{Colored cover designed by George Wright.') C o p y r i g h t ...... Dr. Fitchett's
swinging style, so well known in ...... manded by a certain sultan of India of his
son ...
V O L . LIV NO. 4
OCTOBER 1913
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No.
Vol. LIV.
4.
SCRIBNER'SMAGAZINE OCTOBER 1913
CONTENTS A
PRIMITIVE SPEARMAN. Wyeth, reproduced in colors
Painting by N . C. .
N E W R E P U B L I C —Some Impressions o f a Portuguese Tour Illustrations from photographs by the Author and others.
Frontispiece
THE
C . L . Freeston, F . R . G . S .
.
4°3
Katharine F .
.
419
.
•
43
T H E M A N BEHIND T H E BARS — F i r s t Paper.
Winifred Louise Taylor
.
443
NO N I G H T T H E R E .
William Hervey Woods
.
454
T H E CASE OF PARAMORE T H E LIFE-HISTORY OF T H E AFRICAN E L EPHANT Illustrations from photographs and from drawings by Philip R. Goodwin.
Poem
T R O U T - F I S H I N G IN N O R M A N D Y . Illustrations by A . B . Frost and Guy Rose.
.
.
T H E CUSTOM OF T H E COUNTRY . . BOOK V.—CHAPTERS X X X V I I - X X X I X . be concluded.)
. {To
Gerould
Theodore Roosevelt
Ethel Rose
.
Edith Wharton
2
.
.
-455
.
.
.47'
T H E HIGHER PRESSURE Illustrations by Hanson Booth.
Simeon Strunsky .
T H E CHOICE.
J u l i a C . R. Dorr .
.
.
496
T H E D A R K F L O W E R . (The L o v e L i f e o f a Man.) PART III.—AUTUMN. CHAPTERS VIII-XI. {To be concluded.')
John Galsworthy
.
.
497
T H E GIFT OF ROSEY
Barry Benefield
.
.
-507
John Corbin
.
.
. 5 1 6
Poem
-484
Illustrations by William Oberhardt. THE
NEW REVOLT
AGAINST BROADWAY
T H E P O I N T O F V I E W — T h e Old Friendships—A Centenary—Art and the Spirit of Place . . . . . 523 T H E F I E L D O F A R T —Recent Work by Paul W . Bartlett. {William Walton.)
Illustrated
. 527 {Colored cover designed by George Wright.')
C o p y r i g h t , 1913, b y C h a r l e s S c r i b n e r ' s Sons. A U rights reserved. E n t e r e d at N e w Y o r k P o s t - O f f i c e as S e c o n d - C l a s s * E n t e r e d as S e c o n d - C l a s s M a t t e r at t h e P o s t - O f f i c e D e p a r t m e n t , O t t a w a , C a n a d a .
M a i l Matter.
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Building—Furnishing Page
Amer. Telephone & Telegraph Co. Berkey & Gay Furniture Co. . . Bissell Carpet Sweeper Co. . . Brunswick-Balke-Collender Co. . Burns & Bassick—Casters, Tips . Cary-Davis Co., Inc Stewart Hartshorn—Shade Rollers Haviland & Co.—China . . . . A. H . Heisey & Co.—Glassware . Jap-a-lac Musical Instruments Kranich & Bach Victor Talking Machine Co. .
.
61 65 66 71 70 68 64 72a 71 64 58 59
S. Karpen & Bros.—Furniture Keith's Architectural Service . Libbey Glass Co J. L. Mott Iron Works . . . National Fire Proofing Co. . . New Jersey Zinc Co Piedmont Red Cedar Chest Co. Reed & Barton W. & J. Sloane—Furniture . . Tiffany & Co
Page . 68 . 64 66 . 69 . 67 72a . 64 60 .5,7 3
Office Appliances and Stationery Globe-Wernicke Co.—Bookcases . 73 Whiting Paper Co 26 John B. Wiggins Co 72d
Food Products Page Anheuser-Busch 62 Walter Baker Co., Ltd. . . 4th Cover Frank E. Davis Fish Co. . . 72b Evans' Ale . . . . . . . 72c Libby, McNeill & Libby. 3d Cover
2
Page Liqueur Peres Chartreux . . . 72c Mellin's Food 52 National Biscuit Co.—Nabisco . 63 Shredded Wheat Co. . . . 56
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Index to Advertisements October, 1913—Continued
Automobiles a
Page
. . .
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85 73 86
e
Pg
Stevens-Duryea . . . . 2d Cover Timken Detroit Axle Co. . . . 87 White Co 55
Travel—Resorts—Tours Page
Page
A. B. A. Travelers Cheques Frank C. Clark Tours . . Thos. Cook & Son Hamburg-American Line . Lamport & Holt Line North German Lloyd Old Dominion Steamship Co.
. . . .
80 76 76 . . 77 81 81 . . 78
Raymond & Whitcomb . . . Red Star Line Southern Pacific Steamship Co. Swiss Federal Railroad . . . Temple Tours Where-To-Go Bureau . . . White Star Line
.
76 80 79 76 76 82 80
. . .
Books, Magazines, Etc. American Magazine . . Arts & Decoration Century Co Craftsman Curtis & Cameron—Copley Dodd, Mead & Co Doubleday, Page & Co. . Encyclopaedia Britannica . Forest and Stream Harper & Bros Harper's Bazar Houghton Mifflin Co Life
Page
Page
. 24,25 .32 8b-o, 70 Prints 26 19 . . 20-22 . . 16, 17 72d 10-12 13 15 29
McBride, Nast & Co 18 Munn & Co.— Patents . . . . 64 National Sportsman 31 Outdoor World and Recreation . 14 Outing Publishing Co. . . . 26, 30 Scribner Book News . . . . 38-45 Scribner Bookstore . . . . 33-36 Scribner Magazine Agency . . . 37 Scribner Magazine Notes . . 53, 54 Sherman, French & Co., Publishers 32 Suburban Life 28 Vogue 27 World's Work 23
.
Miscellaneous Page
W. F. & J. Barnes— Lathes Bausch & Lomb Optical Co. V. J. Evans—Patents Keeley Cure Mears Ear Phone TJ. S. Playing Card Co Waltham Watch Co
. .
. .
75 74 75 72d 72d 82 57
Financial Hartford Fire Insurance Co. . 72 N. Y. Real Estate Security Co. 84 Travelers Insurance Co. . . 83
4
Page
Proprietary Articles Cuticura Soap 74 Ivory Soap 88 Lanman & Kemp—Florida Water . 73 Lehn & Fink—Pebeco . . . . 75 Park & Tilford 75 Schools and Colleges See pages
46 to 51
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The Man Behind the Bars, An English Writer's Notes by Winifred Louise Taylor on England —Things of the P r e s e n t The effects of prison life on character and by Vernon Lee habits of men who have served their time. Illustrations from paintings by Howard Giles, reproduced in tint and in colors.
The final chapters of Mrs. Wharton's The Custom of the Country The end of John Galsworthy's The Dark Flower (The Love Life of a Man) The Master Strategist, a His Professional Honor, a story by Katharine Holland story b y L i n n M u r d o c h Brown Huntington
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Admiral Dewey T h e Greatest A m e r i c a n Sea-Fighter, Tells the Story of H i s L i f e i n
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In Early Memories
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A V o l u m e of Biography and Reminiscence
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Senator Lodge
Shakspere as a Playwright
Recalls a Boyish V i e w of Sumner Just Before the W a r His father raised him to a terrace coping before the State house. "Presently an open carriage drove up with some gentlemen seated in it and stopped near the spot where I was placed. Then a tall man, who I knew was M r . Sumner, stood up in the car riage, and at the sight of him a shout rose from that crowd the like of which I have never heard since, and I have heard, in the course of my life, many crowds, and some mobs, cheer and yell. Then memory drops the curtain and I remember no more." This is an example of the innumer able significant scenes upon which the distinguished author throws the light of his memory. Few men of the day have had a life so full of rich ex perience as that which he here re counts up to his early days in Congress. $2.50
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W i t h the H e l p of Fresh Information A b o u t the Elizabethan Playhouse He Relates Shakspere M o r e Closely w i t h the Theatre of H i s T i m e Some of his topics are: "Shakspere's
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Maurice Hewlett Turns Light Upon a Character of Great Interest in His New Novel
Bendish A Colorful Romance of Late Georg ian England. Handsome
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Young Nobleman Will Excite Curiosity
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If You Touch Them They Vanish A Wonderfully Touching Love Story That Stands Almost Alone A young man of a fine, sensitive na ture is imprisoned for a crime he did not commit. N o t one of his friends stands by him, although he had a mul titude, and on his release he shrinks from everyone and goes to a little house in the mountains. There he is watched over by an old family servant and—without his knowledge—by one other. In his weak health he cannot face the reality and he builds about him a delightfully imaginary world, full of people and projects;—and this, his love story, tells how he is brought back to reality. So charming a book needed colored pictures to complete it —and they have been supplied by Charles S. Chapman.
E a r l y in the story you get this glimpse of the singular personality of Lord Bendish: " A marble-faced young man with a dark head of curly hair and intensely dark eyes lay absorbed upon the sofa. Every feature of him was as sharp and still as statuary; if he assumed rapture in his work, he assumed it well. E n veloped in a white Turkish gown, he was writing, with his knees for desk. Open books were strewn about h i m ; he blew and sucked at a water-pipe which stood in visible commotion upon the floor beside him. H e was very handsome; and sublimely unin terested in his visitor, although at the same time acutely aware of h i m . " $1.35 net; by mail $1.46
Helen Huntington Author of " The Moon Lady," Gives a Clear Picture of Life in the New York " Upper World " in
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The End of Her Honeymoon A Mystery of Paris by
Mrs. Belloc Lowndes A Young Englishman, Just Wedded, Vanishes from His Hotel and Leaves No Trace Paris, S e p t . B t h , 191-:—John D a m pier, an English artist, whose dis tracted wife declares took rooms with her at the H o t e l Saint Ange last night, is strangely missing. T h e hotel peo ple declare he never came there; that M r s . Dampier arrived alone. She asserts that he brought her to the hotel last night—the last of their honeymoon,—and that because of the exhibition crowds, they were forced to take rooms on different floors. T h e French officials deny all knowledge of him and profess to think her crazy. Such is the theme of M r s . Lowndes's new novel—a breath-taking mystery. $1.25 net; by mail $1.37
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The Collected Works of Francis Thompson Eagerly Received by Critics and the Public Two Volumes Verse, One Prose Francis Thompson has long been recognized as a great poet even by the general public, and as a prose writer of unusual force, charm, and wit by the critics. A n d this accounts for the fact that this first comprehensive edi tion of his works has sold rapidly ever since its announcement. The Set, $5.00 net
John Wallace, born of an old New York family, which has been some what side-tracked from the general rush of modern life, falls in love with a very beautiful girl, the only daughter of a hugely rich and very recently " a r r i v e d " financier. The subsequent de velopments, with all their tragic sombreness, are livened by an exquisite thread of romance brought in by means of a curious, fairylike character, a woman called Naomi Reid, with whose fate John becomes inevitably en tangled. The novel is full of cleverly drawn pictures of many phases of New Y o r k life, both pleasant and u n pleasant. $1.35
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Lawrence Weaver Architectural Writer, Shows in His
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The United States and Mexico, 1821-1848 The Most Valuable Chapter of Our History at This Moment to an Alert Citizen, Presented in a Clear, Scholarly Work by a Great Authority
George L. Rives Former Assistant Secretary of State, Recounts " The Relations Between the Two Countries from the Independence of Mexico to the Close of the War with the United States." H e says: " T h e events which led up to the war between the United States and Mexico, with all its momentous consequences to both nations, have been very generally misapprehended. " U n t i l very recently a thorough study of the relations between the two countries from the time Mexican inde pendence was achieved down to the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, was not possible. . . . " It has been my object to present a consecutive narrative of the events
which culminated in war in 1846 and peace in 1848. . . . " . . . it is not doubtful that some lessons of extreme importance may be drawn from a study of our dealings with the nearest of our Latin-Ameri can neighbors. We have not always been fortunate in our conduct toward the other nations of this hemisphere, and our failures have, as I think, been chiefly due to our ignorance." Two volumes with maps $8.00 net; postage extra
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The Panama Gateway The Entire Story of the Canal from Conception to Completion Told By the Highest Authority in a Popular but Exact Manner
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John Fox, Jr.'s New Novel
The Heart of the Hills
The author in preface names several typical episodes: " E a t o n and his motley army marched across six hundred miles of African desert, and by bringing the Barbary despots to their knees accom plished that which had been unsuccess fully attempted by every naval power in Europe. C a p t a i n Reed, of the Gen eral Armstrong, after holding off a
Turns on a F e u d in the K e n t u c k y Mountains The action becomes swift immedi ately after this incident: " U n c l e Lige. do you know whar my mammy i s ? " Little Jason H a w n was speaking, and when the old circuit rider failed to answer at once his wife replied: "Why,
I seed her and Steve H a w n
and Mavis a-goin' down the crick jest afore dark, an' yo' mammy said as how they was aimin' to go to yo' grandpap's."
Then the circuit rider
spoke:
Ernest Peixotto
" C o m e in, boy.
Y o ' g r a n d p a p had
Describes w i t h W o r d and Picture a Beautiful Voyage A l o n g Spanish A m e r i c a on the Pacific in
better be a-thinkin' about spreadin'
Pacific Shores from Panama
settin' a bad example to the young an'
Uses P e n and Pencil w i t h Equal and A l m o s t Unequalled S k i l l His pictures and his text combine to express with a singular delicacy the qualities he names in these sentences of his preface: " T h e luxurious indolence that pos sesses the traveller as he glides over this lazy tropical sea, the romance of the Spanish cities, the picturesqueness and the appeal of its vast Indian popu lation, the desolation of its arid wastes, the dizzy heights of its Cordillera, the sharp contrast of climate and vegeta tion."
" T h e Bible don't say nothin' agin a
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the wings of his immortal soul, stid o' shakin' them feet o' clay o' his'n an' errin!" " H u s h u p ! " said the old woman. boy lookin' fer his mammy, no matter whar she is." But this story of the Cumberland country and the Bluegrass is not all made of such quaint humor.
Jason
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A n d at the height of the rev
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British force twenty times the strength of his own, sunk his vessel rather than surrender. W i l l i a m Walker came within an ace of changing the map of M i d d l e America, and made the name of American a synonym for courage from the R i o Grande to Panama, while on the other side of the world another American, Frederick Townsend W a r d , raised and led that ever-victorious army whose exploits were General Gordon's chief claim to fame." Illustrated $1.50 net; by mail $ 1.65 M r . Powell has already made his mark as a dashing writer of adven turous narrative through " T h e Last Frontier: T h e W h i t e M a n ' s War for C i v i l i z a t i o n in A f r i c a , " published a season ago. M a n y critics said it spread the whole continent out before the reader, so that he could see it as one, and all the millions of contend ing men and women of different nationalities upon it. Illustrated, $1.50 net; postage extra
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The Honorable Sena tor Sage-Brush A
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One of the Greatest French N o v e l ists, G i v e s G r a p h i c Representa tions of French L i f e i n
S h r e w d , W e s t e r n Boss A l l M e n W i l l Appreciate Is the C e n t r a l Character of the N o v e l of That N a m e by
The Marriage of Mile. Gimel and Other Stories
Francis Lynde A u t h o r of " T h e P r i c e , " Shows H i m Facing a Storm of R e f o r m That Threatens His Control. A M o v i n g L o v e Story the M a i n Theme
The Title Story Is R e a l l y a C o m p l e t e Novel
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Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews A u t h o r of " T h e Perfect T r i b u t e , " etc.. Contains Significant Stories of the Present-Day A m e r i c a n
A Western political boss domi nates this novel. Senator Sage-Brush, rough, lazy, humorous on the surface, cunning, swift, inflexible beneath, rules the State through his hold on an intersecting railroad. T h e strength and humanity of his personality come into play when his control is threat ened by a reform wave which sweeps his son into the apparent opposition. This son is the hero of the novel; but to many the large character of SageBrush, strong of feeling, downright with common-sense, and fundament ally just, will be the great attraction. The opening and closing of the breach between himself and his son is touch ing and true. $'l.35 net; by mail $1.47
Italy To-Day Is a Clear, Condensed Setting-Forth of the Social and Political State of That C o u n t r y
Bolton King and Thomas Okey
No volume of collected stories by M r s . Andrews has been published since " T h e M i l i t a n t s " i n 1907, a l though some of her most notable sin gle stories, such as " T h e Counsel Assigned," " T h e Courage of the C o m monplace,"and ''The Lifted Bandage," have appeared i n volumes uniform with her great success, " T h e Perfect Tribute." This new volume contains the best of her short stories of recent years, ranging from outdoor life to col lege crises and business successes. They are all stories of to-day, filled with real American types. T h e vol ume will be uniform with " T h e M i l i tants." Illuslraled $1.30 net; by mail $1.43
Their purpose stands out in these prefatory sentences: " W e have attempted to give an ac curate and fair account of political and social questions i n Italy at the present day. . . . We have gone for our i n formation to the men and literature of all sections—to Liberals and Catho lics, to Socialists and Conservatives, to the leaders and the rank and file." $2.00 net
M . Bazin tells a different story of French life from the popular one that turns upon intrigue. H e says: " O u r novelists, by occupying them selves with this unrepresentative part too exclusively, have created and spread a conception of our country which is not only inadequate, but is also essentially false. If I have held myself resolutely aloof from the so ciety novel, which I might have done, perhaps, as well as another, it is be cause I desire to portray the sweetness, purity, and beauty of French family life, and not to perpetrate a gross libel upon i t . " $1.25 net; by mail $1.35
The Preaching of Islam A " H i s t o r y of the Propagation of the M o s l i m F a i t h " by
T. W. Arnold Professor of A r a b i c at U n i v e r s i t y College, Unfolds a G r e a t Human Drama
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T e l l s the S t o r y o f A u s t r a l i a in
A L a n d of Vast P r o m i s e and N o w of V i t a l Interest to U s , by
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Phanor James Eder N e w V o l u m e i n South A m e r i c a n Series " A t the very gates of the Panama C a n a l , " says the author, " lies a country of lofty mountains and snow capped summits, of fertile, temperate valleys and plateaus, of riotously tropical coasts and lowlands, of ex tensive natural pastures and of thou sands of miles of virgin forests; a country whose varied climate is ca pable of nurturing the vegetation of every zone, yet which lies fallow for lack of highways and railroads." Illustrated. $3.00 net
The Hardy Flower Book C o m e s Opportunely w i t h the P o p u larity of These Species
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The Republics of South and Central America Their Resources, Industry, Sociology, and Future It is in fact an exposition of the so cial and political conditions of South America, affording exact and detailed information. The economic relations of the people to natural resources, and the advantages which the L a t i n - A m erican countries offer to the trading interests of the world, stand forth clearly.
Australia i n the M a k i n g D r . Fitchett's
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In "George Meredith" A C r i t i c a l Biography
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a great scale.
entire continent.
T h e stage is an F o r Australia offers
the only instance i n history where a The pages are scattered with such significant points as this remark of Meredith: '"Some times, by my fireside, I close my eyelids, and then whole chapters of new, unwritten novels thread their way before me. But for whom should I write them? T o what purpose? Is it not enough that I am able to pro duce from time to time a little poetry? I am too old n o w . ' " $1.50 net
Garden Craft in Europe Completely D e s c r i b e d from the Earliest T i m e s i n a B o o k of That Title by
H. Inigo Triggs A Great A u t h o r i t y o n the Subject The author explains: " W h e n my work on ' F o r m a l Gar dens in England and Scotland' ap peared ten years ago, it met with so gratifying a reception that I felt i n duced to extend my studies to the C o n tinent, and especially to Italy. M a n y opportunities of travel in France, Ger many, Holland, and Spain have since enabled me to collect the material for the present work."
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German Sea Power: Its R i s e , Progress, a n d E c o n o m i c Basis Carefully A n a l y z e d a n d E x plained by T w o E n g l i s h Writers
Archibald Hurd and Henry Castle They Credit A d m i r a l v o n Tirpitz w i t h B e i n g the B i s m a r c k o f G e r many's N a v a l D e v e l o p m e n t It goes back to the origins of Ger man
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Colonial Furniture in America A Splendid Definitive Treatment of Its Subject
By Luke Vincent Lockwood The Greatest Authority Contains More than Twice the Matter and Six Times the Illustrations of the Original Edition Just Published. Orders Instantly Filled
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Experts who have examined this beautiful work as manu script, proof, or book, consider it definitive, the last word on the subject. The writer has covered the entire field, has examined not every important collection in America only, but practically every collection in existence. The work is technically a new edition of a work of the same name by the same author published twelve years ago. But actually it is only the same as that former work in title, in the fact that the same inventories have been used, and that the writer has held to the same theory of development; for this work, in two sumptuous volumes, is more than twice as large ///Charles as the other, contains eight hundred and sixty^/Scribner's Sons nine illustrations, of which seven hundred and Fifth Avenue New York fifty are new, and treats a large number A of new topics, as well as discussing the / / / old ones in a different and far more detailed manner.
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T H E GRAHAM SCHOOL For Girls. Established in 1816. Resident and day pupils. Gen eral and college preparatory courses. Unrivaled location over looking Riverside Park and the Hudson. Howard D . Miner, Principal; Mary Josephine White, Assistant Principal. 42 Riverside Drive (at 76th St.), New York City.
