on the back of a chair, while he adjusted his gold pince-nez and ran through the list.
“you are right so far,” he said coldly. “the names are identical.”
they parted at the door. the canon walked back to his hotel with anger in his heart. in spite of cumulative evidence, the theory that his cousin had insinuated was prima facie preposterous. it was important enough, however, to need some investigation. but the feeling uppermost in his mind was indignation with mrs. winstanley. he was too shrewd a man not to have perceived long ago her jealousy of yvonne; but beyond keeping a watchful eye lest his wife should receive hurt, he had not condescended to take it into serious consideration. now, beneath her impressive manner he clearly divined the desire to inflict on yvonne a deadly injury. to have leaped at such a conclusion, to have sought subsequent proof from the visitors’ list, argued malicious design. he could never forgive her.
still the matter had to be cleared up at once. on his arrival at the océan, he went forthwith to yvonne’s room, and entered on receiving an acknowledgment of his knock. she was standing in the light of the window by the toilet table, doing her hair. the rest of the room was in the shadow of the gathering evening.
“well,” she said, without turning, “are they coming?”
the grace of her attitude, the intimacy of the scene, the pleasantness of her greeting, made his task hateful.
“no,” he said, with an asperity directed towards the disinvited guest. “we shall dine alone to-night.”
but his tone made yvonne’s heart give a great throb, and she turned to him quickly.
“has anything happened?”
“a great deal,” said the canon.
where he stood in the dusk of the doorway, the shadow accentuated the stern lines of his face and deepened the sombreness of his glance. his brows were bent in perplexities of repugnance. it was horrible to demand of her such explanations. to yvonne’s scared fancy, his brows seemed bent in accusation. that was the pity of it. for a few seconds they looked at one another, the canon severely, yvonne in throbbing suspense.
“what?” she asked at length.
he paused for a moment, then threw his hat and the crumpled visitors’ list on to the table and plunged into the heart of things--but not before yvonne had glanced at the paper with a sudden pang of intuition.
“emmeline has discovered, yvonne, that the man--”
he got no further. yvonne rushed to him with a cry of pain, clung to his arm, broke into wild words.
“don’t say any more--don’t--don’t. spare me--for pity’s sake. i did not want you to know. i tried to keep it from you, everard! don’t look at me like that?”
her voice ended in a note of fright. for the canon’s face had grown ashen and wore an expression of incredulous horror. he shook her from him.
“do you mean that this is true? that you met your first husband this morning?”
“yes,” said she, with quivering lips. question and answer were too categorical for misunderstanding. for a moment he struggled against the overwhelming.
“are you in your right senses, yvonne? do you understand what i asked you? your first husband is still alive and you saw him to-day?”
“yes,” said yvonne again. “didn’t you know when you came in?”
“i did n’t know,” he repeated almost mechanically.
the blow crushed him for a while. he stood quite rigid, drawing quick breaths, with his eyes fixed upon her. and she remained still, half-sitting on the edge of the bed, numb with a vague prescience of catastrophe, and a dim, uncomprehended intuition of the earthquake and wreck in the man’s soul. the silence grew appalling. she broke it with a faltering whisper.
“will you forgive me?”
the poor little commonplace fell in the midst of devastating emotions--pathetically incongruous.
“did you know that this man was alive when you married me?” he asked in a hard voice.
“no,” cried yvonne. “how could i have married you? i thought he had been dead nearly three years.”
“what proofs did you have of his death?”
“a friend sent me a number of the figaro, with the announcement.”
“was that all?”
“yes,” said yvonne.
“do you mean to tell me,” he insisted, “that you married a second time, having no further proofs of your first husband’s death than a mere newspaper report?”
“it never occurred to me to doubt it,” she replied, opening piteous, innocent eyes.
the childlike irresponsibility was above his comprehension. her apparent insensibility to the most vital concerns of life was another shock to him. it seemed criminal.
“god forgive you,” he said, “for the wrong you have done me.”
“but i did it unknowingly, everard,” cried poor yvonne. “if one has to get greater proofs, why did you not ask for them, yourself?”
the canon turned away and paced the room slowly, without replying. at last he stood still before her.
“among ordinary honourable people one takes such things for granted,” he said.
“forgive me,” she said again, humbly.
but he could find no pity for her in his heart. she had wronged him past redemption.
“how much truth was there in the newspaper story?” he asked coldly.
she told him rapidly what amédée bazouge had said concerning his attack in the hospital and his subsequent stroke.
“so the man is wilfully killing himself with absinthe?” he said.
“it appears so,” replied yvonne with a shudder.
“could you tell me what passed between you otherwise--in general terms?” he asked, after a short silence. “you explained your position? or did you leave him in ignorance, as you were going to leave me?”
“i told him--of course. it was necessary. and he laughed--i thought to spare you, everard.”
“spare me, yvonne?”
“yes,” she said, simply, “i could have borne all the pain and fright of it alone--why should i have made you unhappy? and he said he would never interfere with me, and i can trust his word. why should i have told you, everard?”
“do you actually ask me such a question, honestly?”
“god knows i do,” she replied pitifully.
“and you would have gone on living with me--i not being your husband?”
“but you are my husband,” cried yvonne, “nothing could ever alter that.”
“but good god! it does alter it,” cried the canon in a voice of anguish, breaking the iron bonds he had placed on his passion. “neither in the eyes of god nor of man are you my wife. you have no right to bear my name. after this hour i have no right to enter this room. every caress i gave you would be sin. don’t you understand it, child? don’t you understand that this has brought ruin into our lives, the horror of loneliness and separation?”
“separation?” said yvonne.
she rose slowly from her seat on the bed and stared at him aghast.
the twilight in the room deepened; the shadow of a wall opposite the window fell darker. their faces and yvonne’s bare neck and arms gleamed white in the gloom. they had spoken with many silences; for how long neither knew.
“yes,” replied the canon in his harder tones, recovering himself “it means all that.”
“i am to go--not to live with you any more?”
“could you imagine our past relations could continue?”
“i don’t understand,” she began feebly. and then the darkness fell upon her, and her limbs relaxed. she swayed sideways and would have fallen, but he caught her in his arms and laid her on the couch.
“thank you,” she murmured faintly.
she hid her face in her hands and remained, crouched up, quite still, in a stupor of misery. the canon stood over her helplessly, unable to find a word of comfort.
the sight of her prostration did not move him. he had been wounded to the very depths of his being. his pride, his honour, his dignity were lacerated in their vitals. he burned with the sense of unpardonable wrong.
“it is self-evident,” he said at last, “that we must part. our remaining together would be a sin against god and an outrage upon society.”
she rased herself wearily, with one hand on the couch, and shook her head slowly.
“such things are beyond me. no one will ever know.”
“there is one who will always know, yvonne.”
she pondered over the saying, as far as her tired, bewildered brain allowed. it conveyed very little meaning to her. theology had not altered her child-like conception of the benevolence of the creator. after a long time she was able to disentangle an idea from the confusion.
“if it is a sin--don’t you love me enough to sin a little for my sake?”
“not that sin,” he said.
yvonne lifted her shoulders helplessly.
“i would commit any sin for your sake,” she said. “it would seem so easy.”
curiously assorted as they were, a poetic idealism on the one side and grateful veneration on the other had hitherto bound them together. now they were sundered leagues apart; mutual understanding was hopeless. each was bewildered by the other’s moral attitude.
the logical consequences of the discovery, that appeared so luridly devious to the canon’s intellect, failed entirely to appeal to yvonne. she referred them entirely to his personal inclinations. on the other hand, the canon had a false insight into her soul that was a chilling disillusion.
the beauty of her exquisite purity and innocence had always captivated in him the finer man. it was a mirage. it was gone. emptiness remained. she was simply a graceful, non-moral being--a spiritual anomaly.
yvonne shivered, and rising, walked unsteadily to the wardrobe, whence she took a dressing-jacket. putting it on, she returned to the couch. it was almost dark. the canon watched her dim, slight figure as it passed him, with a strange feeling of remoteness. a hundred trivial instances of her want of moral sense crowded into his mind to support his view--her inability to see the wrong-doing of stephen, her indefinite notions in religious matters, her mental attitude toward the girl that had gone astray, of whom she had been talking only the night before, her expressed intention of hiding this terrible discovery from him. he had been duped, not by her, but by his own romantic folly.
yet what would his life be without her--or rather without his illusion? an icy hand gripped his heart. he turned to the glimmering window and stared at the blank wall.
presently a moan struck upon his ear. he wheeled round sharply, and distinguished her lying with helpless outspread arms on the couch. mere humanity brought him to her side.
“i am so tired,” she moaned.
“you must go to bed,” he replied in a gentler voice than hitherto. “we had better part now. to-morrow, if you are well enough to travel, we will leave for england.”
“let me go alone,” she murmured, “and you go on to switzerland. why should your holiday be spoiled?”
“it is my life that is spoiled,” he said ungenerously. “the holiday matters very little. it is best to return to england as soon as possible. between now and to-morrow morning i shall have time to reflect upon the situation.”
he struck a match and lit the candles and drew down the blind. the light revealed her to him so wan and exhausted that he was moved with compunction.
“good-night,” she said miserably.
and so, without touch of hand, they parted.
they left ostend quietly the following morning by the dover boat. during the whole journey the canon treated yvonne with the deferential courtesy he could always assume to women, seeing to her comforts, anticipating her wants, even exchanging now and then casual remarks on passing objects of interest. but of the subject next his heart he said not a word. the crossing was smooth. the sea air revived yvonne’s strength.
his silence half comforted, half frightened her. had he relented? she glanced often at his impassive face, in cruel anxiety to pierce to the thoughts that lay behind. yet a little hope came to her; for fear of losing it she dared not speak. to her simple mind it seemed impossible that merely conscientious scruples could make him cast her off. if he loved her, his love would triumph. if he persisted in his resolve, he cared for her no longer. in this case her future was very simple. she would go back to london and sing.
she seemed to have cried her feeling away during the night--such as he had left unbruised and untorn. for the quivering flesh is only sensitive up to a certain point of maceration. he had trodden upon her pitilessly; but she felt no resentment. in fact, she would have been quite happy if he had put his arms round her and said, “let us forget, yvonne.” by the end of the journey she had cajoled herself into the idea that he would do so.
a suite of rooms received them in the quiet west end hotel where the canon always stayed. they dined alone, the discreet butler waiting on them, for the canon was an honoured guest. when the cloth was removed, the canon said in his even voice:--
“are you sufficiently recovered, yvonne, to discuss this painful subject?”
“i am quite ready, everard.”
“we will make it as short as possible. what i said last night must remain, whatever be the suffering. i have loved you deeply--like a young man--in a way perhaps ill befitting my years. the memories, for they are innocent, will always be there, yvonne. if i did not seek strength from elsewhere, it might wreck my life to part from you.” a young teacher was telling her pupils the story of the emotional lady who, to put her lover to the test, bade him pick up the glove which she had thrown down into the arena between the tiger and the lion. the lover does her bidding, in order to vindicate his character as a brave knight. one boy, after hearing the story, at once states his contempt for the knight's acquiescence, which he declares to be unworthy.
“but,” says the teacher, “you see he really did it to show the lady how foolish she was.” the answer of the boy sums up what i have been trying to show: “there was no sense in his being sillier than she was, to show her she was silly.”
if the boy had stopped there, we might have concluded that he was lacking in imagination or romance, but his next remark proves what a balanced and discriminating person he was, for he added: “now, if she had fallen in, and he had leapt after her to rescue her, that would have been splendid and of some use.” given the character of the lady, we might, as adults, question the last part of the boy's statement, but this is pure cynicism and fortunately does not enter into the child's calculations.
in my own personal experience (and i have told this story often in the german ballad form to girls of ten and twelve in the high schools in england) i have never found one girl who sympathised with the lady or who failed to appreciate the poetic justice meted out to her in the end by the dignified renunciation of the knight.
chesterton defines sentimentality as “a tame, cold, or small and inadequate manner of speaking about certain matters which demand very large and beautiful expression.”
i would strongly urge upon young teachers to revise, by this definition, some of the stories they have included in their repertory, and see whether they would stand the test or not.
an affectionate aunt, on one occasion, anxious to curry favour with a four-year-old nephew, was taxing her imagination to find a story suitable for his tender years. she was greatly startled when he suddenly said, in a most imperative tone: “tell me the story of a bear eating a small boy.” this was so remote from her own choice of subject that she hesitated at first, but coming to the conclusion that as the child had chosen the situation he would feel no terror in the working up of its details, she began a most thrilling and blood-curdling story, leading up to the final catastrophe. but just as she had reached the great dramatic moment, the child raised his hands in terror and said: “oh! auntie, don't let the bear really eat the boy!”
“don't you know,” said an impatient boy who had been listening to a mild adventure story considered suitable to his years, “that i don't take any interest in the story until the decks are dripping with gore?” here we have no opportunity of deciding whether or not the actual description demanded would be more alarming than the listener had realised.
here is a poem of james stephens, showing a child's taste for sensational things:--
a man was sitting underneath a tree outside the village, and he asked me what name was upon this place, and said he was never here before. he told a lot of stories to me too. his nose was flat. i asked him how it happened, and he said, the first mate of the “mary ann” done that, with a marling-spike one day, but he was dead, and a jolly job too, but he'd have gone a long way to have killed him. a gold ring in one ear, and the other was bit off by a crocodile, bedad, that's what he said: he taught me how to chew. he was a real nice man. he liked me too.
the taste that is fed by the sensational contents of the newspapers and the dramatic excitement of street life, and some of the lurid representations of the kinematograph, is so much stimulated that the interest in normal stories is difficult to rouse. i will not here dwell on the deleterious effects of over dramatic stimulation, which has been known to lead to crime, since i am keener to prevent the telling of too many sensational stories than to suggest a cure when the mischief is done. kate douglas wiggin has said:
“let us be realistic, by all means, but beware, o story-teller, of being too realistic. avoid the shuddering tale of ‘the wicked boy who stoned the birds,’ lest some hearer should be inspired to try the dreadful experiment and see if it really does kill.”
i must emphasise the fact, however, that it is only the excess of this dramatic element which i deplore. a certain amount of excitement is necessary; but this question belongs to the positive side of the subject, and i shall deal with it later on.
the element i wish to eliminate is the one which would make children world-wise and old before their time.
a small american child who had entertained a guest in her mother's absence, when questioned as to whether she had shown all the hospitality the mother would have considered necessary, said: “oh! yes. and i talked to her in the kind of ‘dressy’ tone you use on your ‘at home’ days.”
oh, that modern writers of fiction would “get back to the golf links” sooner than they do, realising with this little unconscious philosopher that there are some reactions from love-making which show a healthy and balanced constitution.
experience with children ought to teach us to avoid stories which contain too much allusion to matters of which the hearers are entirely ignorant; but, judging from the written stories of to-day, supposed to be for children, it is still a matter of difficulty to realise that this form of allusion to “foreign” matters, or making a joke the appreciation of which depends solely on a special and “inside” knowledge, is always bewildering and fatal to sustained dramatic interest.
it is a matter of intense regret that so very few people have sufficiently clear remembrance of their own childhood to help them to understand the taste and point of view of the normal child. there is a passage in the “brownies” (by mrs. ewing) which illustrates the confusion created in the child mind by a facetious allusion in a dramatic moment which needed a more direct treatment.
when the nursery toys have all gone astray, one little child exclaims joyfully:
“why, the old rocking-horse's nose has turned up in the oven!”
“it couldn't” remarks a tiresome, facetious doctor, far more anxious to be funny than to sympathise with the joy of the child; “it was the purest grecian, modelled from the elgin marbles.”
vi.--stories which appeal to fear or priggishness. this is a class of story to be avoided which scarcely counts to-day and against which the teacher does not need a warning; but i wish to make a passing allusion to it, partly to round off my subject and partly to show that we have made some improvement in choice of subject.
when i study the evolution of the story from the crude recitals offered to our children within the last hundred years, i feel that, though our progress in intelligent mental catering may be slow, it is real and sure. one has only to take some examples from the chap books of the beginning of last century to realise the difference of appeal. everything offered then was either an appeal to fear or to priggishness, and one wonders how it is that our grandparents and their parents ever recovered from the effects of such stories as were offered to them. but there is the consoling thought that no lasting impression was made upon them, such as i believe may be possible by the right kind of story.
i offer a few examples of the old type of story:
here is an encouraging address offered by a certain mr. janeway to children about the year 1828:
“dare you do anything which your parents forbid you, and neglect to do what they command? dare you to run up and down on the lord's day, or do you keep in to read your book, and learn what your good parents command?”
such an address would have almost tempted children to envy the lot of orphans, except that the guardians and less close relations might have been equally, if not more, severe.
from “the curious girl,” published about 1809: “oh! papa, i hope you will have no reason to be dissatisfied with me, for i love my studies very much, and i am never so happy at my play as when i have been assiduous at my lessons all day.”
“adolphus: how strange it is, papa, you should believe it possible for me to act so like a child, now that i am twelve years old!”
here is a specimen taken from a chap-book about 1825:
edward refuses hot bread at breakfast. his hostess asks whether he likes it. “yes, i am extremely fond of it.” “why did you refuse it?” “because i know that my papa does not approve of my eating it. am i to disobey a father and mother i love so well, and forget my duty, because they are a long way off? i would not touch the cake, were i sure nobody could see me. i myself should know it, and that would be sufficient.”
“nobly replied!” exclaimed mrs. c. “act always thus, and you must be happy, for although the whole world should refuse the praise that is due, you must enjoy the approbation of your conscience, which is beyond anything else.”
here is a quotation of the same kind from mrs. sherwood:
“tender-souled little creatures, desolated by a sense of sin, if they did but eat a spoonful of cupboard jam without mamma's express permission.... would a modern lucy, jealous of her sister emily's doll, break out thus easily into tearful apology for her guilt?--‘i know it is wicked in me to be sorry that emily is happy, but i feel that i cannot help it.’ and would a modern mother retort with heartfelt joy?--'my dear child, i am glad you have confessed. now i shall tell you why you feel this wicked sorrow'--proceeding to an account of the depravity of human nature so unredeemed by comfort for a childish mind of common intelligence that one can scarcely imagine the interview ending in anything less tragic than a fit of juvenile hysteria.”
vii.--stories of exaggerated and coarse fun. in the chapter on the positive side of this subject i shall speak more in detail of the educational value of robust and virile representation of fun and of sheer nonsense, but as a representation to these statements, i should like to strike a note of warning about the element of exaggerated and coarse fun being encouraged in our school stories, partly because of the lack of humour in such presentations--a natural product of stifling imagination--and partly because the train of the abnormal has the same effect as the too frequent use of the melodramatic.
you have only to read the adventures of buster brown, which for years formed the sunday reading of millions of children in the united states, to realise what would be the effect of coarse fun and entire absence of humour upon the normal child in its everyday experience, an effect all the greater because of the real skill with which the illustrations are drawn. it is only fair to state that this series was not originally prepared or intended for the young, but it is a matter of regret (shared by most educationists in the states) that they should ever have been given to children at all.
in an article in macmillan's magazine, dec. 1869, miss yonge writes: “a taste for buffoonery is much to be discouraged, an exclusive taste for extravagance most unwholesome and even perverting. it becomes destructive of reverence and soon degenerates into coarseness. it permits nothing poetical or imaginative, nothing sweet or pathetic to exist, and there is a certain self-satisfaction and superiority in making game of what others regard with enthusiasm and sentiment which absolutely bars the way against a higher or softer tone.”
although these words were written nearly half a century ago, they are so specially applicable to-day that they seem quite “up-to-date”: indeed, i think they will hold equally good fifty years hence.
in spite of a strong taste on the part of children for what is ugly and brutal, i am sure that we ought to eliminate this element as far as possible from the school stories--especially among poor children. not because i think children should be protected from all knowledge of evil, but because so much of this knowledge comes into their life outside school that we can well afford to ignore it during school hours. at the same time, however, as i shall show by example when i come to the positive side, it would be well to show children by story illustration the difference between brute ugliness without anything to redeem it and surface ugliness, which may be only a veil over the beauty that lies underneath. it might be possible, for instance, to show children the difference between the real ugliness of a brutal story of crime and an illustration of it in the sensational papers, and the apparent ugliness in the priest's face of the “laocoon” group, because of the motive of courage and endurance behind the suffering. many stories in everyday life could be found to illustrate this.
viii.--stories of infant piety and death-bed scenes. the stories for children forty years ago contained much of this element, and the following examples will illustrate this point:
notes from poems written by a child between six and eight years of age, by name philip freeman, afterwards archdeacon of exeter:
poor robin, thou canst fly no more, thy joys and sorrows all are o'er. through life's tempestuous storms thou'st trod, but now art sunk beneath the sod. here lost and gone poor robin lies, he trembles, lingers, falls and dies. he's gone, he's gone, forever lost, no more of him they now can boast. poor robin's dangers all are past, he struggled to the very last. perhaps he spent a happy life, without much struggle and much strife.
published by john loder, bookseller, woodbridge, in 1829.
the prolonged gloom of the main theme is somewhat lightened by the speculative optimism of the last verse.
life, transient life, is but a dream, like sleep which short doth lengthened seem till dawn of day, when the bird's lay doth charm the soul's first peeping gleam.
then farewell to the parting year, another's come to nature dear. in every place, thy brightening face does welcome winter's snowy drear.
alas! our time is much mis-spent. then we must haste and now repent. we have a book in which to look, for we on wisdom should be bent.
should god, the almighty, king of all, before his judgment-seat now call us to that place of joy and grace prepared for us since adam's fall.
i think there is no doubt that we have made considerable progress in this matter. not only do we refrain from telling these highly moral (sic) stories but we have reached the point of parodying them, in sign of ridicule, as, for instance, in such writing as belloc's “cautionary tales.” these would be a trifle too grim for a timid child, but excellent fun for adults.
it should be our study to-day to prove to children that the immediate importance to them is not to think of dying and going to heaven, but of living and--shall we say?--going to college, which is a far better preparation for a life to come than the morbid dwelling upon the possibility of an early death.
in an article signed “muriel harris,” i think, from a copy of the tribune, appeared a delightful article on sunday books, from which i quote the following:
“all very good little children died young in the story-books, so that unusual goodness must have been the source of considerable anxiety to affectionate parents. i came across a little old book the other day called ‘examples for youth.’ on the yellow fly-leaf was written in childish, carefully sloping hand: ‘presented to mary palmer junior, by her sister, to be read on sundays,’ and was dated 1828. the accounts are taken from a work on piety promoted, and all of them begin with unusual piety in early youth and end with the death-bed of the little paragon, and his or her dying words.”
ix.--stories containing a mixture of fairy tale and science. by this combination you lose what is essential to each, namely, the fantastic on the one side, and accuracy on the other. the true fairy tale should be unhampered by any compromise of probability even--the scientific representation should be sufficiently marvellous along its own lines to need no supernatural aid. both appeal to the imagination in different ways.
as an exception to this kind of mixture, i should quote “the honey bee, and other stories,” translated from the danish of evald by c. g. moore smith. there is a certain robustness in these stories dealing with the inexorable laws of nature, though some of them will appear hard to the child; but they will be of interest to all teachers.
perhaps the worst element in choice of stories is that which insists upon the moral detaching itself and explaining the story. in “alice in wonderland” the duchess says, “‘and the moral of that is: take care of the sense and the sounds will take care of themselves.’ ‘how fond she is of finding morals in things,’ thought alice to herself.” (this gives the point of view of the child.)
the following is a case in point, found in a rare old print in the british museum:
“jane s. came home with her clothes soiled and hands badly torn. ‘where have you been?’ asked her mother. ‘i fell down the bank near the mill,’ said jane, ‘and i should have been drowned if mr. m. had not seen me and pulled me out.’ 'why did you go so near the edge of the brink?‘ 'there was a pretty flower there that i wanted, and i only meant to take one step, but i slipped and fell down.’ moral: young people often take but one step in sinful indulgence (poor jane!), but they fall into soul-destroying sins. there is a sinful pleasure which they wish to enjoy. they can do it by a single act of sin (the heinous act of picking a flower!). they do it; but that act leads to another, and they fall into the gulf of perdition, unless god interposes.”
now, apart from the folly of this story, we must condemn it on moral grounds. could we imagine a lower standard of a deity than that presented here to the child?
to-day the teacher would commend jane for a laudable interest in botany, but might add a word of caution about choosing inclined planes as a hunting-ground for specimens and a popular, lucid explanation of the inexorable law of gravity.
here we have an instance of applying a moral when we have finished our story, but there are many stories where nothing is left to chance in this matter, and where there is no means for the child to use ingenuity or imagination in making out the meaning for himself.
but i think this applies to all stories, and most especially to those by which we do wish to teach something.
“didactic fiction can never rank high. thou shalt not preach or teach; though shalt pourtray and create, and have ends as universal as nature.... what art demands is that the artist's personal convictions and notions, his likes and dislikes, do not obtrude themselves at all; that good and evil stand judged in his work by the logic of events, as they do in nature, and not by any special pleading on his part. he does not hold a brief for either side; he exemplifies the working of the creative energy.... the great artist works in and through and from moral ideas; his works are indirectly a criticism of life. he is moral without having a moral. the moment a moral obtrudes itself, that moment he begins to fall from grace as an artist.... the great distinction of art is that it aims to see life steadily and to see it whole.... it affords the one point of view whence the world appears harmonious and complete.”
it would seem, then, from this passage, that it is of moral importance to put things dramatically.
in froebel's “mother play” he demonstrates the educational value of stories, emphasising that their highest use consists in their ability to enable the child, through suggestion, to form a pure and noble idea of what a man may be or do. the sensitiveness of a child's mind is offended if the moral is forced upon him, but if he absorbs it unconsciously, he has received its influence for all time.
to me the idea of pointing out the moral of the story has always seemed as futile as tying a flower on to a stalk instead of letting the flower grow out of the stalk, as nature intended. in the first case, the flower, showy and bright for the moment, soon fades away. in the second instance, it develops slowly, coming to perfection in fulness of time because of the life within.
x.--lastly, the element to avoid is that which rouses emotions which cannot be translated into action.
these, then, are the main elements to avoid in the selection of material suitable for normal children. much might be added in the way of detail, and the special tendency of the day may make it necessary to avoid one class of story more than another; but this care belongs to another generation of teachers and parents.
elements to seek in choice of material.
now, the same statement applies to our stories, and, having busied myself, during the last chapter, with “clearing my small spot” by cutting away a mass of unfruitful growth, i am now going to suggest what would be the best kind of seed to sow in the patch which i have “reclaimed from the jungle.”
again i repeat that i have no wish to be dogmatic, and that in offering suggestions as to the stories to be told, i am only catering for a group of normal school-children. my list of subjects does not pretend to cover the whole ground of children's needs, and just as i exclude the abnormal or unusual child from the scope of my warning in subjects to avoid, so do i also exclude that child from the limitation in choice of subjects to be sought, because you can offer almost any subject to the unusual child, especially if you stand in close relation to him and know his powers of apprehension. in this matter, age has very little to say: it is a question of the stage of development.
experience has taught me that for the group of normal children, almost irrespective of age, the first kind of story suitable will contain an appeal to conditions to which they are accustomed. the reason of this is obvious: the child, having limited experience, can only be reached by this experience, until his imagination is awakened and he is enabled to grasp through this faculty what he has not actually passed through. before this awakening has taken place he enters the realm of fiction (represented in the story) by comparison with his personal experience. every story and every point in the story mean more as that experience widens, and the interest varies, of course, with temperament, quickness of perception, power of visualising and of concentration.
in “the marsh king's daughter,” h. c. andersen says:
“the storks have a great many stories which they tell their little ones, all about the bogs and marshes. they suit them to their age and capacity. the young ones are quite satisfied with kribble, krabble, or some such nonsense, and find it charming; but the elder ones want something with more meaning.”
to take a concrete example: let us suppose the story of andersen's tin soldier told to a child of five or six years. at the first recital, the point which will interest the child most will be the setting up of the tin soldiers on the table, because he can understand this by means of his own experience, in his own nursery: it is an appeal to conditions to which he is accustomed and for which no exercise of the imagination is needed, unless we take the effect of memory to be, according to queyrat, retrospective imagination.
the next incident that appeals is the unfamiliar behaviour of the toys, but still in familiar surroundings; that is to say, the unusual activities are carried on in the safe precincts of the nursery--in the usual atmosphere of the child.
i quote from the text:
“late in the evening the other soldiers were put in their box, and the people of the house went to bed. now was the time for the toys to play; they amused themselves with paying visits, fighting battles and giving balls. the tin soldiers rustled about in their box, for they wanted to join the games, but they could not get the lid off. the nut-crackers turned somersaults, and the pencil scribbled nonsense on the slate.”
now, from this point onwards in the story, the events will be quite outside the personal experience of the child, and there will have to be a real stretch of imagination to appreciate the thrilling and blood-curdling adventures of the little tin soldier, namely, the terrible sailing down the gutter under the bridge, the meeting with the fierce rat who demands the soldier's passport, the horrible sensation in the fish's body, etc. last of all, perhaps, will come the appreciation of the best qualities of the hero: his modesty, his dignity, his reticence, his courage and his constancy: he seems to combine all the qualities of the best soldier with those of the best civilian, without the more obvious qualities which generally attract first. as for the love-story, we must not expect any child to see its tenderness and beauty, though the individual child may intuitively appreciate these qualities, but it is not what we wish for or work for at this period of child-life.
this method could be applied to various stories. i have chosen the tin soldier because of its dramatic qualities and because it is marked off (probably quite unconsciously on the part of andersen) into periods which correspond to the child's development.
in eugene field's exquisite little poem of “the dinkey bird” we find the objects familiar to the child in unusual places, so that some imagination is needed to realise that “big red sugar-plums are clinging to the cliffs beside that sea”; but the introduction of the fantastic bird and the soothing sound of the amfalula tree are new and delightful sensations, quite out of the child's personal experience.
another such instance is to be found in mrs. w. k. clifford's story of master willie. the abnormal behaviour of familiar objects, such as a doll, leads from the ordinary routine to the paths of adventure. this story is to be found in a little book called “very short stories,” a most interesting collection for teachers and children.
we now come to the second element we should seek in material--namely, the element of the unusual, which we have already anticipated in the story of the tin soldier.
this element is necessary in response to the demand of the child who expressed the needs of his fellow-playmates when he said: “i want to go to the place where the shadows are real.” this is the true definition of “faerie” lands, and is the first sign of real mental development in the child when he is no longer content with the stories of his own little deeds and experiences, when his ear begins to appreciate sounds different from the words in his own everyday language, and when he begins to separate his own personality from the action of the story.
it is because of the great value of leading children to something beyond the limited circle of their own lives that i deplore the twaddling boarding-school stories written for girls and the artificially-prepared public school stories for boys. why not give them the dramatic interest of a larger stage? no account of a cricket match, or a football triumph, could present a finer appeal to boys and girls than the description of the peacestead in the “heroes of asgaard”:
“this was the playground of the æsir, where they practised trials of skill one with another and held tournaments and sham fights. these last were always conducted in the gentlest and most honourable manner; for the strongest law of the peacestead was, that no angry blow should be struck, or spiteful word spoken upon the sacred field.”
for my part, i would unhesitatingly give to boys and girls an element of strong romance in the stories which are told them even before they are twelve. miss sewell says:
“the system that keeps girls in the schoolroom reading simple stories, without reading scott and shakespeare and spenser, and then hands them over to the unexplored recesses of the circulating library, has been shown to be the most frivolizing that can be devised.” she sets forward the result of her experience that a good novel, especially a romantic one, read at twelve or fourteen, is really a beneficial thing.
at present many of the children from the elementary schools get their first idea of love (if one can give it such a name) from vulgar pictures displayed in the shop windows, or jokes on marriage culled from the lowest type of paper, or the proceedings of a divorce-court.
what an antidote to such representation might be found in the story of
hector and andromache, siegfreid and brunhild, dido and æneas, orpheus and eurydice, st. francis and st. clare.
one of the strongest elements we should introduce into our stories for children of all ages is that which calls forth love of beauty. and the beauty should stand out, not necessarily only in delineation of noble qualities in our heroes and heroines, but in beauty and strength of language and form.
in this latter respect the bible stories are of such inestimable value--all the greater because a child is familiar with the subject, and the stories gain fresh significance from the spoken or winged word as compared with the mere reading. whether we should keep to the actual text is a matter of individual experience. professor r. g. moulton, whose interpretations of the bible stories are so well known both in england and the states, does not always confine himself to the actual text, but draws the dramatic elements together, rejecting what seems to him to break the narrative, but introducing the actual language where it is the most effective. those who have heard him will realise the success of his method.
there is one bible story which can be told with scarcely any deviation, and that is the story of nebuchadnezzar and the golden image. thus, i think it wise, if the children are to succeed in partially visualizing the story, that they should have some idea of the dimensions of the golden image as it would stand out in a vast plain. it might be well to compare those dimensions with some building with which the child is familiar. in london the matter is easy, as the height will compare, roughly speaking, with that of westminster abbey. the only change in the text i should adopt is to avoid the constant enumeration of the list of rulers and the musical instruments. in doing this, i am aware that i am sacrificing something of beauty in the rhythm,--on the other hand, for narrative purpose, the interest is not broken. the first time the announcement is made, that is, by the herald, it should be in a perfectly loud, clear and toneless voice, such as you would naturally use when shouting through a trumpet to a vast concourse of people scattered over a wide plain; reserving all the dramatic tone of voice for the passage where nebuchadnezzar is making the announcement to the three men by themselves. i can remember professor moulton saying that all the dramatic interest of the story is summed up in the words “but if not....” this suggestion is a very helpful one, for it enables us to work up gradually to this point, and then, as it were, unwind, until we reach the words of nebuchadnezzar's dramatic recantation.
in this connection, it is a good plan occasionally during the story hour to introduce really good poetry which, delivered in a dramatic manner (far removed, of course, from the melodramatic), might give children their first love of beautiful form in verse. and i do not think it necessary to wait for this. even the normal child of seven (though there is nothing arbitrary in the suggestion of this age) will appreciate the effect--if only on the ear--of beautiful lines well spoken. mahomet has said, in his teaching advice: “teach your children poetry: it opens the mind, lends grace to wisdom and makes heroic virtues hereditary.”
to begin with the youngest children of all, here is a poem which contains a thread of story, just enough to give a human interest:
when the cows come home, the milk is coming, honey's made when the bees are humming. duck, drake on the rushy lake, and the deer live safe in the breezy brake, and timid, funny, pert little bunny winks his nose, and sits all sunny. christina rossetti.
now, in comparing this poem with some of the doggerel verse offered to small children, one is struck with the literary superiority in the choice of words. here, in spite of the simplicity of the poem, there is not the ordinary limited vocabulary, nor the forced rhyme, nor the application of a moral, by which the artist falls from grace.
again, in eugene field's “hushaby lady,” the language of which is most simple, the child is carried away by the beauty of the sound.
i remember hearing some poetry repeated by the children in one of the elementary schools in sheffield which made me feel that they had realised romantic possibilities which would prevent their lives from ever becoming quite prosaic again, and i wish that this practice were more usual. there is little difficulty with the children. i can remember, in my own experience as a teacher in london, making the experiment of reading or repeating passages from milton and shakespeare to children from nine to eleven years of age, and the enthusiastic way they responded by learning those passages by heart. i have taken, with several sets of children, such passages from milton as “echo song,” “sabrina,” “by the rushy fringed bank,” “back, shepherds, back,” from comus, “may morning,” “ode to shakespeare,” “samson on his blindness,” etc. i even ventured on several passages from paradise lost, and found “now came still evening on” a particular favourite with the children.
the method i should recommend in the introduction of both poets occasionally into the story-hour would be threefold.
first, to choose passages which appeal for beauty of sound or beauty of mental vision called up by those sounds: such as, “tell me where is fancy bred,” titania's lullaby, “how sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank.”
secondly, passages for sheer interest of content, such as the trial scene from “the merchant of venice,” or the forest scene in “as you like it.”
thirdly, for dramatic and historical interest, such as, “men at some time are masters of their fates,” the whole of mark antony's speech, and the scene with imogen and her foster-brothers in the forest.
it may not be wholly out of place to add here that the children learned and repeated these passages themselves, and that i offered them the same advice as i do to all story-tellers. i discussed quite openly with them the method i considered best, trying to make them see that simplicity of delivery was not only the most beautiful but the most effective means to use; and, by the end of a few months, when they had been allowed to experiment and express themselves, they began to see that mere ranting was not force, and that a sense of reserve power is infinitely more impressive and inspiring than mere external presentation.
i encouraged them to criticise each other for the common good, and sometimes i read a few lines with over-emphasis and too much gesture, which they were at liberty to point out, so that they might avoid the same error.
a very good collection of poems for this purpose of narrative is to be found in:
and for older children:
the call of the homeland, anthology. edited by dr. scott and miss katharine wallas, published by blackie and son.
also in a collection published (i believe) in boston by miss agnes repplier.
golden numbers. (k. d. wiggin and n. a. smith).
it will be realised from the scanty number of examples offered in this section that it is only a side issue, a mere suggestion of an occasional alternative for the story-hour, as likely to develop the imagination.
thus we have the story of cinderella. the cynic might imagine that it was the diminutive size of her foot that ensured her success: the child does not realise any advantage in this, but, though the matter need not be pressed, the story leaves us with the impression that cinderella had been patient and industrious, forbearing with her sisters. we know that she was strictly obedient to her godmother, and in order to be this she makes her dramatic exit from the ball which is the beginning of her triumph. there are many who might say that these qualities do not meet with reward in life and that they end in establishing a habit of drudgery, but, after all, we must have poetic justice in a fairy story, occasionally, at any rate.
another story of this kind, admirable for children from six years and upwards, is “what the old man does is always right.” here, perhaps, the entire lack of common sense on the part of the hero would serve rather as a warning than a stimulating example, but the conduct of the wife in excusing the errors of her foolish husband is a model of resourcefulness.
one of the most important elements to seek in our choice of stories is that which tends to develop, eventually, a fine sense of humour in a child. i purposely use the word “eventually,” because i realise first that humour has various stages, and that seldom, if ever, can you expect an appreciation of fine humour from a normal child, that is, from an elemental mind. it seems as if the rough-and-tumble element were almost a necessary stage through which children must pass--a stage, moreover, which is normal and healthy; but up to now we have quite unnecessarily extended the period of elephantine fun, and though we cannot control the manner in which children are catered for along this line in their homes, we can restrict the folly of appealing too strongly or too long to this elemental faculty in our schools. of course, the temptation is strong, because the appeal is so easy. but there is a tacit recognition that horse-play and practical jokes are no longer considered an essential part of a child's education. we note this in the changed attitude in the schools, taken by more advanced educationists, towards bullying, fagging, hazing, etc. as a reaction, then, from more obvious fun, there should be a certain number of stories which make appeal to a more subtle element, and in the chapter on the questions put to me by teachers on various occasions, i speak more in detail about the educational value of a finer humour in our stories.
at some period there ought to be presented in our stories the superstitions connected with the primitive history of the race, dealing with the fairy (proper), giants, dwarfs, gnomes, nixies, brownies and other elemental beings. andrew lang says: “without our savage ancestors we should have had no poetry. conceive the human race born into the world in its present advanced condition, weighing, analysing, examining everything. such a race would have been destitute of poetry and flattened by common sense. barbarians did the dreaming of the world.”
but it is a question of much debate among educationists what should be the period of the child's life in which these stories are to be presented. i myself was formerly of opinion that they belonged to the very primitive age of the individual, just as they belong to the primitive age of the race, but experience in telling stories has taught me to compromise.
some people maintain that little children, who take things with brutal logic, ought not to be allowed the fairy tale in its more limited form of the supernatural; whereas, if presented to older children, this material can be criticised, catalogued and (alas!) rejected as worthless, or retained with flippant toleration.
now, whilst recognising a certain value in this point of view, i am bound to admit that if we regulate our stories entirely on this basis, we lose the real value of the fairy tale element--it is the one element which causes little children to wonder, simply because no scientific analysis of the story can be presented to them. it is somewhat heartrending to feel that jack and the bean-stalk and stories of that ilk are to be handed over to the critical youth who will condemn the quick growth of the tree as being contrary to the order of nature, and wonder why jack was not playing football in the school team instead of climbing trees in search of imaginary adventures.
a wonderful plea for the telling of early superstitions to children is to be found in an old indian allegory called “the blazing mansion.”