THE VELTIN SCHOOL For Girls. College Preparatory and General Course. Num ber of pupils limited to twelve in each class. Fireproof building thoroughly equipped. 160 and 162 West 74th Street.
M R S . HELEN M . SCOVILLE'S SCHOOL FOR GIRLS Reopens October 1st. Resident and day pupils. Individual attention in regular, special, or postgraduate work. Art, Music, Dramatic Expression, Dancing, Sociology, Home Economics. Best use of city advantages. Rid ing, Swimming, Tennis, Wood Lore, Walk Talks, Slide Illustrations. Home care and social privileges. European travel. 2042 Fifth Avenue.
T H E HOLBROOK SCHOOL FOR BOYS "A school that is better than the catalogue." 500 ft. elevation, commanding a 40-mile view of the Hudson. 30 miles from New York. Complete equipment. A l l sports. College preparatory. Character references required. Catalogue on request. Ossining-on-Hudson, New York.
M R S . HAZEN'S S U B U R B A N SCHOOL FOR GISLS Half-hour from Grand Central Station, New York. Mrs.5JoHN C U N N I N G H A M HAZEN, Principal, Pelham Manor, New York.
T H E COMSTOCK Boarding and Day School for Girls. 5 2 East 7 2d Street, New York City. Special and Advanced Courses, Music, A r t , Languages, Physical Culture. Many Social Advantages. Lydia Dwight Day, Principal; Fanny C . Neale, Vice-Principal.
T H E SEMPLE BOARDING AND DAY SCHOOL For Girls. Building directly opposite Central Park. Regular and Special Courses. Languages, Music, Art, etc. Social recreation. Out-of-door sports. Foreign travel. Mrs. T . Darrington Semple, Principal, 241 Central Park West, corner 84th Street, New York.
THE MISSES R A Y S O N S Boarding and Day School for Girls. Special facilities for weekly resident pupils. Re-opens October 2nd. 164, 166, 168 West 75th Street, New York City.
ELINOR COMSTOCK MUSIC SCHOOL Miss Comstock, a pupil of Leschetizky, established a boarding and day school in ioro where environment is an incentive to serious work and where a musical education may be perfected. English Literature, French, Psy chology, History of Art and Classic Dancing. Preparation for Concerts and Operas. Elinor Comstock, Principal, 1000 Madison Ave., N . Y .
HEATHCOTE HALL The Misses Lockwood's Collegiate School for Girls. A country school with all the advantages of the metropolis. Faculty of sixteen instructors. Superior opportunities for Music and Draw ing. Healthful outdoor life. 40 minutes from Grand Central Station. Scarsdale, New York.
THE GARDNER SCHOOL FOR GIRLS Resident and Day Pupils. (57th year.) Exclusive location. Regular and Special Courses. Music, Art, Elocution. Physical culture. /Esthetic dancing. Outdoor life. City advantages with delightful home life. 607 Fifth Avenue, New York City.
MISS BANGS AND MISS WHITON The only Country School for Girls in New York City. A private school park of 35 acres. Twenty-third year. " A Real School." Certificate admits to colleges. Advanced special courses. Un equalled advantages in music. Riverdale Avenue, City of New York.
KNOX
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Miss S P E N C E S B O A R D I N G A N D DAY SCHOOL For Girls. Number in each class limited to eight pupils. Re moved from 6 West 48th Street to new fireproof building 30 West 55th Street. Residence 26 West 55th Street.
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City.
ACADEMY
78th y e a r b e g a n S e p t . 24, 1913. A h o m e for the b e t t e r k i n d o f b o y s . It looks beyond college entrance. I n s t r u c t i o n is t h o r o u g h , s a n e . Equipment m o d e r n . Its i n f l u e n c e m a k e s f o r m a n h o o d . 77 y e a r s o f c o n s e c u t i v e m a n a g e ment. F o r catalogue, address C . C . G a i n e s , M . A . , L L . D . , P r i n c i p a l , B o x 705, P o u g h k e e p s i e , N e w Y o r k .
S u b u r b a n to
SCHOOL FOR GIRLS New
York.
College Preparatory
engineering.
Catalogue on
request.
Dobbs-Ferry-on-Hudson, New
York.
on
request.
THE
PLEASANT ACADEMY
F o u n d e d i n 1814. P r e p a r e s for c o l l e g e , s c i e n t i f i c s c h o o l o r b u s i n e s s . Ration a l i z e d m i l i t a r y s y s t e m . M a n u a l t r a i n i n g . M O U N T P L E A S A N T H A L L is for b o y s u n d e r 13. S U M M E R C A M P i n the B e r k s h i r e s , u n d e r M r . Brusie's per s o n a l c h a r g e , is f o r b o y s u n d e r 15. S e n d for c a t a l o g u e . C h a r l e s F r e d e r i c k B r u s i e , B o x 508, O s s i n i n g - o n - H u d s o n , N . Y .
MILITARY
Principals,
NEW BORDENTOWN
MILITARY
Academic, Music,
Clara
C . Fuller,
IVY H A L L — M I S S MACDONALD SCHOOL FOR GIRLS colleges.
and
and
Gradu
J .
Naramore,
Y .
MANLIUS
SCHOOLS
Beautiful country location. S T . J O H N ' S S C H O O L — C o l l e g e and Business Preparatory. Beneficial M i l i t a r y T r a i n i n g . F o r t e n y e a r s r a n k e d b y U . S. G o v ' t as " D i s t i n g u i s h e d I n s t i t u t i o n , " t h e s u p r e m e h o n o r g r a n t e d . V E R B E C K H A L L — S e p a r a t e s c h o o l f o r b o y s f r o m 8 to 14. W r i t e for c a t a l o g u e s . A d d r e s s W m . V e r b e c k , President, Box G , Manlius, N e w Y o r k .
WILLARD
SCHOOL
For Girls. 100th y e a r . O n t h e h i l l s , 400 feet a b o v e t h e c i t y . Four new fireproof b u i l d i n g s , the gift o f M r s . R u s s e l l S a g e . Preparatory, G e n e r a l and S p e c i a l Courses. Certificate privileges. M u s i c , A r t , E l o c u t i o n , D o m e s t i c Science. G y m n a s i u m with s w i m m i n g pool. Catalogue on request. Miss E l i z a Kellas, P h . B . , Principal, T r o y , N e w Y o r k .
JERSEY
The 75
Pennington
years
worthy
of
consistent
work
school place
preparatory institutions.
Pennington
Finishing
A N D M I S S
boys ten more?
Courses.
Certificate
Exceptional advantages in Bridgeton, N e w
FINN'S
swimming-pool.
Jersey
music.
(near
admits
Frank
to
Strong
fourteen
Booklets
on
male
years. request.
among
America's
Prepares boys for a n y
college, business a n d technical schools.
College-Preparatory
Martha
A r t
Year-book
INSTITUTE
T h o r o u g h p r e p a r a t i o n for c o l l e g e o r b u s i n e s s . Efficient faculty, comfort able b u i l d i n g s , healthful location, careful supervision of athletics, m i l i t a r y d i s c i p l i n e t h a t d e v e l o p s c h a r a c t e r , a n d 28 y e a r s o f e x p e r i e n c e i n t r a i n i n g boys. F o r catalogue, write Rev. T . H . L a n d o n , A . M . , D . D . , Principal. Col. T . D . L a n d o n , Commandant, Bordentown-on-the-Delaware, N . J .
basket ball, tennis.
Post
house for y o u n g e r girls.
CASTLE
E M M A
HALL
V a s s a r P r e p a r a t o r y S c h o o l for girls. R e f e r s to D r . J a m e s M . T a y l o r , P r e s . Vassar College; D r . W m . A r n o l d Shanklin, Pres. Wesleyan University; Dr. Talcott Williams, Director Pulitzer School of Journalism, C o l u m b i a U n i v e r s i t y . C e r t i f i c a t e a d m i t s to V a s s a r a n d o t h e r l e a d i n g c o l l e g e s . A d d r e s s E l l e n C l i z b e B a r t l e t t , A . B . , P r i n c i p a l , B o x 807. P o u g h k e e p s i e , N e w Y o r k .
Year.
Certificate privileges.
Separate
M i s s C . E . M a s o n ' s S u b u r b a n S c h o o l f o r G i r l s . U p p e r S c h o o l f o r g i r l s 13 to 25; L o w e r S c h o o l f o r g i r l s 8 to 13. A l l departments. College preparatory, graduating a n d special courses. C e r t i f i c a t e a d m i t s to l e a d i n g c o l l e g e s . N e w Y o r k City A n n e x . E u r o p e a n c l a s s for s t u d y a n d t r a v e l . F o r circular address Miss C. E . Mason, L L . M . , L o c k B o x 707, T a r r y t o w n - o n - H u d s o n , N e w Y o r k .
T H E
ACADEMY
In H u d s o n H i g h l a n d s , near W e s t Point. F o u r new b u i l d i n g s , most c o m p l e t e fireproof M i l i t a r y S c h o o l i n t h e U . S . A r m y Officer i n c h a r g e o f d r i l l a n d d i s c i p l i n e . S p e c i a l c o u r s e for W e s t P o i n t c a n d i d a t e s . Infantry, Cavalry, Cadet B a n d . J u n i o r Dept. S u m m e r Session. F o r catalog address The Commandant, Cornwall-on-Hudson, New York.
46th
Courses.
Ossining-on-Hudson, N .
leading
college
to
York.
ate a n d special work.
to
for
advantages
Kingsbridge.
C a r e f u l p r e p a r a t i o n for higher business careers, college, a n d schools
PUTNAM
privilege
Riverdale-on-Hudson, N e w Telephone,
of
YORK
York
for younger
Address Frank
1870.
OSSINING MACKENZIE
N E W
Diploma
Unusual
for boys in the
college
privileges.
T h o r o u g h p r e p a r a t i o n for C o l l e g e , T e c h n i c a l S c h o o l or Business. Aver a g e n u m b e r of p u p i l s to a class, e i g h t . M o d e r n buildings. Healthful loca tion on M o h e g a n L a k e . Physical Culture and Athletics under competent Director. Booklet. A . E . L i n d e r , A . M . , Chas. H . Smith, A . M . , Principals, B o x 6r, M o h e g a n L a k e , "Westchester C o u n t y , N e w Y o r k .
M O U N T
Stowe,
upper N e w
Special department
courses.
York.
Certificate
grounds.
Miss Matilda
MOHEGAN
Rt.
college
N e w
Holyoke.
RIVERDALE COUNTRY SCHOOL New
country
General
from course.
M o u n t
T h e Misses
dale-on-Hudson,
Founded
and
GIRLS
fifteen.
Briarcliff M a n o r ,
ST. A G N E S
hour
general
Physical training, riding and
Mrs.
M R S .
one
and
Wellesley
teaching-staff.
Y e a r l y fee Opening
American
M o d e r n gymnasium $400 to date,
Junior
House
$600.
W h y
Sept.
with for pay
24.
MacDaniel, A . M . , D . D . , H e a d Master, Pennington, N . J .
Boating,
Philadelphia).
-THE LANSING-WALSH SEASIDE SCHOOLS Boarding and Day. Young Ladies, Girls, and Small Boys
Coleman House, Asbury Park. N. J.—GIRLS 560 West End Avenue, 87th S Asbury Kenilworth, Asbury Park, N.J.—BOYS New York City F a l l t e r m o p e n e d S e p t e m b e r 15th, 1913. R e g u l a r c o u r s e f r o m P r i m a r y to C o l l e g e . Special two years c o u r s e s , f o r a c a d e m i c g r a d u a t e s , i n A r t , M u s i c , L i t e r a t u r e , M o d e r n L a n g u a g e s , a n d E x p r e s s i o n for girls. T h e c o u n t r y s c h o o l is fifty m i l e s f r o m N e w Y o r k , i n t h e f a m o u s C o l e m a n H o u s e a n d A s b u r y K e n i l w o r t h . W e h a v e g y m n a s i u m ; H e a l t h M e r r y - g o - R o u n d ; use of a s w i m m i n g p o o l ; h o t a n d c o l d sea water baths; r o w i n g o n W e s l e y a n d D e a l L a k e s , s k a t i n g o n Sunset L a k e , all other out-door sports, a n d use of B o w l i n g A l l e y . T h e c l i m a t e is ideal i n w i n t e r at t h i s w e l l k n o w n r e s o r t . T h e school will arrange to c a r r y d a y p u p i l s a l o n g t h e c o a s t b y A u t o m o b i l e . M R . and M R S . L A N S I N G - W A L S H , Principals.
In answering advertisements please mention SCRIBNER'S
MAGAZINE
47
SCHOOLS AND COLLEGES N E W PEDDIE
J E R S E Y
KENT
INSTITUTE
A n e n d o w e d s c h o o l f o r b o y s , o f f e r i n g t h o r o u g h p r e p a r a t i o n for a l l c o l l e g e s . S t r o n g f a c u l t y . 250 b o y s . B u s i n e s s , M u s i c . 60-acre c a m p u s . G y m n a s i u m , swimming pool. Athletic field. L o w e r s c h o o l f o r b o y s 11 t o 14 y e a r s . K a t e s $ 4 0 0 t o $500. 48th y e a r o p e n e d S e p t . 2 4 t h . Catalog on request. Address R. W. S w e t l a n d , A . M . , B o x 10-C, H i g h t s t o w n , N e w J e r s e y .
KINGSLEY
SCHOOL
SCHOOL
PLACE SCHOOL
FOR GIRLS
College preparatory and special courses. Certificates accepted by leading colleges. Limited number of pupils insures individual attention. Spacious grounds. Suburban to New York. Gymna sium. Tennis, riding. Address Box 607. Miss Creighton and Miss Farrar, Principals, Englewood, New Jersey.
FOR GIRLS
Mrs. Paul, Miss Woodman, Principals. Hamilton W. Mabie, President of Board of Directors. College Preparatory and Gen eral Courses, Domestic Science. New school building. Gymna sium. In the Jersey Hills, 20 miles from New York. Circulars on request. Summit, New Jersey. MONTCLAIR
FOR BOYS
In the New Jersey hills, 22 miles from New York. Prepares for all colleges and scientific schools. Individual attention in small classes. Separate residence for younger boys. Gymnasium and extensive grounds for athletics and sports. For catalogue address J. R. Campbell, Principal, Essex Fells, N. J. DWIGHT
(CONTINUED)
ACADEMY
FOR BOYS
~~~
O n t h e O r a n g e M o u n t a i n s . 500 feet e l e v a t i o n , 13 m i l e s f r o m N e w Y o r k . C o m p l e t e e q u i p m e n t i n c l u d i n g g y m n a s i u m , s w i m m i n g p o o l a n d a t h l e t i c field. C o r r e s p o n d e n c e , o r b e t t e r a p e r s o n a l v i s i t , i n v i t e d f r o m t h o s e d e s i r i n g the best. O u r b o o k l e t . " Y o u r B o y a n d O u r S c h o o l . " w i l l interest y o u n o matter w h e r e y o u r s o u is e d u c a t e d . Address , J o h n G . M a c V i c a r , A . M . , L o c k B o x 22, M o n t c l a i r , N . J .
ST.
MARY'S HALL
FOR GIRLS
A Country School 18 miles from Philadelphia. College Prepara tory and General Courses. Music, Art, Domestic Science. Fine New Building. Mrs. Fearnley, Principal, Burlington, N. J .
P E N N S Y L V A N I A THE MISSES SCHOOL P r e p a r e s for B r y n of pupils limited. who have entered sports. 15th y e a r
ST.
KIRK'S
COLLEGE
PREPARATORY
M a w r a n d other colleges. Certificate privileges. N u m b e r S p e c i a l s c h e d u l e a r r a n g e d for e a c h . P e r c e n t a g e o f p u p i l s Bryn M a w r C o l l e g e unusually large. G y m n a s t i c s , outdoor o p e n s O c t o b e r 2, 1913. Bryn Mawr, Pa.
LUKE'S SCHOOL
ACADEMY
WALNUT
LANE
SCHOOL
FOR GIRLS
THE
BIRMINGHAM
MISSES
SHIPLEY'S
SCHOOL
SCHOOL
FORYOUNG
LADIES
Twenty minutes from Philadelphia. The late Mr. Jay Cooke's fine property. Park of 65 acres. The social and family life is a distinguishing feature. Catalogue and views on request. Miss A. A. Sutherland, Principal, Ogontz School P. O., Pa.
COLLEGE
F o r Girls a n d Y o u n g W o m e n . L o c a t e d w i t h i n N a t i o n a l C a p i t a l ; p a r k of 10 a c r e s ; c h o i c e s t e d u c a t i o n a l a n d s o c i a l a d v a n t a g e s ; r e f i n e d a s s o c i a t i o n s , most beautiful h o m e life. Preparatory, Certificate a n d C o l l e g e Courses.' Music. Art, E l o c u t i o n , Domestic Science. Literature o n request. Address F . Menefee, President, Washington, D . C .
NATIONAL
CATHEDRAL SCHOOL
SCHOOL
For Girls and Young Ladies. For particulars and catalog apply to Mrs. Phoebe Hamilton Seabrook, Principal, 823-25 Fifteenth St McPherson Square, Washington, D. C. 48
FOR GIRLS
MARSHALL'S SCHOOL
FOR GIRLS
SPRINGSIDE
Boarding and Day School for Girls. Mrs. Chapman and Miss Jones, Principals, Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia. MILITARY
COLLEGE
We train from the ground up, endeavoring to secure the highest order of efficiency, physical, mental, moral. Degrees granted in Civil Engineering, Chemistry, Arts. Also Preparatory Courses. Infantry, Artillery, Cavalry. 52d year opened Sept. 17. Send for Catalogue. Col. Chas. E . Hyatt, President, Chester, Pa. THE
BALDWIN SCHOOL
FOR GIRLS
P r e p a r e s for B r y n M a w r , S m i t h . V a s s a r a n d W e l l e s l e y C o l l e g e s . Strong general course with d i p l o m a . I m p r o v e m e n t s t o F i r e - p r o o f s t o n e b u i l d i n g to be m a d e d u r i n g s u m m e r . E x t e n s i v e g r o u n d s for a t h l e t i c s . Jane L . Brownell, A . M . , Head. E l i z a b e t h Forrest Johnson, A . B . . Associate H e a d . Address Baldwin School. P.O . B o x F , Bryn Mawr, Pa.
D. C .
MARTHA WASHINGTON YOUNG W O M E N
SEMINARY FOR
Infinestresidential section of National Capital. Twovears' course lor High School graduates, general and special courses. Domestic Science Outdoor sports. S6oo-$8oo. Edward W. Thompson, Principal, 1601 Connecticut Avenue, Washington D C.
FOR GIRLS
Fireproof building. Accommodation for 100 boarding pupils. In Cathedral Close of 40 acres. Unrivalled music, art and special courses. Certificates to college. The Bishop of Washington President Board of Trustees; Jessie C. McDonald, M.S. Principal' Mount St. Alban, Washington, D. C. HAMILTON
ACADEMY
A school of many advantages, situated in Philadelphia's most beautiful suburb. College preparatory, general and special courses. Music, Art, Elocution. Supervised athletics on the spacious school grounds. Catalogue. Miss E. S. Marshall, Principal, Oak Lane, Philadelphia, Pa.
W A S H I N G T O N , WASHINGTON
S A YW A R D' S S C H O O L
PENNSYLVANIA
Preparatory to Bryn Mawr College. Special educational and social opportunities of situation opposite Bryn Mawr College. College Preparatory and Academic Courses. New gymnasium and school rooms in the autumn. For circular, address The Secretary, Box J, Bryn Mawr, Pa. OGONTZ
A N DM A R S H A L L
SCHOOL, INC.
For Girls. An excellent school offering either Academic or College Preparatory Courses. Beautiful and healthful location in the mountains. On Main Line P. R. R. Gymnasium. Physical training. For catalogue address A. R. Grier, President, Box H, Birmingham, Pa. THE
W O M E N
In s u b u r b o f P h i l a d e l p h i a . College preparatory a n d special courses. Cer tificate a d m i t s to l e a d i n g c o l l e g e s . Music department. Physical training, outdoor sports, h o r s e b a c k r i d i n g , s w i m m i n g . Grounds a n d building en larged. Develops character, m i n d a n d b o d y . M i s s S. J a n e t S a y w a r d , P r i n c i p a l , O v e r b r o o k , P e n n s y l v a n i a .
M i s s
In beautiful, historic Germantown. City and country advan tages. General and College Preparatory courses. Special courses for High School graduates. Music, Art, Elocution, Domestic Sci ence, Sewing. Physical culture, basket-ball, tennis, riding. Miss S. Edna Johnston, A. B., Principal, Germantown, Philadelphia, Pa.
FOR Y O U N G
Founded 1787. Enters about 40 boys to colleges each year. Modern dormitories. Laboratories, gymnasium, athletic field. $125,000 in recent improvements. Good health record. Terms moderate. Catalog. T. G. Helm, A.M.; E . M . Hartman, A.M., Principals, Lancaster, Pennsylvania. MISS
O f f e r s a t h o r o u g h p h y s i c a l , m e n t a l a n d m o r a l t r a i n i n g for c o l l e g e o r b u s i n e s s . U n d e r Christian masters from the great universities. L o c a t e d in the C u m b e r l a n d V a l l e y , o n e o f the most p i c t u r e s q u e spots o f A m e r i c a . New gym nasium. Equipment modern. W r i t e f o r c a t a l o g . A d d r e s s B o x 104. W i l l i a m M a n n Irvine, L L . D . , Headmaster, M e r c e r s b u r g , P a .