“an old man owned a large, rambling mansion--the pillars were rotten, the galleries tumbling down, the thatch dry and combustible, and there was only one door. suddenly, one day, there was a smell of fire: the old man rushed out. to his horror he saw that the thatch was aflame, the rotten pillars were catching fire one by one, and the rafters were burning like tinder. but inside, the children went on amusing themselves quite happily. the distracted father said: ‘i will run in and save my children. i will seize them in my strong arms, i will bear them harmless through the falling rafters and the blazing beams.’ then the sad thought came to him that the children were romping and ignorant. ‘if i say the house is on fire, they will not understand me. if i try to seize them, they will romp about and try to escape. alas! not a moment to be lost!’ suddenly a bright thought flashed across the old man's mind. ‘my children are ignorant,’ he said; ‘they love toys and glittering playthings. i will promise them playthings of unheard-of beauty. then they will listen.’
so the old man shouted: ‘children, come out of the house and see these beautiful toys! chariots with white oxen, all gold and tinsel. see these exquisite little antelopes. whoever saw such goats as these? children, children, come quickly, or they will all be gone!’
forth from the blazing ruin the children came in hot haste. the word ‘plaything’ was almost the only word they could understand.
then the father, rejoiced that his offspring was freed from peril, procured for them one of the most beautiful chariots ever seen: the chariot had a canopy like a pagoda: it had tiny rails and balustrades and rows of jingling bells. milk-white oxen drew the chariot. the children were astonished when they were placed inside.” (from the “thabagata.”)
perhaps, as a compromise, one might give the gentler superstitions to very small children, and leave such a blood-curdling story as bluebeard to a more robust age.
there is one modern method which has always seemed to me much to be condemned, and that is the habit of changing the end of a story, for fear of alarming the child. this is quite indefensible. in doing this we are tampering with folk-lore and confusing stages of development.
now, i know that there are individual children that, at a tender age, might be alarmed at such a story, for instance, as little red riding-hood; in which case, it is better to sacrifice the “wonder stage” and present the story later on.
i live in dread of finding one day a bowdlerized form of “bluebeard” (prepared for a junior standard), in which, to produce a satisfactory finale, all the wives come to life again, and “live happily for ever after” with bluebeard and each other!
and from this point it seems an easy transition to the subject of legends of different kinds. some of the old country legends in connection with flowers are very charming for children, and as long as we do not tread on the sacred ground of the nature students, we may indulge in a moderate use of such stories, of which a few will be found in the story lists.
with regard to the introduction of legends connected with saints into the school curriculum, my chief plea is the element of the unusual which they contain, and an appeal to a sense of mysticism and wonder which is a wise antidote to the prosaic and commercial tendencies of to-day. though many of the actions of the saints may be the result of a morbid strain of self-sacrifice, at least none of them were engaged in the sole occupation of becoming rich: their ideals were often lofty and unselfish; their courage high, and their deeds noble. we must be careful, in the choice of our legends, to show up the virile qualities rather than to dwell on the elements of horror in details of martyrdom, or on the too-constantly recurring miracles, lest we should defeat our own ends. for the children might think lightly of the dangers to which the saints were exposed if they find them too often preserved at the last moment from the punishment they were brave enough to undergo. for one or other of these reasons, i should avoid the detailed history of st. juliana, st. vincent, st. quintin, st. eustace, st. winifred, st. theodore, st. james the more, st. katharine, st. cuthbert, st. alphage, st. peter of milan, st. quirine and juliet, st. alban and others.
the danger of telling children stories connected with sudden conversions is that they are apt to place too much emphasis on the process, rather than the goal to be reached. we should always insist on the splendid deeds performed after a real conversion--not the details of the conversion itself; as, for instance, the beautiful and poetical work done by st. christopher when he realised what work he could do most effectively.
having protested against the elephantine joke and the too-frequent use of exaggerated fun, i now endeavour to restore the balance by suggesting the introduction into the school curriculum of a few purely grotesque stories which serve as an antidote to sentimentality or utilitarianism. but they must be presented as nonsense, so that the children may use them for what they are intended, as pure relaxation. such a story is that of “the wolf and the kids.” i have had serious objections offered to this story by several educational people, because of the revenge taken by the goat on the wolf, but i am inclined to think that if the story is to be taken as anything but sheer nonsense, it is surely sentimental to extend our sympathy towards a caller who has devoured six of his hostess' children. with regard to the wolf being cut open, there is not the slightest need to accentuate the physical side. children accept the deed as they accept the cutting off of a giant's head, because they do not associate it with pain, especially if the deed is presented half-humorously. the moment in the story where their sympathy is aroused is the swallowing of the kids, because the children do realise the possibility of being disposed of in the mother's absence. (needless to say, i never point out the moral of the kids' disobedience to the mother in opening the door.) i have always noticed a moment of breathlessness even in a grown-up audience when the wolf swallows the kids, and that the recovery of them “all safe and sound, all huddled together” is quite as much appreciated by the adult audience as by the children, and is worth the tremor caused by the wolf's summary action.
one might occasionally introduce one of edward lear's “book of nonsense.” for instance:
there was an old man of cape horn, who wished he had never been born; so he sat in a chair till he died of despair, that dolorous man of cape horn.
now, except in case of very young children, this could not possibly be taken seriously. the least observant normal boy or girl would recognise the hollowness of the pessimism that prevents a man from at least an attempt to rise from his chair.
the following i have chosen as repeated with intense appreciation and much dramatic vigour by a little boy just five years old:
one of the most desirable of all elements to introduce into our stories is that which encourages kinship with animals. with very young children this is easy, because in those early years when the mind is not clogged with knowledge, the sympathetic imagination enables them to enter into the feelings of animals. andersen has an illustration of this point in his “ice maiden”:
“children who cannot talk yet can understand the language of fowls and ducks quite well, and cats and dogs speak to them quite as plainly as father and mother; but that is only when the children are very small, and then even grandpapa's stick will become a perfect horse to them that can neigh and, in their eyes, is furnished with legs and a tail. with some children this period ends later than with others, and of such we are accustomed to say that they are very backward, and that they have remained children for a long time. people are in the habit of saying strange things.”
i think that beyond question the finest animal stories are to be found in the indian collections, of which i furnish a list in the appendix.
with regard to the development of the love of nature through the telling of the stories, we are confronted with a great difficult in the elementary schools, because so many of the children have never been out of the towns, have never seen a daisy, a blade of grass and scarcely a tree, so that in giving, in form of a story, a beautiful description of scenery, you can make no appeal to the retrospective imagination, and only the rarely gifted child will be able to make pictures whilst listening to a style which is beyond his everyday use. nevertheless, once in a way, when the children are in a quiet mood, not eager for action but able to give themselves up to the pure joy of sound, then it is possible to give them a beautiful piece of writing in praise of nature, such as the following, taken from the divine adventure, by fiona macleod:
“then he remembered the ancient wisdom of the gael and came out of the forest chapel and went into the woods. he put his lip to the earth, and lifted a green leaf to his brow, and held a branch to his ear, and because he was no longer heavy with the sweet clay of mortality, though yet of human clan he heard that which we do not hear, and saw that which we do not see, and knew that which we do not know. all the green life was his. in that new world, he saw the lives of trees, now pale green, now of woodsmoke blue, now of amethyst; the gray lives of stone; breaths of the grass and reed, creatures of the air, delicate and wild as fawns, or swift and fierce and terrible, tigers, of that undiscovered wilderness, with birds almost invisible but for their luminous wings, and opalescent crests.”
the value of this particular passage is the mystery pervading the whole picture, which forms so beautiful an antidote to the eternal explaining of things. i think it of the highest importance for children to realise that the best and most beautiful things cannot be expressed in everyday language and that they must content themselves with a flash here and there of the beauty which may come later. one does not enhance the beauty of the mountain by pulling to pieces some of the earthy clogs: one does not increase the impression of a vast ocean by analysing the single drops of water. but at a reverent distance one gets a clear impression of the whole, and can afford to leave the details in the shadow.
in presenting such passages (and it must be done very sparingly) experience has taught me that we should take the children into our confidence by telling them frankly that nothing exciting is going to happen, so that they will be free to listen to the mere words. a very interesting experiment might occasionally be made by asking the children some weeks afterwards to tell you in their own words what pictures were made on their minds. this is a very different thing from allowing the children to reproduce the passage at once, the danger of which proceeding i speak of later in detail. (see chapter on questions.)
we now come to the question as to what proportion of dramatic excitement we should present in the stories for a normal group of children. personally, i should like, while the child is very young (i mean in mind, not in years) to exclude the element of dramatic excitement, but though this may be possible for the individual child, it is quite utopian to hope we can keep the average child free from what is in the atmosphere. children crave for excitement, and unless we give it to them in legitimate form, they will take it in any riotous form it presents itself, and if from our experience we can control their mental digestion by a moderate supply of what they demand, we may save them from devouring too eagerly the raw material they can so easily find for themselves.
there is a humorous passage bearing on this question in the story of the small scotch boy, when he asks leave of his parents to present the pious little book--a gift to himself from his aunt--to a little sick friend, hoping probably that the friend's chastened condition will make him more lenient towards this mawkish form of literature. the parents expostulate, pointing out to their son how ungrateful he is, and how ungracious it would be to part with his aunt's gift. then the boy can contain himself no longer. he bursts out, unconsciously expressing the normal attitude of children at a certain stage of development: “it's a daft book ony way; there's naebody gets kilt en't. i like stories about folk getting their heids cut off, or stabbit through and through, wi' swords an' spears. an' there's nae wile beasts. i like stories about black men gettin' ate up, an' white men killin' lions and tigers an' bears an'----”
then, again, we have the passage from george eliot's “mill on the floss”:
“oh, dear! i wish they would not fight at your school, tom. didn't it hurt you?”
“hurt me? no,” said tom, putting up the hooks again, taking out a large pocket-knife, and slowly opening the largest blade, which he looked at meditatively as he rubbed his finger along it. then he added:
“i gave spooner a black eye--that's what he got for wanting to leather me. i wasn't going to go halves because anybody leathered me.”
“oh! how brave you are, tom. i think you are like samson. if there came a lion roaring at me, i think you'd fight him, wouldn't you, tom?”
“how can a lion come roaring at you, you silly thing? there's no lions only in the shows.”
“no, but if we were in the lion countries--i mean in africa where it's very hot, the lions eat people there. i can show it you in the book where i read it.”
“well, i should get a gun and shoot him.”
“but if you hadn't got a gun?--we might have gone out, you know, not thinking, just as we go out fishing, and then a great lion might come towards us roaring, and we could not get away from him. what should you do, tom?”
tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously, saying: “but the lion isn't coming. what's the use of talking?”
this passage illustrates also the difference between the highly-developed imagination of the one and the stodgy prosaical temperament of the other. tom could enter into the elementary question of giving his school-fellow a black eye, but could not possibly enter into the drama of the imaginary arrival of a lion. he was sorely in need of fairy stories.
it is for this element we have to cater, and we cannot shirk our responsibilities.
of course the savour of danger and blood is only one of the things to which we should appeal, but i give the whole passage to make the point clearer.
this is one of the most difficult parts of our selection, namely, how to present enough excitement for the child and yet include enough constructive element which will satisfy him when the thirst for “blugginess” is slaked.
and in the “njal's burning” from andrew lang's “book of romance” we have the words of the boy thord when his grandmother, bergthora, urges him to go out of the burning house.
“you promised me when i was little, grandmother, that i never should go from you till i wished it of myself. and i would rather die with you than live after you.”
here the moral courage is so splendidly shown; none of these heroes feared to die in battle or in open single fight, but to face a death by fire for higher considerations is a point of view worth presenting to the child.
i would have quite a collection dealing with the thrilling adventures of the life-boat and the fire brigade, of which i hope to present examples in the final story list.
finally, we ought to include a certain number of stories dealing with death, especially with children who are of an age to realise that it must come to all, and that this is not a calamity but a perfectly natural and simple thing. at present the child in the street invariably connects death with sordid accidents. i think they should have stories of death coming in heroic form, as when a man or woman dies for a great cause, in which he has opportunity of admiring courage, devotion and unselfishness; or of death coming as a result of treachery, such as we find in the death of baldur, of siegfried, and of others, so that children may learn to abhor such deeds; but also a fair proportion of stories dealing with death that comes naturally, when our work is done and our strength gone, which has no more tragedy than the falling of a leaf from the tree. in this way we can give children the first idea that the individual is so much less than the whole.
quite small children often take death very naturally. a boy of five met two of his older companions at the school door. they said sadly and solemnly: “we have just seen a dead man!” “well,” said the little philosopher, “that's all right. we've all got to die when our work's done.”
in one of the buddha stories which i reproduce at the end of this book, the little hare (who is, i think, a symbol of nervous individualism) constantly says: “suppose the earth were to fall in, what would become of me?”
as an antidote to the ordinary attitude towards death, i commend an episode from a german folk-lore story called “unlucky john,” which is included in the list of stories recommended at the end of this book.
the following sums up in poetic form some of the material necessary for the wants of a child:
the little new soul has come to earth, he has taken his staff for the pilgrim's way. his sandals are girt on his tender feet, and he carries his scrip for what gifts he may.
what will you give to him, fate divine? what for his scrip on the winding road? a crown for his head, or a laurel wreath? a sword to wield, or is gold his load?
what will you give him for weal or woe? what for the journey through day and night? give or withhold from him power and fame, but give to him love of the earth's delight.
let him be lover of wind and sun and of falling rain; and the friend of trees; with a singing heart for the pride of noon, and a tender heart for what twilight sees.
let him be lover of you and yours-- the child and mary; but also pan, and the sylvan gods of the woods and hills, and the god that is hid in his fellow-man.
how to obtain and maintain the effect of the story.
we are now coming to the most important part of the question of story-telling, to which all the foregoing remarks have been gradually leading, and that is the effects of these stories upon the child, apart from the dramatic joy he experiences in listening to them, which would in itself be quite enough to justify us in the telling. but, since i have urged upon teachers the extreme importance of giving so much time to the manner of telling and of bestowing so much care on the selection of the material, it is right that they should expect some permanent results, or else those who are not satisfied with the mere enjoyment of the children will seek other methods of appeal--and it is to them that i most specially dedicate this chapter.
i think we are on the threshold of the re-discovery of an old truth, that the dramatic presentation is the quickest and surest, because it is the only one with which memory plays no tricks. if a thing has appeared before us in a vital form, nothing can really destroy it; it is because things are often given in a blurred, faint light that they gradually fade out of our memory. a very keen scientist was deploring to me, on one occasion, the fact that stories were told so much in the schools, to the detriment of science, for which she claimed the same indestructible element that i recognise in the best-told stories. being very much interested in her point of view, i asked her to tell me, looking back on her school days, what she could remember as standing out from other less clear information. after thinking some little time over the matter, she said with some embarrassment, but with a candour that did her much honour:
“well, now i come to think of it, it was the story of cinderella.”
now, i am not holding any brief for this story in particular. i think the reason it was remembered was because of the dramatic form in which it was presented to her, which fired her imagination and kept the memory alight. i quite realise that a scientific fact might also have been easily remembered if it was presented in the form of a successful chemical experiment: but this also has something of the dramatic appeal and will be remembered on that account.
the red queen (in “through the looking-glass”) was more psychological than she knew when she made the memorable statement: “when once you've said a thing that fixes it, and you must take the consequences.”
in curtin's introduction to “myths and folk tales of the russians,” he says:
“i remember well the feeling roused in my mind at the mention or sight of the name lucifer during the early years of my life. it stood for me as the name of a being stupendous, dreadful in moral deformity, lurid, hideous and mighty. i remember the surprise which, when i had grown somewhat older and began to study latin, i came upon the name in virgil where it means light-bringer--the herald of the sun.”
plato has said: “that the end of education should be the training by suitable habits of the instincts of virtue in the child.”
about two thousand years later, sir philip sidney, in his “defence of poesy,” says: “the final end of learning is to draw and lead us to so high a perfection as our degenerate souls, made worse by their clay lodgings, can be capable of.”
and yet it is neither the greek philosopher nor the elizabethan poet that makes the every-day application of these principles; but we have a hint of this application from the pueblo tribe of indians, of whom lummis tells us the following:
“there is no duty to which a pueblo child is trained in which he has to be content with a bare command: do this. for each he learns a fairy-tale designed to explain how children first came to know that it was right to ‘do this,’ and detailing the sad results that befell those who did otherwise. some tribes have regular story-tellers, men who have devoted a great deal of time to learning the myths and stories of their people and who possess, in addition to a good memory, a vivid imagination. the mother sends for one of these, and having prepared a feast for him, she and her little brood, who are curled up near her, await the fairy stories of the dreamer, who after his feast and smoke entertains the company for hours.”
in modern times, the nurse, who is now receiving such complete training for her duties with the children, should be ready to imitate the “dreamer” of the indian tribe. i rejoice to find that regular instruction in story-telling is being given in many of the institutions where the nurses are trained.
some years ago there appeared a book by dion calthrop called “king peter,” which illustrates very fully the effect of story-telling. it is the account of the education of a young prince which is carried on at first by means of stories, and later he is taken out into the arena of life to be shown what is happening there--the dramatic appeal being always the means used to awaken his imagination. the fact that only one story a year is told him prevents our seeing the effect from day to day, but the time matters little. we only need faith to believe that the growth, though slow, was very sure.
there is something of the same idea in the “adventures of telemachus,” written by fénélon for his royal pupil, the young duke of burgundy; but whereas calthrop trusts to the results of indirect teaching by means of dramatic stories, fénélon, on the contrary, makes use of the somewhat heavy, didactic method, so that one would think the attention of the young prince must have wandered at times; and i imagine telemachus was in the same condition when he was addressed at some length by mentor, who, being minerva (though in disguise), should occasionally have displayed that sense of humour which must always temper true wisdom:
take, for instance, the heavy reproof conveyed in the following passage:
“death and shipwreck are less dreadful than the pleasures that attack virtue.... youth is full of presumption and arrogance, though nothing in the world is so frail: it fears nothing, and vainly relies on its own strength, believing everything with the utmost levity and without any precaution.”
and on another occasion, when calypso hospitably provides clothes for the shipwrecked men, and telemachus is handling a tunic of the finest wool and white as snow, with a vest of purple embroidered with gold, and displaying much pleasure in the magnificence of the clothes, mentor addresses him in a severe voice, saying: “are these, o telemachus, the thoughts that ought to occupy the heart of the son of ulysses? a young man who loves to dress vainly, as a woman does, is unworthy of wisdom or glory.”
i remember, as a schoolgirl of thirteen, having to commit to memory several books of these adventures, so as to become familiar with the style. far from being impressed by the wisdom of mentor, i was simply bored, and wondered why telemachus did not escape from him. the only part in the book that really interested me was calypso's unrequited love for telemachus, but this was always the point where we ceased to learn by heart, which surprised me greatly, for it was here that the real human interest seemed to begin.
of all the effects which i hope for from the telling of stories in the schools, personally i place first the dramatic joy we bring to the children and to ourselves. but there are many who would consider this result as fantastic, if not frivolous, and not to be classed among the educational values concocted with the introduction of stories into the school curriculum. i therefore propose to speak of other effects of story-telling which may seem of more practical value.
the first, which is of a purely negative character, is that through means of a dramatic story we can counteract some of the sights and sounds of the streets which appeal to the melodramatic instinct in children. i am sure that all teachers whose work lies in the crowded cities must have realised the effect produced on children by what they see and hear on their way to and from school. if we merely consider the hoardings, with their realistic representations, quite apart from the actual dramatic happenings in the street, we at once perceive that the ordinary school interests pale before such lurid appeals as these. how can we expect the child who has stood open-mouthed before a poster representing a woman chloroformed by a burglar, whilst that hero escapes in safety with her jewels, to display any interest in the arid monotony of the multiplication-table? the illegitimate excitement created by the sight of the depraved burglar can only be counteracted by something equally exciting along the realistic but legitimate side; and this is where the story of the right kind becomes so valuable, and why the teacher who is artistic enough to undertake the task can find the short path to results which theorists seek for so long in vain. it is not even necessary to have an exceedingly exciting story; sometimes one which will bring about pure reaction may be just as suitable.
i remember in my personal experience an instance of this kind. i had been reading with some children of about ten years old the story from cymbeline, of imogen in the forest scene, when the brothers strew flowers upon her, and sing the funeral dirge,
“fear no more the heat of the sun.”
just as we had all taken on this tender, gentle mood, the door opened and one of the prefects announced in a loud voice the news of the relief of mafeking. the children were on their feet at once, cheering lustily, and for the moment the joy over the relief of the brave garrison was the predominant feeling. then, before the jingo spirit had time to assert itself, i took advantage of a momentary reaction and said: “now, children, don't you think we can pay england the tribute of going back to england's greatest poet?” in a few minutes we were back in the heart of the forest, and i can still hear the delightful intonation of those subdued voices repeating:
golden lads and girls all must like chimney-sweepers come to dust.
it is interesting to note that the same problem that is exercising us to-day was a source of difficulty to people in remote times. the following is taken from an old chinese document, and has particular interest for us to-day.
“the philosopher mentius (born 371 b.c.) was left fatherless at a very tender age and brought up by his mother changsi. the care of this prudent and attentive mother has been cited as a model for all virtuous parents. the house she occupied was near that of a butcher: she observed at the first cry of the animals that were being slaughtered, the little mentius ran to be present at the sight, and that, on his return, he sought to imitate what he had seen. fearful lest his heart might become hardened, and accustomed to the sights of blood, she removed to another house which was in the neighbourhood of a cemetery. the relations of those who were buried there came often to weep upon their graves, and make their customary libations. the lad soon took pleasure in their ceremonies and amused himself by imitating them. this was a new subject of uneasiness to his mother: she feared her son might come to consider as a jest what is of all things the most serious, and that he might acquire a habit of performing with levity, and as a matter of routine merely, ceremonies which demand the most exact attention and respect. again therefore she anxiously changed the dwelling, and went to live in the city, opposite to a school, where her son found examples the most worthy of imitation, and began to profit by them. this anecdote has become incorporated by the chinese into a proverb, which they constantly quote: the mother of mentius seeks a neighbourhood.”
another influence we have to counteract is that of newspaper headings which catch the eye of children in the streets and appeal so powerfully to their imagination.
shakespeare has said:
tell me where is fancy bred, or in the heart, or in the head? how begot, how nourished? reply, reply. it is engendered in the eyes with gazing fed: and fancy dies in the cradle where it lies. let us all ring fancy's knell. i'll begin it--ding, dong, bell. “merchant of venice.”
if this be true, it is of importance to decide what our children shall look upon as far as we can control the vision, so that we can form some idea of the effect upon their imagination.
having alluded to the dangerous influence of the street, i should hasten to say that this influence is very far from being altogether bad. there are possibilities of romance in street life which may have just the same kind of effect on children as the telling of exciting stories. i am indebted to mrs. arnold glover (hon. sec. of the national organisation of girls' clubs), one of the most widely informed people on this subject, for the two following experiences gathered from the streets which bear indirectly on the subject of story-telling:
mrs. glover was visiting a sick woman in a very poor neighbourhood, and found, sitting on the doorstep of the house, two children, holding something tightly grasped in their little hands, and gazing with much expectancy towards the top of the street. she longed to know what they were doing, but not being one of those unimaginative and tactless folk who rush headlong into the mysteries of children's doings, she passed them at first in silence. it was only when she found them still in the same silent and expectant posture half-an-hour later that she said tentatively: “i wonder whether you would tell me what you are doing here?” after some hesitation, one of them said, in a shy voice: “we're waitin' for the barrer.” it then transpired that, once a week, a vegetable-and flower-cart was driven through this particular street, on its way to a more prosperous neighbourhood, and on a few red-letter days, a flower, or a sprig, or even a root sometimes fell out of the back of the cart; and those two little children were waiting there in hope, with their hands full of soil, ready to plant anything which might by golden chance fall that way, in their secret garden of oyster-shells.
this seems to me as charming a fairy-tale as any that our books can supply.
another time mrs. glover was collecting the pennies for the holiday fund savings bank from the children who came weekly to her house. she noticed on three consecutive mondays that one little lad deliberately helped himself to a new envelope from her table. not wishing to frighten or startle him, she allowed this to continue for some weeks, and then one day, having dismissed the other children, she asked him quite quietly why he was taking the envelopes. at first he was very sulky, and said: “i need them better than you do.” she quite agreed this might be, but reminded him that, after all, they belonged to her. she promised, however, that if he would tell her for what purpose he wanted the envelopes, she would endeavour to help him in the matter. then came the astonishing announcement: “i am building a navy.” after a little more gradual questioning, mrs. glover drew from the boy the information that the borough water carts passed through the side street once a week, flushing the gutter; that then the envelope ships were made to sail on the water and pass under the covered ways which formed bridges for wayfarers and tunnels for the “navy.” great was the excitement when the ships passed out of sight and were recognised as they arrived safely at the other end. of course the expenses in raw material were greatly diminished by the illicit acquisition of mrs. glover's property, and in this way she had unconsciously provided the neighbourhood with a navy and a commander. her first instinct, after becoming acquainted with the whole story, was to present the boy with a real boat, but on second thought she collected and gave him a number of old envelopes with names and addresses upon them, which added greatly to the excitement of the sailing, because they could be more easily identified as they came out of the other side of the tunnel, and had their respective reputations as to speed.
here is indeed food for romance, and i give both instances to prove that the advantages of street life are to be taken into consideration as well as the disadvantages; though i think we are bound to admit that the latter outweigh the former.
one of the immediate results of dramatic stories is the escape from the commonplace, to which i have already alluded in quoting mr. goschen's words. the desire for this escape is a healthy one, common to adults and children. when we wish to get away from our own surroundings and interests, we do for ourselves what i maintain we ought to do for children; we step into the land of fiction. it has always been a source of astonishment to me that, in trying to escape from our own every-day surroundings, we do not step more boldly into the land of pure romance, which would form a real contrast to our every-day life, but in nine cases out of ten the fiction which is sought after deals with the subjects of our ordinary existence--namely, frenzied finance, sordid poverty, political corruption, fast society, and religious doubts.
i do not think it utopian to present to children a fair share of stories which deal with the importance of things “untouched by hand.” they too can learn at an early age that “the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are unseen are spiritual.” to those who wish to try the effect of such stories on children, i present for their encouragement the following lines from whitcomb riley:
oh, the night was dark and the night was late, when the robbers came to rob him; and they picked the lock of his palace-gate, the robbers who came to rob him-- they picked the lock of the palace-gate, seized his jewels and gems of state his coffers of gold and his priceless plate,-- the robbers that came to rob him.
but loud laughed he in the morning red!-- for of what had the robbers robbed him? ho! hidden safe, as he slept in bed, when the robbers came to rob him,-- they robbed him not of a golden shred of the childish dreams in his wise old head-- “and they're welcome to all things else,” he said, when the robbers came to rob him.
after speaking on the subject of fairy stories being eliminated from the school curriculum, the writer adds:
“this would be lessening the joy of the world and taking from generations yet unborn the capacity for wonder, the power to take a large unselfish interest in the spectacle of things, and putting them forever at the mercy of small private cares.
a nursery rhyme is the most sane, the most unselfish thing in the world. it calls up some delightful image,--a little nut-tree with a silver walnut and a golden pear; some romantic adventure only for the child's delight and liberation from the bondage of unseeing dulness: it brings before the mind the quintessence of some good thing:
'the little dog laughed to see such sport'--there is the soul of good humour, of sanity, of health in the laughter of that innocently wicked little dog. it is the laughter of pure frolic without unkindness. to have laughed with the little dog as a child is the best preservative against mirthless laughter in later years--the horse laughter of brutality, the ugly laughter of spite, the acrid laughter of fanaticism. the world of nursery rhymes, the old world of mrs. slipper-slopper, is the world of natural things, of quick, healthy motion, of the joy of living.
in nursery rhymes the child is entertained with all the pageant of the world. it walks in fairy gardens, and for it the singing birds pass. all the king's horses and all the king's men pass before it in their glorious array. craftsmen of all sorts, bakers, confectioners, silversmiths, blacksmiths are busy for it with all their arts and mysteries, as at the court of an eastern king.”
in insisting on the value of this escape from the commonplace, i cannot prove the importance of it more clearly than by showing what may happen to a child who is deprived of his birthright by having none of the fairy tale element presented to him. in “father and son,” mr. edmund gosse says:
“meanwhile, capable as i was of reading, i found my greatest pleasure in the pages of books. the range of these was limited, for story-books of every description were sternly excluded. no fiction of any kind, religious or secular, was admitted into the house. in this it was to my mother, not to my father, that the prohibition was due. she had a remarkable, i confess, to me somewhat unaccountable impression that to ‘tell a story,’ that is, to compose fictitious narrative of any kind, was a sin.... nor would she read the chivalrous tales in the verse of sir walter scott, obstinately alleging that they were not true. she would read nothing but lyrical and subjective poetry.... as a child, however, she had possessed a passion for making up stories, and so considerable a skill in it, that she was constantly being begged to indulge others with its exercise.... ‘when i was a very little child,’ she says, ‘i used to amuse myself and my brothers with inventing stories such as i had read. having, as i suppose, naturally a restless mind and busy imagination, this soon became the chief pleasure of my life. unfortunately, my brothers were always fond of encouraging this propensity, and i found in taylor, my maid, a still greater tempter. i had not known there was any harm in it, until miss shore (a calvinistic governess), finding it out, lectured me severely and told me it was wicked. from that time forth i considered that to invent a story of any kind was a sin.... but the longing to invent stories grew with violence. the simplicity of truth was not enough for me. i must needs embroider imagination upon it, and the folly and wickedness which disgraced my heart are more than i am able to express....’ this (the author, her son, adds) is surely a very painful instance of the repression of an instinct.”
in contrast to the stifling of the imagination, it is good to recall the story of the great hermits who, having listened to the discussion of the monday sitting at the académie des sciences (institut de france) as to the best way to teach the young how to shoot in the direction of mathematical genius, said: “cultivez l'imagination, messieurs. tout est là. si vous voulez des mathématiciens, donnez à vos enfants à lire--des contes de fées.”
i have so constantly to deal with the question of confusion between truth and fiction in the mind of children that it might be useful to offer here an example of the way they make the distinction for themselves.
mrs. ewing says on this subject:
“if there are young intellects so imperfect as to be incapable of distinguishing between fancy and falsehood, it is most desirable to develop in them the power to do so, but, as a rule, in childhood, we appreciate the distinction with a vivacity which as elders our care-clogged memories fail to recall.”
“children will act them but not act upon them, and they will not accept the incidents as part of their effectual belief. they will imagine, to be sure, grotesque worlds, full of admirable and interesting personages to whom strange things might have happened. so much the better; this largeness of imagination is one of the possessions that distinguish the better nurtured child from others less fortunate.”
“when my cousin and i took our porridge of a morning, we had a device to enliven the course of a meal. he ate his with sugar, and explained it to be a country continually buried under snow. i took mine with milk, and explained it to be a country suffering gradual inundation. you can imagine us exchanging bulletins; how here was an island still unsubmerged, here a valley not yet covered with snow; what inventions were made; how his population lived in cabins on perches and travelled on stilts, and how mine was always in boats; how the interest grew furious as the last corner of safe ground was cut off on all sides and grew smaller every moment; and how, in fine, the food was of altogether secondary importance, and might even have been nauseous, so long as we seasoned it with these dreams. but perhaps the most exciting moments i ever had over a meal, were in the case of calves' feet jelly. it was hardly possible not to believe, and you may be quite sure, so far from trying it, i did all i could to favour the illusion--that some part of it was hollow, and that sooner or later my spoon would lay open the secret tabernacle of that golden rock. there, might some red-beard await this hour; there might one find the treasures of the forty thieves. and so i quarried on slowly, with bated breath, savouring the interest. believe me, i had little palate left for the jelly; and though i preferred the taste when i took cream with it, i used often to go without because the cream dimmed the transparent fractures.”
in his work on imagination, ribot says: “the free initiative of children is always superior to the imitations we pretend to make for them.”
the passage from robert stevenson becomes more clear from a scientific point of view when taken in connection with one from karl groos' book on the “psychology of animal play”:
“the child is wholly absorbed in his play, and yet under the ebb and flow of thought and feeling like still water under wind-swept waves, he has the knowledge that it is pretence after all. behind the sham ‘i’ that takes part in the game, stands the unchanged ‘i’ which regards the sham ‘i’ with quiet superiority.”
queyrat speaks of play as one of the distinct phases of a child's imagination; it is “essentially a metamorphosis of reality, a transformation of places and things.”
now to return to the point which mrs. ewing makes, namely, that we should develop in normal children the power of distinguishing between truth and falsehood.
so far we have dealt only with the negative results of stories, but there are more important effects, and i am persuaded that if we are careful in our choice of stories, and artistic in our presentation (so that the truth is framed, so to speak, in the memory), we can unconsciously correct evil tendencies in children which they only recognise in themselves when they have already criticised them in the characters of the story. i have sometimes been misunderstood on this point, therefore i should like to make it quite clear. i do not mean that stories should take the place entirely of moral or direct teaching, but that on many occasions they could supplement and strengthen moral teaching, because the dramatic appeal to the imagination is quicker than the moral appeal to the conscience. a child will often resist the latter lest it should make him uncomfortable or appeal to his personal sense of responsibility: it is often not in his power to resist the former, because it has taken possession of him before he is aware of it.
as a concrete example, i offer three verses from a poem entitled “a ballad for a boy,” written some twelve years ago by w. cory, an eton master. the whole poem is to be found in a book of poems known as “ionica” (published by george allen and co.).
the poem describes a fight between two ships, the french ship téméraire and the english ship quebec. the english ship was destroyed by fire. farmer, the captain, was killed, and the officers taken prisoners:
'twas the sixth day of october, seventeen-hundred-seventy-nine, a year when nations ventured against us to combine, quebec was burned and farmer slain, by us remembered not; but thanks be to the french book wherein they're not forgot.
and you, if you've to fight the french, my youngster, bear in mind those seamen of king louis so chivalrous and kind; think of the breton gentlemen who took our lads to brest, and treat some rescued breton as a comrade and a guest.”
now, such a ballad as this, which, being pure narrative, could easily be introduced into the story-hour, would do as much to foster “l'entente cordiale” as any processions or civic demonstrations, or lavish international exchange of hospitality. it has also a great practical application now that we are encouraging visits between english and foreign children. let us hope the entente cordiale will not stop at france. there must be many such instances of magnanimity and generosity displayed to us by other nations, and it might be well to collect them and include them among stories for the school curriculum.
in a review of ladd's psychology in the “academy,” we find a passage which refers as much to the story as to the novel: mr. myre read the letter; and, as he read, his face became more like the hue of badly-made paste.
he was a long time reading it, gaston latour’s sleepy eyes never leaving him.
he burst into a harsh laugh, and flung the letter into the air:
“a challenge, eh? ... ha-ha! ho-ho-ho!... tell your cousin, monsieur latour, that the duel is relegated to the limbo of opera-bouffe. ho-ho-ho! we do not do these things in england.”
he prepared himself for a flight of oratory.
gaston latour nudged the other youth--they bowed solemnly and withdrew.
“ho-ho! ha-ha-ha!” laughed quogge myre.
the following morning mr. quilliam o’flaherty macloughlin myre’s name was posted in every club in paris, and struck from the list of those to which he had belonged; so it came about that he had to live his day at cafés.
and it was as he stood at a table, giving authoritative utterance with loud yawing voice to a group of youths that sat about him, vowing that he had determined to shake the dust of paris from off his splay feet and to start a great renaissance of the english drama, when a handsome young woman, sister to gaston latour, entered the place, walked straight up to mr. myre, and struck him a sounding buffet on the ear that sent his hat flying from his head.
quilliam o’flaherty stooping down in confusion to search for the hat, she kicked him violently behind.
there was a roar of laughter from the students seated round about, and they tapped the handles of their knives upon the tables, singing:
“opera-bouffe, bouffe, bouffe! opera-bouffe, bouffe, bouffe! hey-hey-hey! bouffe-bouffe-bouffe!”
then the girl flogged quilliam with a horse-whip, thrice:
once for france.
once for womanhood.
and once because she liked it.
the whip whistled.
it was said that he had been seen to strike at her--but she parried the blow with her left, and countered between his eyes with the butt-end of the whip--which was loaded.
it was homeric.
it was at this stage, so the scandal went, that he scrambled under a table; but she lugged at his collar to get him out; and as he clung to the leg of the table she gripped him by the moustache so that she pulled off one side of it.
but she herself owned this to be as inartistic as it was unintentional, stamping her foot with annoyance at the mischance. indeed, she apologized most handsomely; for, said she, pathetically, when she had got it she did not know what to do with it.
it was an anticlimax.
she threw down the whip and said he might now go home.
he now went home.
there is little reason to doubt that the horsewhipping by gaston latour’s sister hastened mr. myre’s desire to start the great renaissance of the english drama.
as he stood before the mirror in his rooms at his hotel and shaved off the remains of his drooping moustache by the candle’s light, and soothed the aching bumps that were risen upon his face, he sniffed loudly through a swollen nose--he had very tender places--and decided to go to rouen until the hair grew.
which has to do with blue blood and a jade-handled cane
the duel got upon the town.
rupert greppel, strutting with hidalgic air, was concerned in bringing about several affairs. no one was hurt. there was much braying of asses.
the lord montagu askew, dainty, foppish, in the mode, and the honourable rupert greppel, hidalgic, head in air, stood before a shop window in the rue de la paix and gazed at their splendid reflections; whilst past them moved on the pavement or whirled by in barouches the great world of paris--hig-lif sunning its butterfly wings, honey-questing, sipping at any dew that the gods left lying abroad.
montagu askew held his jade-handled cane mincingly, and he glowed with a gentleman-like glow, for his dove-coloured little book of poems tinted all the bookstalls.
more than one woman of high rank this morning had stopped her carriage to congratulate him on the exquisite lyric wherein the vast firmament at break of dawn was likened to the grey of a woman’s glove--indeed, it became the vogue of the drawing-rooms--people sang it.
as a fact, montagu askew was acknowledged lord of chamber music. indeed, in his slender careful verse was no rude hint of the full-blooded rabelaisian love of life; it was innocent of the suggestion of a large emotion; he played upon the accepted measures and the well-authenticated rhyme; he startled with no surprises; he sounded no new note--montagu never forgot he was a gentleman. not for him the uncouthness to fling open loud-clanging gates to a new world. he was pretty and serenely mannered before everything, disdainful of them that skipped a foot to the hot jigging blood, or such as showed a strong disdain; nor was he wanting in contempt for the natural emotions. when he condescended to so low an act as to seek nature, he walked through the well-groomed spaces of the world, well-trimmed parks at the outside, where an elaborate etiquette had made the rules even for the trees to grow in seemliness with a most gentlemanly existence. for him were no disturbing peerings into human destiny--he raised no rough alarms by strenuous aims and vigorous thinking. pretty, dandified, he--always. sinning easily enough, but always like a gentleman. never a crudity. as a perfumed fan fluttered by jewelled slender fingers, blowing cool fragrant airs that kiss the painted cheek of some frail beauty, he uttered his lines--obscene often, but by the most gentlemanly of innuendoes. the unmannerly thing was the only sin. the display of a profound emotion was the depth of ill-breeding. so sang he, tunefully always, guiltless of all rough accent of originality; sang of peacocks and green carnations and blue roses, of butterflies and pools and dragonflies and souls, of ivory and silver, and of dawn and dusk and dew, and white shoulders sweet, beauties who moved languidly with rustle of silk--so wafted he to you nothing more vibrant than whisper of women and scent of perfumed chambers and flowers and bowers and rose and amarynth and asphodel and daffodil, of moonlight and music and kiss and gavotte and little tiny things--and always in the most gentlemanly manner. he milked the unicorn. always a would-be suggestion of mysterious deep-hid symbolism that ended where it began, and at most only the dark hint of well-bred tragedy.
he moved impatiently now, as impatiently as he might, complaining that the shop-window into which he deigned to cast his reflection was tinted with amethyst.
“come, greppel,” said he--“let us gaze at ourselves in another window--this is an ageing colour.”
then came the terrible tragedy of a fire at a charity bazaar; a most patrician function with much upper clergy in it was smitten with sudden and awful death. montagu askew was in the business. he was one of the few that came out alive.
in the rush of the distraught ladies, princesses, duchesses, maids, to the sole outlet of the seething hell, montagu askew got caught near the door--frantic hands of terrified women clutched at him for help--he was almost within reach of the free air--could see the sunlight a few paces before him--a frightened girl clung to his arm in the awful crush, then another--women’s skirts got under foot as they made for the door, and they went down. he tried to shake himself clear of the two girls, he was a little slender man.... the heat was hellish.... one of the girls tripped on her skirt and fell, clinging to him. he beat her down with the jade-handled cane--fought his way blindly through the rush of women for the door--stood at last out in the sunlight.
some coachmen were dashing into the fiery furnace, lifting up and bringing out fainting women, whose muslin skirts were in flames.
but monty askew was frightened.
he smoothed his ruffled dress and went home.
montagu askew, entering a café with rupert greppel one evening, saluted noll baddlesmere, where he stood amongst a group of students; and a silence fell upon the place.
“that’s a handsome cane, askew,” said he--“though they tell me the women have a poor opinion of it.”
askew’s little gloved hands trembled, and he turned white with anger--as pale as montagu askew allowed himself to turn:
“it has belonged to my forefathers for seven generations,” he said--“and every man of them backed his acts with his sword.”
noll laughed; shrugged his shoulders:
“if your acts are hereditary, it is an excuse for you,” he said.
the following morning, rupert greppel and a french cousin called upon noll; and rupert stiffly asked if he could refer him to two friends.
“no,” said noll--doome was with him--“no--i do not associate with men who associate with lord montagu askew.”
rupert greppel paused, dumbfounded:
“i do not think you understand,” he said. “lord montagu askew challenges you to fight him.”
“tell lord montagu askew from me,” said noll, “that i only brawl with men. good-morning.”
the whisperings at the clubs are said to have hit lord montagu askew harder than a pistol-bullet; but lord montagu, from lack of experience, is not an authority on being hit with pistol-bullets. he never takes part in ungentlemanly encounters where people are hit. indeed, he maintains a wondrous silence, except that he challenged noll; and the jade-handled cane has joined the ancestors.
wherein a man of the world commits the indiscretion of putting his experiences into writing
“dear noll,” writes horace malahide about this time, “i have a son. he speaks english as yet with a strong foreign accent--but lack of experience may have more than something to do with it. if you come, i’ll let you play with him.
i live in a whirl of tangled emotions in these days.
t’other evening i went home, to my father’s marble halls, to seek the old gentleman on an affair of hot urgency. it was in the long hours. i lost some temper--the butler being a sphinx of ducal know-nothingness--so i rang up the housekeeper. yes, she knew where a telegram would find sir pompey if i would leave it with her.
gods! said i, am i utterly disinherit?
forthwith the heir of this branch of the malahides demanded the address.
it lay at st. john’s wood!
i nodded ‘that will do’ to the twain, and dismissed them; and, they being dismissed, i whistled long.
naughty old gentleman!...
the next morning pa did not return. mid-day passed. evening stole on.... the dusk saw me descend at the doors of the address in st. john’s wood from mine hansom cab.
i must preach the decencies; thus i, strengthening the intention as i rang.
‘sir pompey malahide is here,’ said i sternly to the smart maid that opened the door.
‘yes, sir,’ said she.
‘i desire to see my father,’ said i, and marched boldly towards the furious racket that filled the room near at hand--the paternal roar distinctly discernible, bassoonlike as though he cried small coal.
i flung open the door--burst upon the riot----
on the floor lay the byronic bartholomew doome with three children rolling over him--three, no less!--another in his arms--sir pompey malahide, my father, on all fours, pretending to be a she-bear, his coat-tails over his head, shaking a footstool in his teeth, and growling like an ass in pain--and seated on the immaculate waistcoat of the dark mysterious bartholomew the most beautiful young woman i have ever seen. the din infernal--and pa the worst part of the din.
‘what does this mean, pa?’ cried i.
they gathered themselves up, shamelessly--laughed--ye gods, twittingly, at me! wholly unabashed, pa, shaking himself into comfort in his clothes, slapped me upon the back:
‘horace, my son----’
‘don’t be familiar, sir pompey,’ said i. ‘you are speaking to the heir to a baronetcy.’
the baronet laughed vulgarly:
‘mrs. bartholomew doome,’ he said--‘allow me to introduce to you horace, my son--at least, my reputed son.’
bows, chassées, and greetings.
‘horace--the misses doome, master horace doome, and master oliver doome----’
the old gentleman slapped me upon the back again with mighty hand that near drove me down amongst the fire-irons.
he dug me in the ribs:
‘the rogue’s been married this seven years,’ cried he; ‘and now he’s signed the deeds as partner in malahide and son, and you’re just in the nick of time, the fool of a lawyer is upstairs--only--look here, horace, you must, like doome, sign a bond not to touch the business arrangements--you and he would wreck the counting-house in six months....’
doome took an early opportunity to draw me aside and to whisper to me the grave disappointment it must be to all who respected him if they should discover the real don juan, begged me not to expose him, and pointed out the serious loss of prestige he must suffer in the eyes of the british public; so we sat down together on a sofa and pitied him for his decencies.
luddy, luddy! how the homely virtues will persist!
the idol of our youth, the dark, mysteriously wicked man--with feet of honest clay and a clean simple heart after all! even prolific, and----
well, damn romance, say i....
oh, and more!
even the gods fall out--drift apart.
aubrey and the o’myre go different ways--aubrey in pain that o’myre has now discovered that there is no great work of art without a moral purpose--aubrey holding that aubrey himself is sufficient purpose. he, aubrey, avers that he has found himself--nothing matters after that. he must back to paris. there the women have secular lips and voices of brocade and understand being loved. tiens! he will in future give his splendid talents to attack the philistinic brutality of strength and the barbarity of the over-rated glory in mere outdoor delight that to-day holds england in poisonous embrace; in all the pride of effeminacy he withdraws into the palace of his egoism, where he is lord--back to paris--there are mirrors, where he may reflect upon himself, take himself up by the roots and dwell upon his own image!
i expect he will come back to us occasionally to see what he looks like.
the egregious o’myre also hath descended on london town--stays, however, but a little while----
yet a wondrous thing of a man, the o’myre--the most consistent surely of all created things--always wrong. he and the times. he must have been suckled on half-truths, and nurtured on the irish bull; he now browses on false conclusions. but with what an air! nevertheless, he has it all on the most philosophic basis--has for ever been blaming something for his lack of greatness. it now appears the english drama is dead. the o’myre will breathe new life into it.
meanwhile, he has laid it down, like a minor god with a throaty tenor voice, that scenery destroys the illusion of the drama--therefore it comes about to-day that if you would be in the vogue with the ladies you must go in state not to the play, but to the dress rehearsal--the bare theatre and the dinginess being alone at back, the low tone and the cobwebs and the like giving mystery to the spoken word that requires for enunciation but beautiful lips. god! how the ducks quack!
thus mews he much monstrous wisdom, sitting like a pale emotional maggot upon the apple of discord that is called the modern drama.”...
the rest of the letter is a matter of affection and goodwill. a man is always ridiculous about his first-born--exaggerative, egotistical. as though he had invented the business. whereas, like heredity, immortality, and the latest fashion, it is thrust upon us.
wherein our hero, and another, go home
the sunlight that had painted the white face of paris with a hundred hues all day had given place to a gentle drizzle as the twilight fell; and the steady downpour had driven noll into a restaurant which he was not in the habit of frequenting; it had kept him there in its bright rooms until he knew every face and every trick of gesture of the people who sat about him.
the night was well advanced when he sallied out into the light rain; turning up his collar, he strode homewards.
he paid small heed to the rain; and as he turned out of the well-washed street into the courtyard where he had his lodging, and climbed the stairs to his room, he scarcely noticed that he was wet.
the rustle of women’s petticoats was in his ears, and when he walked abroad in these days he was aglow with the sense of the warm regard of women’s eyes, that glanced upon him from the dark shadows of rakish hats; the walk and movement of women found a rhythmic echo in his thinking. the warmth of the coming summer was in his blood. his instincts were jigging to the dancing measure of the season.
as he flung off his wet clothes he was seized with a whim to go to the tavern of the golden sun; and he decided to humour the whim.
he lit a candle and flipped through a book until it was close on midnight. but he was restless--and he arose eagerly when it was time to go....
as noll, reaching the bottom step, fumbled at the door that led into the tavern of the golden sun, a young woman in black came languidly down the stairs, and he held the door open for her to pass in.
the light fell on the delicate features of madelaine. she smiled with pleasure, seeing him.
they entered and stood together--a song was being sung--and as the last chords were struck, she slipped her hand within his arm; and he left it there. she shared the cordial greeting that noll received from the faded poets and frequenters of the place. she was very beautiful--but her face pathetically pale. noll noticed a dizzy tendency to cling to his arm, as though she feared to fall. he found a table, and made her sit down beside him.
“madelaine,” said he--“you look as if you wanted food.”
she sighed sadly:
“ah, yes--for years,” she said.
he called for a drink and some biscuits for her; and whilst they were being brought, he asked her:
“what became of you, madelaine--after the old widow snacheur was killed?”
she sighed sadly:
she slipped her hand through his arm, laid her head against his shoulder, and smiled:
“but do not let us think of these things--it is so warm here.”
the touch of the affectionate hands, the childlike caress of the girl, the confidence and the clinging of her warm body to him, thrilled him. she was in all the fresh beauty of her young womanhood; and the simple black gown, threadbare and worn as it was, only enhanced the beauty of her skin and pronounced the delicacy of her colour and the richness of her splendid hair.
the girl increased the restlessness that had possessed the youth all day. she brought to him the sweet whiteness and the subtle grace of betty--filled his senses with the atmosphere of the handsome girl who had filled all his dreams from boyhood. it brought to him the most importunate craving of man, the love of woman.
noll sat brooding for awhile. yet even in the vigorous lust of life that held his young years, even as he sat there in the thrill of his sweetest memories, he vaguely felt the gentle presence of these simple faded artistic folk about him; and he realized how indelibly the word failure was written across them all. the coats were, if anything, more faded; the shoes more worn; the eyes alone lit up with the wonted glow of delight in art. a little praise was their rich barmecidal feast.
the greybeards, and the youths, and those between, they were all still hoping to create the masterpiece--there was not, amongst them all, energy enough to create more than the delicate measure of a gust of chamber-music.
a burst of applause followed the recital of a poem.
noll roused with a start:
“come, madelaine,” said he--“this heavy air is making you faint. come with me and we’ll have some supper.”
she gathered her skirts with wonted grace of gesture and took his arm; and they made their way out of the room almost unnoticed.
as the doors closed on them, she turned in the dim ill-lit passage, drew down his face to her between her two hands, and kissed him.
she clung to him:
“thou must give me a bed too,” she whispered hoarsely; “i have no bed.”
she was trembling.
“you are tired, madelaine,” he said.
“i have had no sleep for three nights.”
“what have you been doing?” he asked.
“i walked about the streets,” she answered simply.
she gathered up her skirts, and slipped her hand through his arm. they climbed up to the courtyard, and so into the street, and out into the night.
madelaine sat on the side of the bed and undressed.
it was a sadly simple undressing.
noll went and looked out of the window, where paris lay below him, blinking her thousand eyes....
he roused and went to the bed.
noll went back to the window--it was the window from which horace had gazed down upon the world the night before noll and betty had come to paris.
and as noll so stood, his brows hard knit upon the problems of his life, the night slowly passed.
the rustle of a woman’s skirt had been in his ears all day--in his blood. this girl had brought back to him, of a sudden, the fragrance of his marriage.
and this beautiful winsome girl--what was to be the end?
the very question sobered him.
suddenly it was as though he had left the din of the noisy thoroughfare of life and had entered the majestic silence of a mighty cathedral; and from the great mysterious deeps a whisper came to his ears, each syllable roundly phrased, clear, unhesitating, a chapter of this strange book of life that he had so lately read--the book that had fired his blood and aroused his energy. the breath of these pages seemed to give him decision and free air, where before he had been drifting aimlessly, going he knew not whither, caring not overmuch. this book had braced him--it was a call to battle. he had had enough of beds of roses and daffodils and idyllic trances. the phrasing of the masterfolk came to him now:
“nature has ordered that certain things shall be; and to him who disobeys her ordering she is cruelly merciless. she has decreed that he shall be most dominant, shall breed the fittest race, shall know the fullest life, shall achieve the highest destiny, who abides by the woman he loves. and him who is unclean she flings upon the dunghill--him and his seed for ever. of the love of man for woman, nature has spoken with no uncertain voice; and nature’s judgment is final. he that fears to love a woman sets himself against the supreme law of life; he ends in unnatural vice; he is against the design of life; celibacy nature will none of--for celibacy stultifies life and ends the race. promiscuous love she condemns utterly and punishes heavily with loathsome disease and with foul decay; the races of promiscuous love are become of the scum of the earth, and are dying out. against the love of many women also, once and for all, she has spoken. the peoples of many wives nature is sweeping into the waste corners of the world. nature is her own jury--nature alone her own judge. she hath not said the masterfolk cannot break from her ordering, but that they shall not. on every breach of her vigorous laws nature waits with weaponed hand. at the elbow of every vice stands foul-breathed disease.
there is no sin in the love of man and woman. the woman has committed no sin in loving--she has but accepted the overwhelming urging of life. it is her chiefest glory. man has committed no sin in loving; his life has ordered it; and the masterfolk obey life. it is his chiefest glory. who so glum a dullard but smiles to see lovers meeting! but he sins foully who is guilty of the repudiation--foully against the woman, criminally against his race, blasphemously against his godhood, and damnably against his manhood. such are not of the masterfolk.
they of the inferior manhood, lacking in the force of character necessary to the full acceptance of the duties of the masterfolk in love, have not the virile force to abide by a woman of the masterfolk; and these come out when the lamps are lit and there are shadows in the land, and skulk about the by-lanes, and commit mean adulteries with frail women, and have the habit of repudiating debt. such cannot breed the masterfolk. they shall not. for these cower from the strengthening risks that dog a strenuous life; they would have the delight of marriage without the courage....”
noll opened the window.
there came from the street below the hoarse cry of a prostitute.
he went into the room, lit a candle, and sat down at his desk. everything in the place whispered of betty this night.
he wrote a letter:
i am called home.
i leave my rooms and all in them to your care, knowing that they will be in good hands. i leave you also all the money i can spare, to keep you in decency and comfort until i return.
i shall send, early in the day, for the large leather bag which you will find labelled and ready by the door.
and when he had sealed this letter he wrote another:
i hear that you arrived in paris with horace yesterday. by the time you get this letter i shall have left my house in the clouds. last night i found madelaine at the golden sun. she was without home, without means, except the sweating pay of mean industries on which no honest woman can live; she was without a bed. but her blood is dancing with life--not with a desire to cower in sweating-dens. she was drifting. i gave her all these things that i might, last night--and she is now asleep here.
come to her as soon as you get this, and let her feel that she is not alone. she will babble all her news to you--it will be better for her than babbling it to me.
tell horace not to go back to the haunts of his youth. the wine is not nearly so good as we thought it. the illusion is the sweet thing. don’t break the butterfly.
tell him also that both of you have much of my heart.
noll sealed the letter and wrote a third--to the concierge:
i am called away to england. mademoiselle madelaine le trouvé has been good enough to take charge of the rooms until madame and myself return. pray give the enclosed to your little ones ‘from the englishman who knows how to laugh.’
he stole to where madelaine slept, and on the chair by her bed he put her letter and some banknotes.
he shut up the bag, tied a label upon it, put on his cloak and hat, blew out the candle, and softly let himself out of the room.
in the darkness noll stood upon the bridge at the end of the boule miche, the pleasant highway of youth. but he now knew no indecisions.
he realized that his mere intellect had led him into the veriest pedantries--had nearly led him into irretrievable blunders. he saw that man’s highest was rooted in the body, that heaven was no fantastic dream, but here and now for the winning on this healthy brown earth. he had been letting it slip by him, whilst he dreamed of pasteboard nothingnesses.
he realized that the emotion felt was nearer to the centre of life than all thought. he cast from him the devil of mere intellect, and it went out of him demurely into the darkness, like some poor thin-souled nun, who crushes down into barrenness the splendid emotions of the life within her which are her very godhood, in fantastic hope to win an eternity of vague bliss, she who by the very act shows her inability to enjoy bliss--for, heaven and hell and all the eternities shall yield her no such bliss as the dear human loves may do--the æons of immortality shall never bring her the delight that she might know in an hour of a lover’s embrace or the dear touch of a nestling child at her lean breasts.
as the awakened youth stood there, the black night passed over the edge of the populous city, and its smoky shadow slowly followed it. the lights of the lamps paled in the dawn; the stars went out; and out of the daffodil east the day came up--and there was light in the world.
before the day was well begun, noll went home.
in the still grey dawn, in dripping drizzle, gavroche the anarchist slouched forth from prison-cell to his harsh doom.
he was dejected.
he missed the band, the public eye, the shouts of the comrades.
what, gavroche! this is thy dramatic moment--thou hast the stage all to thy sole swaggering self--and though thou roused at daybreak from thy broodings to lilt a braggart song with all thy best intent to play the reckless swashbuckler, the florid eager pressman can only report that thou didst sing “somewhat palsily.”
tush, man! is it thus thou goest to thy end? hath thy desire to be ruthless overman brought only this about--that thou art to become no better than manure? where is now thy dream of ruthless overman? nay, what avails at all now thy overmanhood, gavroche? does not thy neck feel rather with unpleasant shiver of discomfort the overlordship of the commonweal? the aristocrat despised it yesterday, and thou to-day. hast thou, even thus late, a glimmering that thy vaunted ruthless brutality is to be snipped by the might of this commonweal, thy unspeakable windpipe slit at a stroke of the ordered shear that falls on the bidding of that overwhelming force which is the public good--the power of that sneered-at race that is to thy silly little individual hand’s strength as the might of the sea to the spite of some flab stinging medusa!
yet, if the insignificance of thy little petty self irk thy conceit at this moment, what of the scented, gloved, and dandified gentlemen who write the anarchic words that have led thy conceit to seek some shabby fame in flinging a bomb amongst innocent people! what of them whose lyric pens have pointed the way to the uselessness of the old and sick and far-too-many and superfluous ones! what of them that go scot-free--whose philosophies led thee to kill the old miser-woman and to slay the drunken carter to thine own egoism’s enrichment? tsh! thou wert but a tool after all, thou with all thy strange gabble of ruthless overman, putting to the touch of practice what the gloved gentlemen were content to prate of--might being right and the rest.
well, thou goest to thy dunghill alone--they to their social triumphs. and, when all’s said, the aristocratic ideal has brought rich harvests as well as the shearing of necks to its idolaters--and they have had their emotional moments in intervals of starving the race and filching from the poor and from the widow and the fatherless.
nay, doth not europe, bereft of protestations, bow, hat in hand, to the almanach de gotha? and the fine gentry therein, weak-knee’d and inbred and ridiculous, do they not claim divine rights and special places reserved in church and the tribute of the formalities all set and square to their comical little greatnesses? and multitude of lackeys!... gods! are they not even envied!
verily, gavroche, thou hast been lacking in the diplomacies. it is that which has been thy chief offence against thyself. these others bray as loudly--but the accent is more tuneful.
so, the same dawn, the self-same lamp of day, sees us all going each on our so different way.
of the blossoming of the tree of life
which has to do with the binding of books in half-calf and the whimsies of calf love
when noll had left his baggage in a quiet hotel by the strand, and had refreshed his body with much splashing of himself in water and a change of clothes, he sallied out into the streets of london in a vague wonder and surprise as to how to begin the search for betty, yet firmly determined to start straightway in his quest--the baddlesmere jaw set firm.
the summer afternoon was closing in, and the strand was gay with people cheerily making their way homewards from work or amusement. but homewards noll did not take his steps; he felt a certain sense of shame about going to his own people without betty at his side--and this, too, not on his own account, but that it seemed disloyal to betty and likely to make her future entrance into the family circle an embarrassment to her--so sudden was the suddenness with which he had stepped into the realm of his manhood!
the young fellow had been too restless to stay in the dingy mute rooms of the hotel; he could think it out better in the open--striding to his thinking. it was in the blood--he smiled at the restless walk of lord wyntwarde up and down that library, of the strange trick that came out in his mother at times....
ah, london, thou queen of cities, that filchest for ever the hearts of them that dare to love thee! radiant in thy sunshine, fantastic in thy murk, it is when thou puttest on the habit of thy lilac twilight that thou showest all thy majesty--thy tiring maids, the handsomest women of the world, helping thee to thy wondrous mantle of many hues--pale whitenesses and opal greys, beribboned with purple and ultramarine and the sooty tinge of dusky shadows, adorned with diamonds of a hundred flames and wrought through and through with gold and silvery strands, and thus and so, with smoky art, spinning thyself a mystic robe that it is full fit only the queen of all cities shall wear.
and what a splendid stage, thy realm, to strut it in! thy large drama knows no curtain, thy magnificence no boundary but man’s narrow sight. thy whisper and the song of thee, and thy strange melodies, no strings of violins nor the resounding hollows of deep orchestral ’cellos can yield. from the music of thy ways, where goes thy multitudinous traffic with roll of many wheels, and lurches the gaudy omnibus with reeking horses twain, and lumbers the thundering dray, and winds in and out the teeming welter the quick black hansom seeking the hackney fare, with jigging of horse-bells that sound a catchy measure to the shuffle of many feet, from out thy swarming hive there comes the breath of vigorous life and thinkingness and the atmosphere of quick wits and alert wills that have the habit of decisive action and of dogged enthusiasms.
and the faces that pass, with lingering glance out of the dusk, the pale sweet faces of thy beautiful women and the handsome figures of a vigorous race, how much larger vastnesses are in the communion of these eyes than in wide empty spaces of unthinking continents!
the mystic dusk turns thy many habitations to a thousand shadowy palaces, thy very vulgarities to dulcet musicalities. what comedies are in the making in thy wide hospitable lap to-night! what tragedies! what heroic strivings! what bemeaning indecencies! what crimes!
thy very mud holds something of dark mysterious lustre--being that which is trod out of thy pageant and thy history.
he only loves thee best who, being divorced from thee, comes to thee again out of the years. he flips thy mantle with no cockney familiarity, but hears in the hollows of his reverent ears the æolian whisperings of thy large significance....
the sound of footsteps ceased to rouse the echoes in the empty street, as noll came to a halt before netherby gomme’s doorway. he hesitated for a moment; ran up the steps; and rang the bell.
the smoky twilight that held the place was passing into sooty darkness, turning the staid street of lodging-houses into a way of fairy habitations, the lemon flames of gas-lamps showing a sweeping curve of light down its long length to the far rumble of the city’s distant traffic.
a key coughed in its wards as it shot back the bolts of the lock; and the door yawned open.
noll turned at the sound of its unlatching.
the mother of netherby gomme stood in the dark hollow of the doorway; and a grim triumph lurked in her eyes.
noll saluted her, hat in hand; and she returned his greeting with a grave smile of surprise.
“is netherby at home, mrs. gomme?” he asked.
the grim triumph slipped back to her eyes, and came lurking into the corners of the old mouth again:
“he came home from his honeymoon to-day, noll,” she said--“will you go up and see him?”
noll walked into the house, and the door was shut behind him with a triumphant slam. he followed the grim old lady into the little sitting-room, and as he went the memory of the queenly figure of the little child betty as she walked into the dingy room and kissed the jealousy out of this old woman’s heart, came back to him like the fragrance of her sweetness, so that for a while he could not speak what he would have said.
“it was only the other day,” she said, “that you were boys together.... to me it is only yesterday that he was a--little one--in my--arms.” her eyes filled with tears. “but it is all gone.... this passing of youth is as strange as death....” and she added after awhile: “i think he--was glad--to come back.”
something of the light of triumph came stealing back to the old tear-stained face.
“and julia?” he asked.
“i’ve sent her out to get tickets for the theatre,” she said drily. “they will want amusing badly to-night--and the tuning of the fiddles would always rouse my netherby.... but you’d better go up and see him, noll--you used to know the way.”
noll made a pause to take breath at the top of the stairs (how he and betty had raced up those steps!). he pushed open the attic door.
in the midst of the smudgy dusk that filled the room, his head in his hands, elbows on knees, sat the dim figure of netherby gomme, sobbing pitifully.
noll shut the door softly, and went up to the bowed man:
“good god, netherby!” said he--“what’s this?”
he gripped his hand upon the other’s shoulder, affectionately.
gomme signed him to a seat:
noll struck a light, turned on the tap of the wrought-iron gas-jet; and the gas leaped into flame.
the old attic was gone.
in its place was a picturesque medieval room of quaint nooks and demure corners, with stiff wooden settles of curving line against the wall, and low bookshelves round the rest of the walls; and above, on a deep coloured frieze under the low ceiling, was a long space of rigid trees from the land of morris, green trees that yielded vasty purple and golden fruits on close-bunched foliage--and in the blue intervals between the stilted trees sailed white-sailed many-coloured galleons and purple triremes--and on the wall beneath the frieze and above the long curves of the low bookshelves was a yellow space splashed with huge orange-coloured dogs, with emerald eyes and scarlet mouths, that leaped along on hind legs to the chasing of each other and an occasional orange stag amidst mighty flowering plants that seemed to whirl in autumn tints with cunning running lines half-flower, half-leaf. and here and there was a knight in armour, and a hawk upon his wrist, and clothes upon his horse, and about him was always written soe sirre gallahydde gotte hyme pryckynge to hys pilgrymmynges; and when the knight was faded blue the writing was russet green; but when the knight was russet green the writing about him was faded blue. and here and there was a lady with hair in plait, and she wove at a loom, and sang with ruddy lips, and the writing about her was chaunted the queene ande weaved hyre tale righte fyttyngelye; and when the queen was orange yellow the writing was white, and when the queen was white the writing was orange yellow. the old bookshelves, with their gay untidiness of many-coloured books, were gone; and in their place in more severe order on dark oaken bookshelves of suave design were ranked books all bound exactly alike in uniform yellow half-calf bindings. the floor was rich-stained and polished, and in the middle of it lay a rug of the yellow of saffron.
the old attic was now so rich of hue and yet so stiffly chaste that noll almost rubbed his eyes to see if he were awake.
it was indeed a handsome room; and yet----
and, be it remembered, for her the doing had been no light ordering--it was a flagellation of her own nakedness with cruel whips; for, as each change obliterated a footprint of the past, the atmosphere in which the boy and man had wrought their career swiftly vanished--the very hint of an early struggle had departed from the place.
noll felt how the room must have struck netherby in the face as he leaped up the stair and flung open the door to be welcomed to its old genial comradeship after his journey and absence from his beloved things.
noll’s eyes came back from his thoughts to rest on the bent shoulders of the disconsolate man; and netherby realized that the other had digested the situation.
he sighed sadly, his head in his hands:
“poor julia!” he said--“ she must never know. she has done this during our absence--as a surprise. and,” he added grimly: “it was!”
“but, netherby, my dear old boy; you must not fret. you are famous, man----”
“oh yes--quite. a duchess has asked me to dinner--without my wife.”
noll put out the light:
“let us sit in the dusk for awhile, netherby, as we have sat many a day and settled the affairs of the state. we have laughed at care here; and kicked the world about like a football, and striven to dig up the roots of the universe--the why and the wherefore and the whence and the whither.”
“ah, noll, the old room is gone. i have to begin all over again. these stiff prude seats compel me to order--tell me harshly that i must not be dreaming overmuch, nor thinking--which is next door to dreaming--but nag me to be up and doing, boiling pots or eggs or hitting something or pushing at things. i don’t seem to fit in anywhere. the medieval rigours warn me to be done with visions and the reading of the visions of others; and their hard oaken seats rise up and assault me where i would sit upon them.... but that is nothing. they have left me not even my books. i am bewildered--bewildered--wholly bewildered.”
he sighed sadly, and went on:
“ah, noll, he only knows the whole delight of having possessed a child who has lost it.... books are one’s most intimate friends--they never change--never play us a shabby trick. how they eat into one’s friendship, each dressed in his individual habit! the very ugliness of some a reason for seeking to win their confidence; perhaps a reason for an easy familiarity--we dog-ear them the more--mark them the more--love them the more. put them in handsome ranks uniform, and their individuality is gone--like sisters that are primly arrayed to the same pattern to simper through a tedious garden-party. we begin to find faults where was once only affection; and their outward seeming being now alike, like critics we seek to taste not the delights within, but carp because this has not shakespeare’s wit nor that the thunders and the music of carlyle. these that were once our closest, most garrulous, most intimate friends have gone to join the silent ranks of library editions that no one reads. these stiff and formal backs, these ornamental edges, these dandified and dyed airs, repel me from my ancient friendships. the intimacy of years is broken--frozen. they open no longer eagerly at the old accustomed places, stained with frequent thumbings, where my own hand cut the dear intimate leaves--they are deckle-edged and bedamned and horrible which were wont to be delightfully impertinent. i cannot find my way in the old garden that i loved--the old dog-ears are smoothed out, gone--my pencillings erased, their whisperings mute, they nudge my elbow no more. these, my one-time boon companions snub me; give me but the flabby handshake of necessity. they open their houses to me mincingly, and yawn affected utterance. they no longer tickle me in the ribs, touching me on the sleeve, nor beckon; they do not chuckle familiarly--nor brood with me upon the roll and march of the great significancies. their new clothes are insistent--upon them as upon me. they smell of the oil of respectability like gagged sunday-school children. we know each other no longer--except with formal bow and elaborate etiquette--as when a royal person enters the room of entertainment and puts good-fellowship to the rout.”
he made a pause, and, passing his gaunt hand over his brow, he added sadly:
“i have come home to find myself in a strange land.... shining-faced respectability has usurped my chair.... my kingdom has slipped from me.... the flowers in my garden are dead.”
noll patted him on the back:
“tut, tut, man--you have come into a new kingdom.”
he heard julia’s voice upon the stair; and he saw that the other had heard it, for he stood up and forced a smile upon his long sad face.
noll went close to him hurriedly:
“one word, netherby--quick, before she comes--do you know where betty is?” he asked hoarsely.
netherby smiled a sad smile:
“ah, noll, that you should have to ask me that!”
noll passed julia at the stair-head and left them together.
as he stepped across the hall he hesitated, turned, and went into the old lady’s room. she was sitting in the window, looking out; and she turned at his footfall.
noll bent down and kissed the old face; and he saw that the harsh light had gone out of her eyes:
“won’t you be a little lonely here to-night?” noll asked her.
“no,” she said--“she has taken seats for all three of us.”
wherein it is suspected that, on occasion, the trumpet of fame is not wholly immaculate of the hiccup
pangbutt’s handsome studio had been cleared for a reception; and the deliberate old butler, throwing open the great folding-doors, walked stiffly into the room and glanced an orderly eye round the brilliantly lighted details in a last complacent survey before the near arrival of the guests.
he started at a loud peal of the door-bell, and pulled out his watch:
“i hope they are arriving early enough!” said he. “it comes of arsking these here artists to the house.... they’re always hungry and they’re always noisy, and they’re always thirsty. even if i suffered from these here afflictions i’d have the manners not to show it.” he shrugged his shoulders. “i call it letting ourselves down. they don’t even know how to put on their clothes like christians.”
he straddled stiffly out of the room, grumbling and mumbling.
“leastwise not like christians of the established church,” he growled....
he returned after awhile through the great hollow of the handsome doorway, ushering in four guests.
when they had entered, he said stiffly:
“mr. pangbutt, i fear, will not be down for several minutes, gentlemen; he has only just come in to dress.”
he drew out his watch from his pocket, and glanced at it aggressively.
robbins laughed gently, and winked to the others:
“we are a trifle early, dukes, i am afraid,” said he, going up to the dignified old man--“but if mr. rippley will insist on sitting between the reins on the top of the hansom, the cabby drives hard to escape the inquisitive attention of the police--a body of men, dukes, that live feverishly anxious to catch something and are bored with the greyness of the popular virtue.”
he tapped the old man on the shirt-front.
the butler bowed stiffly, and withdrew.
fluffy reubens strode airily into the middle of the room and surveyed it:
“i say,” said he--“portrait painting seems to pay, eh?”
“h’m--n’yes,” he grunted; and added tragically: “when you can paint portraits.”
“get out!” said fluffy, and flung himself into an easy-chair.
rippley strolled round the room and tested the electric lights; his hands itching to be at any devilment:
“oho!” said he--“so the curtain is to go up to-night and discover the real anthony bickersteth--the man of mystery--the writer of the book!... i suppose it ain’t pangbutt himself!”
aubrey at the mantelpiece, gazing at himself in the mirror, said simply:
“rather a dramatic situation when you come to think of it, eh?” said fluffy reubens, lolling his full length in the easy-chair.
rippley, his hands in his trousers pockets, considered the situation with reflective eye fixed on the carpet:
“and a rippin’ dramatic emotion, eh! to feel one’s self being wrangled about from one end of the country to the other----”
aubrey turned languidly from the mirror:
“ah!” said he, “and then to listen to it all, robed in the delightful invisible cloak of pseudonymity!”
rippley laughed drily:
“no, no, aubrey, old man--that wouldn’t have suited you at all. you wouldn’t have lasted at it for a fortnight.”
“we need not get into the quarrelsome stage about it yet,” he said in his big deep voice: “we shall be tearing him to pieces in magazine articles to-morrow and flinging him to the dogs of the lower journalism to snarl at before the year is out.... the failures are always suspicious of popularity.”
aubrey turned to the mirror again, and said “bosh!”
fluffy reubens winked at the others:
“i don’t see that this chap anthony bickersteth’s work is a snap better than caroline baddlesmere’s; and he’s prigged a lot of her ideas----”
aubrey turned round to the room, took up a picturesque literary attitude, elbow on mantel, his cheek leaning on his long fingers, legs crossed, essaying to realize the portraits of the thirties, and, rousing from his adoration of himself, he said petulantly:
“my dear fluffsome robbins, i have repeatedly told you that caroline baddlesmere lacks breadth of view and a man’s humour--to say nothing of that certain something of subtle atmosphere that is called genius.... you really ought not to give me the trouble of reiterating these simple truths.... you compel me to feel as blatantly insistent as a bookmaker on a race-course----”
he was interrupted by the entrance of the old butler, ushering in bartholomew doome and andrew blotte--andrew in very much crushed and wrinkled evening dress, and looking unutterably shabby, doome well groomed.
bartholomew doome laughed:
“yes,” said he, “yes, yes--i heard what aubrey was saying; but aubrey is a poet, not a critic.”
lovegood laughed a funny deep nasal laugh.
but rippley had turned to the strange figure of andrew blotte. he smote him on the shoulder with strong genial hand:
“cheer up, andrew,” he cried.
blotte smiled wearily; he roused from his brooding; he was very pale:
“where’s the bar?” he asked gloomily.
“vanity fair has not opened her drinking-saloons yet,” he said. “we’re all before our welcome.”
blotte sighed, and said absently:
“i have come to tell pangbutt i cannot sup with him to-night.” he smiled a pale sad smile; and, rousing, added moodily: “i came into my irish estates last night--took over the keys of my castle in spain.... last night i slept under the blue quilt, and filled my belly with the north wind. and,” he added hoarsely, “to-night i sup with the gods.”
rippley shook the moody man by the shoulders, and gripping them in his big kind hands, he said:
“shut up, blotte; you’ve got to sup with us to-night--gods are a large order, even aubrey is not yet translated.”
blotte roused; laughed; strode into the middle of the great room. he turned gloomily:
“no--i go to a mighty banquet, old friend. i go to sup with the gods to-night.”