SCHOOL
A Cultural and Practical School. Fits for any remunerative voca tion. College Preparatory; College Departments; Conservatory of Music; Art, Arts and Crafts, Oratory, Domestic Arts and Sci ences, Secretaryship, Normal Gymnastics, Normal Kindergarten. Swimming pool. M. H. Reaser, Ph.D.. President, Jenkintown, Pa. FRANKLIN
FOR BOYS
A " home-school" for college or business preparation. A limited number of pupils, large grounds, new buildings, healthful situation, supervised athletics, experienced teachers are essentials of our success. Send for illustrated catalogue. Charles Henry Strout, A.M., Headmaster, Wayne, Pa. (14 miles from Philadelphia.) MERCERSBURG
BEECHWOOD
G U N S T O N HALL A School for Girls. Established 1802. Preparatory and Academic Courses Two years Post-graduate and College work. Music, Art and Expression. Building specially planned for the school. Athletics Mrs. Beverley R. Mason, Principal; Miss E. M. Clark, LL.A., Associate, 1906 Florida Ave., Washington, D. C.
In answering advertisements please mention
SCRIBNER'S
MAGAZINE
SCHOOLS
AND
W A S H I N G T O N ,
FAIRMONT,
H O M E
A
SCHOOL
A city school offering c o u n t r y sports.
T H E
COLONIAL
SCHOOL
D .
COLLEGES C .
National P a r k
FOR G I R L S L i t e r a t u r e on request. Washington, D . C .
Seminary—for
FOR GIRLS
1Girls
. ^ W a s h i n g t o n , D . C. ( S u b u r b s ^ ^ Junior College. A H High School \ S courses a n d 2 years of College w o r k , r W i d e r a n g e of V o c a t i o n a l , A c a d e m i c a n d \ Cultural studies. A t t e n t i o n to s p e c i a l t a l e n t s a n d i n d i v i d u a l tastes. M u s i c , A r t , H o m e m a k i n g \ O p e n - a i r life n e a r N a t i o n a l C a o i t a l . I l l u s t r a t e d b o o k ' on request. Address Box 102, Forest Glen, M d .
W e l l - b a l a n c e d c o u r s e s for h i g h s c h o o l p u p i l s . C o l l e g e p r e p a r a t i o n . A d v a n c e d s t u d i e s for h i g h s c h o o l a n d s e m i n a r y g r a d u a t e s i n c l u d i n g t h r e e y e a r s w o r k ot c o l l e g e g r a d e i n E n g l i s h , H i s t o r y , S c i e n c e a n d L a n g u a g e s . M u s i c . Art. E x p r e s s i o n . H o m e E c o n o m i c s . O p e n air sports a n d athletics. Miss Charlotte Crittenden Everett, Principal, Washington, D . C .
BRISTOL
(CONTINUED)
SCHOOL
F o r Girls. French Residence. E l e c t i v e , Preparatory, A c a d e m i c a n d two y e a r s ' C o l l e g i a t e C o u r s e s . N e w $50,000 a d d i t i o n a l fireproof b u i l d i n g . G y m nasium, s w i m m i n g pool. B a s k e t b a l l , tennis. Literature, P s y c h o l o g y , Civics, b y Merrill E . Gates, P h . D . , L L . D . , L . H . D . , ex-President Amherst College. M i s s A l i c e A . B r i s t o l , P r i n c i p a l , M i n t w o o d PI. a n d 19th S t . , W a s h i n g t o n , D . C .
W I L S O N - G R E E N E SCHOOL OF MUSIC O n l y E x c l u s i v e H o m e M u s i c School for Y o u n g L a d i e s i n W a s h i n g ton. Voice, Piano, Languages, Physical Culture, D r a m a t i c A r t , O p e r a , C o n c e r t , O r a t o r i o . Ideal location, special social advantages. C a t a l o g . T h o s . E v a n s Greene, M r s . W i l s o n - G r e e n e , P r i n c i p a l s , 2647 C o n n e c t i c u t A v e . , W a s h i n g t o n , D . C .
M A S S A C H U S E T T S
SEA PINES
H O M E S C H O O L F O R GIRLS D i s t i n c t i v e l y
CAPEN'S
SCHOOL
Boston.
FOR GIRLS
F o r m a n y years k n o w n as " T h e B u r n h a m S c h o o l . " 38th year opens September i g t h , 1014. C o r r e s p o n d e n c e should be addressed to M i s s B . T . Capen, Principal, Northampton, M a s s ,
TENACRE A school for twenty-five y o u n g girls. P r e p a r a t o r y to D a n a H a l l . T e r m s $850. M i s s H e l e n T e m p l e C o o k e , D a n a H a l l , Wellesley, M a s s .
M I S S
CHAMBERLAYNE'S
SCHOOL
FOR GIRLS
G e n e r a l , S p e c i a l , a n d C o l l e g e P r e p a r a t o r y Courses. T h e F e n w a y 28, Boston.
M I S S
GUILD
A N D M I S S
EVANS'
THE
B U R N H A M
FOR Y O U N G
W O M E N
SEMINARY
A d v a n c e d work for H i g h S c h o o l graduates. Music, A r t , House hold Sciences. Address G . M . Winslow, P h . D . , Principal, n o W o o d l a n d R o a d , A u b u r n d a l e , Massachusetts.
P. 0 . Box G , Brewster, Cape Cod, Mass.
SCHOOL
FOR GIRLS
WHEATON COLLEGE FOR W O M E N E d u c a t e s for the home or the profession of teaching. A . B . degree. H e a l t h f u l location. 17 buildings. 100 acres. M e m b e r s h i p l i m i t e d . L i b e r a l endowment. A l s o W h e a t o n S e m i n a r y courses supervised b y the College. Catalog. Rev. Samuel V . Cole, D . D . , L L . D . , President, N o r t o n , M a s s . (30 miles from BOSTON). CUSHING ACADEMY E n d o w m e n t permits all the advantages of a h i g h - p r i c e d school for $300 a year. College certificate. M u s i c . Six buildings. N e w D o r m i t o r y . Laboratories. A t h l e t i c field. G y m n a s i u m . C o - e d u cational. W r i t e for illustrated booklet. H . S. C o w e l l , A . M . , P r i n c i p a l , A s h b u r n h a m , Massachusetts. ALLEN
SCHOOL
m t h y e a r . T h i r t y miles f r o m B o s t o n . A d d r e s s the P r i n c i p a l , Miss L a u r a A . K n o t t , A . M . . Bradford, Massachusetts.
LASELL
P e r s o n a l i t i e s
F o u n d e d b y M a r y A . B u r n h a m in 1877, is c o n t i n u i n g w i t h o u t interruption under the direction of M i s s H e l e n E . T h o m p s o n and Miss M a r t h a C . B u r n h a m . Preparatoiy, Graduating and Special Courses. Correspondence s h o u l d be addressed to M i s s H e l e n E . T h o m p s o n , Headmistress, N o r t h a m p t o n , M a s s .
SCHOOL
FOR
BOYS
A s c h o o l w h e r e b o y s are m a d e s e l f - r e l i a n t . P r e p a r a t i o n for all c o l l e g e s a n d scientific s c h o o l s . T e a c h e r for e v e r y 6 b o y s . Music, Manual Training, Drawing. 6 buildings. Gymna sium. S w i m m i n g Pool. Athletic Field. J u n i o r S c h o o l for younger boys. Catalogue. West Newton, Mass.
H O U S E IN T H E P I N E S A school for girls. Intermediate a n d a c a d e m i c courses. Lan guages—native teachers. M u s i c , H o u s e h o l d Arts. E v e r y atten tion, not only to habits of study, but to each girl's health a n d happiness. M i s s C o r n i s h , P r i n c i p a l , N o r t o n , Massachusetts (40 minutes f r o m Boston).
ACADEMY
D e v e l o p i n g
HOWARD SEMINARY A R e a l C o u n t r y School for G i r l s . 2=5 miles f r o m B o s t o n . 10 acres for outdoor sports. College certificate. T w o years' course for high school graduates. D o m e s t i c Science. A r t a n d M u s i c studios. Miss Sarah E . L a u g h t o n , A . M . , Principal, West Bridgewater, Massachusetts.
32d year. College p r e p a r a t o r y a n d general courses. Special a d vantages i n A r t , M u s i c , L a n g u a g e s and H o u s e h o l d A r t s . Visitors c o r d i a l l y welcomed. S e n d for catalogue. 29-31 F a i r f i e l d Street, corner C o m m o n w e a l t h A v e n u e , B o s t o n .
BRADFORD
to
Rev. Thomas Bickford, Miss Faith Bickford, Principals.
ABBOT ACADEMY A School for G i r l s . F o u n d e d 1828. 23 miles f r o m Address Miss Bertba Bailey, Principal, Andover, M a s s .
M i s s
D e v o t e d
G e n u i n e h a p p y h o m e life ; p e r s o n a l a t t e n t i o n a n d c a r e . G r o w i n g girls inspired by wholesome and b e a u t i f u l i d e a l s o f u s e f u l w o m a n h o o d . T h e C a p e c l i m a t e is e x c e p t i o n a l l y f a v o r a b l e f o r a n o u t d o o r l i f e , w h i c h w e m a k e a t t r a c t i v e a n d r e f i n i n g . O n e h u n d r e d a c r e s ; p i n e g r o v e s , iooo feet o f s e a s h o r e , p o n i e s . H y g i e n e a n d m o r a l s are o b s e r v e d e s p e c i a l l y for results in h e a l t h , c h a r a c t e r a n d e d u c a t i o n . Gymnastics, Music, H a n d i w o r k , Domestic Arts. F r e n c h , G e r m a n , Spanish—native teachers. A l l b r a n c h e s of study u n d e r patient a n d enthusiastic instructors. Address
ROGERS
HALL
SCHOOL
FOR
GIRLS
Lowell, Massachusetts. 38 m i n u t e s f r o m B o s t o n . C o u n t r y sports. N e w g y m n a s i u m and swimming pool. F o r catalogue a n d views, address M i s s O l i v e S. P a r s o n s , B . A . , P r i n c i p a l .
M I S S
HALL'S
F o r Girls.
SCHOOL
M i s s M i r a H . H a l l , P r i n c i p a l , Pittsfield, M a s s .
POWDER POINT SCHOOL FOR BOYS L a n d a n d water sports. A t h l e t i c fields. R u n n i n g T r a c k . 5 m o d ern b u i l d i n g s . 16 acres. Summer camp in Maine. College or business p r e p a r a t i o n . U p p e r a n d L o w e r Schools. Address H e n r y P . M o u l t o n , J r . , D i r e c t o r , or R a l p h K . B e a r c e , A . M . , H e a d m a s t e r , 45 K i n g Caesar R o a d , D u x b u r y , M a s s a c h u s e t t s .
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49
SCHOOLS
AND
COLLEGES I N D I A N A
C O N N E C T I C U T
THE For
ELY SCHOOL G i r l s . I n the c o u n t r y .
O n e hour from N e w Y o r k C i t y . E l y Court, Greenwich, Connecticut.
E L M H U R S T O n l y h i g h g r a d e n o n - s e c t a r i a n c o u n t r y s c h o o l for girls in the M i d d l e W e s t . O u t d o o r sleeping a n d s t u d y . H e a l t h . Efficiency. Ideals. N u m b e r l i m i t e d to t w e n t y - f o u r . R . D . 6, B o x 2, C o n n e r s v i l l e , I n d i a n a .
M I C H I G A N
INGLESIDE A
S c h o o l for G i r l s .
M i s s
HOWE
T h e Misses T e w k s b u r y , Principals, N e w M i l f o r d , Litchfield County, Connecticut.
A N D M I S S
M A R O T S
THE LIGGETT SCHOOL F o r m e r l y the D e t r o i t H o m e a n d D a y S c h o o l . E s t a b l i s h e d 1878. E q u i p m e n t m o d e r n . T w e n t y - f i v e received i n S c h o o l F a m i l y . T h e Misses Liggett, Principals, Detroit, M i c h i g a n . J
SCHOOL
F o r girls desiring general, a d v a n c e d a n d college p r e p a r a t o r y courses. U n u s u a l advantages in M o d e r n L a n g u a g e s , M u s i c , A r t and P h y s i c a l T r a i n i n g . T h i r t y acres. M a n s i o n house a n d cottages. A l l outdoor sports. C i r c u l a r o n request. Thompson, Conn.
R H O D E THE T A C O N I C S C H O O L FOR G I R L S O v e r l o o k i n g a beautiful l a k e i n the B e r k s h i r e H i l l s . G i r l s taught how to s t u d y . N e w g y m n a s i u m . M i s s L i l i a n D i x o n , A . B . , P r i n cipal. M i s s C a t h a r i n e B u r r o w e s , A . B . , Associate P r i n c i p a l . Lakeville, Conn.
LINCOLN
SCHOOL.
I S L A N D
I N C O R P O R A T E D .
Providence, R . I .
F o r Girls. E s t a b l i s h e d 1884. A city school with c o u n t r y sports. College. Preparatory and General Courses. Music, Art, Domestic Science. New fireproof building under construction. Large grounds. Basketball, h o c k e y , t e n n i s , s k a t i n g , aesthetic d a n c i n g . F o r illustrated circular, address M i s s F r a n c e s L u c a s ,
PrincipaL
M A R Y L A N D O H I O GLENDALE
THE
T O M E
S C H O O L
A n E n d o w e d Preparatory School.
Illustrated B o o k o n Request.
T h o m a s Stockham Baker, P h . D . , Port Deposit, M d .
COLLEGE
F O R E I G N
NOTRE
DAME
OF
FOREIGN
MARYLAND
A C o l l e g e for W o m e n — c o n d u c t e d b y t h e S c h o o l S i s t e r s o f N o t r e D a m e to t r a i n t h e b o d y , m i n d a n d s p i r i t — t o d e v e l o p t r u e w o m a n h o o d . Magnifi c e n t b u i l d i n g s i n a b e a u t i f u l p a r k o f 70 a c r e s . R o w i n g , basketball, tennis, hockey. Instructors all specialists. R e g u l a r a n d elective courses. Music, Art. W r i t e for c a t a l o g . C h a r l e s Street A v e n u e , B a l t i m o r e , Maryland."
The M i c h a e l Reese h o s p i t a l t r a i n ing s c h o o l f o r n u r s e s O f f e r s a t h r e e - y e a r c o u r s e o f s t u d y a n d p r a c t i c e i n n u r s i n g to w e l l - q u a l i f i e d young women. G r a d u a t e s e l i g i b l e for S t a t e R e g i s t r a t i o n . T u i t i o n free. $ 8 . 0 0 a m o n t h a l l o w e d to c o v e r e x p e n s e o f u n i f o r m s a n d t e x t - b o o k s . The h o s p i t a l has l a r g e s u r g i c a l a n d m e d i c a l d e p a r t m e n t s , a separate b u i l d i n g r e c e n t l y o p e n e d for t h e c a r e o f c h i l d r e n , a l s o l a r g e o b s t e t r i c a l s e r v i c e . O p p o r t u n i t y w i l l b e g i v e n i n t h e t h i r d y e a r f o r s p e c i a l t r a i n i n g in t h e S o c i a l - Service department. F a l l t e r m b e g i n s O c t o b e r 1st. F o r c i r c u l a r a n d par ticulars, a d d r e s s the S U P E R I N T E N D E N T O F T H ET R A I N I N G S C H O O L , M I C H A E L
R E E S E
MONTICELLO
H O S P I T A L ,
C H I C A G O ,
I I I .
SEMINARY
7 6 t h y e a r o p e n e d S e p t . 18th, 1913. S c h o o l for Y o u n g W o m e n a n d G i r l s . P r e paratory and Junior C o l l e g e Courses. Domestic Science. Music, Art. Certificate privileges. F i n e buildings. W e l l - e q u i p p e d laboratory. Gymna sium. Beautiful c a m p u s , with tennis courts, archery range, basket-ball and hockey fields. Rates moderate. M i s s M A R T I N A C . E K I C K S O N , P r i n . . Godfrev. 111.
V I R G I N I A
SWEET
BRIAR
COLLEGE
A C o l l e g e for W o m e n , o f the g r a d e o f V a s s a r , W e l l e s l e y , S m i t h a n d B r y n Mawr. F o u r years of collegiate a n d two years of p r e p a r a t o r y w o r k are given. O n Southern R a i l r o a d south of W a s h i n g t o n . Catalogue and v i e w s sent o n a p p l i c a t i o n to Dr.
50
M a r y K . Benedict, Frest.,
Box
108,
Sweet Briar
A N D
GIRLS
STUDY
S T U D Y
A N D
A N D TRAVEL
FOR
T R A V E L GIRLS
V i l l a d u R o u l e School, P a r i s , F r a n c e . P r i n c i p a l s , M i s s M a r g u e rite G i b s o n , M i s s A n n a S e a b o r n . A l l classes i n F r e n c h . T r a v e l in F r a n c e , A f r i c a , S i c i l y , I t a l y . W i n t e r sports i n S w i t z e r l a n d . F o r c i r c u l a r address M i s s S e a b o r n , care of M i s s E u p h e m i a H o l d e n , 60 B r o a d w a y , N e w Y o r k C i t y . ITALY:
I L L I N O I S
FOR W O M E N
One of the most beautifully located a n d h e a l t h f u l s u r r o u n d i n g s i n A m e r i c a . E v e r y c o n d i t i o n for t h o r o u g h courses a n d l i b e r a l c u l t i vation. A r t , M u s i c , E x p r e s s i o n , H o u s e h o l d Science. Terms moderate. M i s s R . J . D e V o r e , President, Glendale, O h i o (subur ban to C i n c i n n a t i ) .
M T . ETNA
TO T H E
A L P S
M i s s M . B o w m a n W h e e l e r C o x e , for years one of the F a c u l t y , A r t S c h o o l of the A l b r i g h t G a l l e r y , B u f f a l o , w i l l t a k e a p a r t y to S i c i l y a n d I t a l y . T o u r c o m p r e h e n d s e v e r y t r e a s u r e - h o u s e of his t o r y a n d a r t . M i s s M . B o w m a n W h e e l e r C o x e , 2314 N i n e t e e n t h Street, N o r t h w e s t , W a s h i n g t o n , D . C .
Rates for School and, College Advertising in Scribner's Magazine: 1 page . . $250.00 % page . 125.00 % page . 62.50
/ page . . $31.25 1 inch . . 17.50 % inch . . 8.75 8
T i m e discounts: 20% on yearly orders. 10% for six months. Seven lines mini mum space accepted. The extent of S C R I B N E R S circulation —The character of S C R I B N E R S readers —The cost of S C R I B N E R S s e r v i c e make S C R I B N E R ' S M A G A Z I N E of first importance in school advertising. Espe cially in 1913.
Va
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SCHOOLS AND COLLEGES M U S I C
A N D D R A M A T I C
A R T S
C O R R E S P O N D E N C E
S C H O O L S
TheInstitituteof
Musical Art oftheCityofNewYork FRANK Invites
DAMROSCH,
Director
c o r r e s p o n d e n c e o rp e r s o n a l a p p l i c a t i o n from desiring the best in musical education.
AN
ENDOWED
those
SCHOOL OF MUSIC
C o n d u c t e d s o l e l y i n t h e i n t e r e s t s o f h i g h e r m u s i c a l e d u c a t i o n . It p r o v i d e s students o f natural ability a n d earnest p u r p o s e a t h o r o u g h , c o m plete a n d comprehensive education i n music without g o i n g abroad. T h e O p e r a t i c D e p a r t m e n t i s c a r r i e d o n i n close nttlliatloii w i t h the M e t r o polltan O p e r a House. T h e Institute c o m m a n d s the services, i n a l l d e p a r t m e n t s , o f teachers ot t h e h i g h e s t e x c e l l e n c e , w h o s e p r i v a t e t e r m s w o u l d b e p r o h i b i t i v e to m o s t students. T u i t i o n fees a r e m o d e r a t e a n d u n i f o r m . Dates of examina t i o n a n d e n r o l l m e n t — S e p t e m b e r 29th t h r o u g h O c t o b e r 9 t h . Session o p e n s O c t o b e r 13th. C a t a l o g u e a n d f u l l i n f o r m a t i o n o n r e q u e s t . A d d r e s s S e c r e t a r y , 120 C l a r e m o n t A v e n u e , N e w Y o r k
AMERICAN ACADEMY DRAMATIC
Connected with r v i r . Charles Frohman's Empire Theatre and Companies
ARTS
Franklin H . Sargent President F o r C a t a l o g u e a n d I n f o r m a t i o n * apply t o Secretary, Room 150, Carnegie Hall, New York FOUNDED IN 1884
The
N E W
Y O R K
C O L L E G E
O F M U S I C
Directors: Carl Hein, August Fraemcke. Thorough instruc tion in all branches of music by 40 eminent instructors. Send for Catalogue, Dept. L . 128, 130 East 58th Street, New York City.
The hands at home are reach ing for every man's salary. You must advance t o k e e p a h e a d of y o u r
C O R R E S P O N D E N C E
S C H O O L S
needs, a n d t h e o n l y w a y t o a d v a n c e i s t o keep learning more and more about your work.