“now, now,” said fluffy reubens, sprawling in two chairs. “chuck it, blotte--you make me feel as cold as a dead undertaker.... lor!” he yawned, “this is precious slow.” he yawned again: “paul pangbutt’s a confounded long time, ain’t he? scenting his beard, i suspect!”
andrew blotte roused from his mood, and he began to pace up and down the room as before: “no more italian waiters for me--with cursèd oily locks,” he cried--“no more grease-spots on dingy grey tablecloths that hide their offences under smiling napkins!... to-night i shall be waited upon by the gods.... never again the boiled potato; never again the homely bun, damn them!... this is the night of life--a night for music and gaiety and minstrelsy.... hunger shall cease, and pain----”
rippley went up to him and took him by the shoulder, kindly:
“stop it, blotte. aren’t you well, old man?”
“well?... psha! i am like a boy. the new genius arrives to-night. and i go off--to sup with the gods.... the world has forgotten andrew blotte.”
rippley turned, a twinkle in his eye, to the others:
“i say, boys,” said he--“as it’s to be a unique night, and blotte about to be translated, and may be in the papers in the morning----”
blotte laughed grimly, where he paced:
“oh, yes,” he growled--“i shall be in the papers to-morrow. have no fear of it.”
rippley slapped him on the shoulder:
“then,” said he, “we ought to give pangbutt’s house an air. there is a lack of the grand manner here. one man-servant is ridiculously inadequate. at least three of us ought to assist to wait on the guests. doome and fluffy and i and--and you, blotte--would make a ripping lot of waiters, and it wouldn’t be half so slow as talking art and rot to people who don’t know.... genius shall serve the mob. this night must never be forgotten. by macready, yes--pangbutt used to play at play-acting! but where are his properties?”
blotte was striding the room; he laughed:
“ay, ay--the gala-night of life should be gay and joyous,” cried he--“all the candles lit, as for a bridal.” he came to a halt, scowled at the dark hollow of the great doorway, and strode thither.
the old butler was lurking suspiciously outside.
blotte grabbed him by his coat lapel, and drew him into the light:
“hireling fellow,” said he, “bring more lights. this place is like a damned omnibus.”
the old butler held out an expostulant palm in dignified remonstrance:
“gentlemen, gentlemen--the guests will be arriving in a few minutes----”
rippley went up to him, and gripping his fingers in the old servant’s waistcoat, pulled him into the room.
“don’t talk like an unfrocked bishop, dukes--it’s most irreligious,” said he. “look here”--he slapped the old man’s chest jocosely--“your master and the amateur aristocracy used to have private theatricals here. where are his wigs and make-up things? where does he keep them? quick!”
the old butler promptly began to retire backwards upon a handsome cabinet:
“gentlemen, gentlemen; surely i have no need to remind you that mr. pangbutt’s wigs are his private property,” said the shocked, anxious old man. “i haven’t mr. pangbutt’s permission----”
rippley followed him up, grimly smiling:
“get out, you old panjandrum!” said he. “you’ve shown the hiding-place, you naughty old deceiver. go away!”
he pushed the expostulating old man from the cabinet, and, throwing open the drawers, proceeded to ransack them.
“hullo!” he cried--“splendid!”
he struck a match:
“spirit lamp--everything. ginger! here’s a glorious short beard affair that goes down the middle of the chin and all along the throat.”
he put it on.
“by clarkson, makes me look like a ducal butler--i’ll be butler.”
he flung off his coat, and his deft fingers began to fix the disguise on his chin.
the butler touched him upon his shirt-sleeve in dignified despair:
“gentlemen,” said he--“this is not decent. i repeat--it is not honest.”
“go hon!” said rippley, punching the old man in the ribs with his elbow, and working away at the fixing of his throat-beard. “look here, fluffy,” he called hurriedly--“you and doome must run this pompous old dolt downstairs and shoot him into the cellar--and lock him in. quick! or the people will be arriving.... i hear carriage-wheels.”
robbins and doome seized the shocked old man and hurried his protesting stiff being out of the room and down the stairs.
rippley followed them to the top of the stairs, making up his disguise as he went:
“look here, boys,” he called down in a hoarse whisper--“if the old fool will swear not to move away from the hall door until we release him you needn’t put him in the cellar.... what?... eh?... he says he surrenders? that’s all right then. now back with you--quick! or the guests will be here--or pangbutt himself.”
there was a loud ring at the door-bell.
rippley skipped back to the cabinet: and from the cabinet he ran to andrew blotte:
“blotte, old boy,” said he, pulling a red wig over the gloomy man’s head and combing the lank red hair down the sides of his pale face--“you must look after the cloak-room and change the tickets and mix the hats.... ha-ha!” he laughed mock-tragically. “this night must never be forgotten!”
“it never will,” said blotte; and laughing grimly he got striding again in the red wig, as fluffy reubens and doome burst into the room.
“here, fluffy,” said rippley, “quick, man! put on this yellow wig, and comb it well over your eyes. there isn’t a moment to be lost; doome, here’s a black moustache and a greyish wig--this is the way to stick it on--see? splendid! makes you look like a broken-down italian tenor.”
he searched about in the cabinet and found a stubbly black wig which he pulled over his own hair, and was at once a son of france:
rippley had scarcely hurried into his coat when there entered and halted in the great doorway a hesitating figure in the white satin dress of a courtier of charles the first, lace frills at his weak knees, white stockings, white shoes, and holding a plumed hat in his hand.
his eyeglass dropped out of his eye, and he stood there stuttering and aghast.
there was a titter.
“sharles ze foorst--risen from ze dead!” announced rippley.
“i say”--the affected drawl discovered ffolliott. “rippley told me it was a--fancy-dress--affair,” he said plaintively. “and to come early.”
there was a wild shout of laughter.
ffolliott looked round nervously at the strange faces, and recognising aubrey at last, by the mirror, he said peevishly:
“i am exceedingly displeased with rippley--he--he chose my dress.”
rippley wiped the tears from his eyes:
“well--don’t you see we are nearly all in disguise? ... except aubrey, who thinks that because he looks like an ass no one will know him.” he turned to the others: “i say, boys,” he added, chuckling, “things are beginning to move at last. this is going to be a unique night.”
they had all turned to blotte, and a strange silence fell upon the room.
andrew blotte stood listening, as to some strange sounds. he roused:
“ay, i sup with the gods to-night.... and i can hear the guests arriving--all the clever fellows that have made the world a delight--and with them come the dear dead companions that worked with us, and sang with us, and drank with us--in paris.... i know them--they talk such damned bad french.”
rippley went and touched him on the shoulder:
“blotte, old boy; you’re very queer to-night,” he said. “you make me feel as blue as a newly-clipped hearse-horse.”
blotte roused, and moved towards the door; halted; turned to them all:
“i say i sup with the gods to-night--and mix the hats--and set the table in a roar.... i must hasten away.... i hear them call.... god bless you, dear boys! we shall meet in sunshine----”
rippley stepped to the door:
as blotte’s pale face took on a deathly smile, rippley bowed, and there stepped into the open doorway the well-groomed figure of their host.
pangbutt halted, perplexed.
he gazed in vague consternation at the vandyke travesty in white silks before him--turned to the solemn countenances of the four waiters:
“may i ask what, in the name of beelzebub, is happening in this house?” he asked.
rippley clasped his hands together unctuously, bowed, smiled a large italian smile. he advanced a step, and said with a strong foreign accent, picking his words with slow deliberation:
“sir pangboot--it has arrive to ze domestic bootler that he is indispose sudden-ment. i am he’s friend that he have ask to take he’s place, vis my asseestants.... your house shall have ze much honour in my hands--we have the habit to attend ze best families----”
there was a loud ringing of the door-bell.
pangbutt put his hand over his eyes:
“i must be going mad,” he said.
“sir pangboot--me and me friends, we speak not very well ze engleesh--but we much understand it well--and----”
“yes, yes.” pangbutt dismissed them impatiently. “get to your business.... curse it! i wonder what on earth ails dukes.”
as the four comic-looking foreign waiters left the room, he hesitated, bewildered. and rippley, as they passed out, nearly burst a bloodvessel as the tragic blotte’s moustache fell off. but pangbutt had suddenly remembered that he was host; and advancing into the room he turned to the others:
“i beg your pardon, i am late i fear.”
he shook hands with lovegood and aubrey; and, turning to ffolliott, a faint smile flickered over his worried face:
“ffolliott!... sorry to be late, but there have been domestic difficulties--my butler has gone sick.”
the guests were arriving fast.
“mistair maupassant fosse!” bawled rippley at the door.
the little man glared at the servant, fussed into the room, and tripped across to his host.
“a nickname they have for me,” he said--“a nickname....”
rippley watched blotte solemnly tramp down the stairs, his wig on one side; heard him announce to a lady, just arrived, that he was going to sup with the gods; and he was gone.
groups of guests came swarming up the stairs and passed into the studio.
rippley, glancing into the studio, saw the white satin dress of ffolliott move uneasily amongst the arriving guests; and he heard his thin, affected drawl as he explained to his host:
“d’you know--i feel such an ass----”
pangbutt patted him upon the shoulder:
“never mind,” said he absently--“it can’t be helped. make the best of it.”
“oh, but i assure you--they told me it was to be a fancy-dress affair.”
rippley bawled at the door:
“sir gilders cinnamon!”
sir gilders persimmon shuffled into the room; and pangbutt went to meet the old baronet.
“lady persimmon coming to-night, sir gilders?” he shouted into his ear; the old man shook his head.
“sorry,” bawled pangbutt into his ear; “sir gilders, allow me to introduce mr. fosse, who, i need not tell you, is the well-known critic. he has written a eulogy of anthony bickersteth that is to appear in a few days--you must win his favour to your poems.”
the old baronet cackled with senile laughter.
fosse threw up his head. he glowed. he felt that all eyes were upon him.
“yes,” he said--“my eulogy appears to-morrow.” he forgot to bawl.
sir gilders put his hand to his ear: the entrance and stir of the arriving guests and their announcement and greetings perplexed his weak hearing:
“eh?” said he--“borrow? why borrow?”
“no, sir gilders,” cried fosse, getting very hot--“i did not say borrow--i said my eulogy appears to-morrow.”
“why?” asked the old man.
there was a titter....
ffolliott, thinking he saw someone he knew, went up to lovegood and slapped the big man on the back:
“hullo, old chap!” cried he.
blank consternation came upon him as lovegood slowly turned and solemnly faced him. the weak-knee’d, foolish ffolliott faltered nervously:
“oh, er--er--i thought you were someone else,” he drawled.
lovegood nodded gloomily.
“i am,” he said sepulchrally.
ffolliott tittered confusedly:
“ye-yes--indeed,” he said, twisting his fingers and fidgeting. “d’you know, i feel such an awful ass----”
“but that is no excuse for your being in the other ass’s skin!” he growled.
“oh, but don’t you see--that’s just it! they told me it was a fancy-dress affair....”
“eh?” bawled sir gilders persimmon.
all eyes turned from ffolliott to the perspiring fosse. the little man shifted uneasily under the fire of many amused critical eyes.
“i was saying,” shrilled the minor critic in his thin jerky voice, “that the man who does not play whist is laying up a sad old age for himself.”
the old baronet shook his head:
“the man who what?”
fosse licked his lips sullenly:
“the man who doesn’t play whist,” shrieked fosse, reddening miserably.
“what about him?” asked sir gilders peremptorily.
“lays up a sad old age for himself,” screamed the miserable little man.
the old gentleman knit his brows:
“a reformed rake?” he asked testily....
but attention was diverted from the fussy little minor critic’s despair by the murmur of admiration which greeted the entrance into the room of a beautiful woman to whom quogge myre was paying aggressively marked court as the announcement of her name called the regard of the assembled guests to her arrival. myre was ever for stealing the lime-light. he was a born filcher of honour. but the beauty’s calm dismissal of him, as she swept towards her host, gave myre a sudden hysteric desire to talk loudly and hide his chagrin; and he turned at the sound of fosse’s voice, raised in argument, as hyena goes to offal. fosse in his despair had turned from sir gilders, and launched into the discussion round about him:
“in the arts,” he was saying, “woman does not, cannot, shine. she only exists--on sufferance. a woman’s province----”
myre had strolled towards the voice:
“i am flattered to find,” said he, “that mr. fosse has been reading me. he is right. a woman’s province is to be beautiful; and if she write at all she may write of the nursery--of the domesticities. a woman has not the experiences of life--she writes only from intuition. she cannot experience the emotions of a man--cannot describe all shades of life--is too careful of her skirts to have been on the heights and in the gutters----”
“never,” said he, with big deliberate voice--“never shall i again approach a municipal sewer without an ecstatic thrill.”
quogge myre took no notice of the shaft:
“a woman,” said he, “cannot be in the thrash and fume of life. she only peeps out fearfully over the window-blind at the doings of the world. she has not physical strength----”
“tra-la-lee!” said he--“opera--bouffe--bouffe--bouffe.”
myre went suddenly dumb....
sir gilders persimmon had shuffled over to fosse, who was wetting his lips, eager to leap into the debate, when myre’s yawing should give opportunity, and, button-holing the fussy little man, the deaf old gentleman asked him:
“you said, sir, that the reformed rake did what?”
“no, sir gilders--i said that the man who does not play whist is laying up a sad old age----”
the old gentleman poked him slyly in the lean ribs:
“makes the best husband, eh! indeed, yes--very likely--very likely. but it’s dangerous doctrine--it’s----”
“no, sir gilders,” shrieked the perspiring little man--“i say the man who does not play whist.” he coughed--his voice breaking. “oh, damn this old gentleman!” he added, moving irritably away from him....
quogge myre turned to pangbutt:
“now, pangbutt, mind you, i don’t say that this anthony bickersteth is a balzac; but he has the true genius for literature. how can you define these things? it is there, or it is not there!”
fosse skipped up to the group:
“what i say--what i say----”
quogge myre stared at his little disciple with contempt; a sneer played about his puffy lip--became too tense for silence:
“this man repeats what i say--what i used to say--like flattery,” he said.
lovegood smiled grimly:
“oh,” said he--“he stays in paris sometimes now. and there are the french newspapers.”
myre shrugged his shoulders:
“i have changed all my ideas on these subjects----”
but the ridiculous figure of ffolliott strolled nervously up to the group, and interrupting the critical vapourings of quogge myre, he said with affected drawl:
“d’you know, i feel such an awful ass--and i don’t get used to it.”
lovegood gazed at him solemnly:
“young fellow,” said he--“you must not be egotistical--it’s bad for the morals. try and forget yourself in that disguise.”
“i can’t,” drawled ffolliott miserably--“i am quite angry with rippley--he told me it was a fancy-dress affair--and----”
fosse turned his back upon him impatiently:
“i repeat,” said he--“and i have a signed article in the discriminator to prove it--a genius has arrived.”
“by pegasus?” sneered aubrey, raising ironic eyebrows.
“no--by omnibus,” said he. “let us all be winged asses to-night. fosse has not secured a government monopoly.”...
from the great doorway:
“mistair and mrs. nezzerbie gomme!” announced rippley; and as the pair were greeted by all near them, rippley stepped to the head of the great stairs, and going up to a pompous man as that worthy set foot on the topmost step, he said to him confidentially:
“i say, mister, would you mind running down the stairs and telling the fellar with the red hair that i want him?”
sir tankerton wollup swelled slowly:
“pooh--pooh!” said he, drawing himself up; and he strutted to the door.
“poof--poof!” said rippley. “giddy old thing!”
he glanced over the balustrade down to the next landing, and caught doome’s eye:
“beelzebub!” he growled--“the whole town’s coming to this silly theatrical affair.... i say, we ought to go and see that andrew blotte’s mixing the hats thoroughly. hullo! there’s anthony baddlesmere just arrived. wait, i’ll come down. i want to see him.”
he made his way down through an ascending stream of newly-arrived guests, with some difficulty, just as ffolliott, seeing sir tankerton wollup hesitate at the door, went up to the great man mincingly, and said affectedly:
“oh, i say, sir tankerton--d’you know, i feel such an awful ass--but they told me it was a fancy-dress affair.”
sir tankerton, staring with bloodshot eyes of ruffled dignity at the thing before him, sniffed.
“go away!” he said testily.
ffolliott went away.
as the pompous millionaire stood irresolute at the doorway, an absent-minded snuffy little old gentleman shuffled up to his elbow, followed at a couple of paces by a little faded old lady of withered prehistoric design, and, touching him on the sleeve inquiringly, said:
“my good man--before you announce our names, will you tell me which is the host? i have never seen my host before--in fact----”
“poof--poof!” squealed sir tankerton wollup, and strutted into the room.
“dear me!” the little old gentleman turned to his little old lady; and added in a confidential undertone:
“a most extraordinary person--a most extraordinary house!... but i have always heard, my dear, that bohemia was a strange country.... in fact, charlotte, it’s rather thrilling, is it not?”
the little withered lady, all pleased excitement, said: “quite thrilling, james!”
pangbutt seeing awkwardness at the door, and missing the loud announcement of names, went a few paces closer to it to meet his newly-arrived guests.
the little old gentleman entered the room vaguely, the dandruff of the philosophic habit upon his coat-collar, and his wig full of reasons--very markedly a professor. he had the air of cataloguing ideas. the little old lady, a couple of paces behind him, followed him.
pangbutt exchanged greetings with him.
said the professor:
“good-evening, sir; my sister’s husband’s brother-in-law, sir gilders persimmon, was good enough to say that you would allow me to meet mr. anthony bickersteth here.... i am writing a work to disprove the insanity of genius.... it is a part of my theory that the human personality cannot be hidden by artifice--that the strong temperament shows itself in the vigorous growth of the hair--and so on.... i am, sir, i may have forgotten to say, professor curtis.... i am an inveterate novel-reader.... my wife keeps a diary.... where are you, charlotte? ah, yes. but, fervently as i admire mr. bickersteth’s prose, i should like to suggest to him that in his next work he might make more of that unworked mine, the folk-lore of the london coster--or greengrocer.... i am most anxious that mr. bickersteth should be a virile person whose moustache springs out strongly from under the nostrils, with a tendency towards ruddiness in the colouring.... but i fear that on this--what i may call his--er,” he tittered--“his unveiling, i am too thrilled.”
he kept button-holing pangbutt:
“too thrilled to--er--i am thrilled, sir, thrilled, as indeed is charlotte--oh, ah, yes--charlotte!” he searched about behind him for the little old lady, who moved up to his side. “oh, ah, yes--there you are, charlotte! allow me to introduce mr. pangbutt, our host. may i ask, sir, if mr. anthony bickersteth has yet arrived? no?... how fortunate! how very fortunate!... charlotte, i am becoming quite excited.”
pangbutt led them to chairs.
two richly-dressed ladies of an age that discovers as much as is concealed by considerable dressing, hesitated at the door; and one, taking a last amused glance over her shoulder at some incident that passed upon the stairs below, tittered, and, turning, swept the room with keen regard through her raised lorgnettes.
“how amusin’! how absolutely amusin’!” she crooned. “i like literary and artistic people so much.”
“yes,” said the other, “they are so different to one’s own class.... and actresses dress so well!”
she flung back an elaborate head of jewels, and whispered something to the lady of the lorgnettes.
the lady of the lorgnettes laughed:
“really?” said she
“h’m, h’m!--yes. pills.”
“mr. pangbutt’s father?”
“h’m, h’m! yes. i assure you.”
“dear me! and he has such a very distinguished manner!”
“lady persimmon? indeed?”
the lady of the lorgnettes nodded mysteriously. the withered eyes expressed shocked surprise. she gave a funny little laugh. the lorgnettes were raised again, and she said, surveying the assembled guests critically through the glasses:
“i absolutely adore literary people--and artists--and actors--and those sort of persons. it is so strange to think they have all slept in attics. and really, it’s quite the fashion to go on the stage now.... who’s the fright in the post-office red?... oh! is it?... lady margaret’s son has gone on the stage.... gerty, do you know who that dark creature is? with the italian-looking person.... oh, yes; and the young fellow is getting on wonderfully. you see, they like to have a gentleman on the stage--besides, he acts in the most gentlemanly manner--quite unlike a professional actor. and then, of course, his manager is rather exclusive--he called the company together the other day, and told them that he did not expect them to recognise him in the street. it’s so nice for the young fellow to be with such a gentleman.”
“yes. our gardener’s son has joined a circus too. such an amusin’ boy, he was.”
“it brings it all so home to one, doesn’t it!”
“doesn’t it, indeed! but i confess i have always been fascinated by the stage. there’s somethin’ so very romantic about livin’ in green-rooms and paintin’ your face, and--pretendin’ to be someone else.”
the other whispered in her ear.
the lorgnettes were flicked open again, and glittered upon sir gilders persimmon.
“indeed! but he is so very old--and she--but there is such a difference of social rank between a baronet’s wife and a mere painter--surely! still, he is very old. almost permissible sin, gerty.”
they both tittered.
“my dear,” said the other, “you are really quite naughty.”
sir gilders pounced upon fosse, whom he had followed round the room, put up a hand to aid his dull hearing, and said:
“you were speaking of dotage----”
fosse winced uneasily:
“no, sir,” he shrieked--“i was not talking of dotage. i say that the man who does not play whist lays up a sad old age for himself.” and, turning on his heel impatiently, “the devil take the man!” said he, and walked away.
ffolliott espying the two newly-arrived ladies across the room, made his way to them:
“do you know, miss foljambe pfinch,” he said--“i feel such an ass; they told me it was a--fancy--dress--affair.”
the lorgnettes were turned upon him:
“it’s that ridiculous mr. ffolliott,” said she; and laughed immoderately.
ffolliott sighed, and turned away:
“everybody seems to think i am an ass to-night,” he said wearily. “oh, there’s fosse. i don’t like fosse--but i’ll talk to him. no--he’s talking to another man. i think i’ll go home. no, i won’t, i’ll sit down.”
he sat down.
“every fellow does something idiotic in his life,” he said.
he watched fosse button-hole gomme; and he saw gomme’s lips smile amusedly as he gazed at the floor, listening to him.
he bent all his attention to hear what passed between the two.
“now, you know, mr. gomme,” said the fussy little man--“in confidence, all these fellows take themselves too seriously to-day. look at rippley! he’s utterly uncultured--he hasn’t an aitch in his composition.”
“but there isn’t an aitch in composition,” he said demurely.
“n-no.” fosse stammered, becoming nervous. “but he can’t even pronounce the names of the ancients whose gods he models!”
“no--but he can model ’em.”
fosse was puzzled for an answer: administration of aconite, acetanilide, etc.
antirheumatic.--a medicine that prevents or cures rheumatism, as sodium salicylates, etc.
antipyretic.--a medicine which reduces body temperature in fever, as quinine sulphate, salicylic acid, etc.
antiseptic.--a medicine which arrests putrefaction on or in the body, or hinders septic decomposition by killing the germs that produce it or by checking their development, as carbolic acid, zinc sulphocarbolates, etc.
antispasmodic.--a medicine which prevents or removes spasmodic contraction of voluntary or involuntary muscles, as belladonna, valerian, chloral hydrate, etc.
antitoxin.--a counter poison or antidote generated within the body to counteract the toxins of bacteria. antitoxins are frequently injected hypodermically in the treatment of certain infectious diseases and also to immunize against disease, as tetanus antitoxin for the treatment of tetanus or lockjaw, etc.
antivenene.--a name applied to blood-serum of animals rendered immune against snake-poison owing to its antidotal properties.
antizymotic.--a medicine preventing fermentation, as salicylic acid, etc.
aperient.--a medicine possessing a mild laxative or purgative effect, as rochelle salts, etc.
aphrodisiac.--a medicine which stimulates sexual appetite, as cantharides, nux vomica, phosphorus, alcohol and general tonics, etc.
aromatic.--a medicine characterized by a fragrant taste or odor, as aromatic spiritus of ammonia, ginger and the essential oils, etc.
astringent.--a medicine which contracts vessels and arrests discharges, as tannic acid, ergot, etc.
auxiliary.--a medicine that assists the action of another, as chloral hydrate would assist bromide of potassium in checking excitability.
bitter.--a medicine with a bitter taste, stimulating the gastro-intestinal secretions without materially affecting the general system, as qussia gentian, etc.
blennorrhagic.--a medicine which increases the secretions of mucus, as eucalyptus, balsam tulo, etc.
blister.--an agent which, when applied over the skin, produces vesicles resulting from local inflammatory exudate of serous fluid between the epidermis and true skin, as applications of cantharides, etc.
bolus.--a large pill or a round mass of food prepared by the mouth for swallowing.
bouilon.--a nutritive medium for the culture of micro-organisms prepared from finely chopped beef or beef extract.
cachexia.--a deprived condition of general nutrition, due to serious diseases, as tuberculosis, scrofula, syphilis, cancer, etc.
calefacient.--a medicine applied externally to produce a sensation of warmth to the part to which it is applied, as turpentine, mustard, capsicum, etc.
calmant.--a medicine that reduces functional activity, as bromide of potassium, aconite, etc.
calmative.--a medicine which has a quieting or a sedative effect, as morphine, cannibus indica, etc.
calorifacient or calorific.--a heat producing substance which has the power of developing heat in the body, as cod liver and olive oil, fats, etc.
cardiac depressant or sedative.--a medicine which lessens the force and frequency of the heart’s action as aconite, potassium nitrate, etc.
cardiac stimulant.--a medicine that increases the force and frequency of the heart’s action when in a depressed condition, as alcohol, nux vomica, ether, etc.
cardiac tonics.--are medicines that do not act as quickly as cardiac stimulants, but they strengthen the heart muscles which regulate pulsation, as digitalis, nux vomica, etc.
carminative.--a medicine that allays pain by causing the expulsion of gases from the alimentary canal, as aromatic spiritus of ammonia, asafetida, turpentine, etc.
cataleptic.--a medicine causing animals to lose control of their muscles, as cannibus indica, etc.
catalytic.--a medicine supposed to break down, destroy or counteract morbid agencies existing in the blood, as calomel, arcenous acid, etc.
cathartic.--a medicine which hastens the evacuation of the bowels, as aloes, castor oil, etc.
cathartic cholagogue.--a medicine that stimulates the evacuation of the intestines and the flow of bile at the same time, as podophyllin, etc.
cathartic drastic.--a medicine which produces violent action of the intestines with griping and pain, as jalap, arecoline, etc.
cathartic hydragogue.--a medicine that causes abundant watery discharges of feces, as common elaterium, etc.
cathartic saline.--a medicine which increases intestinal secretions and prevents re-absorption, and mechanically excites peristaltic action, as magnesium sulphate, etc.
cathartic simple.--a medicine that is more active then a laxative, but is accompanied by some griping; it causes active peristalsis and larger and softer stools than laxatives, as rhubarb, aloes, etc.
caustic.--a medicine or agent used to destroy living tissue, as caustic potash, silver nitrate, etc.
cautery.--an agent used to sear or burn living tissue, with a cautery or a caustic, as a hot iron or nitric acid, etc.
cautery actual.--a metal instrument heated by an electric current or by flame, used to destroy bone or muscular tissue or for producing counter-irritation, much preferred to setons in diseases of the bones especially of their joints, as in bone spavin, ringbone, etc., also valuable in the treatment of sprained tendons. the methods used are either puncture or line firing.
cautery potential.--a chemical used for destroying or cauterizing flesh, as nitric acid, etc.
chalybeate.--a medicine containing iron, as tincture chlorid of iron.
condiment.--a medicine used to improve palatability of food, as fenugreek, aniseed, salt, pepper, etc.
conservative.--a medicine or substance used for the preservation of other medicines without loss, as alcohol, honey, etc.
constringent.--a medicine which causes contraction of organic tissues, as tannin, etc.
convulsant.--a medicine which causes violent and unnatural contractions of muscles (convulsions) as nux vomica or its derivative, etc.
cordial.--a medicine which increases the strength and raises the vitality when depressed, as aromatic spirits of ammonia, alcohol, etc.
corrective or correctant.--a substance used to modify or make pleasant the action of a cathartic or other medicines, as acacia, coriander, etc.
corrosive.--a substance that destroys organic tissue either by direct chemical means or by causing inflammation and suppuration, as mercuric chloride, nitric acid, etc.
counter irritant.--a substance or medicine which produces superficial inflammation artificially in order to exercise a good effect, by stimulating functional activity of a part, thus promoting repair upon some adjacent or deep-seated morbid process, as blistering or firing, etc.
cumulative poison.--a medicine which finally acts as a poison after several successive doses have been taken with little or no apparent effect, as arsenic, strychnine, etc.
debilitant.--a medicine which diminishes the energy of organs, as bromide of potassium, lobelia, etc.
defervescent.--a medicine that reduces temperature, as quinine sulphate, aconite, etc.
deliriant or delirifacent.--a medicine which produces delirium, as opium, stramonium, alcohol, etc.
demulcent.--a mucilaginous or oily, soothing blend to protect irritated skin or mucous membranes, as carron oil, white of an egg, etc.
deobstruent.--a medicine which removes functional obstructions in the body, as castor oil, magnesium sulphate, aloes, etc.
deodorant or deodorizer.--a substance to conceal or destroy foul odors, as crude carbolic acid, chloride of lime, etc. noxious odors may also be destroyed and absorbed with freshly burnt charcoal or dry earth.
depletory.--a medicine which diminishes the quantity of liquid in the body, as iodide or nitrate of potassium, etc.
depressant.--a medicine which lessens vital power, as opium, aconite, etc.
depresso-motor.--a medicine that depresses motor activity, as sodium or potassium bromide, etc.
depurant.--a medicine for cleaning foul wounds and abscesses, as hydrogen peroxide, etc.
depuratory.--a medicine which purifies the blood, as sulphur, iodide potassium, etc.
dermatic.--a medicine used in diseases of the skin, as resorcinol, zinc oxide, etc.
derivative.--a substance used in drawing away blood or liquid exudates from diseased parts by creating an extra demand for them in some other part of the body, as mustard, capsicum, cantharides, etc.
desiccant.--a medicine used for drying up sores, as tannic acid, boric acid, etc.
desiccative.--a medicine which dries up secretions, as zinc oxide, camphor, etc.
desiccatory.--a medicine used externally to dry up moisture or fluids from wounds, as tannic acid, starch, etc.
desquamation.--a medicine which removes scales from the skin, bones and mucous membranes, as potassium iodide, etc.
detergent.--a substance for purifying and cleansing wounds, ulcers, as hydrogen peroxide, soap and water, etc.
diaphoretic.--a medicine which causes an increased amount of perspiration, as pilocarpine, ginger, etc.
diarrhetic.--a substance or medicine which causes increased frequency and lessened consistency of fecal evacuations, as mandrake.
dietetic.--a medicine having nutritious properties, as olive or cod liver oil, etc.
digestant.--a medicine that assists digestion of food, in the mouth, stomach or intestines, as pancreatin, pepsin, etc.
digestive.--a medicine which promotes the process of digestion, as gentian, qussia, nux vomica, etc.
diluent.--a medicine that dilutes the secretions of organs, as magnesium sulphate, gamboge, arecoline, etc.
discutient.--a substance or medicine having the power of causing an exudation to disappear, as iodide of potassium, red iodide of mercury, etc.
disinfectant.--a medicine which destroys septic poisons of communicable diseases; its special function is to kill or hinder the development of those germs or bacteria which produce diseases, as carbolic acid, chloride of lime, formaldehyde, etc.
dissolvent.--a medicine that promotes solution of tissues of the body, as potassium iodide, etc.
diuretic.--a medicine that increases the secretions of the urinary organs, as potassium nitrate, buchu, turpentine, spirits ether nit, etc.
drastic.--a medicine having a severe purgative or cathartic effect on the bowels, as croton oil, etc.
ebolic.--a medicine causing contraction of the uterus, and thus producing abortion, as ergot, etc.
electuary.--a substance used to lessen irritability or increase the palatability of medicines, as sugar, honey, molasses, water, etc.
eliminative.--a medicine having power of expelling or casting out, especially waste products, as arecoline, magnesium sulphate, etc.
emetic.--a substance or medicine having the power to induce vomiting, as apomorphine, ipecac, etc.
emmenagogue.--a medicine which stimulates menstrual flow, as potassium permanganate, etc.
emollient.--a substance used externally to soften, sooth and relax parts to which they are applied as vegetable poultices, oils, etc.
epispastic.--a medicine producing a blister, as cantharides, aqua ammonia fort, etc.
errhine.--a medicine that increases nasal secretions, as formalin, capsicum, etc.
evacuant.--a medicine which causes the emptying of an organ, especially the bowels, as magnesium sulphate, aloes, etc.
excitant.--a medicine that arouses functional activity, as nux vomica, alcohol, etc.
exhilarant.--a medicine which cheers or stimulates the mind, as strychnine, alcohol, etc.
expectorant.--a medicine that acts upon the pulmonary mucous membranes to increase or alter its secretions, as lobelia, chloride of ammonia, etc.
febrifuge.--a medicine which lessens bodily temperature, as quinine, acetanilid, aconite, etc.
fumigation.--is a process of disinfection by exposure to the fumes of a vaporizing disinfectant, as formaldehyde.
galactagogue.--a medicine or substance which stimulates the secretions of the mammary glands, thereby increasing the flow of milk, as senegaroot, pilocarpine, etc.
germicide.--a medicine which destroys germs of any kind whether bacilli, spirilli or micrococci, as bichloride mercury, carbolic acid, etc.
hematinic.--a medicine that increases the proportion of hematin or coloring matter in the blood, as iron, arsenic, etc.
hemolytic.--a medicine which causes the breaking down of the blood corpuscles, as mineral acids.
hemostatic.--a medicine which stops bleeding, as tincture chloride of iron, ergot, etc.
hepatic depressant or sedative.--a medicine that decreases the function of the liver, as plumbi acetate, morphine, etc.
hepatic stimulant.--a medicine which increases the functions of the liver, as calomel, podophyllin, etc.
hidrotic or hydrotic.--a medicine that stimulates perspiration (sweat), as pilocarpine, spirits ether nit., etc.
hydragogue.--a medicine which causes full watery evacuations from the bowels, as arecoline, gamboge, etc.
hypnotic.--a medicine which produces sleep, as chloral hydrate, morphine, potassium bromide, etc.
hyposthenic.--a medicine which causes weakness, debility, as lobelia.
idiosyncrasy.--a peculiarity of constitution that makes one person or animal react differently to medicines or other influences from most persons or animals.
insecticide.--a substance used to destroy insects, as unrefined carbolic acid, benzine, etc.
intoxicant.--a drug which excites or stupifies, as alcohol, etc.
irritant.--a medicine or agent causing heat, pain and tension due to the increased flow of blood to the part, as heat, mustard, etc.
lactagogue.--a medicine which increases the flow of milk, as extract of malt, jaborandi, etc.
laxative.--a medicine that loosens the bowels; a mild cathartic or purgative, as potassium nitrate, sulphur, etc.
lenitive.--a substance having the quality to relieve pain or protecting tissues from the actions of irritants, as fats, oils, etc.
liquefacient.--a medicine which promotes the liquefying processes of the system, as potassium iodide, etc.
lithagogue.--a medicine which expels calculi (or stones) from the kidneys or bladder, as benzoic acid, etc.
litholytic or lithontriptic.--a medicine to dissolve calculi (or stones) as benzoate of ammonia, carbonate of potassium, etc.
lubricant.--a substance which soothes irritated surfaces of the throat and their fauces, as honey, olive oil, etc.
medicament.--any medicine used in the treatment of diseases or wounds.
medicine.--any substance for the cure of disease.
mydriatic.--an agent which dilates or enlarges the pupil of the eye, whether used internally or externally, as atrophine.
myotic.--any agent that contracts the pupil of the eye, whether applied to the eye or taken by the mouth, as eserine, arecoline, etc.
narcotic.--a medicine which produces sleep and relieves pain, but first cause cerebral excitement, as chloroform, ether, belladonna and alcohol, etc.
nephritic.--a medicine used in diseases of the kidneys, as buchu, uva ursi, etc.
nervine.--a medicine that calms nervous excitement or acts favorably in nervous diseases, as potassium bromide, chloral hydrate, etc.
nutrient.--a medicine which builds up the waste tissues of the system, as cod liver oil, general tonics, etc.
obtundent.--any agent which relieves irritation or reduces sensibility, as opium, poultices, etc.
odontalgic.--any substance for the relief of toothache, as oil of cloves, morphine, etc.
odorant.--any substance with a pronounced odor, as naphthaline, asafoetida, etc.
opiate.--a drug which causes sleep, as chloral hydrate, opium, etc.
oxytocic.--any agent that produces parturition, as cotton root, ergot, etc.
panacea.--a medicine curing all diseases; a cure all, as some patent medicines.
parasiticide.--a substance that destroys various animal and vegetable organisms or parasites which live upon the surface of the body, as mercurial and sulphur ointment, etc.
parturient or parturifacient.--any agent assisting in the birth of the young, as ergot.
peristaltic.--a medicine which increases the movements of the longitudinal and transverse muscular fibers of the intestines and assists them in expelling their contents as nux vomica, arecoline, etc.
placebo.--any medicine or inert substance given for the purpose of satisfying the patient, rather than for its medical effects, as sugar, fenugreek, anise, etc.
poison.--an agent that when introduced into the body either destroys life or impairs seriously the functions of one or more of its organs, as potassium cyanide, hydrocyanic acid, etc.
potential.--a medicine which possesses restorative effects, but is delayed in its effects, as potassium iodide, arsenic, etc.
preservative.--a substance which prevents decomposition of another substance, as acetanilid, boric acid, etc.
preventive or prophylactic.--a medicine or method that tends to prevent disease, as quinine for the prevention of malaria, vaccine, hygienics, etc.
protective.--a substance used for protecting the parts to which it is applied, as collodion, etc.
pungent.--any substance producing a sharp, pinching, penetrating effect, as ammonia.
purgative.--a medicine causing copious evacuations of the bowels. (see cathartics.)
pustulant.--a medicine which irritates and gives rise to the formation of pustules, as cantharides, croton oil, etc.
recuperative.--a medicine which restores health and energy, as extract of malt, cod liver oil, etc.
refrigerant.--a medicine or agent having cooling properties or the power of lowering internal or external temperature, as potassium nitrate, aconite, cold water, etc.
relaxant.--a substance which causes relaxation of muscular tissues, as chloroform, chloral, etc.
reparative.--a substance used to restore debilitated tissues of the body, as general tonics, nitrogenous foods, etc.
resolvent.--a substance indicated in the treatment or absorption of hard, callous tissue, as iodine and its preparations.
restorative.--a medicine that aids in restoring the health, as nux vomica, arsenic, etc.
revulsant or revulsive.--an agent which produces irritation and draws fluids from other parts diseased, as poultices, cantharides, etc.
rubefacient.--a medicine or agent causing irritation and redness of the skin, as turpentine, mustard, etc.
sedative.--a medicine which diminishes functional activity, as potassium or ammonium bromide, etc.
septic.--an agent causing poisoning resulting from the absorption of products of putrefaction, as bacteria.
sialogogue.--a medicine stimulating the flow of saliva, as pilocarpine, arecoline, ginger, capsicum, etc.
somnifacient or soporific.--a medicine which produces drowsiness and sleep, as morphine, chloral hydrate, potassium, bromide, etc.
sorbefacient.--a medicine used to produce abortion, as ergot.
specific.--a medicine or agent which has a distinct curative influence on an individual disease, as potassium iodide in actinomycosis (lumpy jaw) or oxygen in milk fever, etc.
stimulant.--a medicine which quickens or increases functional activity, as strychnine, ammonium carbonate, alcohol, etc.
stomachic.--a medicine which increases functional activity of the stomach, as quassia gentian, etc.
stomatic.--a medicine used in diseases of the mouth, as boric acid, potassium chlorate, alum, etc.
superfacient.--a medicine causing unconsciousness from which the patient can be roused, as opium, bromide of potassium, etc.
styptic.--an agent that checks bleeding by causing contraction of the blood vessels, as tincture chloride of iron, ergot, etc.
succedaneum.--a medicine which may be substituted for another possessing similar properties, as chloral hydrate for potassium bromide, or aloes for linseed oil, etc.
sudorific.--a medicine or agent which produces an increased quantity of perspiration (sweat) as ginger, pilocarpine, dover’s powders, etc.
suppurant.--a medicine or agent promoting pus formation, as poultices, cantharides, croton oil, etc.
synergist.--a medicine which co-operates or assists the action of another, as chloroform with ether, cantharides with red iodide of mercury, etc.
taenicide.--a medicine which destroys tape worms, as extract of male fern.
taenifuge.--a medicine which expels tape worms, as areca nut, pumpkin seed, oil of turpentine, etc.
tetanic.--a medicine or agent which increases the irritation of the spinal cord or muscles producing spasms, as strychnine, etc.
tonic.--a medicine promoting nutrition and giving strength to the body, as arsenic, cod liver oil, etc.
topic or topical.--a substance or agent for external use, applied locally, as a liniment.
toxic.--a condition produced by a poison, as a result of an over-dose of medicine or the absorption of bacterial products.
tricophyed.--a medicine promoting the growth of hair, as pilocarpine, cantharides, capsicum, etc.
uterine.--a medicine acting upon the uterus, as ergot.
vehicle.--a medicine or agent used as a medium or base for the administration of medicines, as syrups, oils, water, etc.
vermicide.--a medicine which destroys parasitic worms, as turpentine, iron sulphate, tobacco, creosote, etc.
vermifuge.--a medicine which expels parasitic worms, as arecoline, aloes, etc.
vesicant.--a medicine which forms pustules containing white serum, as cantharides.
virus.--a poison of an infectious disease, especially one found in the system of an animal suffering from an infectious disease, as hog cholera, cowpox or rabies virus, etc.
vulnerary.--any medicine or compound used in the treatment of wounds, as ointments, liniments, etc.
administration of medicines
the following methods of administering medicines in order of their rapidity of absorption, beginning with the method by which absorption is most rapid, and following with those by which absorption is less rapid and finally least rapid: 1. intravenous, by injection into veins. 2. by inhalation (volatile drugs). 3. subcutaneous, by injection into subcutaneous tissue. 4. intratracheal, by injection into the trachea (or wind pipe). 5. oral, by the mouth. 6. rectal, by the rectum. 7. inunction, by the skin. 8. intramammary injections.
when medicines should be administered
the curative effects of medicines may be restrained, changed in form or prevented by untimely administration.
medicines intended to act on the mucous membrane of the stomach should only be given when that organ is empty. if distant parts are to be affected in the most prompt and efficient manner and the medicine is free from distinct irritating qualities, it should be taken on an empty stomach; as when digestion is going on, the contents of the stomach are acid in reaction and if alkalies are given combinations take place and salts are formed. if alkalies are given before digestion begins, diffusion of the acid-forming constituents of the blood takes place, and in this way the acidity of the gastric juice is promoted; likewise acids given before meals increase the diffusion of the alkaline constituents of the blood.
methods of administering medicines
drenching, bit, balling gun, capsule gun, bottle, dose syringe and hypodermic syringe.
anaesthetics administered in feed bags or proper inhaler.
tables used in prescription writing
apothecaries or troy weight.
in prescription writing the pound sign should not be used; always express large quantities by ounces.
apothecaries’ liquid measure.
in prescribing liquids the abbreviation for quarts (qts.) is never used. if a quart is desired it is expressed as two pints (oij).
appropriate equivalents of wine units in domestic measures.
tables for regulating the doses for young animals
3 years old and upward, full dose. from 1¹⁄₂ years old to 3 years, ¹⁄₂ dose. from 9 to 18 months old, ¹⁄₄ dose. from 4¹⁄₂ to 9 months old, ¹⁄₈ dose. from 1 to 4¹⁄₂ months old, ¹⁄₁₆ dose.