The University of Chicago
HOME STUDY 22nd Year
in addition to resident work, offers also instruc tion by correspondence. For detailed information address U . of C . ( D i v . F ) Chicago, III.
T h o u s a n d s of m e n h a v e r i s e n t o h i g h - s a l a r i e d positions through the a i d of the International Correspondence Schools. Y o u can do the same. Mark in w h i c h
is the one which builds up an institution by supplying it with students who will be a credit to it—the one which has weight and influence in the homes where the advan tages of the Private School are recognized, appreciated, and acted upon. Not always the homes of the rich, but always the homes of innate refinement. For 25 years SCRIBNERS has been wel comed in such homes. As such homes have become more numerous the circulation of SCRIBNERS has increased. To-day its value as a medium for advertising the best schools is unequalled—unequalled in the ex
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INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE SCHOOLS B o x 938, SCRANTON, P A . ' I Explain, without further obligation on my part, how I can qualify for the position before which I mark X
I
Salesmanship E l e c t r i c a l Engrineer Elec. L i g h t i n g Supt. Telephone Expert A r c h i tect B u i l d i n g Contractor A r c h i t e c t u r a l Draftsman
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tent of its circulation to homes that count. 51
SCRIBNER'S
52
Albert
Brown
MAGAZINE
Key
ADVERTISER
JamesHenderson
Key
Our twin boys have had Mellin's Food ever since the day they were born. They have ^rown and thrived on it. We have recommended Mellin's Food to several people who have babies and all who have tried it are wonderfully pleased with it." Mrs.R.B.F.Key, Arkedelphia, Arkansas
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Archdeacon
Hudson
S t u c k h o l d i n g service i n one of his A l a s k a n
MAGAZINE
missions.
NOTES
Archdeacon has had years of experience i n Alaskan snows. " F r o m border to border, nearly, of Alaskan territory, and well within the Arctic circle, w i t h an Indian boy as companion, through hundreds of miles in the Alaskan winter, threading dan " F A I R B A N K S , A L A S K A , June 20.—The ascent of the highest peak of M o u n t M c K i n l e y was gerous passes and spending nights on slopes accomplished for the first time on June 7, when where the thermometer registered 70 degrees the party led by Archdeacon Hudson Stuck, below zero, he made his rounds with dog and Episcopal missionary for Alaska, accompanied sled. Though not so well known to the pub by Robert G . T a t u m , H a r r y P . Karstens, and lic, his adventures have been similar i n char Walter Harper, reached the top of the south acter and scarcely inferior i n number to those peak of the mountain, the highest on the con of Bishop Rowe. T o miners and natives he tinent. News of the success of the expedition has been 'guide, philosopher, and friend'— was received to-day b y a messenger sent b y and very often doctor, too. D r . Stuck, who is resting at the base camp." " A w a y off i n the snows of the Y u k o n , an The story of the expedition will be told b y ideal missionary, he built up a fame that made the Archdeacon i n the November number, ac him a leader i n the Episcopal Church, not i n companied b y his own photographs. The nar missions only, but i n other ways. rative is one of the most romantic and thrilling " N o b o d y i n the Episcopal C h u r c h but has accounts of adventure i n the annals of moun heard of him, although he comes from E n g l a n d tain climbing. It is told with reserve and dig by way of Texas, and has been eight or nine nity and yet no one can read it without realiz years i n distant Alaska. N o b o d y wonders he ing the hardships experienced and the dangers got to the top of M o u n t M c K i n l e y . A s A r c h that constantly menaced. T h e paragraphs deacon of Alaska, it has been his work to telling of the scene when the flag was hoisted travel thousands of miles, b y dogs and on foot, and all joined i n a Te Deum give a v i v i d and and he has helped Bishop R o w e to b u i l d up a thrilling impression of the spirit and courage missionary work i n Alaska that is famous i n all that made the achievement possible. The missionary annals." M o u n t M c K i n l e y ' s highest summit has at last been reached beyond all doubt. The following telegram announced the com plete success of the expedition led b y Arch deacon Hudson Stuck:
53
54
MAGAZINE
Theodore Roosevelt's article i n the N o v e m ber number will describe " T h e Life-History of the African Rhinoceros and Hippopotamus." N o one has ever before made so careful and de tailed a study of the great African game, a n d the author has supplemented his own observa tions with those of other famous hunters and naturalists. These life-histories are mighty interesting reading for old and young alike, they have the intimate personal note of the author with an array of facts that will cer tainly be the foundation for a l l future nat uralists. F r o m the pictures and stories of the blind rage of the charging rhino i t would appear one of the most dangerous of ani mals, b u t Colonel Roosevelt doesn't consider it so. "Personally, I consider the rhinoceros the least dangerous of all really dangerous game, although many good hunters hold the con trary view. T h e first one I ever saw, a bull, charged savagely when mortally wounded, at a distance of a little over thirty yards, and was killed just thirteen yards from me. B u t I was never really charged again. I hit and knocked over one animal which we h a d stalked as i t was galloping toward us, at a distance of sev enty or eighty yards, b u t I think that this rhino was curious rather than enraged and would not have charged home. K e r m i t was charged by one which he had mortally wounded, but i t turned upon receiving another and much slighter wound. T w o or three of m y Ameri can friends who have hunted i n East Africa have h a d narrow escapes from rhinos which charged after being wounded, or when the effort was made to photograph them. Unques tionably, compared to his mild and placid square-mouthed kinsman, the hook-lipped rhino is a fidgety, restless, irritable, and at times dangerous creature."
NOTES
novel the subject of long editorial comment. T h a t it is a very real picture of certain phases of American social life few will deny, and i t holds the interest without abatement. Whether you like the people or not, y o u want to know their story. There is small doubt b u t that i t will reach even a larger audience than the same author's famous " T h e House of M i r t h . " H o w different i n substance the other novel by M r . Galsworthy, " T h e D a r k F l o w e r " (the L o v e Life of a M a n ) , and how h u m a n its appeal, how beautifully written. I t will also end with the November number.
If occasionally there are mawkish manifesta tions of sentiment over criminals, are there not thousands of instances where a little consider ation of the guilty as a human being might change the record of his life? T h e separation, the loneliness, the helplessness of " T h e M a n Behind the B a r s , " his attitude toward life, the world, his thoughts, have never been more s y m pathetically and at the same time more reason ably dealt with than i n M i s s T a y l o r ' s articles, the second of which appears i n the N o v e m b e r number. T h e y let y o u i n behind the bars, and afford the opportunity of seeing the life from the inside. There has never been a time when there was wider interest i n all sorts of social questions, and this one of punishment, of segregating the lawless, is one of v i t a l interest to all communi ties. T h e author's experiences w i t h the socalled " h a b i t u a l s " seem specially w orth quo ting: " ' H a v e any of your " h a b i t u a l s " perma nently reformed ? ' I a m asked. " T h e y certainly have, more of them than even m y optimism expected; a n d under cir cumstances when I have been amazed that their moral determination d i d not break. I n my preconceived opinion, the most hopeless case I This year has been a remarkable one i n the ever assisted surprised me b y settling down, Magazine's fiction. F o r a number of months under favorable environment, into a n honest, the novels b y two of the greatest writers of fic self-supporting citizen; a n d we m a y rest as tion have been running along together. M r s . sured that he is guarding his boys from all Wharton's " T h e Custom of the C o u n t r y " has knowledge of criminal life. run nearly through the year. F r o m its first " After I came to understand how all the odds number i t has been much written about and were against the penniless one, scarred and much discussed. The career of Undine Spragg crippled b y repeated crimes a n d punishments, has been followed with increasing interest and it was not his past nor his future that interested how she is "coming o u t " is a problem that me so deeply as what was left of the man. I no doubt only the author has solved. T h e suppose I was always i n search of that some story will end i n the November number and it thing which we call the soul. A n d I some will be i n book form, of course, immediately. times found it where I least looked for i t : among Three of N e w Y o r k ' s great dailies made this the very dregs of convict life." T
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S C R I B N E R S VOL. LIV
M A G A Z I N E
OCTOBER,
T H E
N E W
NO. 4
1913
REPUBLIC
SOME IMPRESSIONS OF A PORTUGUESE
B y Charles L i n c o l n Freeston, A u t h o r of " T h e H i g h - R o a d s of the A l p s , "
ILLUSTRATIONS
FROM
PHOTOGRAPHS
ONE can make no voyage of d i s c o v e r y nowadays; al most every spot in the i n habited g l o b e has b e e n e x p l o r e d . B u t one may write from personal knowl edge, nevertheless, on almost any country for a variety of reasons. Travel books and travel articles need to be rewritten for the sake of each succeeding generation, quite apart from the mere question of being brought up to date; one man's i m pressions, again, may differ materially from those of his immediate predecessor; and, above all, there is the fact that, no matter how many people may have read something about this territory or that, there will always be a still larger field of those whose attention has hitherto been unattracted, and whose eye a further book or article may catch at the very moment when the prospect of a visit to the region described may prove the reverse of unwel come. Of Portugal it may be said that it is un doubtedly less known to the touring pub lic than any European country which does not border on the remote or semicivilized. Its two chief towns, Lisbon and Oporto, are familiar enough because of their being on the littoral, and ports of call for various lines of ocean-bound ves sels; but the number of tourists who set off from America or E n g l a n d for the sake of exploring Portugal throughout has so Copyright,
1913,
by Charles Printed
VOL.
LIV—39
TOUR
F.R.G.S.
" T h e Passes of the P y r e n e e s , " etc.
BY T H E A U T H O R
A N D OTHERS
far been limited in the extreme. One pre disposing cause of this, of course, is the fact that the country cannot conveniently be approached by land; any one doing the European tour would hesitate, after a journey embracing Italy, Switzerland,Tyr ol, and France, to traverse Spain, on slow trains, i n order to reach the western limit of the Iberian Peninsula. It might justi fiably be done if one were assured that the game would be worth the candle; but, i n the absence of definite information on the subject, the trip, if considered at all, has usually been regarded as highly specula tive rather than one which promised prac tical returns. Let me say at once, therefore, as a considered opinion, and i n a word, that Portugal is veritably the most interesting country i n Europe, if by interesting be implied the presentation of a liberal array of delightful and unheralded surprises. If Italy, for example, were almost unknown, and Portugal, on the other hand, were the rendezvous of the art-lovers of the world, it would have to be admitted that Italy was at once the more beautiful and the more richly endowed with treasures; but, in proportion to the ordinary traveller's knowledge of his available opportunities, there is no comparison between Portugal and Italy, or any other country to which the tide of travel annually flows i n formi dable volume. So various are the points of view from
S c r i b n e r ' s Sons. in N e w
A l l rights r e s e r v e d .
York.
4°3
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T h e N e w Republic
which Portugal may be discussed that it every superlative for its own sake, even is difficult at the very outset to know though it does not rise to a relatively ac which to include and which to reject. The curate appraisement of the object of com mendation. None the less, i n the hope of disarm ing suspicion i n advance, I must be allowed to say that I have no special pleading to undertake on Portugal's account, but have merely to record the disinterested impressions of a jour ney from end to end, embarked upon without prepossessions of any kind; and if, as was the case, it proved to be fruitful i n pleasurable experiences I can but endeavor to set them down in just and precise terms, primarily with the view of indicating the chief inducements which should draw the tourist to this charming but compara tively unfrequented land. It is more than probable that he will need to disabuse his mind, i n the first instance, of the idea that Portugal is merely Spain i n miniature. As a matter of fact, there is little kinship between the two. On paper the lan guages of the two countries bear con siderable similarity, but the pronuncia tion of Portuguese differs so materially from the Spanish that no advantage The P a l a c e H o t e l , B u s s a c o . of convenience accrues from a knowl S t a n d s p r o u d l y a m i d t h e w o o d as a . s t r i k i n g m o n u m e n t o f M a n u e l i n e edge of the latter tongue. I n all other architecture. respects, moreover, everything about further difficulty has to be faced, more Portugal and the Portuguese is distinctive over, that one is bound to write on the coun to an absolute degree; the most jaded travtry's manifold attrac tions with enthusiasm, and nothing in this nil admirari world is harder than to speak apprecia tively without the at tendant suggestion of a lack of temperate judg ment. If a thing is good one is permitted to say even that it is very good without fear of contra diction; but when one comes across something t h a t is immeasurably superior, and ordinary adjectives fail to give a just description of its merits, there are scep tics i n plenty who are A corner of the A n n e x , B u s s a c o H o t e l . prepared to d i s c o u n t Surrounded by one of the finest woods in Europe.
T h e N e w Republic eller, indeed, will find there a freshness of aspect, i n one direction or another, for which he will assuredly be wholly unpre pared. Need it be said that this of itself is paramount as an attraction? Almost unlimited is the list of charac teristic features for any one of which the
405
fect, is illustrated by the fact that, in M a r c h last, I met an English lady on board ship who had stayed six weeks at M o n t ' E s t o r i l , near Lisbon, and had bathed in the sea every day in February! N o r was the season exceptionally w a r m ; if anything it was the contrary, and the
T h e H o l y Staircase a n d C h u r c h , B o m J e s u s .
country is worth visiting, and each i n its way is so important that priority of men tion must be entirely fortuitous. Before descending from the general to the partic ular one may attempt a summary of these as follows, but with the premise that they might be given i n any other order. The climate is the most wonderful in Europe. A polyglot crowd of scores of thousands flies annually to the Riviera from every part of Europe in order to en joy the supposed maximum of sunshine, but often to be undeceived b y weeping skies, and with the cruel mistral as a cer tainty. A t Lisbon, on the other hand, cold weather as understood elsewhere is literally unknown; the temperature is not only higher than that of the Riviera, but is equable to a degree that almost defies belief. What this means in practical ef-
Portuguese were complaining of cold at the very time that I was revelling in the sun and filled with astonishment at the con trast between Lisbon and the bleakness which I had happily left behind in E n g land. Accentuating this initial revelation as to climate, the amazing prodigality of the vegetation leaves one steeped i n wonder ment. A l l through the winter the camel lia blooms gloriously in myriads en plein air; commingled with the varied greens of the luxuriant woods are the brilliant yellows of the mimosas, which are seen in two forms, as trees and shrubs respect ively; oranges grow like apples in an English orchard; while the palm, the cac tus, and other subtropical trees and plants abound on every side. E v e n the roads are lined with aloes in lieu of hedges,
406
T h e New Republic
A n d what of the scenery? T o me this Alpine or Pyrenean regions have I seen was the most surprising factor of any. such satisfying prospects as are available Portugal is pre-eminently a country of i n almost every part of Portugal. The peasant life of Portugal is a study i n itself. It varies i n type, of course, according to whether one goes north or south, but everywhere alike it is agreeable to contemplate. M u c h as I have learned to admire, and from long acquaintance, the stalwart na tives of Tyrolean valleys, the contadine of Italy, and the paysannes of pro vincial France, I have nowhere seen so much that is perennially interest ing i n the way of rural life as i n Por tugal. A n d it is well that this should be so, for the country is mainly agri cultural, and the peasants constitute the major portion of the population; sad indeed, therefore, would it be if they presented pictures of downtrod den humanity engaged in a ceaseless struggle with grinding poverty. H a p pily the reverse is the case. The country as a whole is poor, for the industries are few; but the peasants themselves are a hard-working but contented race, and if the women lack E n t r a n c e to the C h a t e a u of Montserrate. the striking beauty of the Italian worker in the fields, they appear to find rolling landscapes. As one wedded to the delights of high ground, I expected little their lot much less oppressive. A s might in the way of e n t r a n c i n g m o u n t a i n views; and, in deed, there is no really lofty ground on the more com monly visited routes. None the less, the array of striking panoramas is nothing if not marvellous. There are sum mits of from two to three t h o u s a n d feet which com mand prospects of twenty miles in extent, bounded i n the far distance by the A t lantic, while the intervening range of view is of quite ex ceptional beauty owing to the splendid series of undu lating hills, rich forests, ver dant valleys, and winding rivers. The hills, moreover, N a t i v e costumes at B r a g a . run right down to the coast, so that the towns are rarely flat, but extend themselves picturesquely be expected from the paucity of tour in tier upon tier above the level of the sea ist travel, they are somewhat shy with or flowing stream. Nowhere away from strangers, but uniformly courteous if defi-
T h e N e w Republic nitely approached, and exceedingly goodhearted. Of towns the number is comparatively few, but each has characteristics of its own, and all are extraordinarily rich in architectural and historical interest. I n almost any one of them a stay of weeks
The
over, the political history of the country and the present state of internal affairs, which is not, unfortunately, of the most satisfactory kind. T o what extent the new republican government—as to its per sonnel, not qua republic—is destined to justify itself it would be entirely out of
C a s t l e of
Penha.
T h e f a v o r i t e s u m m e r r e s i d e n c e o f t h e late K i n g
could profitably be made for research pur poses alone. Above all else in Portugal, however, where stone and mortar are con cerned, the importance of the architec ture is supreme. N o t only is it surpassingly rich i n quality, but it is specially distin guished from the fact that much of it is of a distinct type—namely, the Manueline, on which endless pages might be writ ten. I n short, to conclude this brief sum mary, it may be said that the attractive ness of Portugal is vital i n half a dozen directions at least, and it would be more than worth while to pass from one end of the country to the other with the sole object of specializing i n any one of these to the exclusion of all the others. This leaves entirely out of the question, more-
407
Carlos.
place for me to discuss here, the sole con cern of this article being to pay emphatic but genuinely appreciative testimony to the wealth of its resources as a new field for the British or American tourist. As to the best manner of viewing the country, there is no manner of need for the laying down of an itinerary, inasmuch as the traveller will be spared all trouble if he intrusts himself to the Booth Steamship Company. H e may sail to Oporto or L i s bon by several lines, but the Booth is the only one which addresses itself to the re quirements of those who desire to explore the interior with advantage, and it issues combined tickets for the sea, rail, and road journeys alike which are i n every way complete and satisfactory; and, though
T h e Serra d e Cintra. S h o w i n g the C a s t l e o f P e n h a at left a n d the
" Castle o f the
M o o r s " at
right.
there is nothing of the " personally con lage, but merely a hotel and a post-office. ducted" order, the agents of the company B u t what a hotel! A n d what an environ r e n d e r all that is ment! T h e build n e c e s s a r y i n the ing is an architec way of a s s i s t a n c e tural marvel; it is a n d advice. Were surrounded b y one the case otherwise I of the finest woods should deem it es in Europe; and the sential to d i s c u s s adjoining hillsides practical details at are famous i n the greater length, es world's history, for pecially i n view of it was here that Wel the fact that Portu lington defeated the gal, as yet, is unfa French and turned miliar ground; but back the a l l - c o n the position is virtu q u e r i n g a r m y of ally so simple that M a s s e n a . B u t for I may safely leave this check Napoleon this a s p e c t of the would have annexed subject, and pass to P o r t u g a l , and the a review of some of whole Peninsula the o u t s t a n d i n g would have lain at a t t r a c t i o n s of the his feet. country. O r i g i n a l l y de First and foremost T h e old M o o r i s h P a l a c e at C i n t r a . signed as a r o y a l among these I would palace, on the most place Bussaco. It is almost worth a book sumptuous lines, the hotel now stands in itself—and yet it is neither town nor v i l - proudly amid the woods as a striking monu408
T h e Castle of L e i r i a .
merit of Manueline architecture. As it is of modern build, it embodies the best fea tures of that style without lapsing into garishness. The magnificent entrance-hall, the stately staircase, and the cloistered terrace are superbly ornate, and, together with the wealth of sculptured ornamenta tions within and without, combine to set the building i n a class apart as a hotel, and even as a palace. A n d truly the lines of the visitor to Bussaco are cast in pleas ant places, for hither he may ascend from the turmoil of the world and enjoy a rest in undisturbed tranquillity, amid a pano rama of transcendent loveliness. F r o m the tower there is a view of gloriously undula ting country extending for twenty miles, while he may wander amid the neighbor ing woods almost indefinitely without plumbing the height and depth of their attractions. Oaks, pines, chestnuts, eu calypti, cork-trees, cypresses, and count less other trees, with brilliant flashes of mimosa, and flowers everywhere, make up a field of endless study for the naturelover. A good carriage-road leads up to a plateau on which is an obelisk, erected in 1873 t° the memory of the British and
Portuguese forces that fought in the cam paign of 1808-14, and recording the fact that there were " 6 blockades, 12 defences, 14 sieges, 18 assaults, 215 combats, and 15 battles." The column is surrounded by eight English cannon, while a larger num ber of French cannon form a boundary to the plateau itself. Just below is a museum, erected i n the centenary year of 1910, containing many interesting memorials of the battle, and close by stands an old chapel which was used as a hospital dur ing the engagement. The strategical points of the battle field can best be seen, however, from the rocky ridge of the Serra de Bussaco, from which Wellington directed his operations. The story of the battle is soon told. Wellington reached the heights by a forced march with fifty thousand men, and se cured an impregnable position; but M a s sena, with eighty thousand men at his back, and flushed with an uninterrupted course of victories in Spain, spurned the advice of his colleagues and ordered an attack. H i s men stormed the hills with unexampled bravery, but in vain, and when they came to grips with the English and Portuguese forces they were repulsed 409
410
T h e N e w Republic
There are the remains of a R o m a n caswith great slaughter and their bodies were dashed from rock to rock. Massena trum just outside the wall which encloses was forced to retire—for the first time; the forest; but one of the most curious but he had an even worse reverse in store. features of the Bussaco district is the pro-
A picturesque b e g g a r at B a t a l h a
Hearing later that Wellington's army was marching toward Lisbon, the French commander set off after him hot-footed, only to find that the English general had intrenched his troops at Torres Vedras, and Massena stumbled into a trap which was the grave of his own reputation and of Napoleonic hopes alike. The full measure of the beauty of the spacious landscape is best appreciated, perhaps, from the A l t a Cruz, an ancient stone cross at the very top of the moun tain. There one may see the glistening Atlantic at Cape Mondego, over twenty miles away, and command the horizon in an arc of three hundred degrees; but for a few intervening trees the circle of vision would be complete. The velvety hills which meet the eye i n every sector are al most as countless as the billows of a vast ocean, and I doubt if anywhere in Europe can so noble an outlook be obtained from so low an altitude as this of 1,825 feet.
W o m e n porters in O p o r t o .
nounced evidence of Moorish origin which the natives present. One may meet a swarthy gypsy woman, within a few yards of the palatial hotel, who might have stepped straight out of the desert, while to this day the inhabitants of the neigh boring valleys retain customs that are distinctly Moroccan. When any member of the household dies, for example, the whole place is turned upside down—ta bles, chairs, cooking-utensils, and every thing being reversed according to the dic tates of ancient usage. Villagers may come up to the hotel, moreover, after din ner from Luzo, and dance strange dances, while they sing the quaintest of airs in somewhat strident tones. Moorish traits, however, and Moorish influences on architecture are b y no means confined to Bussaco, but may be encountered all over Portugal. A s a re sult, the peasantry present two distinct types of countenance, and, while some are
T h e N e w Republic dark, others are as fair as any pink-faced English lass. T h e language, too, is simi larly intermingled. One may pick up a Lisbon or Oporto daily and, aided by one's knowledge of French, Latin, and mod ern Italian, may gather the sense of the
Let us now hark to another mountain retreat which, in expansiveness of view, is not unlike Bussaco itself, though it has no memories of sanguinary encounters. This is B o m Jesus, on the M o n t e Espinho, which is reached by road in some five kilo-
T h e Roman Temple,
major portion of a whole column; but ever and anon one meets with monosyllabic words, of one, two, or three letters, which are Moorish, and for the meaning of which one must needs consult a dictionary. B u t while speaking of racial charac teristics I may mention one illustration which is peculiarly remarkable. The tour ist who goes southward from Oporto to ward Pampilhosa should keep a lookout from the train for what is nothing more than a D u t c h settlement. N i g h on five hundred years ago a D u t c h vessel was wrecked off the Portuguese coast, and the survivors landed, never to return to H o l land. Their descendants do not even know that their ancestors were aught but Portuguese, but from the railroad one may see at Caica a group of windmills, while the plain is intersected by dikes, and.I am assured that all the methods, domestic and agricultural, which are practised to this day in this little colony are wholly D u t c h i n form, while the people them selves have fair hair and the D u t c h cast of countenance.
411
E v o r a Stoy.
metres from the fine old town of Braga, i n the northern province of M i n h o . A t a height practically identical with that of Wellington's " i r o n ridge" stands a p i l grimage church with twin towers, and near by are two or three hotels at which one may live in clover at six francs a day. The atmosphere is refreshing i n the ex treme, and the available panorama almost as far-reaching as that of Bussaco, if some what less undulating and less sparsely filled with habitations. F r o m the plateau, on which stand the church and hotels, a broad double staircase of stone descends for some distance, and at every corner there is a shrine, enclosing tableaux i n carved wood depicting various incidents i n the Passion. There are no fewer than thirtythree of these small chapels, and as a special privilege I was conducted to each one i n turn by the landlord of the Grand H o t e l ! Though not appealing to a Protestant in the same way as to a member of the R o m a n Catholic faith, the sculptures are of no small degree of artistic merit, and the experi ence was as interesting as it was unique.
Coimbra. S p r e a d o v e r a h i l l s i d e , the city presents a h i g h l y effective p i c t u r e from the o p p o s i t e b a n k o f M o n d e g o
Around B o m Jesus itself, and all the way up to the adjoining but higher emi nence of Monte Sameiro ( 2 4 4 4 feet), where there is another pilgrimage church, there are fine woods, ablaze with camellias in wild profusion and including a small lake, with boating, in a park. As there is tramway communication from Braga to the mountain, and a cliff car up to B o m Jesus, the number of visitors is very large, particularly in the spring. A t other times, I am told, B o m Jesus is the special haunt of honeymoon couples. Braga itself, it may be added, is full of architectural and archaeological interest, as well as showing pleasing signs of pros perity. The town and the province of M i n h o generally are distinguished by the costumes of quite exceptional picturesqueness which are worn by the younger women on Sundays and fete days. One knows, of course, how completely the national costumes have disappeared from Switzerland, while even in Italy they are much less common than of yore; I have driven round the entire country by road without encountering anything really striking until I was as far south as Naples. The gay costumes of M i n h o , on the other hand, are regular features of the life of the 412
River.
district, and the wearers take a great pride in their appearance. The details of the dress may be gathered from the pho tograph herewith [page 406], but the v i v i d coloring must be left to the imagination. Embroidered skirts, chiefly of bright red and black, are worn w i t h white shirts, cross-folded with yellow or many-colored scarfs; another v i v i d scarf serves as a head-dress, or alternately a turban. I n addition to these adornments, a profusion of gold jewelry is worn, the various items being handed on as heirlooms from one generation to another It was in Braga that I met an English m a n — the only one in the c i t y — w h o summed up the Portuguese character in words which will bear repeating, inas much as I found them confirmed else where. " T h e Portuguese," he said, "have cheerful faces and cheerful hearts. ' L i v e and be merry' is their motto; and they are good friends." H e added that they were honorable i n their dealings; and I may say that in no part of the country did I meet with anything but kindness and extreme courtesy. Continuing this review of places and features which stand out with special prominence in my individual impressions,
T h e N e w Republic without any attempt at an itinerary or a categorical resume of the country's re sources for the tourist, I now pass to what is really the most wonderful spot i n Por tugal—sunny Cintra. Its fame, it is true, dates from the pre-railway days of Byron, Southey, and Beckford, who were able to reach it from Lisbon when further explo ration of the interior was impossible, for even the roads of Portugal were only made some t h i r t y years ago. B u t Cintra has greater attractions now than i n Byron's days, and they are so numerous as to baffle description. As a climatic station alone, where one m a y live i n winter under conditions that constitute a perpetual spring, it would be all-sufficing, but of things to see it is met aphorically full to the brim. I n the town itself there is an erstwhile royal palace, with many splendid rooms which are a storehouse of architectural interest. Be hind the town, however, rises a lofty hill, the Serra de Cintra, which of itself is a natural marvel, for, though it is virtually a mass of rock, it is clothed with verdure of the most prodigal kind. On the lower slopes are numerous villas, and then one rises to the famous Chateau of Montser-
413
rate, formerly owned b y Beckford, the author of " Vathek," and now by Sir Fred erick Cook. The interior of this chateau, which is a little palace i n itself, is rich i n treasures culled from many countries, while the grounds b y which it is sur rounded are admittedly the most striking example of verdant luxuriance that can be found i n the whole world. It is a perfect paradise, from which those privileged to inspect its beauties can with difficulty tear themselves away. T h e glories of M o n t serrate, however, do not end with its i m mediate entourage, for it overlooks a pros pect that is fairy-like i n its enchantment •—of well-wooded hills, a fertile plain, and the sea beyond flashing i n the sunlight. One's capacity for admiration seems to have exhausted itself when one quits the neighborhood of Montserrate; but there is much more in store if one drives or walks up the steeply ascending road until one reaches the gates of the park below the Palace or Castle of Penha. A mag nificent drive through woods i n which camellias bloom all the winter through i n riotous profusion, alternating with mas sive bowlders of bare rock, brings one at length to the castle itself. It was a favor-
The marvellous court and cloisters at Batalha,
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The New Republic
ite summer residence of the late K i n g convent that the place is a standing rec Carlos, and of the ex-King M a n u e l ; it ord of the growth of Portuguese architec •was here, i n fact, that the deposed mon ture over a period of six centuries. T h e arch spent his last night in Portugal ere Church of the Order of Christ is declared the revolution precipitated his flight from to be the most brilliant example of M a n ueline architecture in the country, and es the country. The building itself, as even a photo pecially fine is the window of the choir in graph will reveal at a glance, is a striking the chapter-house; but there is a wealth of v a r i e t y a n d example of min charm i n the ad gled Moorish and joining buildings, Gothic architec with turrets, don ture, and equally jons, battlements, impressive f r o m a n d o t h e r ro within and with mantic survivals out, w h i l e t h e of the most inter sense of exalta esting places in tion aroused by a the world. s u r v e y of t h e Few, i n d e e d , panorama which are the lions of unfolds itself P o r t u g a l which from the rooms are d e p e n d e n t or terraces is in upon one isolated capable of being feature; every ex defined in words. pedition rewards On a n o t h e r the tourist to a pinnacle of this manifold and un extraordinary looked-for degree. Serra de Cintra A l m o s t the sole stands the shell of exception is B a an ancient strong talha, to w h i c h hold—the " C a s one drives for the tle of the Moors." A n A l g a r v e peasant w o m a n . sake of seeing the As with the mod m o n a s t e r y of ern p a l a c e , so with this grim remnant resting on its Santa M a r i a da Victoria, one of the most heaped-up pile of titanic bowlders, the elaborate Gothic structures to be found in view it affords of the hills and vales be any Catholic country. A s w i t h ecclesias low, bright with white villas and red- tical buildings generally i n Portugal, the roofed cottages, amid groves of cork-trees, feature which leaves the visitor breathless pines, and elms, and roads leading to infin with admiration is less the grandeur of ity, is one which no succeeding impres the architectural conception than the su premely marvellous skill and exuberant sions can ever efface. In Portugal one seems always to be variety of the carvings i n stone; had they rising to some height in order to see some been moulded i n soft plaster, instead of fresh wonder, and the traveller is ever i n chiselled i n stone, they could not have doubt which to admire the most—the mar been more amazingly ornate. N o one who vel itself or the landscape on which it has not viewed the cloisters of Batalha looks down. Thomar is another case in can hope to realize the heights to which point. Unusually rich in mediaeval build the skill of man has attained in sculptured ings, the town lies in a green plain wa tracery and fretwork. tered by the Nabao; but away on a neigh N o t far from Batalha is yet another boring hill is as striking and interesting a place which is visited perhaps for the sake building as can be found in Europe. T h i s of a single attraction, and that is Leiria, a is the palace, or monastery, of the famous town set among pine-clad hills, the high Knights Templars of old, and so numerous est point of which is crowned b y a ruined have been the additions to the original castle, built by K i n g D i n i z , which offers a
Bullock-carts,
Oporto.
N o t e the c a r v e d y o k e .
landmark from many miles around. Y e t even here, if one ascends the hill, the interest of the ruins is enhanced by the glorious views of the surrounding coun try; while i n the town itself one may see any day a picturesque group of women round a sixteenth-century fountain in the Praca de Rodrigues Lobo. The finest town in Portugal, away from Lisbon and Oporto, is undoubtedly Coimbra, which boasts a handsome and spa cious university. Spread over a hillside, as usual, the city presents a highly effect ive picture from the opposite bank of the Mondego, the most beautiful river in Por tugal, as well as the only one which is Portuguese from source to estuary. A n cient and modern mingle in Coimbra i n pleasing juxtaposition, and it is a place which attracts one for an indefinite pe riod, from the scholarly atmosphere of the university to the peculiarly handsome peasant women, while the natural sur roundings are charming. On a wooded ridge stands the long white convent of Santa Clara, which contains a statue of Saint Elizabeth, consort of K i n g
Diniz, illustrative of a curious legend. The benevolent queen was forbidden b y her husband to give alms to the poor, but he met her one day with something obvi ously bulky in her apron. Suspiciously he demanded what she was carrying, and in trepidation she answered, "Roses." As a matter of fact, they were loaves of bread! Roughly he insisted upon seeing for him self; but, as she let the apron fall, the loaves were turned by the Almighty into a shower of roses. Statues and pictures of the queen are almost as common i n Portugal as those of the revered Princess Elizabeth of Prussia in Germany, and to this day a wife's lie to a husband is justi fied by the R o m a n church if uttered i n the cause of charity. A legend of a more tragic k i n d is at tached to the Quinta das Lagrimas, or " V i l l a of Tears," on the north bank of the Mondego. I n the grounds is the Fonte dos Amores ("Lovers' F o u n t a i n " ) , the waters of which are said to have conveyed secret letters from D o m Pedro, son of Affonso I V , to Inez de Castro. She was foully murdered at the spring itself b y 4I5
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three of Affonso's courtiers, but when D o m Pedro came to the throne he had her body disinterred, enthroned, and crowned, and made his courtiers do her homage. The story is graphically told in the epics of Cambes, the immortal Portuguese poet.
A
v i e w i n the
c o u r t y a r d of
did K i n g M a n u e l keep his vow, and the splendor of the building is akin i n many respects to nothing else on earth. It is the Manueline style at its very best; Batalha is more elaborate, but in chaste yet ornate beauty the Jeronymos is unrivalled, nota-
the
Jeronymos,
T h e m o s t b e a u t i f u l c l o i s t e r s in t h e
Of the Roman remains to be seen at Evora, Stoy, and elsewhere, and the Celtic excavations at Citania and Guimaraes; of the charms of M o n t ' E s t o r i l , Cascaes, and other coast resorts; and of many other interesting or beautiful spots, I can say nothing here, but must reserve the re maining space at my disposal for the two best-known towns, Lisbon and Oporto, and the least-known province, the A l garve. It is almost superfluous to expa tiate upon the capital or Oporto; all that need be said is that they more than bear out the promise of the guide-books. Lisbon is clean, bright, and handsome; grandly situated on the Tagus; blessed, as already mentioned, with the most balmy of climates; and, above all, it contains i n the Jeronymos, at Belem, the most superb memorial ever erected to human achieve ment. A t this spot landed, in 1499, the great Vasco da Gama, when he returned with only one-third of his companions from the fateful voyage which resulted in the discovery of India; and a grateful mon arch vowed there and then to build in his honor a monastery which should com memorate the event for all time. N o b l y
at
Belem.
world.
bly in the cloisters—the finest in the world —and the supporting columns of the church itself. A distinguishing feature of M a n ueline work may be noted here as else where: no two columns are alike in design, but each is wrought i n the most delicately traced patterns, and every one different from its neighbor. T h e same thing may be noticed, in the chapter-house, on the stately tomb of Herculano, the national historian—certainly the finest sarcopha gus which ever enclosed mortal remains. Portugal, indeed, knows how to honor its dead, even if his contemporaries did allow Camoes to die a pauper. A t Oporto there are many noteworthy churches and other buildings, and the A r a b room of the Exchange is worth going a long way to see. B u t the great charm of the place lies i n the bustling life about the quays, and the quaint streets which lead up to the more modern parts of the town. It is an experience in itself to see the women porters carrying huge and varied loads, marvellously poised, on their heads; and, if it does not accord with western no tions of the division of labor, one may at least say that the women bear their burden
T h e r i c h l y c a r v e d c o l u m n s in the J e r o n y m o s M o n a s t e r y
strongly and cheerfully, and do not extort the pity that is inevitable when one sees the basket-carriers of the Lombardy plains, bent double under unnatural weights. T h e main industry of Oporto is the pro duction of tiles, which are even seen in elaborate designs on the walls of churches. There is also an interesting and really artistic manufacture of filigree work, ex amples of which no visitor should fail to secure; its delicacy is remarkable. T o the world at large, however, the town is syn
onymous with the trade in port, and very remarkable sights are the chief "lodges" adjoining the Douro River. I n one of these —that associated with the famous name of D o w — I have seen a single vat holding 244 pipes of 118 gallons each, equivalent to one million and a half glasses of the ruby liquor. Over four hundred thousand gal lons are produced annually b y this one firm alone, and the wine may be seen run ning literally in a gushing stream from the press to a mammoth vat. 417
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Twentieth-century development of Por tugal, where the tourist is concerned, will largely centre in the exploitation of A l garve, the southern province which bor ders on the Atlantic's approach to the Mediterranean. On the beautiful bay of Lagos, whence da Gama set sail for India, a modern hotel is to be raised, and other schemes are afoot which deserve encour agement and success. The climate is far superior to that of the French Riviera, and generations must elapse before the pictur esque and fertile coast could possibly be come spoiled. Meanwhile let me say that even now there is comfortable hotel ac commodation to be had at Praia da Rocha and Faro, and those who wish to enjoy " Cote d'Azur " conditions on simple lines, far from the madding crowd of gambling plutocrats of all nations, may reasonably set off for the Algarve l i t t o r a l " right now." One word as to motoring in Portugal. I did a great deal of road-travelling by car, and in many places found it indispensable; but, much as I should like to say other wise, I cannot recommend the motoring tourist to take his own vehicle so far afield. The roads, like the curate's egg of the story, are "good in parts"; but through travelling by road is not to be
lightly undertaken, especially as the coun try would have to be approached through Spain unless the car were shipped from England by sea. There are garages, nev ertheless, in the chief towns, and I would advise the hiring of cars for intermediate journeyings after suitable inquiries on the spot as to the available possibilities. The tourist who sees Portugal by ordi nary means need have no fear as to his comfort at hotels, or the welcome he will receive if he speaks the English tongue. If he finds himself in any difficulty in the streets, however, and knows nothing of the language of the country, the best tip I can offer is: " D o not try English or French on an adult, but lay hold of the nearest school boy." English is understood by the r i sing generation to a surprising degree, and probably there are more Portuguese young sters who could go through all three verses of the English national anthem than could be found i n England itself. As for the learning of Portuguese, the pronunciation is everything; and let not the tourist ask when the boat will arrive at Leixoes—the port for Oporto—with any phonetic approach to its spelling. The actual pronunciation is "Leshoines," or sometimes "Leshines"!
T h e D o m Pedro Square,
Lisbon.
T H E
CASE
OF
P A R A M O R E
B y Katharine Fullerton Gerould FOR the sake of moral values I ought to wish, I suppose, that Paramore had been a m o r e conspicuous figure. There is moral significance i n the true tale of Para more—the tale which has been left to me in trust b y H o y t i n g . I cursed H o y t i n g when he d i d i t ; for Paramore's reputation was nothing to me, and what Paramore knew or didn't know was i n m y eyes un speakably unimportant. I wish it clearly understood, you see, that if Paramore de liberately confused exogamy and endog amy i n the Australian bush, it doesn't in the least matter to me. Paramore is only a symbol. A s a symbol I am compelled to feel h i m important. T h a t is why I wish that his name were ringing i n the ears and vibrating on the lips of all of you. H i s bad anthropology doesn't matter—a dozen big people are delightedly setting that straight—but the adventure of his soul i m mensely does. R i g h t l y read, it's as sound as a homily and as dramatic as Euripides. T h e commonest field may be chosen by the opposing generals to be decisive; and in a day history is born where before only the quiet wheat has sprung. Paramore is like that. T h e hostile forces converged b y chance upon his breast. I have implied that Paramore was never conspicuous. T h a t is to be more merciful than just. T h e general public cares no more, I suppose, than I do about the mar riage customs of Australian aborigines. B u t nowadays the general public has i n pay, as it were, an army of scientists in every field. W e all expect to be told i n our daily papers of their most important victories, and have a comfortable feeling that we, as the age, are subsidizing re search. B y the same token, if they de ceive us, we—the age—are personally injured and fall to " m u c k r a k i n g . " It is typical that no one had been much inter ested in Paramore until he was discredited, and that then, quite without intelligible documents, we all began to despise h i m . VOL.