2 years old and upward, full dose. from 1 to 2 years old, ¹⁄₂ dose. from ¹⁄₂ to 1 year, ¹⁄₄ dose. from 3 to 6 months, ¹⁄₈ dose. from 1 to 3 months, ¹⁄₁₆ dose.
2 years old and upward, full dose. from 1 to 2 years old, ¹⁄₂ dose. from ¹⁄₂ to 1 year, ¹⁄₄ dose. from 3 to 6 months, ¹⁄₈ dose. from 1 to 3 months, ¹⁄₁₆ dose.
1¹⁄₂ years and upward, full dose. from 9 to 18 months old, ¹⁄₂ dose. from 4¹⁄₂ to 9 months, ¹⁄₄ dose. from 2¹⁄₂ to 4¹⁄₄ months, ¹⁄₈ dose. from 1 to 2¹⁄₂ months, ¹⁄₁₆ dose.
from ¹⁄₂ to 1 year old, full dose. from 3 to 6 months, ¹⁄₂ dose. from 1¹⁄₂ to 3 months, ¹⁄₄ dose. from 20 to 45 days, ¹⁄₈ dose. from 10 to 20 days, ¹⁄₁₆ dose.
the art of prescribing
the prescription should be as brief and simple as possible. it should be explicit and clearly written. it may be expressed either in latin or in english. the manner in which the medicine is to be used should be specified. important instructions as to the rule, systematic regulations or diet of the patient are sometimes necessary.
prescriptions usually contain two or more of the following four representative constituents: (1) the basis or active ingredients. the practice of conjoining several active medicines has wisely been abandoned. occasionally, however, it may be advantageous to give together two medicines producing their effects in somewhat different ways. thus, spasms of the bowels are more often effectually controlled by the conjunction of a stimulant like ether and an anodyne like opium than by either given alone. pain which is not alleviated by either morphine or atropine is sometimes abated by giving them together. (2) the adjuvant is introduced in order to increase, moderate or modify the action of the basis. frequently its chief object is to insure solubility and ready absorption. (3) a corrective is occasionally required to temper the effects of the basis. thus a small dose of opium is prescribed with oil or other laxative in cases of diarrhoea; ginger is generally added to the aloetic mass to prevent its griping. (4) the vehicle generally consists of some comparatively inert substance, added to facilitate administration, such as the treacle, linseed meal or licorice powder used as an excipient for boluses and pills, the benzoated lard or vaseline used for making ointments, and the water given in drenches.
in the above prescription aloes is the basis; calomel as an adjuvant, ginger as a corrective, molasses as an excipient.
a prescription is composed of several parts, which may be considered as follows:
1. heading. 2. names and quantities of drugs. 3. directions to compounder. 4. directions to attendant. 5. signature of writer.
words, phrases and abbreviations commonly used in prescription writing.
acidum boricum--boracic acid--boric acid
derivation.--made by evaporation and crystallization of a solution obtained by passing steam issuing from rocks in volcanic regions of italy, through water; or by the action of hydrochloric or sulphuric acids upon borax. recovered by filtration and recrystallization.
properties.--transparent colorless scales, of a somewhat pearly luster, six-sided tricline crystals, or a light white, very fine powder, slightly unctuous to the touch; odorless, having a faintly bitterish taste, and permanent in air. soluble in water, alcohol, glycerine, etc.
dose.--horses and cattle, 2 to 4 drs.; foals and calves, 20 to 30 grs.; sheep and pigs, 30 to 40 grs.; dogs, 5 to 20 grs.
glyceritum boroglycerini--glycerite of boroglycerin
composed of boric acid, 310 parts; glycerin to make 1,000; prepared by heat (303° f.).
actions.--boric acid is a non-volatile, non-irritating antiseptic, deodorant and astringent, it arrests fermentation of minute organisms, free of irritating effects in solution, when applied to wounds; it lessens suppuration, and is as effective as carbolic acid; can be used in any strength from the pure powder or saturated solution to the mildest form.
uses.--boric acid is indicated for all purposes for which an antiseptic is used; it is used in diarrhoea in foals, calves and dogs, combined with other drugs; it has a slightly astringent action of itself; it is excreted in the urine, consequently would exert its influence on the bladder in cystitis, cystic catarrh; 1 part in 800 prevents the development of anthrax-bacilli; useful in skin diseases, also used in keratitis and catarrhal and purulent conjunctivitis, six to ten grains to the ounce, with atropine or cocaine when very painful. useful in distemper of dogs where the bowels are affected, as an antiseptic. boric acid is preferred to carbolic acid as an antiseptic for dogs. on account of the paralyzing effect of carbolic acid on the nerves, it hinders the healing of wounds to a certain extent, while the boracic acid does not.
boric acid may be applied pure to wounds and sores or mixed with other suitable drugs as a dusting powder. equal parts of boric acid and zinc oxide make a cheap and effective healing powder; to an itching wound the addition of an equal quantity of acetanilide increases its value. a saturated solution (four per cent) is useful as a vaginal and uterine douche and to flush the bladder in cystitis.
acidum carbolicum crudum--crude carbolic acid
derivation.--a liquid consisting of several different constituents of coal tar, particularly creosol and phenol, obtained by fractional distillation.
properties.--a nearly colorless, or reddish-brown liquid of a strong disagreeable and creosote-like odor, and gradually turning darker on exposure to the air and light. soluble in fifteen parts of water.
phenol--acidum carbolicum--carbolic acid
derivation.--obtained from crude carbolic acid by agitation with caustic soda, heating to 338° f., and adding hydrochloric acid. then by agitation with sodium chloride, digestion with calcium chloride, and distillation at a temperature between 336° f. and 374° f. and finally by crystallization.
properties.--phenol in its pure state is a solid at ordinary temperatures, crystallizing in minute plates or long rhomboidal needles, white or colorless, of a peculiar odor recalling that of creosote, and an acrid burning taste. it is likely to be colored pinkish or brown under the influence of light and air. soluble in about 19.6 parts of water, and very soluble in alcohol, ether, chloroform, glycerin, fixed and volatile oils.
actions.--phenol in large and undiluted doses is an irritant and narcotic poison; it is used as an antiseptic, parasiticide, antiferment and sometimes used as a local anaesthetic or anodyne in a 2 to 5 per cent solution; also as a caustic, but should not be used as a caustic as a burn from it heals very slowly.
uses.--internally as a gastric sedative in small doses for vomiting in dogs; is administered in various contagious and infectious diseases with the view of preventing or arresting the development of micro-organisms; it coagulates albumen, is not nearly so active as bichloride of mercury; 1 part to 500 parts of water prevents the growth of anthrax and other bacilli. full doses produce gastro-enteritis, and collapse, which may end fatally; it is a muscular and nerve paralyzer, both internally and externally, it kills by paralyzing the muscles of respiration and the heart. it is chiefly eliminated from the system by the kidneys, giving the urine a brownish color.
in surgery.--a three to five per cent solution is used for washing out wounds, a two to three per cent for hands, and for itching of the skin, carbolic acid three or four drachms, glycerine two ounces to one pint of water. do not use over large surface on dogs and not at all on cats.
phenol treatment for tetanus, which has given very good results and i would recommend one drachm in three ounces of water, injected hypodermically in the region of neck and shoulder every two or three hours until twelve injections were given and less frequently thereafter.
doses.--of the phenol: horses and cattle, 10 to 40 grs.; sheep and pigs, 5 to 10 grs.; dogs, ¹⁄₂ to 1 gr., well diluted.
toxicology.--dogs and cats are especially susceptible to the action of carbolic acid, therefore great care must be exercised when washing, especially cats, with any preparation containing carbolic acid. disinfecting and deodorizing cat’s quarters with any preparation containing carbolic acid makes them sick.
antidote.--sulphates of soda or magnesia. atropine sulphate hypodermically is a very valuable antidote. alcohol and vinegar have been used with good results, both internally and externally.
acidum salicylicum--salicylic acid
an organic acid, existing naturally in combination in various plants, but largely prepared synthetically from carbolic acid.
properties.--light, fine, white, needle-shaped crystals, odorless, having a sweetish, afterwards acrid taste; permanent in air. soluble in alcohol, ether and hot water; borax increases its solubility.
dose.--horses, 2 to 6 drs.; cattle, ¹⁄₂ to 1 oz.; sheep, 1 to 2 drs.; pigs, 30 to 40 grs.; dogs, 5 to 20 grs.; should be given well diluted; large doses are recommended for fevers, but smaller doses more often repeated in rheumatism.
sodii salicylas--sodium salicylas
derivation.--made by the action of salicylic acid on sodium carbonate. the solution is filtered and heated to expel carbon dioxide.
properties.--a white amorphous or crystalline powder or scales; odorless and having a sweetish, saline taste. permanent in air. soluble in water, alcohol and glycerine.
dose.--same as for salicylic acid.
phenylis salicylas--phenyl salicylate (salol)
derivation.--made by heating salicylic and carbolic acids with phosphorous pentachloride.
properties.--a white crystalline powder; odorless, or having a faintly aromatic odor, and almost tasteless. permanent in air. insoluble in water, soluble in ten parts of alcohol and readily soluble in chloroform.
dose.--same as for salicylic acid.
actions.--salicylic acid, sodium salicylate and phenyl salicylate are powerful antiseptic, anti-rheumatic, diaphoretic, cardiac depressant, antiferment and antipyretic. salicylic acid is in addition irritant and astringent, continued in large doses is apt to derange digestion; best to be administered on a full stomach.
uses.--for acute rheumatism, influenza, strangles and purpura where there is much sloughing; also as a surgical wash, salicylic acid one part, borax one part to thirty or forty parts of water. salicylic acid is a more powerful antiseptic than carbolic acid. salicylic of soda is freely antiseptic. salicylic acid is highly recommended in intestinal flatulence, given in two drachm doses with one ounce of aromatic spirits of ammonia. in gastric-flatulence give two drachms in capsule, repeat in half hour if necessary.
derivation.--aconite is obtained from the root of aconitum napellus, which grows in northwestern north america, europe and asia in mountainous regions, and cultivated in the united states for its beautiful flowers.
properties.--the fresh leaves have a faint narcotic odor, most sensible when they are rubbed. their taste is at first bitterish and herbaceous, afterwards burning and acrid, with a feeling of numbness and tingling on the inside of the lips, tongue and fauces, which is very durable, lasting sometimes many hours. when long chewed they inflame the tongue. the dried leaves have a similar taste, but the acrid impression commences later. their sensible properties and medical activity are impaired by long keeping. they should be of a green color, and free from mustiness. the root has a feeble earthy odor. though sweetish at first, it has afterwards the same effect as the leaves upon the mouth and fauces. it shrinks much in drying and becomes darker, but does not lose its acrimony. those parcels, whether of leaves or roots, should always be rejected which are destitute of this property. aconite root is officially described as being “slenderly conical, 4 to 10 cm. long, 10 to 20 mm. thick at the crown; occasionally split; longitudinally wrinkled; dark brown and marked with coarse whitish root-scars; fracture short, horny or mealy; internally whitish or light brown; the cambium zone irregular and 5 to 7-angled; odor very slight; taste sweetish, soon becoming acrid and developing a tingling sensation, followed by numbness.”
constituents.--the alkaloid representing the action of the drug is aconitine, which is precipitated by ammonia from an aqueous solution of an alcoholic extract of the root of various species. it is a colorless, crystalline or amorphous, gray powder, almost insoluble in water, and soluble in 22 parts of alcohol, in 44 parts of ether and 1 part of chloroform. its salts are soluble in water. aconitine or its solutions, unless very dilute, are too poisonous to be tasted.
commercial preparations vary in purity and strength, and since it is extremely poisonous its internal administration is undesirable. pseudo-aconitine, aconitine and other alkaloids in combination with aconitic acid have been obtained from aconite, but their identity and chemistry are uncertain.
dose.--horses and cattle, 3 to 20 grs.; sheep and pigs, 1 to 3 grs.; dogs, ¹⁄₁₀ to ¹⁄₁₁ gr.
fluidextractum aconiti--fluidextract of aconite
made by maceration and percolation with alcohol and water and evaporation. assayed so that each 100 c. c. contains 0.4 gm. aconitine.
dose.--horses and cattle, 5 to 20 m.; sheep and pigs. 2 to 5 m.; dogs, ¹⁄₁₀ to 1 m.
tinctura aconiti--tincture aconite
made by maceration and percolation of aconite, 100; with alcohol and water to make 1000.
dose.--horses and cattle, 20 m. to 1 dr.; sheep and pigs, 10 to 20 m.; dogs, 2 to 10 m.
fleming’s tincture (non-official) (79 per cent).
dose.--horses and cattle, 8 to 20 m.; dogs, ¹⁄₂ to 2 m.
not used to any extent in veterinary practice; is very unreliable and varying in strength. aconitine often contains a considerable proportion of aconite and benzaconine, and so varies in activity, which is a great objection to the use of one of the most powerful drugs known.
dose.--horses and cattle, ¹⁄₃₀ to ¹⁄₅ gr.; dogs, ¹⁄₂₀₀ to ¹⁄₁₀₀ gr. subcutaneously.
actions of aconite, its preparations and derivative are anodynes and sedatives, acting specially on the peripheral endings of the sensory nerves, on the heart and on respiration. aconite kills by respiratory arrest.
its physiological actions as a cardiac and respiratory sedative renders it a febrifuge; it is also diaphoretic and diuretic. it is prescribed in acute febrile conditions, and in the earlier stages of acute local inflammation. it is used topically to relieve pain.
general actions.--locally applied, in virtue of its action on sensory nerves, aconite produces first irritation, tingling and twitching and subsequently numbness and anesthesia. the tincture of aconite is rapidly absorbed and quickly passed into the tissues, as is shown by the blood of a poisoned dog five minutes after the drug has been administered, being transferred into the veins of another dog without producing the physiological action of the poison.
toxic effects.--one and one-half drachm of the tincture (equal to about one drachm of aconite root) is given as the minimum fatal dose for the horse, one-half drachm will occasionally cause very serious symptoms and where an idiosyncrasy exists as little as fifteen minims will cause toxic symptoms.
it causes great muscular weakness, dimness of sight; pupil at first may be dilated or contracted, but as the end approaches remains dilated; shallow irregular and labored respiration, a slow and small pulse, becoming rapid and imperceptible near the end. gulping, frothy saliva, flatulence, belching, retching, nausea, etc. there is often a peculiar clicking sound made from the constant attempts at swallowing.
coldness of surface, clammy sweat, anxious countenance, extreme weakness of the extremities, lowering of temperature 2 to 3 degrees, abolishment of sensation, reflexes and motility and finally death from paralysis of the heart and respiration, with or without convulsions, consciousness being preserved until near the end, when carbon dioxide narcosis sets in.
uses.--it antagonizes the fever process, when properly used is a most valuable drug; it is indicated in all affections, characterized by high resisting pulse, dry, hot skin and elevated body temperature; is useful in acute throat affections as laryngitis, pharyngitis and perotiditis, in small doses often repeated. indicated in acute inflammation of the organs of respiration. for pleurisy and perotiditis, at the outset, give aconite with opium. aconite is indicated in simple fevers or in puerperal fever, inflammation of the brain; in acute or inflammatory rheumatism, in acute local inflammation, as arthritis or inflammation resulting from bruises, sprains, etc.
in lymphangitis, laminitis and enteritis, if called in first stages of enteritis give 20 ms. of aconite and repeat with 10 or 15 ms. every hour and between times gives fluid extract of belladonna 15 to 20 ms. every hour and externally woolen blankets wrung out of hot water and wrapped around the body.
in mammitis is also useful in large doses, combined with phytolacca; in spasmodic colic brought on by drinking cold water, give 30 to 60 ms. of the tincture of aconite with other colic mixture; in congestion of the bowels or liver, or in congestion of any part, small repeated doses are better than large ones. it is also advantageously used in lung disorders.
a liquid composed of about 96 per cent, by weight, of absolute ether or ethyl oxide, and about 4 per cent of alcohol containing a little water.
properties.--a transparent, colorless, mobile liquid, having a characteristic odor and a burning and sweetish taste. ether is highly volatile and inflammable; its vapor, when mixed with air and ignited, explodes violently. miscible in all proportions with alcohol, chloroform, benzine, benzol, fixed and volatile oils. ether is a solvent for fats, oils, alkaloids, resins, gutta percha and guncotton. upon evaporation ether should have no residue. ether vapor is heavier than air and consequently etherization should never be done above a light or fire.
dose.--horses and cattle, 1 to 2 ozs.; sheep and pigs, 2 to 4 drs.; dogs, 10 ms. to 1 dr.
as an anaesthetic, horses and cattle require from 4 to 16 ozs. smaller animals from 4 drs. to 4 ozs. chloroform is usually prescribed for large animals and ether for smaller animals. ether never paralyzes a healthy heart, while chloroform sometimes does. for anaesthetic purposes see anesthesia.
spiritus aetheris--spirit of ether
composed of ether, 325 parts, alcohol to make 1000.
dose.--same as ether.
spiritus aetheris compositus--compound spirit of ether--hoffman’s anodyne
composed of ether, 325 parts; alcohol, 650 parts; ethereal oil, 25 parts.
dose.--same as for ether.
actions.--ether is anodyne, antispasmodic, diaphoretic, anthelmintic; a cardiac, respiratory and cerebral stimulant, an anesthetic and a narcotic poison; one of the best and quickest acting, diffusible, general stimulants, acting on the heart reflexly from the stomach. it is a powerful secretory stimulant, acting especially on the secretions of the stomach, salivary glands and pancreas. on the cerebrum and the motor and sensory nerves, its actions are similar to that of alcohol, but more prompt and less protracted; it is eliminated quickly, chiefly by the lungs.
when inhaled, it first causes irritation of the fauces, a sense of strangulation and cough, then a stage of excitement in which the visible mucous membranes are flushed and the respiration and pulse quickened; a convulsive stage generally follows, with rigid muscles and respiration stertorous; this subsides and complete insensibility is established, the muscles being relaxed and the reflexes abolished; in fact all of the functions of the body are suspended, except respiration and circulation.
if the inhalation be continued these too become paralyzed, death usually resulting from slow paralysis of respiration (chloroform paralyzes quickly); the heart pulsating long after breathing has ceased. atropine hypodermically is the best antagonist to the toxic effects of ether, also artificial respiration and injections of brandy.
uses of ether.--when mixed with alcohol, as the spirit, ether mixes readily with water. it is excellent in indigestion with flatulence; it checks gastric fermentation, expels the gas and overcomes irregular and violent gastro-intestinal movements; hence, is also very good in spasmodic colic. in spasmodic colic, best to combine with cannabis indica or belladonna. when used as a vermifuge it should be followed by a purge. used diluted one to ten to dislodge worms in the rectum. a most reliable remedy for collapse. ether and alcohol are indicated in parturient paresis, ether with aqua ammonia may be used intravenously when the cow is unable to swallow. sulphuric ether and alcohol or whisky are also good in parturient eclampsia of bitches, though aromatic spirit of ammonia is better; for chills, spirit of nitrous ether; also useful in convalescence from debilitating disease. ether is a very good remedy in thumps. ether may be used for local anesthesia, applied as a spray, from an atomizer, about one ounce, usually being enough for the painless opening of abscesses or fistulae, but cocaine is better in our patients. as an anesthetic it should be used in preference to chloroform, for the smaller and young animals, especially dogs, which are easily killed by chloroform. ether is less prompt in action but much safer than chloroform, as it never paralyzes a healthy heart; it should be inhaled in as concentrated a form as possible, very little air being allowed, so it will exert its effects quickly, in the dog; a light or fire of any kind should not be allowed near, as ether is very inflammable and its vapor explosive. always have a bottle of aqua ammonia fort. at hand as a restorer.
alcohol is derived directly from fruit sugar, and indirectly from starch. the grains, as wheat, rye, corn; and potatoes, supply starch most economically. the starch in these substances is converted into glucose by heating with very dilute sulphuric acid, or by fermentation with malt. glucose is further acted upon by yeast containing the torula cerevisiae, which converts 15 per cent of glucose into alcohol and carbonic dioxide. the weak alcohol resulting is subjected to repeated distillation until sufficiently pure and concentrated. in the natural fermentation of fruit sugar in grape juice, during the formation of wine, the amount of alcohol is self-limited to 15, rarely 20 per cent, since the ferment is killed by a larger amount of alcohol than this.
derivation.--the official alcohol is derived from rectified spirits, by maceration, first with anhydrous potassium carbonate, then freshly fused calcium chloride, and finally by distillation.
dose.--horses and cattle, 1 to 3 oz.; sheep and pigs, 2 to 4 dr.; dogs, 1 to 2 dr. diluted four to six times its bulk of water.
alcohol absolutum--absolute alcohol
ethyl alcohol, containing not more than one per cent, by weight, of water.
derivation.--percolation of the purest alcohol through quicklime, out of contact with the air, and redistillation in vacuo.
properties.--transparent, colorless, mobile and volatile liquid, of a characteristic rather agreeable odor and a burning taste. very hydroscopic. specific gravity not higher than 0.797 at 15.6° c. (60° f.).
derivation.--an alcoholic liquid obtained by the distillation of the mash of fermented grain (usually of mixtures of corn, wheat and rye) and at least four years old.
properties.--an amber-colored liquid having a distinctive odor and taste, and a slightly acid reaction. its specific gravity should not be more than 0.945, nor less than 0.924, corresponding, approximately, to an alcoholic strength of 37 to 47.5 per cent, by weight, or 44 to 55 per cent, by volume. contains no more than traces of fusel oil. the alcoholic liquors owe their flavor to bouquet to ethers which are only developed in course of time. the amylic alcohol, or fusel oil, in whisky is therefore converted into ethers, which give the characteristic flavor to whisky.
dose.--horses and cattle, 2 to 4 oz.; sheep and swine, 1 to 2 oz.; dogs, 1 to 4 dr., diluted three to four times its bulk in water.
spirits vini gallici--brandy
derivation.--an alcoholic liquid obtained by the distillation of the fermented unmodified juice of fresh grapes, and at least four years old.
properties.--a pale amber-colored liquid, having a distinctive odor and taste and a slightly acid reaction. its specific gravity should not be more than 0.941, nor less than 0.925 at 15.6° c. (60° f.), corresponding, approximately, to an alcoholic strength of 39 to 47 per cent, by weight, or 46 to 55 per cent, by volume, of absolute alcohol.
dose.--same as that for whisky.
spiritus juniperi compositus--compound spirit of juniper
derivation.--oil of juniper, 8; oil of caraway, 1; oil of fennel, 1; alcohol, 1,400; water to make 2,000.
compound spirit of juniper is similar to gin in its therapeutic action. contains about 15 per cent more alcohol. gin is made by distillation of fermented malt and juniper berries. gin differs from the other alcoholic preparations therapeutically in being more diuretic.
dose.--same as that for whisky.
rum (not official)
rum is made from a fermented solution of molasses by distillation. it contains, by weight, from 40 to 50 per cent of absolute alcohol. rum does not differ physiologically from alcohol. there is no authoritative latin name for rum.
dose.--same as that for whisky.
vinum album--white wine
derivation.--an alcoholic liquid made by fermenting the juice of fresh grapes, the fruit of vitis vinifera, free from seeds, stems and skins.
properties.--a pale amber or straw-colored liquid, having a pleasant odor, free from yeastiness and a fruity, agreeable, slightly spirituous taste, without excessive sweetness or acidity. the pharmacopoeia (1890) directs that the wine should contain from 7 to 12 per cent, by weight, of absolute alcohol. california hock and reisling, ohio catawba, sherry, muscatel, madeira or the stronger wines of the rhine, mediterranean and hungary come within the pharmacopoeial limits. wines containing more than 14 per cent of alcohol are usually fortified, i. e., have alcohol or brandy added to them, and much imported sherry and madeira contain 15 to 20 per cent, by weight, of absolute alcohol.
dose.--same as that for whisky.
vinum rubrum--red wine
derivation.--an alcoholic liquid made by fermenting the juice of fresh colored grapes, the fruit of vitis vinifera, in presence of their skins.
properties.--a deep red liquid, having a pleasant odor, free from yeastiness, and a fruity moderately astringent, pleasant and slightly acidulous taste, without excessive sweetness or acidity. should contain not less than 7 nor more than 12 per cent, by weight, of alcohol. native claret, burgundy, bordeaux and hungarian wines may be included within the pharmacopoeial limits of vinum rubrum. port (vinum portense) is fortified with brandy during fermentation, and contains 15 to 25 per cent, by weight, of absolute alcohol. port is astringent from tannic acid in the grapes, skin and stalks, or the astringency may be due to logwood. red wines are said to be rough, contain tannic acid and therefore are astringents. dry wines are those which contain little sugar. the wines develop ethers with age and these improve their flavor and action.
champagne contains about 10 per cent of absolute alcohol and carbonic acid gas, which acts as a local sedative upon the stomach. ale, stout and beers contain from 4 to 8 per cent of alcohol, together with bitters and malt extracts.
alcohol is the solvent most commonly employed in pharmacy, dissolving alkaloids, resins, volatile oils, balsams, oleo-resins, tannin, sugar, some fats and fixed oils.
dose.--horses and cattle, 3 to 6 oz.; sheep and pigs, 1 to 3 oz.; dogs, 2 dr. to 1 oz.
actions.--alcohol is a cerebral excitant and finally becomes a depressant and a narcotic poison.
it is anesthetic, antiseptic, antiparasitic, rubefacient (if confined), mild astringent, coagulate albumen; a local refrigerant by virtue of its rapid evaporation, unless confined by bandage, oiled silk, etc., when it is absorbed by the tissues and causes a sensation of warmth.
in medical doses it is a powerful general stimulant; it is very diffusible, and is partly oxidized by the organism, and partly excreted; thus alcohol acts as a food.
small doses relax the blood vessels, stimulate the gastric glands, promote appetite and digestion; lessen the elimination of waste products, by preventing rapid tissue waste; causes a feeling of warmth, and temporarily, though slightly, raises the body temperature. it stimulates the heart and increases the functional activity of all organs, especially the kidneys and skin.
large or too long continued doses derange the appetite and digestion, congest or inflame the stomach and liver. eight ounces of alcohol killed a horse. alcohol is poisonous and should be used with caution.
uses.--are numerous, used principally as a stimulant, either in one large dose, 2 to 3 ounces of alcohol, or better, in small repeated doses, 1 ounce every 1, 2 or 3 hours, can be conjoined with other stimulants such as sulphuric ether, aromatic spirits of ammonia, digitalis, etc.
it is used in anesthetic mixtures, such as alcohol, ether and chloroform, combined in different proportions; in snake bites it is administered in very large doses.
in blood poisoning alcohol is a most potent drug, sustaining the heart, lowering the temperature and acting as a germicide. alcohol makes an excellent dressing for wounds; applied locally to threatened bed-sores, frequently prevents their formation. it is useful in colds at their outset, or in a chill to restore the balance of the circulation and prevent or overcome internal congestion by relaxing the blood vessels of the periphery.
all alcoholic liquors are useful in debilitating diseases, such as influenza, in two or three ounce doses repeated every three or four hours. one-half to one drachm of quinine to one ounce of alcohol, for influenza or febrile diseases in general, excepting brain and spinal disease; useful in convalescence. in colic alcohol can be used with a great degree of success; it will act as a carminative antispasmodic and stimulant, used in collapse and weak heart; in septicaemia and pyaemia it has notable antiseptic and antipyretic effects. useful in carbolic acid poisoning, alcohol, or alcoholic liquors, act as a chemical antidote besides overcoming the shock produced by the acid. it may also be used locally for carbolic acid burns.
the effects of alcohol are noticed in ten or fifteen minutes after administration and will be shown by a better condition of the pulse, the weak pulse becoming stronger and firmer; the quick pulse slower, the breathing becomes more natural, eyes brighten up and in fact a general improvement is shown.
externally alcohol is used alone as a strengthening application to weak tendons and muscles; or after a race, is used to rub on the legs, combined with other drugs as a liniment, as alcohol, soap-liniment and witch hazel; can be used in surgery as an antiseptic.
to toughen the skin of tender or thin skinned horses who gall or chafe easily under the collar and saddle, alcohol will be found a most satisfactory application.
aloe barbadensis--barbadoes aloes
the thickened juice of the leaves of aloe vera, linn., aloe chinensis, bak., and probably other species, evaporated to dryness.
habitat.--the barbadoes island.
properties.--in hard masses, orange, brown, opaque, translucent on the edges; fracture waxy or resinous; odor saffron-like; taste strongly bitter. almost entirely soluble in alcohol; most used in veterinary medicine.
constituent.--aloin; a resin; volatile oil; gallic acid.
dose.--horses, ¹⁄₂ to 1 oz.; cattle, 1 to 2 oz.; sheep, ¹⁄₂ to 1 oz.; pigs, 2 to 4 dr.; 20 gr. to 1 dr.
aloe socotrina--socotrine aloes
the juice that flows from the transversely cut leaves of aloe perryi, baker, evaporated to dryness.
properties.--in hard masses, occasionally soft in the interior; opaque, yellowish-brown, orange-brown or dark ruby-red, fracture resinous. when moistened it emits a fragrant saffron-like odor; taste peculiar, strongly bitter. almost entirely soluble in alcohol and four parts of boiling water. the powdered socotrine aloes is brighter and redder, and the odor less disagreeable than that of barbadoes aloes.
constituents.--about the same as barbadoes aloes.
dose.--same as barbadoes aloes.
a neutral principle obtained from several varieties of aloes, chiefly from barbadoes and socotrine aloes.
derivation.--obtained by pulverizing and macerating aloes in cold water, and evaporating the resulting solution in vacuo. aloin crystallizes out and is dried between folds of bibulous paper. it is purified by repeated solution in hot water, filtration, recrystallization, and finally by solution in hot alcohol and crystallization.
properties.--a micro-crystalline powder or minute acicular crystals, lemon yellow or dark yellow in color, possessing a slight odor of aloes and intensely bitter taste. soluble in water and alcohol.
dose.--horses and cattle, 2 to 3 dr.; sheep, 20 to 60 gr.; pigs, 10 to 40 gr.; dogs, 11 to 20 gr.; combined with other purgatives.
tinctura aloes et myrrhae--tincture of aloes and myrrh
made by maceration and percolation of purified aloes, 100 parts; myrrh, 100 parts, and liquorice root, with alcohol and water to make 1000.
dose.--dogs, ¹⁄₂ to 1 dr.
action.--aloes is a purgative, acting chiefly on the large intestines; small doses are bitter tonics; it stimulates both peristalsis and secretion, increases secretion of bile; is also diuretic; applied externally it is stimulant and desiccant; the barbadoes is the most active and uniform in its effects.
aloes should be kept in lumps in tin cans or other good containers, only powdered for immediate use; in melting aloes don’t let the temperature rise above 120 degrees as it impairs the activity by converting the active aloin into inert resin. aloes operate in from 12 to 24 hours after administration; don’t repeat an aloetic purge until 24 hours have elapsed. it also does not cause catharsis. in about 15 hours, the patient should be exercised, but returned to the stall as soon as the desired effect is evident. if it fails to act in 24 hours, linseed oil may be given. aloin appears to contain the active principles of aloes, and is usually as operative, but some manufactures are ineffective.
uses internal.--in dyspepsia with capricious appetite, irregularity of the bowels, hide-bound horses, worms; is used in colic, both spasmodic and flatulent, for overloaded condition of the bowels; to promote excretion of waste products from the bowels and the blood, and consequently relieve febrile symptoms; rheumatic attacks, skin irritation, swollen limbs and inflamed joints; in lymphangitis to prevent and aid in curing. by attracting the blood to the bowels, it is useful in congestion or inflammation of the brain and spinal cord, full doses being necessary; in paralysis, paraplegia or hemiplegia or reflexed paralysis due to indigestion, give full doses. aloes should not be used in irritation or inflammation of the alimentary canal or piles. it is not advisable to give an aloetic purge when the temperature is above 102° f. nor in hemorrhage from the rectum; in high fevers it is apt to cause superpurgation, also should not be used where there is great debility or weakness. in influenza the bowels are apt to be irritable and oil is preferable to aloes. don’t use during pregnancy; may cause abortion. for young foals or other animals, the gentler purgative, such as linseed or castor oil should be used. the medical value of aloes being large, it is impossible to enumerate all the diseases in which it is useful. externally the tincture of aloes and myrrh is sometimes applied as a stimulant to wounds, and powdered aloes is mixed with plaster of paris in making splints for dogs to prevent these animals from biting and tearing them off. internally aloes should be combined with ginger, nux vomica and given in capsule or bolus.
derivation.--from alum slate, shale, schist, a native mixture of aluminum silicate and iron sulphide. this is roasted and exposed to the air, when the sulphur is oxidized into sulphuric acid and combined in part with aluminum and iron to form sulphates. the mass is lixiviated with water, and aluminum and iron sulphates together with sulphuric acid are recovered in solution. the solution is concentrated and to it is added potassium chloride. the double sulphate of potassium and aluminum (alum) is formed, which crystallizes out on cooling, while potassium sulphate and ferric chloride remain as by-products. alum is purified by recrystallization.
properties.--large, colorless, octahedral crystals, sometimes modified by cubes or crystalline fragments; without odor, but having a sweetish and strongly astringent taste. on exposure to the air the crystals are liable to absorb ammonia and acquire a whitish coating. soluble in nine parts of water, insoluble in alcohol.
dose.--horses and cattle, 2 to 4 dr.; sheep and pigs, 20 gr. to 1 dr.; emetic for dogs, ¹⁄₂ to 1 dr.
alumen exsiccatum--dried alum
commonly termed burnt alum, is alum deprived of its water of crystallization by heat.
properties.--a white granular powder, odorless, having a sweetish astringent taste, soluble in twenty parts of water at 60° f. is a powerful astringent and escharotic.
alumini hydroxidum--aluminum hydroxide
derivation.--made from alum, 100 parts; monohydrate sodium carbonate, 43 parts; water, a sufficient quantity. mix hot, boiling solutions of alum and sodium carbonate. precipitate strained, washed and dried.
properties.--a white, light, amorphous powder; odorless and tasteless; permanent in dry air; insoluble in water or alcohol.
dose.--same as alum.
alumini sulphas--aluminum sulphate
derivation.--aluminum hydroxide is dissolved in diluted sulphuric acid, and the solution is filtered and evaporated to dryness.
properties.--a white, crystalline powder, without odor, having a sweetish and afterwards astringent taste; permanent in the air; soluble in one part of water; insoluble in alcohol.
dose.--same as alum.
actions.--astringent, at first excites flow of saliva, then markedly decreases it; coagulates pepsin, thus it would derange or entirely arrest digestion; it also stops peristalsis and produces constipation, though sometimes it induces diarrhoea by irritation. it arrests secretions in general and in the circulation contracts the capillaries; it is in this way it arrests secretions, especially those of mucous surfaces, and stops capillary hemorrhage. the sulphate of aluminum is mildly caustic, astringent and antiseptic. dried alum is caustic and astringent.
externally.--dried alum is a caustic, in contact with raw sores, on account of its affinity for water. alum has no action on unbroken skin, but applied to mucous membranes or denuded parts it is antiseptic and astringent; coagulates albumin of discharges; precipitates or coagulates albumin of the tissues; squeeze blood out of the vessels; reduces inflammation and makes the part whiter, brings together and denser. alum is a hemostatic, stopping bleeding by compression of the structures surrounding the vessels and by causing blood to clot.
uses.--in diarrhoea and dysentery, but other astringents are safer and better, as it may lock the bowels too tight, may be used in weeping sores or weeping skin diseases; in long standing nail wounds by putting one-half to one pound into the soaking tub, also in same way for injured coronets, with raw bulging surfaces that bleed easily, also for sore mouth, sometimes mix a little boric acid; useful in bleeding piles, and in mild solution alum one ounce to water one pint for sore throat; also used internally for bloody urine (haematuria) and for open joints apply the powdered alum to arrest the flow of joint oil (synovia). for catarrhal ophthalmia, after the acute stage, an alum lotion five grains to one ounce of water is very serviceable; for granular lids rub with a crystal of alum. alum should never be used too strong over the eye as it seems to have the power of dissolving the cornea; a solution containing ten grains of alum to the ounce of water may be used in canker of the ear of dogs; also for leucorrhoea and prolapsus of the rectum; dried alum may be used as a caustic whenever a caustic is indicated, but is not recommended for this purpose. for a powerful drying powder, especially useful when excessive granulation exists. it causes sloughing of the dead tissues and is indicated when the use of the knife is inadmissible.
amylis nitris--amyl nitrite
a liquid containing about 80 per cent of amyl nitrite, together with variable quantities of undetermined compounds.
derivation.--obtained through distillation of nitric and amylic alcohol. distillate purified by sodium carbonate.
properties.--a clear, yellow or pale yellow liquid, oily, very volatile, peculiar and very diffusive ethereal odor and a pungent aromatic taste. insoluble in water, but soluble in all proportions in alcohol, ether and chloroform.
dose.--horses and cattle, ¹⁄₂ to 1 dr.; sheep and pigs, 5 to 15 ms.; dogs, 2 to 5 ms.; amyl nitrite is very seldom given internally; hypodermically, one-half this dose. by inhalation, same as given internally. it should be fresh as it rapidly deteriorates.
actions.--it stimulates the heart’s action, greatly dilates the arterioles by paralyzing their muscular coats; causes a sense of fullness in the brain with vertigo, fall of blood pressure due to dilation of the arterioles, lowering of temperature; when the vapor is applied direct to muscular or nerve tissues it suspends or completely arrests its functional activity; it depresses the nervous system and unstriped muscular fiber. overdoses cause death by respiratory failure.
uses.--epileptic attacks may be warded off by its being inhaled; spasmodic asthma, used either internally, hypodermically or best by inhalation; in strychnine poisoning, angina pectoris in tetanus, and as a heart stimulant. it is useful as an inhalation in bringing about recovery from deep chloroform and anesthesia.
origin.--the anise plant is a native of egypt and the levant, but has been introduced in various parts of that continent. it is also cultivated occasionally in the gardens of this country. the fruit is abundantly produced in malta and spain; in romagna, in italy, whence it is largely exported through leghorn, and in central and southern russia.
description.--ovoid, laterally compressed, 4 to 5 m. m. long; carpels usually cohering and attached to a slender pedicel; grayish or greenish-gray to grayish brown; each with a flat face and five light brown filiform ridges and about 16 oil-tubes; odor and taste agreeable and aromatic. the anise berries are dried and ground, this being the form in which it is usually used.
dose.--horses and cattle, 1 to 2 oz.; sheep and pigs, 2 to 3 dr.; dogs, 10 to 30 gr.
oleum anisi--oil of anise
a volatile oil distilled from the fruit of star anise.
properties.--a colorless or pale yellow, thin and strongly refractive liquid, having the characteristic odor of anise, and a sweetish, mildly aromatic taste. specific gravity about 0.975 to 0.985. soluble in an equal volume of alcohol.
dose.--horses and cattle, 20 to 30 m.; sheep and pigs, 5 to 10 m.; dogs and cats, 1 to 5 m.
actions.--anise is an aromatic stimulant, stomachic and carminative. it is used to relieve indigestion and flatulence, to communicate an agreeable flavor to many medicines, and to diminish the griping of purgatives. oil of anise resembles in action other volatile oils.
uses.--the oil of anise is employed with olive oil or alcohol to kill fleas or lice on dogs, rubbed over the skin; and one drop of the pure oil may be placed on the feathers of fowl to cause destruction of lice. the oil of anise is sometimes prescribed to disguise the odor of drugs, and is ordered in cough mixtures for its expectorant properties.
the fruit is given all animals (generally powdered) on their food--frequently with sodium bicarbonate and ginger--to relieve mild forms of indigestion and flatulence through its stomachic and carminative effects.
antimonii et potassii tartars--antimony and potassium tartrate--tartar emetic
derivation.--make a white paste with cream of tartar, antimony trioxide and water. set aside 24 hours, boil in water 15 minutes and crystallize.
properties.--colorless, transparent crystals of the rhombic system, becoming opaque and white on exposure to the air, or a white granular powder without odor and having a sweet, afterwards disagreeable, metallic taste. soluble in water, insoluble in alcohol.
dose.--horses and cattle, 2 to 4 dr.; sheep, 2 to 5 gr.; pigs, ¹⁄₂ to 1 gr.; dogs, ¹⁄₁₀ to ¹⁄₂ gr. as an emetic for pigs, 4 to 10 gr.; dogs, 1 to 2 gr.
actions.--tartar emetic is a systemic and local emetic, a diaphoretic, cardiac and arterial sedative and a gastro-intestinal irritant. it is a powerful waste producer and stimulates the secretions of the stomach, intestines, salivary glands, liver and pancreas. large doses cause nausea, vomiting and diarrhoea, while toxic doses are followed by vomiting (in animals that can vomit), serious blood purging, great depression of the circulation and respiration weakness, collapse and death. tartar emetic is also a vermifuge.
uses.--tartar emetic is too mild as an emetic in poison cases. in asthma of dogs it may be used in from ¹⁄₁₀ to ¹⁄₂ grain doses to relax spasm and promote secretion. for horses its most valuable use is to expel the common round worms from the intestines, for which it is very efficacious; given in two drachm doses once or twice daily in the feed for four to six days, or one-half ounce dissolved in water is given on an empty stomach followed by a full dose of linseed oil.
phenyl-hydrazine is acted upon by aceto-acetic ether, when phenyl-monomethyl-pyrazolon, ethyl alcohol and water results.
properties.--colorless, odorless, scaly crystals, of a bitterish taste. soluble in water, ether and chloroform.
dose.--horses and cattle, 3 to 4 drs.; sheep and pigs, ¹⁄₂ to 1 dr.; dogs, 5 to 20 grs.
actions.--powerful antipyretic, anodyne and local anesthetic, antiseptic, cardiac depressant; it reduces temperature very quickly, usually within half an hour and the effects continue two or more hours. it can be administered by the mouth, hypodermically or intertracheally; as an antiseptic it diminishes oxidation, and promotes heat loss by dilating the cutaneous vessels, but more probably by depressing the activity of the calorifacient centers.
uses.--used in high fever where the temperature must be reduced quickly, as in sun-stroke, acute rheumatism; in man a solution of antipyrine from four to ten per cent strength up, is sprayed into the nostrils for hay-fever. acetanilide is a better and safer and much cheaper drug for febrile diseases.
aqua ammoniae fortior--stronger ammonia water
an aqueous solution of ammonia containing twenty-eight per cent, by weight of the gas.
derivation.--evolve ammonia gas by heating ammonium chloride with calcium hydrate and pass it into water.
properties.--a colorless, transparent liquid, having an excessively pungent odor and a caustic alkaline taste.
dose.--horses and cattle, 2 to 4 drs.; sheep and pigs, ¹⁄₂ to 1 dr.; dogs, 5 to 10 m. should be diluted one drachm to one pint of water.
aqua ammoniae--ammonia water
an aqueous solution containing ten per cent by weight of ammonia gas.
derivation.--same as strong ammonia water.
properties.--the taste is not so caustic and the odor is less pungent then the stronger water of ammonia.
dose.--horses and cattle, ¹⁄₂ to 1 oz.; sheep and pigs, 1 to 2 drs.; dogs, 10 to 20 m. should be diluted one drachm to half pint of water.
spiritus ammoniae--spirit of ammonia
an alcoholic solution containing ten per cent., by weight of the ammonia gas.
derivation.--a solution of caustic ammonia in alcohol.
properties.--a colorless liquid, having a strong odor of ammonia. this preparation of ammonia possesses properties of ammonia and alcohol.
dose.--horses and cattle, ¹⁄₂ to 1 oz.; sheep and pigs, 1 to 2 drs.; dogs, 10 to 20 m. should be diluted in water.
spiritus ammoniae aromaticus--aromatic spirit of ammonia
derivation.--ammonium carbonate 3.4%, aqua ammonia 9%, oil of lemon 1%, oil of lavender flowers 0.1%, oil of nutmeg 0.1%, alcohol 70%, and distilled water to make 100 parts. diluted in water.
properties.--a nearly colorless liquid when first prepared, but gradually acquires an amber color. it has a pungent ammoniacal odor and taste.
actions.--these four proportions of ammonia are gastric and general stimulants. they stimulate the cardiac respiratory and spinal systems. they irritate the nose when inhaled, but reflexly they stimulate the circulation and respiration, they are good stimulants as they do not affect the brain. the aromatic spirits of ammonia is also a carminative. externally they are rubefacients, and when confined are vesicants.
linimentum ammoniae--ammonia liniment
liquor ammonii acetatis--solution of ammonium acetate
an aqueous solution of ammonium acetate containing about seven per cent of the salt, together with small amounts of acetic acid and carbon dioxide.
derivation.--ammonium carbonate is gradually added to cold, dilute acetic acid until the latter is materialized.
properties.--a clear, colorless liquid, mildly saline and acidulous taste, and an acid reaction.
incompatible with acids and alkalies.
dose.--horses and cattle, 2 to 4 oz.; sheep and pigs, ¹⁄₂ to 1 oz.; dogs, 2 to 6 drs.
actions.--diaphoretic, antipyretic, mild stimulant, mild diuretic, mild expectorant and stomachic.
uses.--its uses are recommended in febrile and inflammatory attacks, especially in influenza, distemper, etc., combined with other medicines, improves the appetite; can be used externally as a refrigerant over swollen and inflamed tendons.
ammonii carbonas--ammonium carbonate
spring. the illumination showed a moldy chamber with water dripping from the walls in places.
at some distant day the chamber had evidently been occupied by human beings, for a great fire-place was cut in the rock at one end, and there were niches in the wall which had doubtless been used for storage. the floor was smooth, showing the work of human hands.
“get onto the fire-place!” whispered jimmie. “where do you suppose the smoke goes? there’s no chimney on the mountain.”
“probably it escapes through some opening in the rock,” ned answered.
“do you suppose,” jimmie asked, “that the smoke vent is large enough for us to hide in?”
before the words were out of the boy’s mouth, ned was making toward the fireplace. the light was out now, but jimmie had no difficulty in following the boy in the darkness.
“ned!” he called softly in a moment.
“come on up!” whispered ned.
“turn on the light, then,” jimmie advised.
ned switched on the electric, but kept it inside the chimney into which he had climbed. only a faint radiance reached the opening below.
“give me your hand,” whispered ned, “and i’ll give you a lift.”
the sound of voices and footsteps now echoed loudly through the cavern. lights were flashing here and there, and when jimmie at last found himself inside the chimney, he knew that the very room he had recently left was being occupied by the outlaws.
the electric light was out again, and the boy groped with his hands in the darkness. much to his surprise they failed to locate his chum.
“ned!” he called softly. “where are you hiding?”
jimmie heard a chuckle in the darkness and felt a hand on his shoulder. then ned whispered in his ear:
“i guess i’ve stumbled on one of the hidden cells of the mission!” he said. “anyway there’s a hole leading out of this chimney that’s big enough to keep house in.”
it was thought safe, now, to turn on the electric light. the rays showed a room perhaps twelve feet in size with furniture and furnishings of the description of those in the chamber below. although the apartment seemed to be somewhere near the center of a lofty finger of rock which lifted from the eastern slope of the mountain, the air was remarkably fresh and pure.
“there’s an opening somewhere,” ned suggested. “a shut-in room like this would asphyxiate one if there were no ventilation.”
“then i think we’d better be finding it!” jimmie advised. “just listen to those fellows chewing the rag in the room we recently left!”
the boys remained perfectly silent, then, and listened. there seemed to be several men in the chamber below, and two were talking in angry tones. there were plenty of torches below, too, for the red flare and the stink of them came into the boys’ hiding place by way of the fire-niche below. this is what the boys heard:
“you can see for yourself, huga,” a voice which ned recognized as that of toombs, was saying, “that the boy is not here.”
“but i am certain i heard footsteps running in this direction when i stood in the darkness before you men came in!” huga answered. “he must be in this chamber somewhere.”
“look for yourself!” toombs advised crossly.
“isn’t there some hiding place in the walls?” asked huga.
ned nudged jimmie as they heard this, and both moved farther back in the hiding place. it will be understood how intently they listened for the next sentence.
“you ought to know that,” toombs answered; “you are supposed to know all about this old mission, while i am fresh from wall street.”
“i have never heard of any secret passage or room in this part of the excavation,” the half-breed replied.
“then stop arguing that the boy is here!” roared toombs.
huga made no reply, but the boys heard him poking about in the fireplace. presently a light flashed into the chimney.
“he’s after us now all right!” whispered jimmie.
“keep still, you little dunce!” ned said.
“if he sticks his head up here, soak him!” advised jimmie.
“don’t you think i won’t,” ned returned.
but huga did not enter the huge old fireplace at all. when he flashed his light into the chimney he saw only straight up, and the vertical passage from the fire-flue was too small for even a small cat to negotiate.
the chamber into which the boys had found their way was directly at the back of the flue, and might have been seen by a more careful man. the boys chuckled as the half-breed turned away.
in a few minutes the sounds of pursuit ceased entirely. lights no longer flashed about the room, creating a faint mist in the fireplace below. still the boys were not certain that the outlaws had abandoned the hunt.
“say, ned,” jimmie whispered, directly, poking ned in the ribs, “you didn’t bring one of those bear steaks with you, did you?”
“why, jimmie,” ned said in pretended amazement, “you’re not getting hungry, are you? i’m astonished at that!”
“hungry!” repeated the boy. “i feel as if i could eat my way through this rock like a mouse eats through cheese! and i could drink a barrel of water. there never was such a thirst.”
“well,” ned suggested, “we’d better wait here a little while, until things get quieted down, and then make a break for the passage.”
“all right,” jimmie said with an air of resignation, “i’ll crawl back here in the corner and try to imagine that i’m in charge of a pie wagon on third avenue. perhaps i can dream a pie or two!”
the boy leaned back in an angle of the chamber and prepared to continue the discussion regarding the different kinds of pies sold at the old williams street corner. as he did so, the support of his back gave way, his heels flew up in the air, and he tumbled all of a heap into a passage which seemed to begin at that corner of the room.
hearing the fall and the exclamation of impatience which came from the boy’s lips, ned turned on the electric and saw jimmie lying on his back in a tunnel probably a yard in size each way. there were plenty of indications that the tunnel had been cut through solid rock.
as far as ned could see; that is, as far as the eye of the electric carried; there were no breaks in it. directly a chill breeze blew in from the opening, and the boy knew that the passage touched the surface of the mountain not far away.
“je-rusalem!” shouted jimmie, “hold up the light and let me see if i’m all here. that’s the second tumble i’ve got in this consarned old hole today.”
“if every tumble you get in life brings such results as this,” ned declared, “you ought to go around the world looking for tumbles!”
“they hurt, just the same!” jimmie declared, rubbing the back of his head. “i got an awful bump on my coco!”
“well, crowd along!” advised ned.
“crowd along?” repeated jimmie. “what for?”
“use your nose,” advised ned.
jimmie sniffed elaborately and hit ned a resounding whack on the back. then he sat down on the bottom of the passage.
“say, ned, look here!” he said. “when we got into this scrape, we didn’t look for any old franciscan monks to help us out, did we? two or three hundred years ago, when they dug this passage through the rock, they hadn’t any idea they were digging it for us, had they?”
“this is a mysterious world,” ned answered. “it seems to be unnecessary for us to plan any mode of escape. the wise old chap who formed the franciscan order in europe, hundreds of years ago, prepared the way of escape for us!”
“that’s what he did!” answered jimmie. “and i wish he had gone a little farther and prepared a good fat meat pie for us.”
“jimmie,” ned chuckled, “some day you’ll get into a corner where you won’t get anything to eat for a week. i never knew a boy who thought so much of his stomach as you do!”
“may the day be long delayed!” laughed jimmie.
“well, crawl along!” ned advised, “and i’ll see if i can get this slab of stone you pushed out back in its place.”
it was by no means a difficult task to replace the stone, as it was thin and had been nicely fitted into the opening. in a short time the boys, proceeding mostly on their hands and knees, came to the end of the tunnel and looked out over a valley tucked in between two great summits.
the snow-line was not far away and the air was cold, notwithstanding the direct rays of the sun.
there was no one in sight, no moving object anywhere, as the boys paused at the mouth of the passage and gazed about. judging from the location of the sun, they were looking straight west.
“yes,” jimmie answered, “i have a pious notion that our brownstone front is carved into the face of a continuation of that ridge on the other side of the little valley.”
“perhaps we’ll find the boy scout messenger at the camp,” ned suggested.
“if we do,” jimmie declared, “i’ll change his face for him!”
“i can’t understand the fellow,” ned admitted.
“gee!” cried jimmie, “he came out into the woods and told frank and i to beat it, then went up into the camp and led you into the clutches of these outlaws. if i had his head in chancery right now, i’d ‘beat it’, all right! he ought to get a thousand years!”
“i hope the boys are all safe,” said ned.
“the outlaws were discussing the advisability of taking all the boys into their care,” ned said, as they hustled along, “so i’m afraid they’ve been there and taken the lads by surprise.”
chapter ix in quest of information
“what do you think jimmie had in his mind when he went away alone?” asked harry. “he merely had some plan to carry out.”
“oh, he’s always going off alone,” jack answered.
“some day he’ll go away alone and won’t be able to get back!” frank put in. “he won’t always be able to get out of his scrapes.”
“pretty foxy boy, that!” jack declared.
“what strikes me as being singular,” frank suggested, “is that jack’s father never said a word to him about this land business.”
“father never talks his business over with any one,” jack broke in.
“if we had only known about the outlaws being here in the hills,” harry suggested, “we might have kept out of sight of them for a long time. but, you see, they found us first.”
“and they used a nice, crooked little spy to do it with!” frank exclaimed. “this little alleged boy scout who stole our provisions last night, and crept into the woods to tell jimmie and i to beat it, and then brought a note to ned to get him away from the camp, must be playing a leading part for the sneaks.”
“he’s doing all of that!” jack agreed. “i don’t believe he’s a boy scout at all. he’s just picked up a word or two and a sign.”
“perhaps we’ll run across him again,” frank said. “if we do, i’ll find out whether he’s a boy scout or not!”
“well,” jack exclaimed, springing to his feet, “are we going to sit here all day and let jimmie do all the hunting? we ought to get out in the mountains and help find ned.”
“look here, boys!” harry cried, “do you see anything to the east there that looks at all familiar?”
“do you mean the smoke coming up over the tops of the trees?” asked frank. “i noticed that several minutes ago.”
“well, just keep your eye on it,” harry advised, “and see if it brings anything to your mind.”
“sure it does!” shouted frank, all excitement now. “there are two columns of smoke close together, and you ought to know what that means.”
“indian sign! boy scout sign! means ‘help is wanted’!” exclaimed harry. “we’ve got to go and see what it is.”
“it may be jimmie,” jack suggested.
“it’s either jimmie or that messenger boy,” frank said. “if it’s jimmie, he’s really in trouble, and if it’s the messenger boy, he’s doing it to get more of us into his clutches.”
“then we’d better go well armed and ready for any kind of a reception,” jack advised. “no knowing what we’ll find.”
“what’ll we do with gilroy?” asked frank.
“aw, let him sleep,” advised harry.
“sure, let him sleep,” jack put in. “he’ll be all right ’till we get back. no one will molest the camp in daytime.”
“seems to me that we ought to leave someone here,” frank said.
“all right, you can stay if you want to!” jack declared. “harry and i are going down there to see what the trouble is about.”
“aw, come on, frank!” harry urged. “there won’t anything happen to gilroy! he may have a bad dream, but that’s about all.”
“how far do you suppose that signal is from here?” asked frank.
“not more than half a mile,” harry explained.
“then i’ll go,” frank decided. “i don’t like the idea of sitting around the camp and letting you boys have all the fun. besides,” he continued, “if it is the messenger who is making the signals, you’ll need all the help you can get.”
“come running, then!” advised jack, starting down the slope.
as the reader will remember, the signal observed by the boys had been built by jimmie in the hope of attracting the attention of ned, or of norman, the boy who had made himself so conspicuous that morning. in building the fires and creating the columns of dense white smoke by heaping on green boughs, the boy had not given serious thought to the effect his action might have on his chums.
he might have known what the effect would be, but, though he did stop to consider for a moment, he did not take in the whole situation. jimmie usually acted on impulse, and so the signal lifted to the sky without any explanation having been made to the boy scouts who were certain to see it.
it will be remembered that when jimmie descended from the elevation where the fires had been built he did so in order to hasten in the direction of a smoke signal which he saw to the north. the result of this was that he was out of the vicinity of the fires long before the boys reached that point.
“these fires were made to constitute a signal, all right!” jack declared, poking at the now dying embers.
“sure!” answered frank. “you see, no cooking was done here, and there is no camp in sight.”
“besides, the position of the blazes on this high rock shows that the fires were built so that the columns of smoke might be seen,” suggested harry. “it was indian talk, all right!”
“that’s the thing to do,” frank urged. “to tell the truth, i don’t feel exactly right about leaving gilroy there alone.”
“aw, we’ll hear him sleeping before we get within a rod of the cave,” laughed jack. “gilroy is a good old chap, and father thinks a lot of him, but he doesn’t know much about this kind of a life. i’ll bet that right now he’s dreaming about grizzly bears, and lions, and crocodiles, and panthers.”
after a short walk, jack beckoned the boys to his side and suggested that they take a route to the camp different from that which they had followed on leaving it.
“i’m beginning to think it was,” frank announced. “either to get us away from the camp for the purpose of capturing us, or for the purpose of raiding our provisions.”
“well,” jack went on, “if we duck away to the south and return to the camp by a new course, anyone watching for us might watch in vain.”
“that’s the idea!” harry answered.
“then here we go the south,” frank suggested, starting away at as swift a gait as was possible in the thicket.
they had proceeded but a short distance when every tree bole of good size immediately in front of them seemed to their astonished eyes to yield a scowling, dirty half-breed. the boys drew their guns.
“no use, lads!” a voice said, speaking in good english. “the men in the bushes have you covered. anyway, there’s no harm intended.”
“why the holdup?” demanded jack.
the man who had spoken now advanced to jack and looked him keenly in the face. although carrying the general appearance of the gang of half-breeds at his back, the boys could see by the fellow’s face and manner that he was different from the others.
“you are jack bosworth?” he asked.
“that’s my name,” replied the boy.
“you are here on a mission for your father?”
“with business on the side, eh?”
“no business at all,” replied jack.
“we know better than that!” the stranger answered.
“what do you want of us?” asked jack.
“we want information now in your possession,” answered the fellow, looking jack sharply in the eyes.
“what kind of information?”
“we want to know where certain documents are.”
“you’ll have to ask some one else, then.”
“we are certain that you have the information we require.”
“if i had,” jack answered, “you never would get it from me.”
“so that was a lying message you sent nestor, was it?”
“there’s no use in discussing the matter at length,” the other stated. “i think i’d better take you boys into camp and let the boss talk with you. and let me warn you now, before anything more is said, not to attempt resistance. if you do, there’ll be shooting done, and it won’t be my men who will get hurt! now, face about to the north and march away to camp, like good little boys. we don’t want to hurt you, but we insist on having our way in the matter of this information. perhaps nestor may be able to convince you that you ought not to be so obstinate.”
“i don’t think nestor will attempt anything of the kind,” replied jack, “and i think that you are a great big bluff!”
chapter x gilroy and the bear
when, at last, ned and jimmie, still watching about for hostile forces, came to the barricaded camp, the fire had burned down and no one was in sight. ned regarded the wall of rock with a smile.
“isn’t that great?” jimmie asked.
“i’m afraid it wouldn’t do much good in case of an attack,” ned suggested. “we’d soon get hungry and thirsty and have to surrender.”
“anyway, it’s an all right thing to shoot from!” jimmie announced. “if you’d seen the way we sweat rolling those rocks, you’d think it was all right, anyway. i wonder where the boys are.”
“i was thinking more about the boys than about the barricade,” ned admitted. “were they all here when you left?”
“all sitting in front of the entrance,” jimmie replied, “except gilroy, and he was asleep on a pile of blankets in the cave.”
“he may be there yet,” suggested ned. “suppose we go and see.”
jimmie made his way through the narrow entrance, found a searchlight, and turned a round circle of flame on a great heap of blankets in a back corner. there was no one in the cave at all save only himself.
before returning to report to ned, the hungry boy seized a plate of corn pones and a can of tinned beans from the provision chest.
“look here, ned,” he said in a moment, appearing before his chum with his mouth full of beans, “the appetite of our midnight visitor seems to be for confidential clerks as well as for bread. someone has stolen gilroy! anyway, he’s not in the cave!”
“he may have gone away with the boys,” suggested ned.
“he wasn’t thinking of going away with the boys when i left,” jimmie answered. “he was telling how much he liked new york, and how he’d like to pound his ear for about three days and nights.”
“anyway,” ned decided, “we’ll wait here a little while and see if they don’t return. in the meantime, you can get yourself something to eat.”
“don’t you call this something to eat?” asked jimmie.
“one poor little can of beans and one poor little plate of corn pones won’t make much of an impression on your appetite,” ned laughed. “what you need is one of those neat little bear steaks, about as large as a warming pan. you’ll have plenty of time in which to cook it.”
“and that means that i can cook one for you, too?” asked jimmie.
“why, of course you can!” returned ned.
“i’d like to cook one for the boy scout who got us both into such trouble,” jimmie declared. “i’d put poison on it!”
“now, don’t you be too severe on that boy scout,” ned advised. “according to your own story, he warned you and frank in the thicket, and i know very well that he wanted to tell me something, but didn’t dare do it.”
“well, here’s another thing,” jimmie explained. “when i went out to look for you, i gave the ‘help’ smoke signal from the top of a granite rock in the pines. in five minutes after the columns of smoke became large enough to be seen at a distance, the signal was answered from the north, it seemed to me from the vicinity of the old mission. now, of course, you didn’t send out that signal.”
“i rather think not,” smiled ned.
“don’t be too sure of that,” warned ned. “there’s something about that boy i rather like. besides, he really is a member of the wolf patrol, new york.”
“my own patrol?” exclaimed jimmie. “i never saw him at the club room. he told me that he belonged to the wolf patrol, but i didn’t believe it. i think he’s a fake.”
“time alone will tell,” answered ned. “i’m going to believe in the boy until i get some positive proof that he really is crooked.”
jimmie was about to continue the argument when a succession of shrieks and calls for help came from the forest on the slope below.
“now, what’s that?” demanded jimmie. “that isn’t any of our boys!”
“help! help! help!” cried the voice.
“no,” ned agreed, “our boys don’t make a racket like that.”
“say!” jimmie shouted, springing to his feet. “i bet you the next dollar i don’t find that that’s the fat clerk, gilroy!”
“the voice sounds like that of a fat man,” ned laughed.
“gilroy’s fat all right!” jimmie exclaimed. “he’s got one of those pink baby faces that make you hungry to look at. he makes me think of a roast of veal, and he’s got a cute little round bald spot on the top of his head. and he wants to be dignified and speaks his words impressively. say, ned,” the boy continued, “i wouldn’t mind having that fellow get into some kind of a mixup out here!”
“oh lord! oh lord! oh lord!” cried the voice from the forest.
“that’s gilroy, all right enough!” ned declared. “why don’t you go down and see what he wants, jimmie?” he added.
“aw, he ain’t talking to me!” cried the boy.
“then i presume i’ll have to go,” ned said, rising from his seat in front of the barrier. “perhaps he’s been stung by a bee.”
“he didn’t get crippled in his shrieker,” jimmie suggested.
ned stepped into the cave and secured an automatic revolver to replace the one taken from him at the old mission, and also passed one to jimmie. then the two hastened into the forest in the direction of the sounds.
the call for help continued to come, although the voice of the man came hoarser at every call. when the boys finally came close enough to distinguish words spoken in low tones, they heard a warning.
“shoot!” he cried. “there’s a lot of bears under this tree!”
although convulsed with laughter, the boys moved more cautiously after this. at last they came to the pine from which the voice proceeded. there was a rustle in the thicket as they advanced, and they saw a black object shambling away.
“there’s gilroy’s flock of bears!” jimmie shouted.
“and a little bit of a black bear at that,” ned laughed. “if gilroy had made an ugly face at him, he’d have run away!”
the tree into which the fat confidential clerk had climbed was not a large one. in fact, it was swaying dangerously under his weight. as he moved his position at sight of the black back of the bear, the slender upshoot to which he clung gave way and he came clattering down through the few lower branches.
“oh my! oh my! oh my!” he shouted. “i never should have come into this blasted country! i shall be eaten alive!”
instead of rushing to gilroy’s assistance, his rescuers, boy-like, sat down on the mat of pine needles which strewed the ground and roared with laughter. gilroy eyed them angrily without attempting to rise to his feet. his rage only made the scene more amusing.
“why didn’t you shoot him?” he demanded at length.
“shoot him?” repeated jimmie. “that bear is a great deal more frightened than you are. at the rate of speed he’s now going, he’ll strike the arctic circle at exactly four-fifteen tomorrow morning!”
“he chased me up the tree,” whined gilroy. “he nipped at my heels as i left the ground, and i heard his teeth grinding together in the most frightful manner. i’ll never get over this!”
“i guess he would have climbed the tree after you in about another minute,” jimmie declared, with a sly wink at ned. “you see, it’s just this way, mr. gilroy,” he went on, “the bears out here are hungry for fat clerks from wall street. i’ve heard they make stews of ’em,” he concluded.
gilroy now arose to his feet and stood gazing into the thicket in the direction of the bear’s disappearance. jimmie’s assertion that bruin would hit the arctic circle early the next morning seemed to give him great comfort. as the distance between the bear and himself increased, he grew braver and began throwing out his chest.
“what a chance that was for me to kill a bear!” he began, boastfully, “if i’d only had a gun with me, i might have had a fine rug made out of his hide! it would have been fine to show my friends.”
“sure it would!” declared jimmie. “i’m glad you didn’t remember that you had a gun in your pocket. the bears out here are pretty sensitive about being shot at. if you’d blazed away at that cub, and hadn’t shot him dead in his tracks the first time, he would have eaten you.”
gilroy put his hand to his pistol pocket and a look of pretended amazement came over his fat face.
“upon my word!” he said, “i thought i left my gun in the bunk!”
“after this,” ned advised, “always keep your gun in sight when you go into the forest. suppose there had been no tree to climb, what then?”
“i should have grappled with him, sir!” exclaimed gilroy. “i certainly should have grappled with him.”
“you would have had to catch him first,” jimmie grinned.
“how long since you left the camp?” ned asked, after jimmie had introduced the two.
“perhaps half an hour ago,” was the answer. “when i went to sleep, the boys were sitting by the fire, but when i woke there was no one in sight. i came out to look for them.”
“i understand you came on a mission for jack bosworth’s father?” asked ned after a pause.
“yes,” was the reply, “at the request of my employer i came on this most dangerous mission. i shall be glad to see new york again.”
ned hesitated a moment and then asked:
“did mr. bosworth ever say anything to you about a set of documents he wished us to bring to light?”
“he did not,” was the answer.
“his purpose in sending you, then, was to secure, by means of our help, proof connecting a corporation he is fighting with unlawful acts which have been or may be committed in this section?”
“that is exactly the idea!” answered gilroy.
before gilroy would move out of the forest he insisted on pinning up certain rents in his clothing and combing out his mussed up hair with his fingers. there were also numerous scratches on his face, caused by contact with the rough branches of the tree, and these he thought necessary to nurse carefully with his handkerchief.
“oh my!” laughed jimmie, as the fat confidential clerk struggled under difficulties to make himself more presentable. “if you think you’re in a muss, just look at this beautiful new khaki uniform i put on only a day or two ago! it’s a peach, ain’t it?”
“it certainly is in a mess,” admitted gilroy.
“of course,” grinned jimmie. “i fell down a chute, and rolled into the basement of a mountain, and climbed up a smutty chimney, and fell into a secret passage and had all kinds of sport! ned and i have had a glorious morning. you should have been with us.”
the confidential clerk frowned slightly, but made no reply.
when the boys reached the camp, after giving a great deal of mental and physical assistance to the clerk, they found it just as they had left it. the boys had not returned.
“now, what kind of blockheads do you think they are to go away and leave the camp like this?” jimmie asked.
the boy did not know, of course, that his own signal, shown from the granite rock, had led to their departure, and also to their subsequent encounter with the half-breeds.
“we don’t know why they left,” ned answered, “but we must suppose that they had some good reason for doing so.”
“do i understand,” gilroy asked, “that something has happened to your companions?”
“all we know about it is that they’re not here,” replied jimmie.
“there are altogether too many bears in this forest,” suggested gilroy. “the lads may have encountered some of them.”
“that’s a fact!” laughed jimmie. “perhaps we’d better go out and see if we can find a group of pine trees bearing a mess of boy scouts.”
“this is a serious matter,” ned interrupted. “judging from our own experiences, the boys may be having a bad time of it.”
“the outlaws are none too good to commit murder!” jimmie asserted.
chapter xi the devil’s punch bowl
“see here, boys,” frank shaw suggested, as the three boys moved on through the forest, almost entirely surrounded by repulsive half-breeds, “this will be a fine story for dad’s newspaper. ‘captured by bold, bad men; or, why little frankie didn’t get home to his beans’! that would be a fine title for the story, and i’ll ask dad to print a picture of three boys wandering through a jungle surrounded by a bunch of cheap skates that no decent dog would bark at.”
“keep still!” whispered harry. “what’s the use of stirring these people up? we’re in no shape to scrap with them!”
“and then,” frank went on, “dad might take a notion to send an expedition out here to round up these dirty greasers. if he does, i’m coming out just on purpose to see them hanged.”
“cut it out!” advised jack.
“of all the rotten, unwashed specimens of humanity i ever came across,” frank continued, speaking in a still louder tone, “this escort of ours takes the bun. they’re imitation bad-men all right.”
“a little of that goes a long way, young man,” the leader of the party said. “it makes no difference to me what you say, but several of these men understand the english language and can speak it fluently.”
“i presume so,” returned frank. “i’ve seen just such a collection as that in jail in new york. say, honest, captain,” he went on, “if a bunch like this should run up against the strong-arm squad in new york, they’d get their heads beaten off just because of their ugly mugs.”
“aw, what’s the use!” demanded harry.
by this time several of the guards were casting ugly glances at frank, who seemed to regard their disfavor with great joy.
“you’d better come on ahead and walk with me, young fellow,” the leader said, taking frank roughly by the arm and jerking him to a position in front. “if you get back there where those ugly ones are, they’ll put a couple of bullets into your back and swear that you were trying to escape.”
on his way to the front of the party, frank passed jack and paused for a second only to whisper in his ear:
“now, these ginks will be watching me every minute, waiting for a chance to shoot. you may catch them off their guard directly and when you do, cut and run!”
“so that’s what you did all the talking for?” queried jack.
“you bet!” answered frank. “and while you’re running, i’ll do a little sprinting myself.”
“here, you!” shouted the leader, almost lifting frank’s feet from the ground as he dragged him away.
“what were you whispering to that boy?” demanded one of the others.
“i was telling him,” frank answered, making an insulting face, “that i used to have a dog that looked exactly like you.”
the fellow thus insulted sprang for the boy with upraised fist. the leader blocked his rush by imposing his own burly form, and the two went down together. the half-breeds sprang forward, too, the intention evidently being to assist their companion as against the leader.
frank let out a yell which might have been heard half a mile away, and the three boys darted down the mountainside, followed by harmless shots from the guns of the half-breeds.
the incident had taken place on a rocky level flanked by steep slopes on each side. the place, in fact, was almost like a shelf of rock cut into a long fifty percent grade.
the ledge was narrow, and as the bunch clung together where the leader and his opponent still struggled, one of them slipped over the edge of the declivity and started downward. naturally he caught hold of the first object within his reach, and this happened to be the shoe of the outlaw nearest to him. this man, in turn, caught another, and two more tried to pull up the falling ones, with the result that in about half a minute five of the half-breeds were rolling and tumbling heels over head down the rocky slope.
the boys were not far out of their path, but they managed to elude the downrushing bodies as they swung by. notwithstanding the gravity of the situation, the boys shrieked with laughter as the clumsy fellows went tumbling down, uttering vicious curses at the boys, at the mountain and at each other.
“i wish i had a gun now!” shouted frank.
as he spoke a formidable weapon which seemed to be half revolver and half sawed-off shotgun, flew out of the hands of one of the involuntary acrobats and landed against frank’s side with a great thud.
frank seized the weapon and backed away. by this time the leader was on his feet shouting wrathful commands for the boys to return.