LIV.—40
The situation, for that matter, was not without elements of humor. The facts as I and the general public knew them were these—before H o y t i n g , with his damna ble inside information, came into it. Paramore sprang one day full-armed from some special academic obscurity. H e had scraped together enough money to bury himself in the Australian bush and grapple face to face with primitive re ligion in its most concrete form. E a c h to his taste; and I dare say some casual news paper readers wished him godspeed. There followed the proper interval of time; then an emaciated Paramore suddenly emer ging, laden with note-books; then the pub lished volume, very striking and revolu tionary, a treasure-house of authentic and indecent anecdote. H e could write, too, which was part of his evil fate; so that a great many people read h i m . That, how ever, was not Paramore's fault. H i s heart, I believe, was i n Great Russell Street, where the R o y a l Anthropologists have power to accept or reject. H e probably wanted the alphabet picturesquely ar ranged after his name. A t all events, he got it i n large measure. Y o u see, his evi dence completely upset a lot of hard-won theories about mother-right and group marriage; and he didn't hesitate to con tradict the very greatest. H e actually made a few people speak lightly of " T h e Golden B o u g h . " N o scientist had ever spent so long at primitive man's very hearth as Paramore had. It was a tre mendous achievement. H e had data that must have been more dangerous to collect than the official conversation of nihilists. It was his daring that won h i m the mo mentary admiration of the public to whom exogamy is a ludicrously unimportant noun. Very soon, of course, every one forgot. It was not more than two years after his book was printed that the newspapers took h i m up again. M o s t of them ap pended to the despatch a brief biography of Paramore. N o biographies were needed 419
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in Great Russell Street. This was the point where the comic spirit decided to meddle. A few Germans had always been protesting at inconsistencies in Para more's book, and no one had paid any at tention to them. There is always a learned German protesting somewhere. The gen eral attitude among the great was: any one may challenge or improve Paramore's conclusions—in fact it's going to be our delightful task for ten years to get more out of Paramore than he can get out of himself—but do get down on your knees before the immense amount of material he has taken the almost fatal trouble to collect for us. N o other European was in a position to discredit Paramore. It took an Australian planter to do that. Whitaker was his quite accidentally notorious name. T h e comic spirit pushed him on a N o r t h German Lloyder at Melbourne to spend a few happy months i n London. It was perfectly natural that people who talked to him at all should mention Para more. The unnatural thing was that he knew all about Paramore. H e didn't tell all he knew—as I learned afterward—but he knew at least enough to prove that Paramore hadn't spent so much of his time i n the bush as would have been ab solutely necessary to compile one-quarter of these note-books. Whitaker was suf ficiently reticent about what P&ramore had been doing most of the time; but he knew for a fact, and took a sporting in terest in proving it, that Paramore had never been west of the Musgrave Range. T h a t in itself sufficed to ruin Paramore. It was perfectly easy then for the little chorus from Bonn, Heidelberg, etc., to prove i n their meticulous way that both his cribbing and lying (his whole treat ment of Spencer and Gillen was positively artistic) had all been mere dust-throw ing. Of course what Paramore really had achieved ceased from that moment to count. H e had blasphemed; and the holy inquisition of science would do the rest. It all took a certain amount of time, but that was the net result. Paramore made no defence, oddly enough. Some kind people arranged an accidental encounter between h i m and Whitaker. T h e comic spirit was hostess, and the newspapers described it. It gave the cartoonists a happy week. Then an
international complication intervened, and the next thing the newspapers found time to say about h i m was that he had gone to the Upper Niger, still on folk-lore bent. T h a t fact would have been stupendous if it hadn't been so unimportant. T w o years later the fickle press returned to h i m just long enough to say that he had died. I certainly thought then that we had heard the last of h i m . B u t the comic spirit had laid her inexorable finger on H o y t i n g . A n d suddenly, as if i n retribution for m y spasmodic interest in Paramore's beauti ful fraud, H o y t i n g sent for me. I went to one of the rue de R i v o l i ho tels and met him b y appointment. Of course he hadn't told me what it was about. H o y t i n g never writes; and he puts as little into a telegram as a frugal old maid. A n y sign from H o y t i n g , however, would have sufficed to bring me to Paris; and I stayed in m y hotel, never budging even for the Salon so close at hand, until H o y t i n g appeared in m y sitting-room. I asked H o y t i n g no questions. I hadn't an idea of what he wanted. It might, given H o y t i n g , be anything. H e began without preliminaries—except looking frightfully tired. T h a t , for H o y t i n g , was a rather appalling preliminary. "Three months ago I was i n Dakar. I don't know just why I had drifted to Senegal, except that I've come to feel that if there must be colonial governments they had better be French. If there was any special thing that pushed me, I've forgotten it. " T h e y were decentish people, those French officers and their wives. A little stiff always, never expatriated, never quite at ease i n their African inn, but not half so likely to go fantee as the romantic Briton. A n d once a fortnight the little boats from Bordeaux would come in bringing more of them. I rather liked them; but even so, there wasn't any par ticular reason for m y staying on so long in D a k a r . I hung on like an alarm that has been set. I couldn't go off—or on— until the moment I was set for. I don't suppose the alarm-clock knows until the vibration begins within it. Something kept me there i n that dull, glaring, little official town, with its dry dock and tor pedo-basin, which, of course, they had managed to endow w i t h the flavor of pro-
T h e Case of Paramore vincial France. T h e y do that everywhere •—you'll have noticed? " I used to go up sometimes in the com parative cool of the evening to dine with the fathers. It isn't that I hold with them much—Rome was introduced to me in my childhood as the Scarlet Woman—but all travellers have the same tale to tell. They are incomparable missionaries. A n d it stands to reason that they can get on bet ter w i t h savages than the rest of you. Y o u can meet magic only with magic. . . . It was they who introduced me to Para more." " O h , it's Paramore!" I exclaimed. " H e a v e n forgive you, H o y t i n g , you are always i n at the death. H o w do you manage it? B u t fancy being in at Para more's ! B y the way, I suppose you know that no one knows anything except that he's dead." " U m p h ! W e l l , I do," returned H o y t ing. " T h a t ' s what I was set for—like the clock: to turn up at the Mission House just when he was brought i n there with fever. I don't go hunting for things like that, you understand. I ' d as soon have thought of staying on for Madame P o thier's beaux yeux." " I didn't know you knew whether eyes were fine or not." " I suppose I don't. B u t I can guess. There are always other people to tell you. Anyhow, her fine eyes were all for le bon Dieu and Pothier. She was a good s o r t married out of a little provincial convent school to a man twice her age, and taking ship within a month for Senegal. She loved him—for his scars, probably, Desdemona-fashion. H a v e you ever noticed that a woman often likes a man better for a crooked white seam across his face that spoils all the modelling? N a i v e no tions women have about war! T h e y tip toe round the carnage, making eyes at the slayers. O h , i n imagination, of course. A n d if they once appreciate how they really feel about it, they begin to gabble about disarmament." H o y t i n g fingered the dingy little"packet that he had taken out of his pocket and laid on m y table. H e looked far away out of the window for a moment, narrowing his eyes as if trying to focus them on an other hemisphere. " S o he was taken to the Pothiers'."
421
" Y o u ' r e leaving out a lot," I inter rupted. " W h y 'so,' and why to the P o thiers'? Y o u said to the mission." " O h " — h i s brows knitted. H e didn't like filling up his own gaps. The things H o y t i n g takes it for granted one will know about his exotic context! " T h e mission was full of patients—an epidemic had been running through the converts, and it was up to them to prove that the sacrament of baptism wasn't some deadly process of inoculation. As I say, it's all magic, white or black. Poor Paramore wasn't a convert—he was by way of being an agnostic, I imagine—and the fathers weren't, i n a sense, responsible for him. Y e t one must do them the justice to say that they'd never have sent him away if they hadn't had a better place to send him to. The mission was no place at the moment for a man with fever—sweating infection as it was, and full of frightened patients who were hiding gri-gris under their armpits and looking more than askance at the crucifixes over the doors. The Pothiers had known Paramore two years before, when he had stopped i n D a k a r on his way into the interior. T h e y took him in quite naturally and simply. Paramore had noticed her fine eyes, I believe—oh, i n all honor and loyalty. There were lots of ways i n which he wasn't a rotter. H e was merely the finest liar in the world—and a bit of a Puritan to boot. " I s there any combination life hasn't exhausted, I wonder?" Hoyting walked to the window, his hands i n his pockets, looking down at the eternal race of the taxicabs below. " T h i n k of what may be going by i n any one of those taxis. A n d Paramore was a bit of a Puritan, for all his years of fake anthropology." H i s face was heavily weary as presently he turned it to me. " I was involved in Paramore's case. I've been to the bottom of this thing, I tell you. Paramore overflowed—emptied himself like a well; and at the end there was absolutely nothing left i n his mind; it was void up to the black brim. T h e n he died — quite vacuous. H e had simply poured out his inner life around me. I was left alone i n D a k a r swimming i n the infernal pool of Paramore's cerebrations. Y o u can't, on the banks of the Senegal,
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refer a man to his solicitors. If Paramore had been a Catholic, I could have turned his case over to the bishop. B u t bishops had nothing to do with Paramore. A n d that's where you come i n . " " O h , I come i n , do I ? " I asked a little fearfully. N o one wants to come in where H o y t i n g leaves off. " O f course. W h y else did I make an appointment with you? Y o u ' l l take this packet when you leave. Y o u don't sup pose I ' m going to L o n d o n ! " " I didn't know Paramore." " N o ; but I did. A n d when I've told you, you'll see. I don't take a trip like this for nothing. I hate the very smell of the asphalt." " Go o n . " It's what one always says to Hoyting. " I can't tell it coherently—though I can tell it, I suppose, more coherently than he did. I n the first place, what do you know about h i m ? " The question sent a flood of dingy rem iniscence welling slowly and muddily up through m y consciousness. I thought for a moment. What, after a l l , was there to tell about Paramore except that he had lied, and that in the end he had been discredited as lavishly as for a time he had been believed? F o r any one else I might have made a sprightly little story out of the elliptical narrative of the news papers; but no one that I know of has ever tried to be a raconteur for H o y t i n g . H e has use only for the raw material; art disgusts him. I gave him as rapid a precis as I could, suppressing all instinct to em broider it. When I had finished: " H e ' s completely discredited, then?" I waved my hands. " M y dear H o y t i n g , no one would take Paramore's word about the manners and customs of his own household." "It's a p i t y , " said H o y t i n g simply. " I t makes it harder for y o u . " " I ' v e nothing to do with Paramore. If there's one thing that interests me less than his disaster, it's his rehabilitation." I didn't mean to be flippant, but H o y t ing's ominousness invited it. " O h , rehabilitation—no, I dare say between us we couldn't manage that. I merely want to get the truth off m y hands."
H o y t i n g lighted another cigarette. T h e atmosphere of m y room was already densely blue, and I opened the window. H i s hand shot up. " Shut that, please. I can't be interrupted b y all those savage noises. G o d ! for a breath of sea a i r ! " I sat down and faced h i m . After all, the man has never lived who could stagemanage H o y t i n g . " D i d you ever meet the A u s t r a l i a n ? " he asked. "Whitaker? N o . " " A pretty bad lot, I gather." " D o you mean that he l i e d ? " " O h , no. F r o m what Paramore said, I should think that was just the one thing he didn't do." H o y t i n g dropped his chin on his breast and narrowed his eyes. T h e n he shook his head very slowly. " A t m y time of life it's silly to be always saying how strange things are, and how clever life is, and all that literary nonsense; but, on my word, if ever a scene was arranged to make a man a protagonist in spite of him self this was it. E v e r y element in that D a k a r situation was contrived to bring Paramore out. H e had fever and the prescience of death—which is often mis taken, but works just as well notwith standing; he had performed his extraor dinary task; he was i n love with Madame Pothier. T h e cup was spilling over, and I was there to wipe up the overflow." H o y t i n g was silent for a moment. Then he spoke irritably. " I don't know where to begin. There isn't any beginning to this story. It hasn't any climax—or else it's all climax. It's just a mess. W e l l , I shall have to be gin, I suppose, if Paramore didn't. Per haps the first thing was his sitting up in bed one morning and peering out at me through his mosquito-netting. It gave h i m a queer, caged look. H i s voice went with it—that cracked and throaty voice they have, you know. ' D o you know W h i t a k e r ? ' he asked. ' " N o , indeed,' I said. ' Y o u ' d better lie down.' " I f you could have seen h i m then, you'd have felt, as I did, that he'd better not talk: that he wouldn't say anything one wanted to hear. ' " I t was W h i t a k e r that finished me.' Still he peered out at me.
T h e Case of Paramore " ' Y o u ' r e not finished.' I remember lying quite peevishly about it. H e so ob viously was finished. ' " Y e s , I am. A n d Whitaker did it. O h , I mean I really d i d it.' " I give you m y word that he was start ling, w i t h that unnatural voice, that cun ning look in his eyes the sick often get, and those little white cross-bars pressed against his face. ' " L i e down,' I said again. ' W h a t did Whitaker do?' " H e shook his head a little, and the netting moved on his face. It was horrid. " ' H e told them I couldn't have done the stuff I ' d brought back.' ' " D i d he k n o w ? ' " ' H e didn't know anything about folk lore, but he d i d know where I ' d been.' " H e spoke so impersonally that it led me on to ask questions. After all, I had told M a d a m e Pothier I would stay with him through the morning, and I had to make the time to go somehow for both of us. I t was remittent fever without the chills, and there were fairish mornings at first. T h e afternoons and nights, when the malady rose like a wave and broke hor ribly after midnight—oh, those were bad. Madame Pothier and the regimental doc tor took care of those. It looked fairly hopeful when he arrived, but finally all the worst symptoms came out, and be fore the end it was very bad. It was one of those cases that might, at the last, be yellow fever and just technically isn't. Poor Paramore! D i d I say that his face looked as old as all time under that shock of sun-bleached hair? It did.
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twenty years in the interior, and he was worn out—all except his voice, which was startlingly deep. H e said no one could afford to study fetich but a priest. Pere Bernard had no respect for anthropolo gists—thought they took a collector's interest in preserving various primeval forms of sin, I suppose. I didn't care for his mediaeval manners, and I went back to Paramore with more sympathy. W h a t a world! I always wondered if Paramore had sometime, somewhere at the back of beyond, got him on the raw. W e l l , we shall never know. A n d yet I dare say the reverend old gentleman is here in Paris at this very moment. W h a t a world! N o t h ing i n it, according to Pere Bernard, that isn't magic—either white or black.
" I can't tell you by what steps Para more led me to his tragedy. I don't re member those days separately at all. T h e y went i n jagged ups and downs—times when he talked, times when he was dumb, times when he might be said to rave. Then, too, he brought things out i n no order at all. It was as if he lay i n a world beyond perspective and expected you to sit outside of space and time too, and see it all whole, as he did. T h a t was un pleasant at times—he had so the manner of being dead and seeing his life from so far off that one thing in it was as near and as real as another. There was absolutely no selection. It was only by recurrence of certain things that you got any stress. A n d out of it all I managed to get the three main facts: the R o y a l Anthropological Institute, Whitaker, and the soul of Para more. Madame Pothier was a close fourth, " T h a t questioning was the first of it. but she was only an accessory after the It fixed the name of Whitaker i n m y fact. That I swear. Y o u believe i t ? " mind. I thought I ' d find out something I jerked m y head up. " Good heavens, about h i m . Y o u never can tell what will H o y t i n g , how do I know? Y o u haven't comfort a man i n that state. B u t the told me anything yet." Pothiers had never heard of him, or the H e rubbed his hands over his brows and fathers at the mission. I only mention frowned with closed eyes. " N o . I beg those first remarks of Paramore's to show your pardon. B u t , as I say, I see the you how I came into it. I had never heard thing whole. It's hard to tell. It never of Paramore himself until that time i n was told to me. . . . A n d I didn't want D a k a r . I never read newspapers. A l l you to think it was one of those silly tales those good people said Paramore was a of a man's turning hero because he's in 'grand savant,' but they seemed a little love with a woman. If Paramore had vague themselves. T h e only person who asked me to tell M a d a m e Pothier the story wasn't vague was a lean old parchment- I ' m telling you, I ' d have turned on my heel colored father who was waiting for the and left him, if he'd been at the deathnext boat to take him home. H e had been gasp. I swear I would."
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H o y t i n g lighted another cigarette—the world's supply must be inexhaustible!— and seemed to brace his huge body for concentrated effort. " W e l l , here it is. Paramore had one passion i n life; one double-distilled, quintessentially pure passion. A n d that pas sion was anthropology. There never was a stiffer, straighter, more Puritanical de votion to an idea than his. Get that into your head first, if you want to under stand." I could be forgiven, it strikes me, for being sceptical, i n the light of that neat precis I had compiled from the news papers. " O h , come, H o y t i n g , " I said, "science doesn't recruit from liars—not even when they've got Paramore's deuced cheek. Y o u are upset." One look at Hoyting's gigantic lassi tude put me in the wrong. It would take more than Paramore to upset Hoyting. H e was perfectly firm, though very much bored. Imagine neurasthenia and H o y t ing bunking together! One can't. H o y t ing smiled. " N o , it's not nerves. Only you people who want everything all of a piece—you irritate me. The point about Paramore is that he combined contradictions. H e was magnificently human. A n d as I am i n possession of facts, I ask you to suspend your silly judgment until I've done. If you know anything about me, you know that I don't go in for theories." I was silent. " I t was the only thing he cared about, I tell you. Nature implants something in every man that kills him in the end. Paramore wanted recognition from a very small, almost undiscernible, group of peo ple whom neither you nor I nor any one else gives a damn for—a few old gentle men i n frock coats and gold eye-glasses who raise their poor, thin old eyebrows over the sins of Paris, but feel a tremulous pleasure i n the nastiness of Melanesia. W h y d i d he? Just because he believed they are a sacred sect. H e honestly be lieved that anthropology was important. H e thought it was big and real and vital and solemn. H e had supreme respect for facts. H e put every penny he had or ever hoped to have into going out to acquire them i n the bush. The bush isn't nice. The climate distressed him, the natives
shocked h i m , the solitudes terrified him. W h y d i d he go? Because he held, quite austerely, the scientific attitude toward data, evidence, material. Those old gen tlemen needed more facts to feed their theories with. A n d Paramore was the boy to get them. W h e n there's neither health nor wealth nor pleasure to be got from doing a thing, a man doesn't do it except for an idea." " F a m e ? " I suggested. " F a m e ? Well, even if Paramore had told the truth, he wouldn't have had any fame that y o u ' d notice. It was just a pa thetic belief i n the sanctity of those few old gentlemen who potter round among unclean visions of primitive man. They can't, in the nature of the case, be very numerous. If you want fame, y o u go for the crowd. H e could have done a little fancy exploring, if he'd wanted fame. N o ! Paramore had the superstition." " W h a t really happened i n Australia?" " T h e only interesting thing happened inside Paramore. H e decided to l i e . " " H e must have been a bit of a coward. If he wanted so desperately to collect those filthy facts, why didn't he collect them?" " B a d luck—nothing else. H e went as far as he could. B u t he was no seasoned traveller, you know. H e just came to grief, as any man might, there i n the wil derness. The stars i n their courses—and so forth. H e didn't get so far west as he had meant to. M e n went back on him, maps turned out incorrect, supplies failed awkwardly, everything happened that can happen. Then his interpreter died—his one absolutely trustworthy man—and the whole game was up. H e lost his head, he believed his eyes, he believed lying natives. They made game of him, I dare say, i n some grim neolithic way. T h e y said anything and everything about marriage customs— quite different things from group to group. H e had bad luck with his own men—half a dozen of them died of dysentery or some thing—and he had to recruit on the spot. W h y on earth should they tell h i m the truth? It was more fun not to. A n d of course now and then he pushed into some corner where the only use they had for him was to eat h i m . F r o m those places he had to withdraw speedily. It's not an anthro pologist's business to get killed unless he
T h e Case of Paramore can be sure of getting his note-books home. He's more like a spy, apparently, than a soldier. " A f t e r eight or ten beastly months, de spair was reeking round him like a mist. I think he said that, himself. H i s m i n d tried to peer out through it. H e got noth ing but a jumble of reports from those aborigines. T i m e after time they'd prom ise to let h i m in on some rite, and then their faces would be shamelessly blank when he kept his appointment. T h e y said nothing that wasn't carefully contra dicted. Certain things he did get hold of, of course. Paramore swore to me that a good bit of his book was true as truth— but not enough to prove anything, to found theories on. A b o u t three of the note-books were genuine, but they made nothing coherent, he said. H e put every thing down, always intending to check and sift later." I may have looked a little bored, for H o y t i n g suddenly interrupted his narra tive. " I ' m telling y o u all this," he said, "because it's essential that you should know everything you can know about it. The thing's going to be in your hands, and the more information you have the bet ter. I ' m not dragging you through this biography because I think it's beautiful. I can see y o u loathe it all. Well . . . if only you stay-at-home people would real ize how much luck counts! Y o u don't dream of the mad dance of incalculable forces. W h a t you really hate Paramore for is his having luck against h i m . " " N o , " I protested stiffly; "for l y i n g . " " I f he had had luck he wouldn't have lied. H e would have been prettier if he had been incapable of lying, but if he hadn't needed to lie you never would have known that he wasn't as pretty as any one else. Y o u ' r e quite right, of course. I ' m not asking y o u to love Paramore, but I advise y o u to understand him as well as you can. Y o u ' l l find the whole business easier." " S a y what you have made up your m i n d to say." I couldn't, at the moment, go further than that. H o y t i n g swung back, as if there had been no interruption, as if I had been pleading w i t h him not to stop. " O n e day, when the despair was thick est, he had an idea. H e may have been
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a little off his head, you know. . . . H e wouldn't confess his failure at all. H e would let his imagination play over those note-books; he would supply from his gen erous brain everything that was needed. A good deal of it was new country, quite aboriginal and nasty, and his learning was sufficient to warn him off ground that had been authentically covered. It was also sufficient to keep him magnificently plau sible. H e would take his meagre gleanings to some secluded spot, and he would return to England with the completed sheaf. H e would squeeze the last drop of significance out of every detail he had learned; and if he were put to it he would invent. ' N o , not invent, exactly,' he corrected himself when he told me. ' I would draw con clusions and parallels; I would state prob abilities as facts, and I would put i n some—a very few—of the things I sus pected but had no proof of. A n d then I would contradict a few things.' "Those were his words, describing that ancient intention of his. ' M y pen got away with me,' he confessed; ' a n d the lust of making a beautiful book. There were things that occurred to me—I put them in. A n y one who knows any folk lore can make up customs with his eyes shut. After a little you get to feel that if the beastly creatures didn't do it that way they must be awful fools. A n d then y o u get to believe that they did. B u t I marked everything on the margin of my own manuscript as I wrote it, true or not true, inferred or just invented. T h a t was later —much later—at Whitaker's place.' " I give you some of his words that I remember, you see. I don't remember much. B u t that was the gist of his great confession. H e had the idea—his one way to snap his fingers at luck. U n t i l he got into the work he didn't know how his idea would dominate him. H e first had the notion of putting just enough alloy into his work to give it body. I n the end his idea rode him—and damned him. I ' m leaving out a lot, but you can work that out for yourself—how his inspiration would have come, and what would have happened." " B u t what about his scientific passion? T h a t has nothing to do with the ' lust of making a beautiful book'—quite the con trary."