“easy, now,” frank shouted, moving away to the south. “if any of you ginks lift a finger until we get into the timber line, i’ll empty this load of slugs into the thick of you.”
the leader, more daring than the others, sprang down the slope, his great boots scattering fragments of rock and sending them hurtling down upon the heads of the half-breeds below. frank was about to fire when the man lost his balance and joined the procession of those making for the bottom a la log.
“here we go!” shouted frank.
the boys raced along the slope until they came to a point of timber which, following a more fertile spot, thrust itself up the ascent. here they disappeared, considering themselves reasonably safe in the seclusion of the forest. frank examined his gun and found it empty.
“good thing that dub didn’t know it was empty!” he laughed.
“don’t stop now to throw bouquets at yourself!” grinned harry.
“don’t you ever think those half-breeds will give up the chase here,” frank suggested. “do you know what they’ll do?” he asked, “they’ll circle around and get between us and the camp! that’s what they’ll do.”
“i sometimes think,” harry snorted, turning to jack, “that frank is getting so intelligent that he may have the gift of speech conferred upon him. he certainly has that proposition right.”
“well, if we can’t go back to camp,” jack asked, “where can we go?”
“if they’ve got a detachment of half-breeds guarding every squad of boy scouts that have strayed away from the camp today,” jack laughed, “they must have an army in here. ned was coaxed away by a fake note; jimmie went to find ned and got lost himself, and we go out to answer a call for help and get mixed up with a lot of half-breeds. i guess we’ll have to take a company of state troops with us next time we go camping.”
“well, let’s be moving,” urged frank. “those fellows’ heads will be just sore enough when they quit rolling to shoot at anything in sight. they’d string us up if they caught us now.”
in accordance with this reasoning, the boys turned south in the thicket then shifted to the east, then whirled back in a northerly direction. at one time they heard the shouts of the half-breeds on the slope far away to the south.
“they think we kept right on south,” laughed jack. “now,” he went on, “we’ll walk north a long ways, climb the slope to the snow line, and come out on the camp from above. how’s that strike you boys?”
“it listens good to me,” frank answered. “do you suppose ned is back there yet?” he continued.
“it struck me,” jack replied, “that the half-breeds we encountered were out looking for ned or jimmie.”
“you’ll have to guess again,” harry put in. “the ginks we encountered were stationed there to catch any boy scout who came in answer to that signal. that’s some more of the work of that crooked messenger.”
“well, i hope the bears won’t devour gilroy while we’re gone,” frank suggested. “it’s likely to be night before we get back.”
the boys walked for a long distance, and it was three o’clock by their watches when they turned up the slope. they would have felt less comfortable during the latter part of their journey if they had known that they were passing within a few hundred yards of the headquarters of the outlaws at the old mission.
after a time they came to what looked like a wrinkle in the face of the grand old mountain. they proceeded up this with no little caution, not knowing but enemies might be watching there. it was just such a place as outlaws lurking for prey or cowering from officers would be apt to seek. the wrinkle, or gully, led almost to the snow line and finally ended in a little dip which lay between two summits rising side by side, like jagged rows of teeth.
“i’m half starved and half frozen!” harry declared, as he rested for a time in the depth of what had once been a mountain lake, but which had been drained by the gully. “if i ever get back in little old new york again, i’m going to get dad to make me a gasoline buggy with a snout nine feet long, and i’m going to push traffic aside on broadway for the next thousand years.”
“how often have you said that?” laughed jack.
“let’s see,” frank put in, “this is the twelfth trip we boys have taken, either in the interests of the secret service or on vacations, so this makes twelve times that harry has promised never to leave new york again once he gets back there.”
“that’s all right!” harry grinned. “you fellows ain’t half so hungry as i am or you wouldn’t feel so gay over it.”
“now, how far are we from camp?” asked jack.
“about two miles on the level,” frank suggested, “and about four hundred miles the way the surface of the ground runs.”
“we’ll get used to this in a month or two,” harry said, sitting plump down on a boulder.
frank followed the boy’s example, except that he stretched himself at full length, while jack pushed on a few steps and stood peering over a rim of rock which lay directly in their way.
“look here, boys!” jack finally called. “you remember the place in mexico called the devil’s cauldron? well, this is it!”
“what have you found now?” demanded frank sleepily.
“here’s a round hole in the mountain,” jack answered back, “that you might hide a city block in. it’s deep and the sides are almost smooth. looks like the pit kipling gets one of his characters in, only there’s rock instead of sand.”
the boys rose to their feet and looked over the ledge.
“and right there in the bottom,” harry exclaimed, “is a pool of water so clear that it looks like a diamond!”
“running water, too,” added frank. “now, where do you think that water comes from, and where does it go to?”
“runs through a pass, foolish!” answered jack.
“but there’s no break in the formation,” frank insisted.
“then it runs through a tunnel manufactured by itself!” jack explained. “anyway, it gets out somehow.”
“what a dandy place to catch mountain trout!” shouted harry. fourteen hours at a stretch. they must be swift as lightning in their movements, and possessed of judgment, ability, and nerve.
it was impossible, of course, for bob to pick out an ideal rear crew from merely having seen the men in action for a scant few minutes. he did not try. he simply used his very excellent judgment, reserving mentally the right to change his mind whenever he felt like it, and juggle the men around as he chose.
the principal necessity was to start things moving. when he had done so, bainbridge returned to camp with the twofold object of giving the cook his orders, and having a final settlement with schaeffer. the latter was not particularly pleasant, but it was important. the man must quit the crew at once. bob had made up his mind not to let the fellow spend even the night where he would have a chance to talk with and perhaps influence the others. with this determination uppermost, he passed by the mess tent to the other where the men slept, pulled aside the flap, and stepped inside.
the place was a mess of blankets and half-dried clothes, but to bob’s surprise it was vacant of anything in the nature of a man. evidently schaeffer had recovered and vamoosed. thoughtfully he sought the cook, and put the question.
“came in here an’ got some grub a full hour ago,” that servitor explained briefly. “when he’d eat it he went off agin.”
“didn’t he say where he was going?” bainbridge asked.
the cook shook his head. “nary word.”
“and you didn’t happen to see what direction he took?”
“nary a sight,” was the reply. “i was busy inside.”
bob frowned for a second, and then shrugged his shoulders. after all, what did it matter where the fellow had gone, so long as he had taken himself away? it was very natural for him to avoid the man who had so humiliated him, though it was rather puzzling to have him slip away without apparently encountering any one.
bob proceeded to give his orders to the cook, explaining that he would have to pull up stakes at once and start down the river.
“the boys will be a long way from here by nightfall,” he said, “so you’ll have to hustle. i’ve saved out a couple of men to help you and the cookee, who’ll be under your orders till you pitch camp to-night.”
outside the mess tent he hesitated an instant. then he entered the other tent. this time he did not pause by the door, but crossed hastily to the farther corner, where there was a small space crudely partitioned off from the main portion. this would be schaeffer’s sanctum, of course, and bob entered it curiously--only to stop with an exclamation of mingled surprise, anger, and chagrin.
the place was in the utmost disorder. blankets were rolled up in a ball and flung into the corner. articles of wearing apparel were scattered about, while over everything were sifted scraps of white paper in seemingly endless quantity. it was these torn scraps that roused bob’s indignation. he seemed to know intuitively, without the evidence of the limp, empty book covers here and there, that the foreman had taken time to tear into shreds every record and paper connected with the drive which he possessed. time books, scalers’ measurements--everything--had been destroyed practically beyond the possibility of reconstruction. there would be no accurate way now by which the firm could figure their profits or costs or labor charges. the very paying of the drive crew would be a matter of guesswork.
“jove!” exclaimed bainbridge through his clenched teeth. “i didn’t know a man could be so rotten!”
“thirty-eight caliber,” he murmured, staring at the freshly opened pasteboard box which had contained fifty cartridges. “hum!”
presently he let it drop again. he did not move for a space, but stood staring at the ground with that same odd, thoughtful pucker in his forehead.
there was nothing surprising in the fact of schaeffer’s being armed, neither was it strange for a man in the riverman’s position to carry off his ammunition loose instead of in the box. that was not the point. it was simply the train of thought aroused which struck bainbridge unpleasantly. he felt schaeffer to be capable of almost any villainy provided it could be accomplished with safety to himself. the humiliation of that fight, too, had added a powerful incentive to the one already offered by crane and the lumber trust for the eclipse of bob bainbridge. and a total eclipse would be so easy! just a single shot fired from the bushes at a moment when there was no one else about to see or hear. in this wild country the chances of escaping were infinite. the man might not even be suspected.
bob suddenly moved his shoulders impatiently, frowned, and turned away. a moment later his eyes twinkled mirthfully.
“another minute and i’d have the undertaker picked out,” he chuckled. “the scoundrel hasn’t the common courage to do murder. all the same,” he added, with a decisive squaring of the shoulders, “i’ll put a crimp in his little game about those records. i’ll have cookee scrape ’em all up, and ship the whole bunch down to john. that clerk, wiggins, can put ’em together, i’ll bet! patience is his middle name--patience and picture puzzles. we’ll have the laugh on pete, after all--hanged if we won’t!”
chapter ix. in the swift current
the clumsy, slow-moving scow loaded with the cook’s outfit and a supply of bedding followed the drive downstream, and, that night, fastened up to the bank close to the inlet of deer pond, the middle one of three small bodies of water strung along the length of the megantic. it was a full day’s work, much better than bainbridge had hoped for, and, as he approached the big drying fire flaming up at one side of the camp made by charlie hanley, the cook, bob shook his own hand in silent, grinning self-congratulation. he knew that they were far from being out of the woods yet, but a good beginning always means a lot, and he had no word to say against this start-off.
presently the various driving crews appeared, wet to the skin from the waist down, and ravenously hungry. the drying racks were swiftly steaming with the soggy garments, and the men fell to upon their supper without a second’s delay. there was little conversation--they were too busy for that; but bainbridge noticed with satisfaction that a certain element of good-tempered raillery seemed to prevail. evidently the crowd as a whole bore no grudge against the man who had given them such a tongue-lashing that morning. in fact, if one could judge from their manner toward their boss, they thought a lot more of him for having done so.
next day all hands did even better, and nightfall found them at the inlet of loon lake, with the drive before them. bob could not understand it. all day he had been expecting some disagreeable happening of a nature to retard their progress which could be laid at the door of the trust. when it did not come he was almost disappointed. it was impossible to believe that crane had given up so easily; he was not that sort. he would explode a bombshell of some sort soon, and the longer he delayed the more deadly was likely to be the nature of his attack.
however, there was nothing to be gained in discounting the future, nor time to spare for fretting over the unknown. bob was far too busy during the daylight hours even to think of crane or his satellites. it was a ticklish job to get the drive across even so small a body of water as the so-called lake, and it took one entire day and the better part of another. it was done without mishap, however, and bainbridge was just congratulating himself on having got safely over one of the most disagreeable bits of the entire distance when jerry calker approached him as he stood watching the last few logs bob slowly out of the lake into the swifter current of the stream.
“jack wants to know can you spare him a few minutes, sir,” he explained. “there’s a bit of trouble down below.”
“what kind of trouble?” bob asked swiftly, turning downstream without an instant’s delay; and walking by the side of the dynamite man.
calker scratched his head slowly. “i ain’t quite certain sure, mr. bainbridge,” he drawled, “but i got a idea there’s a fellow with a mill who’s run out a sortin’ boom that’s goin’ to hang up our drive if we ain’t mighty keerful.”
“a mill!” exclaimed bob incredulously. “why, there isn’t such a thing within twenty miles--at least, there wasn’t three months ago.”
calker grinned. “thought it looked kinda new. i couldn’t rightly say that it’s finished, but there ain’t no manner of a doubt about the boom. the jam had started before i come away, an’ i left jack havin’ it hot an’ heavy with a red-headed son of a gun who sure looked as if scrap was his middle name.”
bainbridge frowned, but asked no further questions. he scarcely spoke, in fact, during all of the four miles, but it was evident to his observing companion that he was doing a lot of thinking.
long before reaching the point of obstruction it became evident that another jam had formed. the current grew more and more sluggish, and the progress of the logs downstream became slower and slower, until at length the entire surface of the water was covered with floating timber. these in turn crowded upon one another with a rapidity which threatened to equal that first jam unless something was swiftly done.
hurrying on, bob presently caught up with a throng of his own men, who had apparently just landed from the dangerous, constantly shifting surface of the river. they looked at him with a frank curiosity, as if wondering what he meant to do in this emergency. on the faces of a few were expressions of grim, anticipatory amusement, but bainbridge heeded these no more than he had the others. without pausing even glancing to right or left, he strode on, and reached the scene of action.
on the same bank, a little way back from the water, stood a small building, so hastily thrown together that the roof was not yet completed. one or two men were standing near it, staring interestedly at the crowd gathered about something at the water’s edge which bob at once saw to be one end of a massive, well-constructed log boom. the other end, out beyond the middle of the river, was supported by some stout spiles, and the whole affair took up so much of the stream’s width that bainbridge’s drive had jammed against it hard and fast.
all this bob took in without slackening his pace. reaching the outer edge of the circle, he pushed through to where jack peters, his jam boss, stood facing a compact group of six or eight strangers, gathered closely about the end of the boom, jack was florid with rage, and choking with impotent fury. the strangers composing the little group instantly struck bob as being singularly strong and rugged. they looked as if they had been picked for their physical efficiency. each one was armed with rifle or pistol, while their leader, a competent-looking person with red hair and whiskers, held in one hand a snub-nosed, businesslike automatic.
“well, jack,” bainbridge said curtly, as he reached the foreman’s side, “what’s the trouble?”
before peters could reply the red-haired man took a single step forward and faced bob.
“i can tell you in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” he snapped viciously. “this river hog o’ yours thinks he kin play the devil with my boom, but he’s got another guess comin’. i own this land an’ that sawmill. i got a right to run my booms out in the river same as anybody else. i ain’t lookin’ for trouble, but the first man as tries any monkey business wants to look out, that’s all.”
bainbridge raised his eyebrows, and let his gaze wander leisurely from the man’s head to his heels with an expression which brought an added touch of color to the already flushed cheeks.
“indeed!” he drawled. “who are you?”
“who be i?” retorted the other angrily. “humph! i don’t see that it makes no difference, but my name’s joyce--john joyce. an’ i ain’t the kind as backs down an’ takes water, believe me!”
a singularly irritating smile curved the corners of bob’s lips. his unruffled composure served, as he hoped it might, to increase the rage of mr. joyce.
“do you realize that you’re obstructing navigation?” he inquired suavely.
“i don’t admit it,” snapped joyce. “there’s plenty of room for your drive to git past if you had a gang that knew their business, instead of a lot o’ greenhorns.”
“i dare say you could give us all points,” bainbridge murmured smoothly, with just the right inflection of sarcasm to sting. it had suddenly occurred to him that the fellow’s object was to make him lose his temper, and thus precipitate a clash, during which almost anything might be accomplished. not only did he refuse to let go his grip, but he did his very best to goad joyce himself into flaming out, and possibly betraying a few secrets.
“that’s hardly the question, though,” he went on swiftly. “strikes me you’ve been rather premature in running out the boom. your mill isn’t operating, and i have yet to see a single log coming downstream except our own.”
“never you mind that,” retorted joyce hotly. “do you think a man’s going to wait till his timber comes in sight afore makin’ arrangements to take care of it? you can’t come over me with no soft talk like that. the boom’s there, an’ there it stays. half the river’s clear for you to use, an’ that’s all you gets.”
“hum! that’s your last word, is it?” inquired bainbridge quietly. “you even refuse to let us swing the boom around so we can break our jam?”
“i do!” replied the red-haired individual emphatically. “the first man that tries to monkey with my property will wish he hadn’t, that’s all i got to say.”
he raised his automatic significantly, but bob was not even looking at him. the young man’s gaze had swept out to the face of the jam, and in an incredibly short space an accurate picture of its appearance had been photographed on his brain. still without giving joyce the satisfaction of a glance, he turned away, motioning peters to accompany him.
“a put-up job, of course,” he said tersely, when they were through the circle of his own men. “same gang who bought schaeffer.”
the jam boss nodded in a troubled way. “i’m afraid they’ve got us bad, too. it’s goin’ to take one long time pickin’ that jam apart, but i can’t see anythin’ else to do. i spose i’d better start ’em at it right away, sir.”
“not at all,” retorted bob swiftly. “do nothing of the kind. let ’em stay just where they are, jerry!”
when they finally appeared, bainbridge held by his side a shapeless package of considerable size. had not peters and calker walked so close beside him as he bent his way leisurely toward the crowd about the jam, it would probably have been noticed that this package was made up of a dozen or more sticks of giant powder fastened securely together, and depending from a sling of stout manila rope.
the line of rivermen had turned, and were watching his approach with interested curiosity, but joyce and his gang could see nothing. reaching the men, bob paused, struck a match, and carefully lighted the end of a protruding fuse. as it sputtered up he gave a short, sharp word of command, the line of men opened instantly to let him through, and a second later he stood not a dozen paces from joyce, deliberately swinging the deadly package round and round his head.
for a second there was a breathless hush. then the red-haired man leaped forward.
“stop!” he roared. “you young whelp, if you----”
he broke off with a gurgling sound, and the color left his face. with a final swing, bob loosened his hold on the bundle, which curved in a perfect arc over the rear of the jam, over the jagged crest, and dropped swiftly out of sight amid the massive timbers upended in confusion along the face and close to the spot where protruded the freshly driven spiles which had caused all the trouble.
an instant later the whole throng of men hustled frantically for cover.
chapter x. the power behind it all
in less than sixty seconds--so close had been bob’s calculations--came a detonation which shook the earth, making several of the running men stagger and lose their stride. up spurted a great mass of water, carrying with it massive logs leaping like agonized things alive. they fell back again, followed by a shower of débris mingled with fine spray, which the wind sifted down on the heads of the ducking, dodging men.
from his place behind a stump bainbridge rose swiftly, shielding his face with one crooked arm from the rain of chips and splinters and bits of bark, and stared eagerly toward the jam. it took but a moment to see that the spiles had disappeared, and the boom was shattered. moreover, the key logs of the jam were so loosened that the whole drive was again on its way downstream. bob turned to peters with a gesture of satisfaction.
“she’s off, jack,” he said. “get a wiggle on, now, and rush her along. the water’s dropping every minute, and we’ve got a mean stretch to cover before we strike the penobscot. i’ll go back and hustle the rear along----”
he stopped abruptly, and whirled around as a voice, shrill and trembling with passion, was raised behind him.
“you’ll pay for that, you meddlin’ pup! i’ll teach you to go blowin’ up folks’ property, an’ mighty near committin’ murder! i’ll show you you can’t play tricks on john joyce an’ get away with it. that game might work with some, but it won’t----”
things happened so swiftly after that that even the men standing around were quite unable to understand exactly what was doing, and which of the two was really the one who started the trouble.
the instant bob turned he saw that joyce was either beside himself with rage, or giving a most astonishingly good imitation of that condition. his face was purple, with veins standing out on his forehead like cords. his eyes glared with that combination of rage and hate which a badly frightened man almost invariably feels for the cause of his mental disturbance. the automatic was leveled in his hand, and one finger trembled on the trigger.
for a single instant bainbridge stood rigid, every muscle suddenly tensing. perhaps he read a hint of joyce’s purpose in the fellow’s eye; perhaps it was simply intuition which made him guess what was coming. at all events, suddenly, and without warning, he launched his lithe body through the air exactly as in the manner of the old forbidden flying tackle.
his shoulder struck joyce’s knees, and the wicked, snapping shot of the revolver rang out at precisely the same moment. there was a yell of fury, followed by a crash. then almost oppressive silence.
bob was on his feet like a cat, fingers gripping the automatic he had snatched from the owner’s nerveless hand. his jaw was hard, and there was a glint of more than anger in the eyes he bent upon joyce’s supporters hurrying up to the aid of their chief.
“hands up!” he cried out harshly, “quick!”
he did not have to speak twice. there was something in his voice, coupled with an emphatic gesture with the automatic, which made those six men, big and powerful as they were, obey him with remarkable unanimity.
“take their guns, jack,” continued bainbridge, in that same commanding voice.
peters stepped forward to obey. the first man drew back instinctively, and started to pull down the hand which held a revolver. without an instant’s hesitation bob fired. the bullet struck the upraised weapon on its blued-steel barrel, wringing a cry of surprise and pain from the fellow’s lips as he dropped the gun.
there was no more trouble after that, peters collected four revolvers and two remingtons. then he glanced questioningly at bainbridge.
“throw ’em in the river,” the latter commander curtly. “’way out in the middle, where they can’t be recovered.”
the riverman walked a few steps toward the bank; then, pausing, he glanced back at the straight young figure standing behind him.
“they’re mighty good guns,” he said hesitatingly. “seems a shame to throw ’em away like this.”
bainbridge returned briefly: “i’m simply pulling the stings of this gang.”
he watched his man fling the weapons, one after another, into the stream, and then, sending the automatic splashing after the others, he turned suddenly back to the six humiliated individuals before him.
“go!” he commanded, with a momentary flare of passion. “beat it, and don’t let me set eyes on you again--understand? i won’t be so easy on you the next time. here, take that scum with you. he’s only stunned.”
he waited, staring from under lowered lids, until the gang had disappeared in the bushes, half dragging, half carrying their stunned leader with them. then, with a long sigh, he turned slowly and smiled at peters.
“all right, jack,” he said quietly. “i don’t think we’ll have any more trouble here. just hustle all you can to make up for this delay.”
peters grinned, and snapped out some orders to the men which sent them flying along the bank and even out on the stream over the tumbling logs. but as they went they cast glances of open, unadulterated admiration at the young man coolly brushing a bit of mud from one shoulder, and their comments to each other left no trace of doubt of their thorough approval of everything he had said and done.
bob heard some of them, and when the men had gone on he smiled a bit. to get that drive down successfully he knew he must have the men with him. he knew also that deliberate planning could not have accomplished that result half so well as this encounter with the tools of the lumber trust. the whole affair had proved a great piece of luck for him, thought the young lumberman. his meditation was broken in upon by the sound of a strange voice.
“i had no idea lumbering was such a strenuous occupation.”
a moment later bainbridge was looking into a pair of pleasant, friendly eyes set in the handsome face of a man of about fifty. he was roughly dressed in well-worn, but finely made fishing clothes, and carried a good trout rod in one hand. there was, too, about the stranger an air of forceful capability which attracted the younger man.
“it’s not usually quite so full of incident,” said bob; “but i don’t believe you’d ever find it exactly tame.”
the stranger smiled, and made a comprehensive gesture with his hands. “and this is your idea of incident,” he murmured whimsically. “i should call it something decidedly stronger.”
he hesitated for an instant, then moved closer to bob.
“you’re going downstream, aren’t you? do you mind if i walk along with you? my camp’s down that way.”
bainbridge acquiesced readily. there was something very taking about the stranger, and within ten minutes he found himself chatting as if to an old friend. his companion turned out to be wolcott sears, of boston, on a two weeks’ trip in the maine woods. the name was only vaguely familiar, but bob felt sure from his manner that he was a man of affairs. he was tremendously interested in hearing all about the peculiar conditions of this particular drive, and before bainbridge realized it he had given a brief narrative of his fight with the lumber trust and the events which had grown out of it.
bob shrugged his shoulders and smiled a little. “you sadly underestimate the power of the trust, mr. sears. i shan’t be beyond the chance of interference until the drive is safe in our mill booms at lancaster, and even then it wouldn’t surprise me if they’d try to work some dirty trick.”
sears frowned indignantly; then his face brightened.
“in spite of everything i think i should bet on you.” he chuckled. “there’s a certain vigor in your method of dealing with these people which makes for success. i really believe you’ll win, mr. bainbridge, and i surely hope so. it has been a great pleasure to meet you, and i trust one to be repeated. i shall be hereabouts for some time yet, and may run across you before i leave.”
bob warmly reciprocated his feeling, and, after a hearty handshake, turned south along the river, while sears disappeared in the undergrowth to the westward.
“fine man,” commented the younger man aloud. “hope i do run into him again. meanwhile, however, the rear isn’t coming along half quick enough, and i haven’t seen a darn thing all afternoon of the wangan. i hope nothing’s happened to it and the grub. that would be one awful blow!”
it was one that was spared him. within half an hour the clumsy scow hove in sight. it tied up to the bank a little later, and before dark preparations for supper were going on merrily.
bob did not get in till later. assured that all was well with the cook and his staff, he went on downstream to see how peters and his gang were progressing. on his return he discovered a stranger warming himself by the drying fire. he looked like an old-time woodsman, and the instant bainbridge appeared he was on his feet, extracting an envelope from the interior of his hat.
“from mr. tweedy, sir.”
the young lumberman ripped it open without a premonition of the blow in store for him. it was natural for tweedy to write. he would be reporting his success in the matter of credit, of course, and probably gloating over the amount of manufactured lumber he had sold in so short a time. bainbridge noted that it had been written in the bangor office the night before. then, settling himself by the fire, he proceeded to read:
dear bobby: it’s all up with us, boy. we’re done, and we may as well admit it first as last and make what terms we can with the gang. i can’t get credit anywhere. crane’s been ahead of me and spilled the beans each time. what’s more, gastich absolutely refuses to renew that note. says he must have the cash for some stocks he’s carrying, and all that; but you know what it means. it’s due in less than a week, and i can’t for the life of me see an earthly way of scraping the money together. last of all--and worst of all--i haven’t been able to make a single sale of lumber for the simple reason that the trust has cut prices below cost and has taken every customer from us. if i cut to meet them they go lower. you can see that. they’ve got the stock and the resources. crane’s set out to ruin us at any cost, and he’s succeeded. it hurts like sin to say it, boy, but there’s nothing left to do but give in and make the best terms we can. let me hear from you at once. yours ever, john tweedy.
chapter xi. no quitter
the letter dropped into bob’s lap, and for a long minute he sat staring into the yellow, dancing flames. his face was blank, and just a little white, for the blow had been a heavy one, and totally unexpected. he could not seem to understand it. it was unbelievable that he and tweedy, who had been fair and square in every one of their business dealings, could be forced to the wall by such a monster of corruption as elihu crane.
there must be some mistake. tweedy must have been thrown into one of his unjustifiable panics. that was it, of course.
bob picked up the letter to read it carefully again.
he perused it to the last word, and then leaned back against the sapling, his face drawn and somber. it really did not sound like a mistake. it was all clear and logical, and singularly cohesive. it was the sort of thing crane would delight in planning and putting into execution--the cutting of prices on a competitor. tweedy had written that if they attempted to cut under the trust’s present rates, there would be a further reduction. that was quite true. bob knew, because he had had a vast deal of experience with the trust’s method of doing business. they would ruin him, no matter how great the cost, because he was dangerous to their continued well-being. with bainbridge in the ring, and fighting vigorously against the graft and wholesale theft of timberlands, those juicy melon cuttings which had been so pleasing to the stockholders would cease--therefore bainbridge must go.
presently bob’s eyes fell again to the letter, and somehow that single sentence seemed to stand out as if written in capitals: “it hurts like sin to say it, boy, but there’s nothing left to do but give in and make the best terms we can.”
for a second bob stared, the blood rushing into his face, a crimson flood. make terms with crane? go on his knees to that scoundrel, who had long ago parted with the last shred of decency and self-respect? not much!
they must have resources enough to meet that note, at least. the trust could not keep the price of lumber down indefinitely. they must weather the storm in some way. and when this drive was safe at the mills, ready to be cut into lumber, they would have the laugh on elihu crane.
oblivious to the men about him, even to the fact that the cook had some time ago announced supper, bainbridge began to search his mind for means of staving off the evil day. most of the stocks and bonds constituting his private fortune had been already pledged as collateral for loans to the firm. he still had a few thousand dollars’ worth of steel preferred which could be sold; and there was pinecrest, the beautiful and costly home on the outskirts of bangor, which had been left him by his father. it should not be difficult to raise a mortgage of ten thousand, at least, on the place.
“the note’s for ten thousand, so that’s all straightened out,” bainbridge murmured, with a snap of his fingers. “the money from the stock can go for current expenses. i’ll fix it up this very night.”
he did. fortunately tweedy held his power of attorney with the right to sign checks and execute papers of any sort, so it was possible for him to put through these deals without his returning to bangor. that another note for nearly as much as the first fell due in little more than a fortnight bainbridge knew quite well. by that time, however, he fully intended to have the drive down as far as their mill at lancaster, fifty miles or so above bangor. and it is always possible to raise money on timber, even in the rough.
of course, if the trust continued their campaign of cutting prices bob’s plans would be materially affected. he could not believe, however, that they would do such a thing for any great length of time. a dollar meant as much to them as to any one, and even the pleasure of ruining a competitor would scarcely compensate for the loss of so much money.
a long letter of instruction and explanation was written to tweedy that night, and despatched the first thing in the morning by the trusty hand of joe moose, the indian. that off his mind, bob returned to his drive with renewed vigor, for the necessity for haste was now even greater than before. it was a question of getting the logs down in double-quick time or being dragged into the bankruptcy court; and that sort of notoriety did not appeal in the least to the young man.
it was this feeling of necessity which got bob up next morning before the blackness of the night was more than faintly tinged by streaks of pale gray in the east. he wanted to be off and doing; even necessary inaction chafed. it seemed an eternity before the men had finished breakfast, and were ready for the day’s work. as a matter of fact, they took less time than usual, for something of bainbridge’s intense eagerness for speed seemed to have made itself felt.
all morning bob worked like a trojan getting the drive out into the katahdin river. he did not storm and swear at his men, as many bosses do. instead he had a way of jollying them along in a manner which might sound superficially like fun, but which held more than an undercurrent of seriousness. he treated them as human beings, not as if they were slaves from whom every last atom of work was to be extracted. and yet, when the need arose, he could hand out a rebuke, the caustic sting of which was enough to make a man’s hair stand on end. the result was that the crew soon admired him, and when they found how urgent was the need for haste they fell to with a will, and gave the best that was in them.
bainbridge was not long in perceiving their attitude, and it gratified him intensely. he had never actually had charge of a drive before. he knew the theory, of course, but that is very different from the practical operation; and the discovery that he could handle a rough-and-ready crowd like this in a manner so totally different from that generally practiced by bosses of crews gave him no small satisfaction.
by dint of constant labor, at which bob spared neither himself nor his men, the drive was successfully swung into the slightly larger river by two o’clock. there was no real respite even then. the stream was almost as difficult as the megantic, and constant watchfulness was necessary to prevent fresh jams at a number of points. consequently the men snatched a hurried dinner in relays and hustled back to work again.
it was about three, and bob had just left the spot where only the most strenuous personal labor on the part of himself and four river jacks had kept the drive from jamming. he was hot and sweaty, and generally weary as he continued his way downstream, and his wrath was naturally instant when, on suddenly rounding a bend, he came upon curly kollock, cool, calm, and unruffled, sitting comfortably on a rock, enjoying a cigarette.
as the latter saw bainbridge, he flushed slightly, and half rose from the bowlder. then, with a stubborn twist of his lips, he sank back again, pulling hard on the cigarette, and doing his best to look unconcerned.
bob walked straight up to him, and stopped.
“well,” he said bitingly, “i’m sorry you’ve lost the use of your feet and hands. is it paralysis?”
kollock’s flush deepened, and he mumbled something inane about taking a smoke. he found that he had arisen, apparently without volition, and was standing before the other man, who stared at him a long half minute.
“this is no rest cure,” said bob at length. “you’re paid for helping the drive along. i don’t want any loafers in this gang. understand? now, get down to the head of the drive--and do something!”
kollock’s face was flaming, and his eyes gleamed angrily. “i don’t take that line of talk from anybody!” he growled, clenching his fists threateningly. “i’ll----”
“you’ll do what i said, and do it quick!” bainbridge’s voice was not raised above a conversational pitch, but there was a ring in it which seemed to take the fight and bluster out of the big riverman with the effectiveness of a keen knife thrust into an inflated bladder. for a second he stood in awkward silence, swallowing hard in his embarrassment. then he raised his head again.
“i don’t need your job,” he said, in a poor imitation of devil-may-care defiance. “i’ll get my time, and----”
bainbridge cut him short. “you’ll get down to the drive and work. beat it now--quick!”
without another protesting word, kollock turned meekly and obeyed.
chapter xii. the test
before he had taken a dozen steps, kollock was furious with himself, and by the time bainbridge was out of sight the wrath of the riverman had risen to a white heat.
from the first he had tried to dislike bainbridge. pete schaeffer had been his friend, and after he had been whipped curly made up his mind that there could be no getting along in a crew bossed by the victor. then came that brief but pointed interview with bob which affected him so oddly. he had never before had anybody tell him that he was to be trusted; most bosses had been emphatic in saying the opposite thing. or, if they kept silent, they showed in a dozen obvious ways that they considered him in the same class with his notorious brother.
then there was the incident of the day before. curly could not help admiring the manner in which bainbridge had handled the crowd that was trying to hold up the drive. it was exactly the sort of thing he would like to have done himself, and his heart warmed toward the man with the courage and ability to act in that fashion. moreover, jack joyce was an old enemy of his, and the sight of the fellow’s humiliation had inclined the riverman even more strongly toward the man who had brought it about.
but that was over now, he told himself furiously as he stamped along the stream, hands clenched and face set in a black scowl. he hated bainbridge! the man had no right to jump on him that way. how did he know what had been the cause of kollock’s behavior? he had asked no questions, given curly no chance to explain even had the latter been inclined to lower himself to that extent. he had taken it for granted that the river jack was loafing in spite of the fact that record as a worker was equal to that of the best.
this was where the sting lay. kollock was aggrieved and disgruntled because of what was, to him, a very good reason. there had been a definite object in his pause by that stone. the night before he had received a brief note from bill, in which he was urged to “make use of any chance you git to do--you know what.”
curly did know “what” very well. it meant that he was to thwart and delay the progress of the drive by any means in his power. any means! the simplest, of course, was to cause some to happen to bainbridge himself. bill had not hesitated to suggest several ways by which this happy end could be reached. none of them appealed particularly to curly. he was not overscrupulous, but he disliked doing up a man in cold blood without giving him even a ghost of a show. still, bill had done him good turns more than once when he was out of work; and, last but not least, there was the financial side of the affair. curly had never been told who or what was back of these attacks on the independent lumber company, but he knew there was plenty of money in it.
all this he had been thinking over as he sat smoking that cigarette. in the end he decided to have nothing to do with it. bainbridge had trusted him and played square. for that reason he would be equally square and aboveboard, and let this dirty work alone.
that was what he had decided, but now----
a log, plunging over the falls, upended. another was thrust under it. a third and fourth, coming down together, caught on the obstruction, all being held by some stones rising midstream. before the current could tear them loose several more timbers were forced against the mass which was piling up so swiftly, bridging to the opposite shore.
to carry out that angry resolve of a minute or two ago, curly should have rolled himself another cigarette, and watched the growing damage with a sardonic smile. he did nothing of the sort. for a flash he had forgotten his grievance, and was a “river hog,” pure and simple. the stoppage must be broken before it reached the proportions of a real jam. there was no one else to do it, and so he leaped to the task without a second’s pause for thought.
upstream he ran a few feet, his eyes fixed on the surface of the river above the falls. then he saw what he wanted. an instant later, using his peavey much as a pole vaulter does his pole, he leaped straight out over the water, landed squarely on a big log, and was carried down to the falls--and over them.
he took the drop easily, riding the log with that perfect balance which is second nature to the seasoned riverman. when the timber bumped against the rapidly forming jam, curly leaped again, thrusting the log down as he did so, and landed on the solid barrier. scrambling lightly over to the face of this, he thrust deftly with his peavey into the mass, and began to work desperately to loosen the key log--that first upended stick of pine which had started the whole trouble, and which must be started before the rest of the barrier would give.
he got a good hold on it, but the thing defied his efforts to tear it loose. it was wedged too tightly for even his great strength, and, though he seemed to feel it move slightly, he strained his muscles to the utmost in vain to accomplish anything further. presently he realized, with a thrill, that the jam was piling up behind him faster and faster. he ceased his efforts, and clamping the peavey on timber above the key log, pried it free, and sent it bobbing downstream. another followed, and another still. sweat poured in streams from him, trickling blindingly into his eyes, but he did not stop to wipe it away. there was no time. he must go on doing his best till help came, or else----
a faint jar shook the jam. a second later curly felt a hand lightly touch his shoulder. a familiar voice sounded in his ear:
“good work, son! where’s that trouble maker? oh, i see. let me drop down to that ledge, where i can get a good hold. that’s the idea. now grip her above me. fine! ready, now? yank away!”
it was bainbridge--swift, agile, incredibly fresh considering what he had accomplished that day. for a moment or two curly did not realize that this was the man he hated. he simply felt an overwhelming thankfulness that some one had come at last, and obeyed orders mechanically and without question.
but as his peavey gripped the end of that troublesome log, there suddenly flamed into curly’s mind--temptation. bainbridge stood below him, perched perilously on the very face of the jam. a little thrust--the tiniest movement of the riverman’s arm--would send him plunging into the stream, while another movement would suffice to drop one of the looser logs upon him. there were no witnesses; the whole affair would pass as an unfortunate accident. a chance like this, so easy, so absolutely safe, would never come again.
“now!” broke in the crisp voice of the lumberman. “hard over, boy. toward me--all you know how!”
curly’s muscles strained as he threw every ounce of strength into the pull. the key log creaked and groaned as if agony but was thrust gradually forward. curly felt it moving faster and faster, and instinctively he prepared for that backward leap which would carry him out of reach of the treacherous avalanche of falling logs.
a second later his peavey was torn from his hands by the sudden collapse of half the face of the jam. the logs at his side vanished in the unexpected rush, but that on which he stood remained firm for a precious moment. below him he saw bainbridge whirl like a cat and grasp for something solid. instantly he bent over, reaching out both callous, muscular hands, and as swiftly bob gripped them. there was a heave, an upward scramble, another crash as the remainder of the jam disappeared into the foaming water. but the two men had leaped in time, and a moment later they were standing together on the bank.