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" W a i t till I've finished. N o w comes E v e . Place aux dames! . . . "Before he had struck out into the fatal west for himself he had stopped with a planter. The planter's name, of course, was Whitaker. There was a man who had isolated himself and worked like a navvy, and made good. H i s history, I suppose, was much like all other local histories. H i s place, on one of the rivers that flow into L a k e E y r e , was a k i n d of outpost. H e was very glad to let Paramore sit on his veranda and talk to him i n the eve nings. Paramore must have been there six weeks before he finally started on his ex pedition—if you can call an unsuccessful, hand-made thing that leaked at every pore, an expedition. The daughter, Joan Whitaker, was back from school i n M e l bourne. There was a fiance of sorts about the place. I don't remember much about him, least of all his name. H e was ap proved by Whitaker. Paramore seems not to have noticed the girl—rather de liberately not to have noticed her, she being another man's property. So W h i t a ker had no objection to prolonging Para more's stay. Paramore talked, I feel con vinced, as well as he wrote. I saw of h i m only dregs and delirium, but I made that out. The love-affair went on all over the plantation, while Whitaker and Paramore sat on the veranda and constituted so ciety. They got on well enough, appar ently. Paramore certainly liked Joan Whitaker, but he kept out of the way of the fortunate affair. Remember that: there's no reason to doubt his word. A l l came out, bit by bit, i n troubled refer ences—mixed up with his symptoms and medicines, and the ebb and flow of the fever. " B u t out in the bush, later, the mem ory of her had grown upon him; I suppose, simply because, though so far away, she was the nearest feminine thing. A t the heart of all that despair over the frustra ted research was an irrelevant sentimen tal regret that he shouldn't be able to make love to her if he ever saw her again. In her Sittings about she had pricked his imagination once or twice—this bright creature that flitted at another man's be hest. Y o u can see how it might be; and Paramore up to that time had been heartwhole. Moreover, his exploration was
shocking and disgusting to h i m , as I've said—it was aimless nastiness without even the grace of bolstering up a theory. H e didn't love the work for itself, remem ber; only for its results and what he be lieved its sacred importance. H e hated the technique of it. A n d Joan Whitaker was as different as a Melbourne schooling, and a fair complexion, and the awkward ness of innocence, could make her. She was all the things those unsatisfactory aborigines weren't. I don't think it went deeper than that. She merely served the moment. A n y other girl would have done as well. O r at least that's m y notion. " Well—you can see the rest from here. H e went back w i t h his big, insane idea, leaving despair farther behind him at every step. H e struck straight back again to Whitaker's place, and after nuisances and delays and impossible absurd misad ventures, he got there. A l l the time he carried his idea carefully intact, like a cup filled with precious liquid. H e was most anxious to get to some place where he could sit down w i t h pens and ink. He didn't doubt W h i t a k e r would take him in. Everything was to be completed before he sailed for England. T h e story would have been very different, I ' m inclined to think, and Paramore might have been living to this day, if the fiance hadn't turned out a bad lot and been shipped— or if Paramore himself hadn't been a bit of a P u r i t a n . " H e found W h i t a k e r very much sur prised to see h i m back so long before the date he had set, but only too glad to have him stay; and he also found the girl, no longer flitting about, but brooding on the bough. T h e rest was inevitable. . . . "Paramore got to work at once—ma king love to Joan Whitaker in the intervals, almost from the beginning. Then—mark the nature of the man—he found that the two things he was doing were incompat ible. There's no telling whether Joan Whitaker would have objected to his idea, but he seems to have been sure that she would, if she knew. H i s idea rode him— the idea of getting the better of his bad luck. H e didn't want to cheat his fellow scientists who had done h i m no harm; but he d i d want to cheat his mean destiny. H e personified it like an enemy, I fancy. It must have been an obsession with him.
T h e Case of Paramore D a y b y day, he saw better what the book •—his revenge—was becoming; and in the end there was no mistaking it for a mon strous, magnificent lie, out of all propor tion to what he had first intended. Some men might have managed even so—the men who keep life i n water-tight com partments. N o t Paramore. H e didn't see his way to offering Joan Whitaker a liar for a husband. It apparently never oc curred to h i m to put the case before her. There are very few cases you can put to a girl of eighteen. A n d , as I've said, his feeling for her was all reverence and illu sion and reversion to type. A n y nice-ish girl would have done the trick for h i m ; and any man would have looked eligible to her smarting conceit. B u t it was no marriage of true minds—just an affair of circumstance and of innocent senses, riot ously collaborating. M a d a m e Pothier—a finished creature—would have been a very different matter. B u t he had never seen her then. . . . " O h , well; y o u see how it went. H e was virtually staking everything on that book, which was virtually writing itself, 'like a damned Planchette,' he told me. But he couldn't let her stake anything on it; he couldn't even ask her to. Moreover, it was one of those inconvenient situa tions where no explanation except the right one is of the slightest use. So he packed up his manuscript and left for some address, that he didn't give, i n N e w South Wales." " L i k e t h a t ? " I asked. The sudden turns of the thing were beginning to inter est me, i n spite of m y Pharisaism. " O h , there were alarums and excur sions, of course. B u t I had to guess them myself. Paramore's mind had other things to dwell on. Y o u can see it a l l , though: the girl, who had thought he was drifting toward a proposal; the man, Whitaker, who wanted his daughter settled and happy, and thought Paramore would do —oh, a lot of primitive instincts that we don't recognize until they're baffled. Paramore, behaving as well as he knew how, granted his obsession, and they choosing to consider h i m a blackguard. Nothing violent happened, apparently, but you can understand the zest with which Whitaker probably spoke in L o n don. There was black hate i n his truth-
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telling. I fancy what Paramore had done wouldn't in the least have shocked W h i t a ker if it had been done by his son-in-law. H e didn't mention the girl in that famous interview, and Paramore never knew what had become of her. I don't think he cared. H e never saw Whitaker again." H o y t i n g rose and walked to the win dow. The gray eyes looked curiously down on the rue de R i v o l i , as if for char ity he had taken a box at a pageant that bored him. " T h i s isn't i n my line, you k n o w , " he said finally, turning back—"any of it. Paramore reeked of civilization—Great Russell Street, if you like. H a n g civiliza tion ! Y e t he went down with fever like a sick K r u b o y . W e l l ; I must get on with this. I wouldn't stop i n Paris another night for anything you could offer me." H e sat down, his big frame shaking the little gilded armchair. B u t he seemed loath to begin. H i s gray eyes were closed. " H o w did he get to D a k a r ? " Hoyting's eyes were still closed as he answered: " T h a t was Paramore trying to wash himself white again. H e was dis credited, deservedly. H e had lied, delib erately and rather long-windedly. N o loophole anywhere for excuse. Paramore himself was the last man to find any ex cuse for it. H e never carried a Devil's Advocate about with him. Doubtless at home his own conscience had returned to him, in place of the changeling conscience that had dwelt with him in the wilderness. H e knew his reputation was dead and buried with a stake through its heart. B u t he set himself to atone. Some men, feeling as he did, would have shaved their heads and put on a hair shirt. N o t Para more—though he would have saved me a lot of nuisance if he had. N o ; he wanted to retrieve himself in kind, as you might say. H e would spend his life and his few crumbling bits of fortune i n doing the thing he had pretended to do. H e would go to an utterly new field and stay till he'd amassed a treasure—priceless authentic facts, each an unflawed pearl. That's why he went to the Upper Niger—and here is his treasure." H o y t i n g opened his eyes suddenly, bent forward, and tossed the packet across to me. " T h e r e you have it all. H e went, he
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did the incredible thing, and then, quite properly, he died. T h e rest—the rest is mere drama." H e sat back. I put the packet down. " D o you mean that these are his documents, and that you believe i n them? H a v e you read them?" " H a v e I read them? D o I look as if I would read an anthropologist's note books? Of course I can see the humor of throwing over Christianity, lock, stock, and barrel, only to spend your life study ing Totemism—and on top of that, call ing it a 'career.' If you think the absurd i t y of it is lost on me, you're quite mis taken. B u t I would be willing to take m y oath before the Last T r i b u n a l that there isn't a false word in that whole pile. Para more did it—the more honor to h i m . When it comes to expecting any one else to believe i t — I ' m not such a fool. B u t I should think m y word might suffice for you." I shrugged my shoulders. Hoyting lighted another cigarette, fold ed his arms on the table, and looked at me. " I knew everything there was to know about Paramore before he died," he affirmed. " I didn't in the least want to know any of it, but it was inevitable. H e had no control over his mental mus cles—complete paralysis of the reticent nerve, you might say. I know, I tell you. If you don't choose to believe i t — y o u ' l l have doubted m y word, that's all. I have all the evidence there is; and why should I lie about i t ? " " O h , I believe it—but it's extraordi nary." "Should I be here if it weren't extraor dinary? It's preposterous. B u t there it is." " A n d the rest, you said, was drama?" H o y t i n g looked out. " L e t ' s go to a cafe," he said; " I want a rest." I assented. There is something i n the transitoriness of a cafe crowd that quiets H o y t i n g . N o one can be expected to stay over night in a cafe. H e likes the restless ness, the ridiculous suggestion that every one else may be as foot-loose as he. Be sides, H o y t i n g is always restive under the strain of a story; he chafes at the bounds and limits of any rounded episode. H e needs to draw breath and come back to it, as it were, from very far. So we or
dered things; sitting on the very edge of the boulevard, we sipped and watched for an hour. I n the end I saw signs of his re turn to the matter i n hand. " B e a u t y , " he began suddenly, pushing his glass aside—"it's something I never see. B u t now and then a man or a woman delights me curiously. M a d a m e Pothier was like that. She showed you what civilization of the older sort can do when it likes. A n d Paramore saw it, too. H e was clean gone on her. H e would have told her everything if he had had any right to. I said it wasn't a silly tale of woman's ennobling influence, didn't I? N o more it was. Y e t he saw her as soon as he reached Africa, and I am sure he carried her image into the interior with him—as he once did Joan Whitaker's, only with an immense difference, after all. This time he brought back truth instead of lies. So at least it couldn't have been a bad image to live with. " I got all this that I've been telling you in bits and snatches, while I sat with him. The fever didn't seem so bad at first—the doctor thought we could pull h i m through. Y o u absolutely never know. I never thought he would pull through. Those very first questions of his, when he sat peering out at me through the mosquitonetting of his bed, didn't seem to come from a man who had life before h i m . A n d when I had got those early details out of him, I somehow felt sure he'd go. I ' m no pessimist; but I didn't see life giving him a second chance. It was too much to hope that life would let h i m make gpod after all. A n d yet—he so nearly did. D a m n fever! . . . " M a d a m e Pothier d i d everything she could. She was a good sort. I've always wondered, as much as it is permitted to wonder, whether she felt anything for Paramore. If she did, I am sure that she never knew it. There are women like that, you know. I don't mean the women who gaze out of cold, sexless depths at the fires burning above, and wonder pruri ently why the fires burn. She wasn't that kind. I mean the women who, when they become wives, remain women only for their husbands. I don't believe it would ever have occurred to her that any man save M a r c e l Pothier could look upon her with romantic interest. I don't pretend
T h e Case of Paramore to understand the phenomenon, but I know that it exists. A woman like that simply assumes that she is no longer a wandering lure constantly crossing the path of the male. She thinks all men's eyes are veiled because hers are. A very pretty, pathetic ostrich-trick. Sometimes it doesn't work, but astonishingly often it does. W i t h Paramore it did. A l l I mean is that she hadn't dreamed Paramore worshipped her. She remembered him as a friend they had made two years before, and of course he was to come to them out of that pitiful Mission Hospital. N o one in D a k a r knew anything about Para more's fiasco. H e wasn't precisely famous, you see. D a k a r was perfectly provincial. A n d Paramore was hoping, I dare say, that he could stave off the tale of his lie until he could lay before her the news of his atonement as well. T h e hardest thing he had to bear, probably, was dying and leaving his story to the telling of chance tongues, not knowing i n what form it would eventually come to her. That, I am convinced, is why he told me so much —let his parched lips articulate those memories for me. B u t not once did he break down and ask me to tell her. O h , I've good reason for respecting Paramore —a second-rate respect it must always be, I dare say, granted that extraordi nary crumpling-up i n Australia. B u t he never crumpled up again. " F o r a day or two he hung i n the bal ance. Then, after one exceedingly bad night, which left M a d a m e Pothier blue under her fine eyes and white round her carved lips, he had his last coherent hours on earth. . . . " I shall never forget that morning. Pothier was away on duty. There were only the doctor, M a d a m e Pothier, and I, and one or two frightened servants who wouldn't come near. T h e y thought it was yellow fever. O l d Seraphine, M a d a m e Pothier's Auvergnat maid, hovered round in the corridors with a rosary. Y o u could hear the click and shake of it in the still intervals. Once a ' Je vous salue, M a r i e , pleine de grace,' cut across a de lirious whispered oath. T h e pitiful part of it was that there was nothing to do. We just had to lift h i m through the agony and weakness as best we could until the coma should set i n . There is nothing ro
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mantic about coast-fever. It attacks you in the most sordid ways—deprives y o u first of dignity and then of life. Y e t poor Paramore's death-bed had a kind of no bility; perhaps because M a d a m e Pothier was there. She was dressed i n white and looked as wan and distant and compas sionate as a nun. T h e straight black masses of her hair,arranged in an odd, an gular way, looked like some k i n d of con ventual cap. Paramore's eyes followed her about. . . . " I t was that morning he gave me the packet—told me where it was, made me get it out and take formal possession of it before him. Once, when the demon was leaving him a little quiet, he lifted his right hand. ' I swear by—by all that I hold sacred' (his eyes were fixed on her, though he was speaking to me) 'that I have told nothing there that is not true. A l l second-hand reports are i n a note-book by themselves. It is labelled. T e l l Beckwith especially about the Sabbath. Beckwith ought to follow it up. I sat in the hut by the sorcerer in his trance and waited for his spirit to come back. When he waked he said he had delivered my message. H e had delivered it. Three days later the man I had sent for came run ning into the village. The sorcerer had told him, as he said he would, on the way to the Sabbath. I depose solemnly that the man came. H i s village was three days away. H e had heard a voice at his door the night of the Sabbath; avoice that gave m y message, that said it was i n haste and could not stay. Very curious. Beckwith ought to know. It's all there; but tell him. Of course, I never could get any thing out of the sorcerer about the Sab bath. B u t Beckwith might put it i n a foot-note, if they won't print me.' T h e n the sordid agony again. . . . M a d a m e Pothier and the doctor didn't understand English, by the way, and of course didn't, i n any case, understand the situation. They hadn't listened to what I had lis tened to all those earlier days. So when the doctor told me fussily that Paramore oughtn't to talk and that death was only a few hours off, I paid no attention. W h y shouldn't he talk if death was so near? T h e only thing I could do for Paramore was to let him talk when he had strength. I sat tight and listened."
430
T h e Case of Paramore
H o y t i n g stopped. T h e lights winked out along the boulevard. N i g h t had fallen w i t h capricious suddenness. I ordered more drinks quietly. H o y ting was breath ing hard; tired out, and, as I thought, very weary of it all, longing to slip the leash and be off. T h e air was cool and soft, and the crowd was thinning a little. People were dining and making ready to "go o n . " I couldn't have stirred, but that worn packet suddenly felt very heavy i n m y pocket. H o y t i n g began sipping vermouth again. Finally he spoke. " H e didn't say a great deal more. T h e end was too near. B u t he spoke very clearly when he did speak; and whenever his eyes were open they were fixed on Madame Pothier. T o w a r d the last he put out his hand to me. I was holding the note-books—I shouldn't have dared put them down so long as he was conscious. ' There is only one woman i n the world,' he said; ' a n d she belongs to Pothier. Look at her.' I didn't look at her, and he went on: ' There may be other women alive, but I can't believe it. D o you believe i t ? ' " H e wasn't wandering, you know. H i s mind had merely stripped his situation to its essentials; he was quite alone with the only facts that counted. H e had summed life up, and didn't have to keep truce any longer with mortal perspectives. H e drew the real things round him like a cloak. . . . Absurd to talk of inconsequence; there was no inconsequence. " I bent over him. ' I ' m not blind, Par amore.' " ' N o , but I am; blessedly blind. . . . And some day she'll hate me, you t h i n k ? ' " H i s lips were straining to ask me to see to it that she didn't, but he controlled them. That—as much as anything—is why I ' m here with you now. It was more than decent of h i m ; it was fine. B u t , b y the same token that he couldn't ask, I couldn't promise—though I saw that another crise was near, and the doc tor was crossing over to the bed. ' " I don't believe she ever will,' I said. 'There's so much she'll never know.' " I was thinking of his forlorn and beautiful passion for her, which she would have hated h i m for, because she would always have been afraid it was somehow her fault. N o t quite fair when you work
it out, but those women are like that. I saw i n a flash, though—he took his eyes off her and looked at me, just once—that he thought I meant his miserable discred ited past. T h e n the doctor thrust me aside. T h e matter was never explained between us. " T h e r e were only one or two more speeches of Paramore's to record. The monosyllables wrung out of his weakness didn't count—except, immensely, for pity. Very likely you know what the fatal fever symptoms are—ugly beyond compare. I won't go into that. W e were all pretty nearly done by the time the blessed coma settled over him. H e opened his eyes just once more, and fixed them on M a d a m e Pothier, who stood at the foot of the bed. A l l his strength was i n his poor eyes: his body was a corpse already. It was to me he spoke, but he looked at her until the lids fell. ' D a m n Whitaker! He's a worm. B u t not such a worm as I . ' " A strange little blur came over his eyes. I turned m y head for one instant. Madame Pothier, weeping, was holding up a crucifix. ' I don't believe G o d knows,' he said. T h e words came very slowly from far down i n his throat. W e heard the voice just once more. ' M a d a m e ! ' T h e n the eyes shut, and the scheduled number of hours followed, during which he was completely unconscious, until he died officially." H o y t i n g smoked quietly for a moment. Then he spoke hurriedly, as if he had to complete a report. " W e buried him out there. T h e Pothiers were perfect. She was worn out b y the strain of the illness and the nursing, but not more than any one would have been after any such ex perience. T o the last I searched her face to see if she knew. It interested me curi ously. I gave her a dozen chances to ques tion me about Paramore. She behaved throughout as one who had no suspicion. She was polite about the note-books, and asked if they were to be edited, but she evidently didn't i n the least understand what he'd been up to. H e was a 'grand savant,' she was sure, though Pere Ber nard thought perhaps his powers could have been more fortunately employed. Of course, ce pauvre monsieur was not re ligious, which must be a great regret to his Catholic friends. She believed firmly, however, that the D i v i n e M e r c y was in-
T h e Case of Paramore finite, and that there were more ways than one of making a good death. They were taking the liberty of having some masses said for his soul. Everything was said with the most perfect feeling, the utmost sincerity and gravity. W h a t more could a blind woman have said? I haven't a shad ow of doubt that, if ever the whole story were forced upon Therese Pothier, she would summon her intelligence gallantly, and understand it all. Only, what on the face of it was there for her to understand? . . . I rather wish she were dead." " Y o u w i s h — " I didn't follow him. " I ' d like to be sure that, since she'll never know the whole truth, she'll never know more than she knew in Dakar. I was sorry for Paramore. . . . H e was tempted, and he fell, and he struggled up again and damned temptation to its face. N o t a hero, oh no. B u t there is some thing exhilarating in seeing the elements of heroism assemble in a man who is sup posed to be a p u t t y of cowardice." It was late, and though H o y t i n g had not yet informed me of what he intended me to do w i t h the packet I suggested dining. W e made our way to a very se cluded and unfashionable restaurant, and ate, surrounded by French commercial types. Over our liqueurs, I asked h i m why he had given me the note-books. " W h y did you give me this stuff?" Hoyting looked surprised. " I can't do anything with it. I don't know that sort of person. Can't you look up the man Beckwith? I never heard of him, but he ought to be easy to find. I could tell all this to you, but I couldn't go over to London and tell it to a court of inquiry. I don't hold you responsible i n any way, of course, but something ought to be done. I'm taking the night express to Genoa." " If you imagine I ' m going to drop down from the blue on Sir James B e c k w i t h — " I began. Hoyting shrugged his shoulders. " Y o u at least know who he is, apparently. T h a t in itself is a sign." " B u t no one will read the tragic stuff," I cried. " A n d yet you place Paramore's reputation in my hands. Y o u do make me responsible." Hoyting looked at me across the table, smiling faintly and shaking his head. " D i d n ' t I tell you that I don't believe VOL. LIV.—41
431
we can rehabilitate him? B u t we owe it to him to put his papers in the right hands. Beckwith couldn't refuse to take them, at least. A n d then our duty would be done." I took the " o u r " without flinching. The tale of Paramore had weighed on me. " I ' l l do i t , " I said at last—"but never again, H o y t i n g . " " H a v e I ever made such a request be fore?" he interrupted sharply. " N o , never." " T h e n , in God's name, take i t ! " W i t h his strong hand he made a gesture as if to sweep it all away from him. The liqueur glasses fell with a broken tinkle to the floor. Hoyting bit his lip. " I wouldn't have the things back in my fingers again for anything under heaven. Good-by." I started to my feet, but he had reached the door. H e had the luck to step into a taxi the next instant with an indescri bable farewell gesture. It was part of Paramore's persistent bad luck—the devil that pursued him was not put off by change of scene—that Sir James Beckwith died before I could make an appointment with him. From all I have heard of him, he certainly was the man to go to. Paramore's note-books were coldly accepted in the quarters to which I finally took them, and I have always sus pected that if my mien had been less des perate they would have been politely handed back to me. N o faintest echo of their reception has ever come to me, though I have, entirely on their account, subscribed to a dozen learned journals. I do not expect anything to happen, at this late date, in Paramore's favor. There is little reason to believe that the packet Hoyting cherished will be piously guarded by the hands to which I com mitted it. A n d , even if it were, no minor corroborations drifting in after many years could ever reconstitute for Para more such a fame as he once lost. When I think of the matter at all, it is, curi ously enough, to echo Hoyting's wish that Madame Pothier would die. The best thing Paramore's restless ghost can hope for, it seems to me, is that she may never know the very little the public know s about him. Sometimes that silence seems to me more desirable for him than re habilitation itself. B u t then, I have never been interested in anthropology. r
THE
LIFE-HISTORY OF T H E
AFRICAN BY
ELEPHANT
T H E O D O R E
R O O S E V E L T
ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS A N D FROM DRAWINGS BY P H I L I P R . GOODWIN
Mount
K e n i a e l e p h a n t s i n the
F i e l d M u s e u m of C h i c a g o ,
mounted by C a r l E .