“thank you--curly,” bainbridge said in a level voice. “that was touch-and-go for a minute.”
that was all, but somehow curly knew that what he had done was understood and appreciated. in the stress of the peril which the two had shared shoulder to shoulder like common brother river hogs, kollock’s anger and hate had vanished utterly. he no longer desired revenge. his attitude of a scant half hour before seemed small and mean and petty. he had saved the life of the man his brother wanted out of the way, and, given the opportunity, he would do it as promptly again.
chapter xiii. the limit
curly kollock’s interest and liking for his boss grew stronger day after day. there was something about bob bainbridge which stirred the finer qualities in his nature, and brought twinges of shame to the young riverman whenever he thought how near he had come to throwing his lot with his brother. if bill ever showed up he resolved to tell him just what he thought of him, too. but in the meantime, not being much of a penman, he made no effort to answer the letter. it was sufficient that he considered himself cut loose from the whole miserable bunch. if they were expecting aid from him in their plotting they were doomed to disappointment.
more and more often as they descended the katahdin river, the boy was stirred to anger at the constant succession of moves made by that gang of crooks against the man who fought them practically alone and singlehanded.
after that bainbridge placed guards at the various dams with instructions to shoot any one who attempted to interfere with them. this resulted in a terrific outcry on the part of crane’s underlings, an appeal to the law, injunctions, and all that sort of thing. to which bainbridge paid no attention whatever. he went on his way calmly, knowing well that they could not stop him in this manner, and willing to put up with the inconvenience that would follow when it was all over and he had returned to civilization.
mr. wolcott sears continued his fishing trip along the route the lumbermen were following, and began frequently to appear in camp for an evening pipe with bainbridge. one evening they had a private conference, which lasted until the small hours, and the boston capitalist finally departed, leaving bainbridge apparently much gratified.
the crew was with bob to a man. by this time they had gathered an inkling of the plot against the firm, and of the stakes involved. men had strayed into camp telling of the extraordinary reductions made by the trust in the price of manufactured lumber. large sales had resulted to various parties, report said, thus preventing bainbridge & tweedy, as well as several other small independents, from disposing of a single plank.
the lumberjacks were not slow in putting two and two together. they remembered rumors current in the big woods for many months of the fight which had started between the trust and this man who was their boss. it was a fight to the finish, people said, in which one side or the other must go under, from all appearances it looked to these earnest, simple-minded woodsmen as if bainbridge would be vanquished unless he could get that drive safely into the mill booms; and to that end they strained every nerve. they toiled from dawn to dark, staggering into camp each night so utterly weary that they sometimes fell asleep with their supper half eaten before them; only to be up before daybreak to do it all over again.
it was a period of stress and strain, but it ended at last when the drive was ushered into the penobscot, to be seized by the strong current and urged on toward the mills at lancaster, that goal which had seemed a little while ago so unattainable, yet which was now so near.
that very afternoon was perpetrated the crowning outrage. bainbridge was shot at from the bushes--shot at deliberately with an intent to kill which was defeated only by the miracle of chance which made him bend over to tighten a shoe lace at the precise moment of firing.
wild with fury, the men who were present dashed in pursuit of the would-be assassins, but to no purpose. they were in the land of civilization now, where there were motor cars. by the time the crowd of rivermen had surged up the bank and plunged through the undergrowth, the rascally tools of the trust were well away, leaving their pursuers to rage impotently that there was not a gun in the party with which the tires could be punctured and the car stopped.
the most angry of them all was curly kollock. he had double cause for wrath, having received that morning a letter from the very town of lancaster toward which they were striving so hard to push the drive. brief it was, and to the point. he had played the traitor, bill wrote scathingly. there was only one way by which he could rid himself of the stigma, and return to the good graces of the gang. he must come at once to a certain house on the outskirts of the town, prepared to place himself absolutely in his brother’s hands.
disagreeable, even serious, as all those other persecutions had been, not one of them held the weight of this last culminating effort to put bob bainbridge out of the running. that bill was mixed up in it curly had no doubt, and the realization frightened him. he had always looked up to his older brother with admiration and a little awe, and he could not bear now to think of him mixed up in anything so contemptible. there was the danger involved, too, and altogether the youngster felt as if he must see bill at once and try to make him cut the gang and get away. his efforts might have no effect, but there was at least a chance.
that night--or rather early in the morning, while it was still pitch black--he slipped quietly out of camp without a word to any one. he reached lancaster at four in the afternoon, having made most of the journey in a scow doing about six miles an hour. going at once to the address given in the letter, he found that his brother had gone out not fifteen minutes before.
“mebbe if you step in an’ wait he’ll be back soon,” suggested the slatternly woman who kept the house.
curly was shown to a room on the second floor back, where he recognized a number of bill’s belongings scattered about in the usual disorder. perhaps it was the sight of them which aroused in the young fellow an increasing doubt of his ability to do what he came for. would this man, who had never been in the habit of taking any one’s advice, listen to him? he wondered, and then, unable to remain still, arose and paced the floor anxiously.
presently he dropped in a chair before a rough deal table, on top of which was tacked a large sheet of blotting paper. a corner of white "you don't happen to have lost one of your crew, tryin' to desert by swimmin', sir?"
"have you picked him up? what's his name, does he say?"
"it's smith, sir."
"that's the man," said sant. "i want him badly."
but smith cried out:
"this is kidnappin', mr. sant. i refuse to go."
"oh, smith," said sant, "i'll take all the chances of it's bein' anythin' you like. throw them a rope."
and the triumphants towed alongside.
"up you go," said benson.
"i won't," said smith.
"won't you?" asked benson. "we'll see about that. hook on there, billings."
and the next moment smith was jammed in a running bowline round his waist.
"sway him up," said benson; and the crew of the harvester hoisted the notorious robber with about the only feelings of pleasure they were likely to know till they reached new york. and the triumphants pushed off as they heard the mate address mr. smith in language which did his reputation and the reputation of the ship most ample justice.
"there's talk and there's a fore-topsail-yard-ahoy voice for you," said benson. "oh, mr. smith will be looked after, he will. now, chaps, pull for it, or the admiral will be waitin', and if that 'appens, 'twill be 'stand from under.'"
the policy of the potluck.
concerning the permanent and immutable characteristics of ships, the unhappy man who has never had his limited range of vision broadened by a trip in a sailing ship must of necessity know little. he probably falls into the fallacy, common even among those who follow the sea, that a partial or entire clearance of her "crowd" will quite alter her nature; whereas sailors being sailors--that is, people of certain fairly definite attributes--any given environment makes them much the same as those who preceded them.
but entire changes in the personnel of a vessel rarely take place. the officers change, but the crew remains: the crew goes, but officers stay. or more frequently some few men are favourites of one or two of the officers, and they mingle with the new crew like yeast, till the ancient fermentation is visible once more.
ships (to speak thus of their companies) talk of the same subjects over a million miles of changing seas: they have a permanent stock of subjects. these include all which are perennially of interest to seafaring men, such as homes versus boarding-houses, but they include also something more individual, something more intimately connected with the essence of that particular vessel. and the one unending topic of interest on board the potluck was foreign politics.
how this came about no one knew, though many theories were set afloat and sunk again every sunday afternoon. some said that the first captain of the potluck was called palmerstone, and that he introduced the subject of england versus the world as soon as he came on board. others swore that they had been told by a clerk in the employ of the firm that there had been a discussion over her very keel concerning the introduction into her frame of foreign oaks.
the crowd listened in silence.
"if you knew as much about arguin' as you know (seemin'ly) about timbers as no man ever heerd of, your argument might stand," said mackenzie, a withered old foc'sle man. "but it ain't to reason as the natur' of the woods in a ship should make us talk this way or that. if so be a ship was built o' teak, d'ye think we'd talk the 'jildy jow,' you black 'son of a gun' lingo?"
hart shook his head.
"no ship ain't never built all of teak as i ever heerd of, and so your eye's out, mac. but a man with 'arf an eye could see the knowledge of her bein' so built might lead right hup to talk about the stren'ths of the countries as well of the vally of their timbers."
"so they might," said the almost convinced crowd. "now jack hart 'as the gift, so to speak, of seein' through things."
"and once started, who'd stop it?" asked jack triumphantly. "i knowed a ship as 'ad fresh crowd after fresh crowd in her, but she for ever 'ad a black cat aboard. and they talked 'cat' to make you sick. and i knowed another as 'ad from launch to her hultimate pilin' up in the bermudas the fashion of calling the skipper the 'guffin.' and hevery skipper was the 'guffin,' new and old, go or stay. but when we broke hoff to hargue, why, we was talkin' about them french jossers and whether sallis-bury was a-goin' to let 'em chip into our game and straddle the nile."
"that's so," said the crowd, and the house was rough.
meanwhile, the skipper, or "old man" (who henceforward, by the way, was called the "guffin"), and his two mates were discussing the latest aspect of world politics, as they drank whiskey and water.
"what's wrong with salisbury," said the guffin, who was as stout as a barrel and as sturdy, "is, that he ain't got a backbone. he just lets 'em blow him about like so much paper. what he wants is stiffenin': he's like a sprung spar. that's what he's like."
the mate, a tough-looking dog with hair like anæmic tussac grass in patches on his face, shook his head.
"i've a greater opinion of him, captain, than you have. all his double shuffle is cunning. it's getting back so's to lead them french on. mark me, he'll play them yet a fair knock-out."
the guffin sneered.
"he may have cunnin', lampert, but he ain't no real tact. now, diplomatic tact, i take it, is not givin' way into the gutter, but just showin' as you're a nice pleasant-spoken chap as don't mean to be put on. it's my good opinion as these foreigners don't yearn to fight us. and men like you and me, lampert, gets to learn the way of handlin' foreigners. who has so much experience with 'em as them in command of english ships?"
"that's so," said the second mate, who had been listening. "now last v'y'ge in the battleaxe, there was a dago in my watch as come from the betwixt and between land where spain jines france. and he was the dagoest dago i ever sailed with. but i knew the breed, and the first time he opens his garlicky mouth i hauled off and hit him. and then i took his knife away and snapped the point off. and i says to him, 'now, you black beggar, every time at muster you'll show me that knife, and there'll be peace in the land.' and he done so, and there was peace."
the captain (or "guffin") smote his thigh.
"you're right, simcox, you're right, and if salisbury was to take a leaf out of your log-book in respects of handlin' dagoes, 'twould be better for all concerned. but no, not him. he goes on seein' them french make a fleet and he lets 'em! he actually sees 'em with their fleet sharpenin' on the grindstone and never says from the poop, 'chuck that overboard, you swine, or i'll come and 'andle you so's you'll be glad to die.'"
the second mate was much gratified, as was obvious by his standing first on one foot and then on another. but lampert was not so pleased.
"why, you talk--you, captain and you, simcox--as if they had a fleet. why, it's my opinion--and experts say 'ditto' to me there--that a string o' band-boxes with crackers in 'em, and all on a mud-flat, would do as much harm as the french fleet--unless they blows up when we takes 'em."
the guffin shook his head.
"well, you know, lampert, as i never 'ad no opinion of their fleet. but that ain't the question. salisbury may have 'is reasons for not takin' it away, though i fails to see 'em; but the real question is, why we don't have a man with guts and go in command. it's my firm belief as there's many a merchant captain as could work the diplomatic game to better hadvantage. look at the experience we has, dealing with owners contrary as hell, and with consignees and with 'arbour-masters and pilots. where salisbury is wrong, is in his not goin' about and freshin' up his mind. and he works by rule o' thumb and dead reckoning. it ain't no wonder we can see where's his eye's out."
"it ain't," said the compliant simcox.
"well," sighed lampert, "i owns freely as i don't feel that sure i'd like to run his show."
the guffin laughed.
"but you ain't 'ad my experience yet, lampert. now, i'd hundertake to come right down into the harena, and make them french and germans sit up like monkeys on a horgan while i played the tune."
"i believe you," said simcox, rubbing his hard hands.
"look at the difficulties we 'as to contend with," said the skipper, with a rapidly thickening utterance and an increasing loss of aspirates--"look at the vig'lance we 'as to use. rocks and shoals and hother ships. it's 'igh education to be a master-mariner, and the board of trade knows it--knows it well. this 'ere crowd's all english except that one dutchman, but if so be we'd english and dagoes, and dutchmen and calashees, i'd 'ave showed you and salisbury 'ow to 'andle mixed sweets. vig'lance, difficulties, bright look-out, and the rule o' the road. and look at the chart! that's me!"
and very shortly afterwards the triple conversation ceased, for the captain lay snoring in his cabin.
the potluck was a barque of eleven hundred tons' register, and was bound for adelaide, with a general cargo of all mixed things under heaven and on earth. now she was engaged in running down her easting, and, as her skipper believed, was somewhere about lat. 44° 30' s., long. 50° e., and not far off the crozets. the westerly winds were blowing hard, but had the worst chill of winter off, for the month was september. nevertheless, as old jones, the skipper, was on a composite track, with a maximum latitude of 45° s., and was bound farther south still it might have been to the advantage of all concerned if he had drunk less, talked little, and minded his own business instead of arguing foreign politics.
but to each man fate often gives his chance of proving what he boasts to be his particular skill in the universe.
when lampert relieved simcox at midnight, the weather was thick, and neither man's temper was of the sweetest, so they had a bit of a breeze.
"what kind of a relief d'ye call this?' growled simcox.
"i call it a very good relief," replied lampert, "and a darned sight better one than you deserve. you owe me ten minutes even now."
he looked down the scuttle at the clock.
"why, you owe me twenty."
simcox flew out with pretended politeness.
"oh, make it half an hour! don't let's haggle about such a trifle. what's it matter if i stand here waiting? can't i keep the whole bloomin' watch for you?"
"go to hell," said lampert sulkily.
and simcox went below.
"to be a sailor is to be a natural born fool," said lampert, addressing the bitter and unkindly elements at large, "and to be on board a ship with such a windy gassing crowd, from the old man down to the cook, is very trying. it's very trying."
the wind took off a little later, but the weather was still thickish.
"it's like lookin' through a haystack," grunted lampert, "but there, bar an island or so there's nothing to speak of in our way. and if the skipper will crack on, and it a week since we saw the sun, it's the owners' look out, not mine."
he spoke with a certain bitterness, as though he would really enjoy being wrecked, in the trust that the potluck was not insured, and that old jones would get his certificate cancelled, or at least suspended.
"'twould give the old ass time to study foreign politics," sneered lampert, as it breezed up again.
and five minutes' later, while lampert was lighting his pipe half-way down the cabin stairs, he heard a bellow forward which made him drop thoughts of tobacco.
the watch came out on deck and ran aft; and were followed by the watch below in various articles of attire, not calculated to keep them very warm.
the potluck had been running with the wind nearly dead aft.
"starboard, starboard!" roared lampert. "oh, steady; hold her there!"
the vessel ran off to port at a sharp angle to her wake.
"up here some," yelled the mate, "and set the spanker! stand by the---- my god!"
"you man-drowning, slop-built caricature of a sailorman, what 'ave you bin and done with my ship?" he bellowed. "oh, lord, i'm a ruined man; by gosh, i'll murder you!"
he tumbled down on the main deck and made for lampert, who easily dodged him.
"shut up, you old idiot!" said the mate contemptuously. "who but me told you that if you drove her in thick weather, and no sun seen for a week, you'd pile her up?"
simcox caught jones and held him.
"good lord, sir," said the second greaser, "it's no time to fight."
"no, it ain't," said jack hart boldly.
that a foremast hand should dare to shove his oar in, almost cowed the poor old guffin. it was something out of nature.
"it ain't no time for jawbation," insisted hart, about whom the others had gathered. "it's time for thinkin' out the politics of the situation, and if i'm not mistaken we shall be able to walk ashore by the morning, and there won't be no ship for any one to command--so what's the use of jaw? i say get up stores, eh, mackenzie?"
"don't ask me," said old mac. "i was thinkin' that mighty soon we'd be able to settle that question about the buildin' of the potluck."
and as by this time jones was calming down and was rather inclined to cry, lampert came up to the restive crowd.
"you dry up, hart," he said roughly. "until the ship's broken up, you're on the articles. say another word and i'll break your jaw."
"yes, sir," said hart respectfully.
until dawn they loafed about the deck and in the cabin and foc'sle, discussing whether they were on one of the crozets or what, and whether they would stay long there, and if so what, and so on.
"the bloomin' hisland's in'abited," cried a foremast hand, and every one rushed forward to interview the gesticulating stranger.
"wod's the bloke say?" asked the crowd. "oh, say it again!" and the stranger said it again.
but the crowd shook a unanimous head.
"i believe the silly galoot don't talk english," cried hart; "'ere, where's dutchy?"
they shoved their one "dutchman" forward, and after some interchange of utter un-intelligibilities, listened to by every one with bated breath, hermann turned round.
"i not versteh, captain. i denk him ein french."
the frenchman was joined by two or three more, and then by a dozen.
"why, they're all french," said the disgusted crowd. "what's frenchmen doin' on any island of ours?"
and until the sea went down, which it did sufficiently to allow them to get ashore at about ten o'clock, they discussed the question as to whether the crozets were english or not. it was settled by old mackenzie.
"all islands as don't belong to any one belongs to us," he said; "it was arranged so by disraeli."
they got ashore with some risk, and were greeted by the frenchman in the most amiable way.
"poor beggars!" said the crew; "it must be 'ard on a soft lot of things like them to be on a des'late hisland. ain't it a wonder froggies ever goes to sea? but does they belong 'ere, or was they piled hup same's hus?"
hart found himself alongside a frenchman with a long red liberty cap on, and a big pair of ear-rings in his ears.
"goddam," said the frenchman.
"that's what we say," cried hart. "here, you chaps, he speaks english."
"hurrah!" said the crowd.
"i spike engelish," nodded the stranger.
"how'd you come 'ere?" asked the eager chorus.
the frenchman nodded.
"goddam!" he said, smiling. "ship! por'smout'--london! i spick en'lish."
"well, then," said hart desperately, "just dry up with your mixed hogwash, and spit it all out free as to 'ow you came 'ere, and wot the name o' this bally rock is, and who's its in'abitants. now, give it lip!"
"hart's a nateral born speaker, and 'as a clear 'ead," said the crowd. "'e puts it in a nutshell, and don't run to waste in words."
but the frenchman looked puzzled.
"comb wiz," he said; "spik en'lish besser," and he pointed over the low rise.
"steady!" said hart; "boys, i'm not clear as to whether we hain't bein' led hinto a hambush. it hain't nateral for shipwrecked englishmen to find frenchies shipwrecked too!"
"it ain't," said the crew suspiciously.
they squatted down on rocks and on the lumps of tussac grass till the captain and the two mates came along with the rest of the frenchmen. hart communicated his suspicions to the skipper, who was decidedly under the influence of alcohol.
"that's all right," said the guffin thickly. "we can manage frenchmen. they ain't goin' to make no french shore question on no more of our islands. one newfoundland's enough for me. i'll show you n'gotiations--'gotiashuns is my forte!" and he led the way over the hill. below them they saw the wreck of a french barquantine.
"blimy," said the crowd, with a frown, "if they 'aven't got the best part of our hisland!"
it was not to be endured by any lot of englishmen under the sun, that the best part of this rock should be occupied by their natural foes, and soon there was evidence that in any attempt to turn the frenchmen out the british leader would have a united nation at his back.
the guffin and the two mates argued it, and lampert was the opposition.
"w'y, wot's this you're sayin'?" asked the disgusted skipper; "did i think to 'ave shipped a verning 'arcourt among my lot? you're a little englander, and nothin' but it, lampert."
"they was here first," said lampert obstinately.
"but the hisland is british ground," urged simcox, "and where our flag flies no frenchman can have the best. we gives 'em liberty to trade, and they can take what's left. what for have we always beat 'em if we're to give in now?"
"continuosity of foreign politics is my motter," said the skipper. "with continuosity and joodishus firmness, and a polite 'hout o' this,' you'll see 'em listen to reason, and evacuate. i shall send hin my hultimatum this very afternoon. and you, simcox, shall be hambassador."
simcox looked anxious.
"well, captain, i was thinking it would be judicious policy to send in the dutchman. it will remind them that europe is more or less agin them, and to have a dutchman here will make 'em think twice afore they elects for war."
the skipper shook his head.
"no, simcox, it looks judicious on the surface, but takin' deeper thought it ain't. it would aggerawate them, and that ain't policy. we fights if we must, but don't start it by doin' anythin' unpleasin' more'n askin' for our rights. and in n'gotiashuns it ain't policy to remind 'em deliberate of the time the prooshians beat 'em. and moreover it's accordin' to no tradition i've heard of to send a furriner as hambassador. no, simcox, you shall go. i'll draw up the hultimatum at once."
he returned on board the wreck of the potluck, and in company with a bottle of brandy strove with the situation, while the crowd and their spokesman, hart, argued like a house of commons.
"it ain't any good talkin'," said jack, "and hevery one knows that give a frenchman the chance of hargument he'll talk a government mule's 'ind leg off. 'hout of this,' is the on'y hargument a frenchman hunderstands."
"but they seems to be a good many more of 'em than us," suggested the crowd.
"come to that," said hart, "it's the on'y just ground we 'as to go for 'em. for if they was on'y ekal numbers, it'd be cowardly to whack 'em, and i for one would be on the side of just goin' down there and shovin' them out peaceful. i'm for the hultimatum right off. i wonder 'ow the guffin will put it. say, boys, 'ere 'e comes!"
the "old man" staggered up with a sheet of paper in his hand.
"have you done it, sir?" asked simcox. "let's hear it."
"yes, read it out," said lampert, with half a sneer, which the skipper did not notice.
the crowd gathered round as the captain squatted on a rock.
"on board the british barque potluck, belonging to the british port liverpool; owners, mcwattie & co.; captain abednego jones.
"eh, what?" said the astounded simcox.
"it's addressed to you, simcox," said the skipper blandly.
"why?" asked simcox.
the skipper shook his head impatiently.
"i thought you'd 'ave knowed, simcox. you're the hambassador, and you've to communicate this to 'em."
"oh, go on, sir," said the crowd.
the skipper resumed:
"mr. simcox,--sir, you'll be so good as to be so kind as to communicate the contents of this 'ere letter to them french of the wreck we don't know the name of, and tell them to clear. for there ain't no reasonable grounds for supposin' this ain't a british hisland (seeing that mostly all hislands is) and they've by comin' 'ere first got and taken possession of the best bit of it, which can't be allowed, as it's contrary to law in such case made and purvided. so you'll inform 'em it ain't goin' to be put up with, and they must evacuate immejit and resume the statues quo----"
"what's that?" asked simcox.
"it's latin, you unutterable ass," said the skipper, with a look of withering contempt.
"i don't know latin," said the poor second mate.
"and who expected it of you?" asked the skipper. "it means that things are to go on as they was afore they come:
"----resume the statues quo, and don't stand no hargument. you are to tell 'em it will be considered an unfriendly hact, and that we 'as cleared for haction in consequence of not believing them such cowards as to quit. but quit they must, and no mistake, or we resort without delay to the arbitrage and general haverage of war. given this day on board the british barque potluck by me,
"captain abednego jones."
"first rate!" said the crew. "that'll give 'em the jumps."
"and how am i to translate it?" asked the miserable simcox.
"hart, come along with me," said simcox.
and as the "old man" was engaged in keeping his balance, he made no objection.
"i think this is a herror of judgment, sir," said hart; "my hidea of a hultimatum was jumpin' on 'em unexpected, and givin' 'em toko afore they know'd where they was. my notion of fightin' (and it pays hevery time) is to haggravate your man till he's ready to 'it, but to 'it 'im fust. an' if i thinks a cove will 'it me in five minutes, i lets no time go by in hanticipatin' 'im. but this will warn 'em."
"but they have no one who really knows english, hart," groaned simcox; "and i don't know the first word of french."
"never mind, sir," said hart encouragingly. "i've 'ad many a row with a frenchy, and i never knowed my 'avin' not the least notion of what 'e meant ever stopped the fight from comin' off. if so be i see you get stuck, i'll come in, sir."
and they were met by the french sailor who thought he spoke english.
"i spik en'lish, goddam," said the frenchman. "leaverpool, por'smout'; mais le capitaine spik besser."
"good-mornin'," said simcox meekly to the french captain, a long unhappy looking man, who might have been the skipper of a chasse-marée for all the style he put on.
"mais, oui----" said the captain.
"this 'ere paper is for you," said simcox, "and by the powers i hope you can't read it."
he handed the ultimatum to the frenchman, who studied it while his crew came round.
"je ne peux pas le lire, monsieur," he said at length.
simcox turned to hart.
"there, now what the blazes am i to do when he talks that way?"
"just hexplain it," said hart, as he helped himself to a chew. "say, 'hout o' this!'"
"it means you've got to go," said simcox; "you can't be allowed to stay in the best part of our island."
"goddam," cried the frenchman, with his hand in his hair. "i spik english, two, tree word: pilote, feesh, shannel, owaryo!"
"owaryo?" asked simcox.
"that's his way o' sayin' 'how are you?'" interjected hart, who was contemptuously sizing up the french sailors.
"ah, how are you?" said simcox.
"owaryo," replied the french captain, smiling.
"very well, thanks," said simcox; "but i'm the ambassador."
"ma foi, ambassadeur! you spik français?"
"and you've just got to get," added simcox.
"march!" cried hart.
the frenchmen "jabbered" a bit among themselves.
"quoi donc? marcher?" asked their skipper.
"we, old son," said hart; "marshay if you like. just pack up and quit. we gives you an hour to gather up your dunnage. now do you understand?"
whether the frenchmen understood or not it was tolerably obvious they did not like the tone with which hart spoke, or the looks of evident disfavour he cast at them. the captain turned away.
"stop!" said hart, and he went in for a dumb pantomime, in which he vaguely suggested that over yonder hill was an army of englishmen.
"and we mean 'avin' our rights," he ended with. and just then old jones appeared in sight.
"are they jossers goin' to evacuate or not?" he bellowed. "what's their captain say to the statues quo? don't they know the first thing about diplomatics? tell 'em that to prepare for peace we makes war."
"war it is," said hart, and he launched himself at a crowd of frenchmen, as his mates came tumbling down the hill.
"'ere's a pretty kettle o' fish," said he at last; "a pretty lot i 'as to my back to let a few frenchies lick 'em this way. what's the good o' diplomatics if my men 'asn't the guts to support me? where's that simcox?"
"here, sir," said the ambassador.
"who told you to start a row?" demanded the skipper. "don't you know your duty? you was to give 'em the hultimatum and retire dignified. do you call it retirin' dignified to run and beller like a bull-calf?"
simcox looked sulky and injured.
"how was i to look dignified with six of 'em after me--and two with knives and one with a meat-chopper?" he asked. "and as for startin' a rough house, 'twas hart as done it."
"where's hart?" yelled the guffin.
"'ere, 'art, where are you?" said the crowd.
"i believe he's a prisoner," said lampert.
"oh, lord," said the crowd, "but jack never 'ad no discretion."
"we must 'ave him liberated," said the skipper firmly. "no man of mine must be in the 'ands of them mutilatin' french. simcox, you'll 'ave to go to 'em again and open n'gotiashuns!"
"no, sir," said simcox, "if you'll excuse me, i'll do nothin' of the sort. i've had my fill up of bein' ambassador."
"this is mut'ny," said the skipper; "but under the painful national circumstances i shan't do nothin' but order you to your cabin, where you'll consider yourself in custody."
simcox looked greatly relieved, and went without delay.
"mr. lampert, you'll be hambassador," said the old man, after a drink of brandy.
the mate looked the skipper up and down.
"i'll see you further first," he cried. "'twas you that started the row and the trouble, and you can get out of it as you like."
"this is rank mut'ny," said the skipper, "and you could be 'ung for refusin' duty. but under the painful nash'nal circumstances you can retire to your cabin and be your own bloomin' policeman till peace is restored, when i'll try you and sentence you, you run and scuttle swine you."
"oh, that's all right," said the mate contemptuously.
"now, men," said the skipper thickly, "what i wants is 'earty support. who'll volunteer for to be hambassador?"
the crew looked at each other and shook their heads. they scuffled with uneasy feet on the lopsided deck.
"they're standin' upon the 'ill as thick as pea-sticks," said one of the boys.
"speak hup," roared the skipper.
the crew shoved old mac in front.
"we've revolved the notion up and over," said mac, "and we've come to the conclusion, sir, there ain't nothin' to be got by sendin' ignorant men like we on such errands."
the skipper hiccupped angrily.
"who asted you to think? but i ain't the man to press unwilling lubbers into goin' aloft, i can lead the way. go into the fo'castle, you dogs, and consider yourselves under arrest. go!"
"blimy," said the crowd, "but we're all in our own custody, so we are. now what's the old man goin' to do?"
"i'll be my own hambassador," said jones. "i'll show 'em 'ow to work things with dignity; i'll show that ass lampert what's o'clock. what you wants in such cases made and provided is tact, and go, and innerds. innerds is the chief need. why fight if palaver'll do? where i was wrong was to send a galoot like simcox. but what could i do but work the best with the tools i 'ad? if i'd gone myself, we'd 'ave made peace afore there was a row."
he came staggering out of the cabin with a case of brandy and laid it on the after capstan.
"i guess i'll have a boy," said jones. "'ere, you scum, send me billy." and billy came aft.
"i releases you temp'ry without bail," said the skipper fiercely, "so puckalow that case and foller me. no, you wait till i gets a tablecloth as a signal i'm willin' to 'ave peace."
when he came out with a cloth he went ashore and stumbled up the hill, followed by the boy billy, bearing the case of brandy. he found the crew of the frenchmen lining the crest, and heard them talk.
"say, johnny french," said old jones, "if you wants war, prepare for peace. who's the captain?"
"sapristi!" said the french captain.
"give it up, old son. it warn't my fault, if relyin' on the discretion of ambassadors ain't a fault: and maybe you can swaller the hultimatum with some real good brandy throwed in. and is your name sapristi?"
"nom de dieu----" began the frenchman, but jones waved his hand with dignity.
"call yourself what you like, but 'ave you got anythin' in the way of a marlinspike or a splice bar as'll open this yer case?"
the foreigners, perceiving that the englishman was on an errand of peace, gathered about the case, and soon discovered from the stencilled inscription that it at any rate pretended to come from cognac.
"goddam," said the little red-capped frenchman who had first discovered them. "cognac! i spik english--brandee, por'smout', lon-don!"
jones made signs that he presented the case to them.
"i ain't above makin' a concession or two," he remarked confidentially to the french captain; "but if i'd listened to my lot on board, it would 'ave been blood up to the neck."
the frenchman shook his head.
"you bet it would 'ave bin," said jones earnestly, "but what d'ye say to 'avin' a drink? billy, gimme your knife."
and with it he started opening the case, while the frenchmen's eyes gleamed in pleasing anticipation. they had not had a drink for weeks. and as they carried the case down to the ship with jones and their own captain in the rear, they concluded that the english were not such bad chaps after all.
"'ere i be," cried hart, who was lashed hard and fast to a round rock. "lord, captain, but i've 'ad a time. can't you cut me adrift, sir?"
jones shook his head.
"you interferin' galoot, it serves you right. and as for that, the 'ole crew's under arrest, where i put 'em for mut'ny, and i don't see as i should so pick and choose among 'em as to use my hinfluence to 'ave you let go. at any rate, bide a bit, and i'll see."
for it was obvious that the drinking was going to begin. the french captain served the liquor out in a small glass to every one, and presently some of his melancholy disappeared. he gave an order to one of his men who brought two more glasses, one for the english captain, and one for himself.
"i looks towards you," said jones.
"à votre santé," cried the frenchman. "monsieur, vous êtes un homme de coeur quand mêne."
"i don't savvy, but i dessay you means well," said the captain. "now, if i'd thought to bring along the signal book we might 'ave 'ad quite a talk. but time enough; i dessay afore we're took off i shall patter your lingo like blazes. shall i cut my man loose there?"
he pointed to hart, and though two of the frenchmen, who had black eyes, remonstrated against the deed of mercy, hart was unlashed and given a drink.
"here's to you, old cocklywax," said hart, with a scrape of his leg. "i bears no grudge, not me."
and very soon the french and english skippers were talking to each other at the rate of knots, while hart sat in a crowd of frenchmen and told them all about everything.
it was close on sundown when jones returned to the potluck. he had to be helped up the side by some of the crew.
"ain't we under arrest?" they asked. "does we dare come out?"
when he put his foot on the deck, he mustered all hands aft.
"and you, lampert, and you, simcox!"
the two mates came out of their cabins.
"and where's hart?"
"if you please, sir, he's drunk," said billy.
"arrest 'im," said the skipper; "what's 'e mean by it? now, look 'ere, you bally lot, what does you think of yourselves?"
the crew appeared uneasy.
"i went all by my lone," said the skipper, hanging on to the poop ladder, "all by my lone i went, and i brings back peace! do you 'ear? but when i sent you, what use was you? i released 'art, who's repaid me by bein' unable to see an 'ole in a ladder; and i've concluded a treaty of peace and friendship with the french. next time (if so be a german ship comes ashore) i'll go out as my own hambassador. no, simcox, never more! no, lampert, never, never more! i just speaks to that french crowd, and they are civil and drink fair. they recognised they'd met their match. their skipper says, says he, 'captain jones, i owns fair and square i'm not your ekal at diplomatics.' he adds, moreover, 'captain jones, damn me if i believe your match is to be found.' and i says, with dignity (with dignity, simcox), 'right you are!' that's what i says. and as for you, you ratty galoots, you'll treat 'em when you meets 'em just the same as if they wasn't french. do you 'ear me? that's my hultimatum. now you can go. that'll do the watch."
he turned to the mates.
"i thought better of you two, so i did," he remarked sadly. "but there, you 'aven't 'ad my experience, and when i gets 'ome i shall see as them that is in power at the furrin office 'ears 'ow i done it. salisbury ain't my stiffness of backbone, and 'e ain't my tact. if so be as 'e was to invite them frenchmen to dinner, it would be different. they knows (as the french captain owned to me; fair and square 'e owned it) they don't 'ave no nat'ral right to hislands and col'nies. make the frenchmen's 'omes 'appy and they'll stay at 'ome. think it hout; you'll see 'ow it could be done. there now, that'll do you. i disarrest you!"
and the "old man" rolled cheerfully for his cabin.
"by my lone i done it!" said the guffin.
the crew of the kamma funder.
the stars of european science, who had been shining in a wonderful constellation over quebec, were just about to leave canada in that well-known comfortable liner, the nipigon, when a most annoying thing happened. the cattle-ship abbitibbe, never famous at any time for minding her helm, got her steam steering gear jammed as she was passing the nipigon, and took a wide sheer to port when she should have altered her course to starboard. the peaceful preparations of the passenger boat were broken up, and her crew received the wild charge of the abbitibbe with curses, which, though effectual in heating the atmosphere, were no use as a fender. the nipigon was cut down to the water's edge, and the scientific lights of europe were much put out. they hurried ashore in the most irregular and unscientific manner, and, having sent others for their baggage, began to make preparations for going to new york, as no other good passenger boat was leaving the st. lawrence for a week.
but nature, possibly out of revenge for the unseemly curiosity evinced by all men of science, was beforehand with them. misfortunes, as was once observed by an intelligent, if pessimistic, anthropoid ape, never come singly. it was the twelfth of november, and a sudden blizzard, bringing all the snow it could carry, broke up communication with the south. if the men of science were to keep their appointments with their universities, it was necessary to sail from canada at once. they shipped themselves under protest upon the nemagosenda, of 2,900 tons register, which was little better than a tramp, and was commanded by captain joseph prowse.
"immortal jehoshaphat!" said captain prowse; "here's a go! what, we with passengers? oh, get out!"
"you've got to take 'em," said the agent philosophically; "maybe they'll teach you something, and it'll be a good advertisement."
"gah'n!" said prowse; "carryin' scientific jossers won't bring better freight next season. i wish you'd get me chock up with cattle. i can't stand scientists; my sister married one that was an 'erbalist in the old kent road--and since he went to chokey i've lost conceit with science. however, if it must be--why, send 'em along!"
flow. pl. afr.
j. fleischmann del.
viburnum rugosum pers.
flow. pl. afr.
j. fleischmann del.
valeriana capensis vahl
family 220. caprifoliaceae
leaves opposite. flowers hermaphrodite. sepals 5, united below. petals 5, united below. stamens 5, inserted on the corolla. ovary inferior. ovules axile, pendulous. fruit a berry or a drupe. seeds with a straight embryo and fleshy albumen.--genera 4, species 15. north and east africa. (plate 145.)
family 221. valerianaceae
herbs or undershrubs. leaves opposite or all radical, without stipules. inflorescence cymose. calyx not distinctly developed at the time of flowering. petals 5, united below. stamens 1-3, attached to the corolla-tube. anthers turned inwards. ovary inferior, with 3 cells, two of which are empty and sometimes rudimentary. ovule 1, pendulous, inverted. style simple; stigma entire or 3-parted. seed exalbuminous; embryo straight.--genera 4, species 35. (plate 146.)
family 222. dipsacaceae
herbs or undershrubs. leaves opposite, without stipules. flowers in heads; each flower with an epicalyx embracing the ovary. petals 4-5, united below. stamens 2-4. anthers turned inwards. ovary inferior, 1-celled. ovule 1, pendulous, inverted. style simple; stigma entire or 2-parted. fruit enclosed by the epicalyx, dry, indehiscent. seed albuminous; embryo straight.--genera 7, species 50. (plate 147.)
flow. pl. afr.
j. fleischmann del.
cephalaria rigida (spreng.) schrad.
flow. pl. afr.
j. fleischmann del.
momordica charantia l.
family 223. cucurbitaceae
nearly always prostrate or climbing and tendril-bearing plants. leaves broad, usually with pedate nervation. flowers unisexual or polygamous, regular or nearly so, 5-merous. calyx of united sepals. stamens 4-5, four of them united in pairs, rarely all united or all free. anthers usually opening outwards. ovary inferior. ovules inverted. style undivided or cleft. fruit berry-like, but sometimes dehiscent, more rarely dry and indehiscent. seeds with a leathery or woody testa and a straight embryo, without albumen.--genera 42, species 270. (plate 148.)
family 224. campanulaceae
leaves entire toothed or lobed, without stipules. petals usually united below. stamens as many as the petals. anthers turned inwards. ovary inferior or half-inferior, rarely (lightfootia) superior, 2-10-celled, rarely (merciera) 1-celled. ovules inverted, numerous and axile, rarely few and apical or basal. style simple. fruit a capsule, rarely a nut or (canarina) a berry. seeds with fleshy albumen; embryo straight.--genera 26, species 400. (including lobeliaceae and sphenocleaceae.) (plate 149.)
family 225. goodeniaceae
family 226. compositae
leaves simple and exstipulate, but sometimes dissected or provided with stipule-like auricles. flowers seated upon a dilated or elevated receptacle and arranged in sometimes spike-like or one-flowered heads which are surrounded by an involucre. heads either containing only hermaphrodite flowers, several of which are sometimes sterile (male), or consisting of hermaphrodite or male central (disc-) flowers and female or neuter marginal (ray-) flowers, more rarely heads unisexual or reduced to a single flower. calyx-limb (pappus) formed of sometimes connate scales or hairs, fully developed only in fruit, or wanting. corolla of united petals, in the hermaphrodite and male flowers 3-5-lobed with valvate aestivation, regular (tube-, funnel-, or bell-shaped) or 2-lipped or 1-lipped (strap-shaped), in the female flowers sometimes wanting. stamens as many as the corolla-lobes and alternate with them, inserted in the corolla-tube. anthers connate, rarely free, opening inwards by
flow. pl. afr.
j. fleischmann del.
lightfootia subulata l’hér.
flow. pl. afr.
j. fleischmann del.
vernonia baumii o. hoffm.