Akeley.
T h e m a l e w i t h t r u n k r a i s e d w a s shot b y M r s . A k e l e y . T h e c h a r g i n g m a l e is a s i n g l e t u s k e l e p h a n t , s h o w i n g o n e e a r f o l d e d i n o n t h e u p p e r m a r g i n , g i v i n g it a t r i a n g u l a r s h a p e .
WE found elephant in the cool for ests and bamboo belts of M o u n t Kenia, and among its foot-hills; in the open plains and scanty thorn-woods near the ' N z o i River; i n the tree-jungle and tall elephant-grass of Uganda; and in the hot, dry country along both banks of the upper White Nile. W i t h the possible exception of the lion, the elephant is the wisest and most in teresting of a l l the kinds of big game. M o s t wild animals lead very simple lives; and while most of them at times per form queer and unexpected feats or show traits that upset the observer's previous generalizations, there is ordinarily not much variety or originality i n what they do. B u t the lion is forced by the exigen cies of a life of prey to develop abilities as marked as they are sinister; and the ele phant, instead of growing in stupidity as well as weight, has become the most i n 432
telligent of gramnivores, with an emo tional and intellectual nature sufficiently complex to make h i m a subject of endless interest to the observer. The elephant's physical and mental equipment fits i t for life under utterly diverse conditions. M o s t game animals live i n narrowly circumscribed habitats; for instance, the bushbuck i n the forests, the hartebeests on the plains, the oryx in dry, almost desert country. B u t the ele phant wanders everywhere, being equally at home i n the haunts of bushbuck, oryx, and hartebeest. I t goes high among the cold bamboo belts of the mountains, it loves the hot, dense, swampy lowland forests, i t lives i n the barren desert where it has to travel a score of miles for a drink of bitter water. Sometimes herds make long migrations, swarming for several months i n a locality, while during the rest of the year not an elephant will be found
T h e Life-History of the African Elephant
433
within a hundred miles of it. Elsewhere ty-four or even forty-eight hours, we never they may live i n the same neighborhood came across an instance where any ele all the year round. On the south slope of phant had lain down. T h e y slept and M o u n t K e n i a I found the elephants living rested standing. B u t in the desert, north in the daytime in the thick forest, but at of the Guaso N y i r o , Heller found them night often wandering down into the plain lying down. Whether the cows ever to ravage the shambas, the cultivated calve without leaving the herd I can not fields near the native villages. I n the say; in the only case brought to my atten L a d o I found herds of elephants living tion of the siteof a calf's birth being found, day and night in the same places, in the the cow had retired to an isolated place, w h e r e she had dry, open plains evidently spent of t a l l i s h grass, the first two or s p r i n k l e d with three days after acacias and a few the baby was born palms. T h e old before rejoining bulls usually keep the herd. by t h e m s e l v e s , alone or i n small B y the time the parties; herds calf is a week old exclusively com the m o t h e r has posed of cows and joined the herd, c a l v e s are com usually composed mon; but o f t e n of o t h e r nurs both sexes min ing or expectant m o t h e r s and of gle in a herd, and h a l f - g r o w n ani some of the largest mals of both sexes. t u s k e r s are a l The cow takes the w a y s accompa u t m o s t care of nied by herds of the calf; if it is cows, which seem drinking at a pool to take a pride in she w i l l c h a s e them and watch away any other over and protect m e m b e r of the them. From a photograph by R. J. Cuninghame, herd w h i c h she The wide indi thinks may inter A cow elephant. vidual and local fere with it. The variation i n hab its should make the observer very cautious cows guard the calves against the at about making sweeping generalizations; tacks of wild beasts. I n extremely rare and, moreover, there is often an undoubted cases three-parts-grown elephant cows, difference of personal equation i n the ob or half-grown bulls, have been attacked server. In Sanderson's capital book on by parties of hungry lions; but, as a rule, an animal is safe after it is three or four the " W i l d Beasts of I n d i a " he states that years old. Young calves, however, are elephant cows do not leave the herd to eagerly sought after by lions and even calve, and that both bulls and cows habit by leopards and hyenas. The cows are ually lie down. In the parts of Africa I always on the alert against such foes, visited the elephants practically never lie and drive them away i n a twinkling if down at a l l ; that is, the cases where they they are discovered, uniting i n the rush do are so wholly exceptional that they can against them, just as they frequently unite be disregarded. I heard of such instances in a rush against the human hunter. T a r l from the 'Ndorobo or W a k a m b a hunters, ton once witnessed such a charge by a or from old white-elephant hunters, but party of elephant cows against a lion. always as something curious and unusual. They chased it several score yards. It In carefully following various herds and just managed to escape into a belt of thick individuals, carefully examining the trails forest, which the cows i n their rage then they had made during the preceding twen
434
T h e Life-History of the African
Elephant
backs, or i n short grass among almost leaf less acacias; and this not only among the fairly cool foot-hills of K e n i a and by the ' N z o i River, but by the banks of the White N i l e . B y the N i l e the elephant herds, like the rhinos, and like the buffalo near Nairobi, were often accompanied by flocks of white cow herons. It was often possible to tell where the great beasts were by watching the flocks of white herons circling over the reeds or perched in the tree-tops near by. On burnt ground or i n short grass the h e r o n s would all m a r c h alongside their hosts, catch ing the grasshoppers which were disturbed by the tramp ing of the huge feet. As soon as the e l e p h a n t s entered reeds or tall grass the herons all flew up and lit on their heads and backs. W i t h their trunks the elephants could readily have gotten rid of the birds, but from the oldest to the youngest—perhaps a pink calf—they evidently accepted the situation as a matter of course. Elephants, like most game, spend the major part of their From a photograph, copyright, by Carl E. Akeley time eating; but unlike most E v e n near b y , if a man is absolutely motionless, he stands a g o o d c h a n c e game their food is of great to escape o b s e r v a t i o n . — P a g e 435. T h i s p h o t o g r a p h was t a k e n in t h e U a s i n G i s h u P l a t e a u . B r i t i s h H a s t A f r i c a . v a r i e t y . T h e y graze and browse indifferently. They seems extraordinary so huge a creature are fond of making inroads on the fields of can go at all. They also frequent swamps the natives, devouring immense quanti and marshes, and swim broad rivers; but ties of beans and corn and melons, and they sometimes get mired down. The destroying far more than they devour. captain of the launch that took us to B u - They are fond of various fruits, some of tiaba told me that he once found three them so small that it must be both labo elephants still alive, but fast i n the deep rious and delicate work to pick them in mud, some distance from the bank of the sufficient numbers to stay the giant beast's Nile. They were youngish beasts, nearly appetite. I have watched one feeding on full-grown. Elephants travel very great grass; it behaved i n the usual leisurely distances when thoroughly alarmed, or elephant manner, plucking a roll of grass when on migration; no other game comes with its trunk, perhaps waving it about, anywhere near them in this respect. They and then tucking it away into its mouth. prefer shade at noon, but do not find In the stomach of another I found bark, it essential. Again and again I saw herds leaves, abutilon tips, and the flowers and standing throughout the hot hours, i n twig-ends of a big shrub or bush, Dombeya T h e y wreck the small trees bush no higher than their backs, i n tall nairobiensis. grass that did not reach as high as their on which they feed, butting or rather
proceeded to wreck for an area of many yards. Elephants are at home i n all kinds of ground. T h e y climb astonishingly well, clambering up and down places where it
T h e Life-History of the African Elephant
435
pressing them down with their foreheads, draw water. It is used to spurt dust or getting on their knees and uprooting or water over the body; it is used to test them w i t h their tusks. They are fond of rotten and dangerous ground. It is i n feeding on the acacias, although it is hard constant use to try the wind so as to to see how they avoid wounding both their guard against the approach of any foe. trunks and their tongues and jaws with the thorns. I have watched one break off an acacia branch, thrust it into its mouth, and withdraw it with the leaves stripped off. M a n y of the branches it will chew to get the sap, and then spit out; these chewed branches or canes, together with the wrecked trees, mark plainly the road a herd has travelled. They do not often feed at noon; but during all the remainder of the day and night they feed at any time they c h o o s e . T h e y drink great quantities of wa ter; but i n desert lands this may be only on every other day, and they may t r a v e l fifty miles between drinks. If much hunted they drink only at night. Elephants are interesting because they have such va ried f e e l i n g s , such a wide range of intelligent apprecia tion. D o u b t l e s s this is i n part due to the possession, Now a n d t h e n a g r e a t e a r is f l a p p e d . in the trunk, of an organ the F r o m a p h o t o g r a p h t a k e n in the U a s i n G i s h u P l a t e a u . development of which has itself p e r m i t t e d develop ment of brain power. Very great brain As one watches the great beasts the trunks power could not have been developed continually appear in the air'above them, as an accompaniment merely of hoofs; uncurling, twisting, feeling each breath of hands,. however imperfect, were neces air. N o w and then a great ear is flapped. sary, or else something that would serve N o w and then the weight of the body is as a partial substitute for hands. B y slightly shifted from one colossal leg to watching a herd of elephants any one can another. The huge beasts are rarely en speedily see the large range of uses to tirely motionless for any length of time. which the trunk is put and the large range N o r are they long silent, for aside from of needs and emotions which it develops subdued squeaks or growls, and occa and satisfies. During courtship the bull sional shrill calls, there are queer internal and cow caress one another with their rumblings. Their eyes are very bad. trunks. Elephants are very curious, and L i k e the rhino, they can see only as a very the trunks are used to test every object near-sighted man sees. A t a distance of which arouses their curiosity. The cow eighty yards or so, when in my dull-colored is constantly fondling and guiding the hunting-clothes, I could walk slowly to calf with her trunk. The trunk is used ward them or shift m y position without to gather every species of food and to fear of discovery. E v e n near by, if a man
436
The Life-History of the African
is absolutely motionless, he stands a good chance to escape observation, although not hidden. B u t the hearing is good, and the sense of smell exquisite. They make many different noises, and to none of these
Elephant
places by the laws of the European govern ments, especially by the British Govern ment. I n Uganda and British East Africa, and along certain parts of the N i l e , the kill ing of cows and young stock has almost
S k e t c h of an elephant d r i n k i n g water, b y P h i l i p R . G o o d w i n .
ordinary noises do the other elephants pay any heed. B u t there are certain notes, to my ears indistinguishable from the others, which signify alarm or suspicion, and it is extraordinary to see the instantaneous way in which, on the utterance of such a sound, a whole herd will first stand mo tionless and then move away. F r o m immemorial ages elephants have been hunted for their ivory. Whether the great Egyptian monarchs hunted the African elephant is uncertain, although on their Asiatic forays they certainly killed the Asiatic elephants which then existed in Syria and along the valley of the Euphrates. B u t the big tusks of the African elephants were already at that time obtained by barter from the negro tribes south of the deserts which border the lower Nile. For thousands of years the range of the great beast has slowly shrunk; but the slaughter did not become appalling until the nineteenth century. In that century, however, the white-elephant hunters, and later the natives to whom the white traders furnished firearms, worked huge havoc among the herds, the work of destruction being beyond all comparison greater than ever before. In South Africa, and over immense tracts elsewhere, the el ephants were absolutely or practically ex terminated. Fortunately there is now ef ficient protection afforded them in many
ceased and the herds are quite, or nearly, holding their own. Naturally, where the beasts are much hunted they become exceedingly shy. They then drink only at night and, if possible, never twice at the same place, and they travel extraordinary distances between times. T h e slightest taint in the air will stampede them, and they then go many miles without stopping. Some times their way will be for many miles across the burning plains, sometimes through dense jungle, sometimes through soft, wet soil, i n which their feet punch huge holes. Under such conditions ele phant-hunting becomes a work of wearing fatigue, entailing severer and longer-con tinued labor than any other form of the chase. B u t where the herds are not much molested they often show astonishing tameness and indifference to man. Near one of our camps in the L a d o we one morning encountered a herd of thirty or forty cows, calves, and young beasts, half and three-quarters grown. T h e y were in a broad, shallow valley, evidently a swamp in the wet season. T h e valley was cov ered with tall, rank grass, burnt off in places, and dotted here and there with ant-heaps and bushes and acacias. A big flock of cow herons accompanied the herd. T h e beasts were feeding on the grass when we first saw them, and we
437
Drawn
by Philip
R.
Goodwin.
A f t e r f i n i s h i n g f e e d i n g they m o v e d off u p the v a l l e y , the herons r i d i n g on their b a c k s , but d i s m o u n t i n g to stalk t h r o u g h the b u r n t places so as to c a t c h g r a s s h o p p e r s . — P a g e
438.
Fiom a photograph by Carl E. Akeley. O n the utterance of s u c h a s o u n d , a whole h e r d w i l l stand motionless—
approached them closely enough to see that there were no big bulls. After finish ing feeding they moved off up the valley, the herons riding on their backs, but dismounting to stalk through the burnt places so as to catch grasshoppers. The herd stationed itself for the day among the thorn-trees on one of the small rises of ground, the herons advertising the place by perching in a snowy mass on the acacias. In mid-afternoon the elephants again strolled forth to feed. They went to water, and were feeding when night fell. T h e y spent most of the following day in the neighborhood. During all this time they were within a couple of miles of camp, and as we watched them close by we could distinctly hear an oc casional camp noise, and the report of the shot-guns of the ornithologists of the expedition. Y e t the elephants were to tally unconcerned. I n regions where the natives are timid and unarmed the elephants sometimes become not merely familiar but danger ous. T h e y are always fond of ravaging fields and gardens, and when they find that they can do this with impunity they are apt to become truculent toward man438
kind. I n Uganda we more than once came across deserted villages, already far on the way again to becoming parts of the jungle, which we found had been aban doned by the inhabitants because of the ravages of elephants. A t one camp the chief of a neighboring village called on us to ask us to kill a rogue bull, the leader of a small herd of elephants which were i n its immediate vicinity. H e said that the elephants were very bold, were not afraid of men, and that the bull had grown so vicious that he attacked every man he came across. K e r m i t and I went after the rogue. W e found the herd so close to the camp that we could hear the por ters talking and the sound of the axes, and were charged by the bull as soon as he made us out, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards. W e killed h i m . W e learned that the village, which was a couple of miles away, had been destroyed by these elephants, under the lead of the rogue bull. The elephants had begun by ravaging the gardens and plots of culti vated ground; the natives tried to drive them away; the beasts grew bolder, and finally, one night when the natives yelled at them, they charged them, drove them
Frotn a photograph by Carl E. Akeley. — a n d then move a w a y . — P a g e 436.
into their huts, and then destroyed sev eral of the huts; and one, the rogue bull, killed one and maimed another of the inhab itants. I n out-of-the-way places wicked herds will sometimes thus attack hunters' camps, being attracted rather than re pelled by the fire. M r . P a u l Niedeck, i n his " W i t h Rifle i n Five Continents," de scribes an attack thus made on him i n which he nearly lost his life. N o t only are some individual elephants particularly vicious, but there are whole herds which are vicious. Elephant-hunting, i n addition to being ordinarily very hard work, is often dan gerous. A s I have elsewhere said, ex perienced hunters often differ widely i n their estimates as to how the different kinds of dangerous game rank as foes. There are many men who regard ele phants as the most dangerous of a l l ; and again there are many others who regard the lion and the buffalo as beyond com parison more formidable. M y own view is that there is a very wide range of in dividual variation among the individuals of each species, and moreover that the conditions of country and surroundings vary so that one must be very cautious
about generalizing. Judging partly from my own limited experience and partly from a very careful sifting of the state ments of many good observers with far wider experience, I believe that, taking the average of a large number of cases under varied conditions, the lion is the most dangerous; that a buffalo that does charge, especially a bull, when it has ac tually begun its charge is more dangerous than a lion and much more dangerous than an elephant; that a single elephant is less dangerous to attack than a single buffalo, and that the charge of an elephant is more easily stopped or evaded than that of a buffalo; but that elephants are very much more apt themselves to attack than are buffalo, and that therefore there is more danger i n the first approach to an ele phant herd than is the case with buffalo. If a big tusker is in a herd of cows it may be impossible to kill him, because the cows charge with such savageness as soon as they detect the approach of the hunter— and of course a herd is much more apt than a single beast to detect him. A t the sound of a shot the cows of a vicious herd, screaming and trumpeting, crash through the jungle i n all directions, and 439
440
The Life-History of the African Elephant
may quarter to and fro down wind, trying to catch the scent of their enemy. If a man is caught he is frequently killed; but often he escapes, for the very hugeness of an elephant's bulk makes it unfit to cope with so small an antagonist. A n ele phant is more easily turned than a buf falo, when in full charge, although an oc casional elephant, usually a vicious bull, will charge right through the shots, ta king the punishment of the heavy bullets without flinching, and getting home. Of course a ball that would cripple a char ging lion may have no effect on the huge bulk of an elephant or the sinewy mass of a buffalo. A n elephant that means mischief may charge in silence, the trunk hanging straight down and the great ears cocked at right angles to the head; it may extend the trunk, screaming or coming on si lently; or it may scream loudly, and make the actual charge with the trunk curled, and this not only when it is passing through jungle, but even i n the open. It is said that elephants only scream when the trunk is extended, but if this is so then in some cases the elephants must curl the trunk the very moment the scream is fin ished, for the impression conveyed is that the screaming and the advent of the furi ous animal with its trunk curled are sim ultaneous. On one occasion when an elephant charged me and was stopped by a right and left from Cuninghame when but a few feet distant, it threw its trunk high in the air on or immediately after re ceiving the bullets. Carl Akeley informs me that one elephant that charged him came on screaming and thrashing the tall grass, tearing up and tossing and pluck ing and brandishing branches and bunches of grass, so that it looked like a hay-ted der. If an elephant catches a man it usually falls on its knees and endeavors to stab him with its tusks; but sometimes it knocks him down, puts one foot on him, and plucks off his head or legs or arms with its trunk; and sometimes it snatches him aloft with its trunk and beats him against the ground or perhaps against a tree. A wounded cow ele phant, on being approached by K e r m i t and myself, struggled to arise and uttered not a scream but a kind of roaring growl. I spoke above of the fact that elephants
are sometimes found in the desert. T h i s was a surprise to me. I had already found them high on the cold mountain slopes, i n cool parklike uplands, i n wet, rank, steaming tropic jungles, i n thick forest, and i n hot, open, grassy plains. M y old hunting companion, M r . R . J . Cuninghame, wrote me of his experi ences with them i n the desert north of the Guaso N y i r o shortly after I left Africa: " F r o m the Chanler Falls we went north forty or fifty miles. T h e country is cov ered with thick, low thorn scrub, all the trees the same height and the ground flat and without landmarks. It was abso lutely waterless except a few water-holes scraped in dry sand river-beds, and these days apart, weather scorching hot, and ground covered with sharp quartz and granite, loose stones. F o u n d our first water at noon on the second day; got the men in without loads, and the donkeys not until the next day. The water, which was almost undrinkable owing to strong alkaline salts, was i n old Rendile wells, eight and ten feet below the sur face of the ground. W h a t was m y as tonishment at 4 p. M . on the day we struck water to see a herd of elephants, cows, and totos [young and half-grown animals] pass within fifty yards of our camp, go and drink from our wells, and march off again. Eventually I found another water-hole and lots more ele phant. The water made the men sick. I found the next water forty miles north of these wells and it was absolutely stink ing and untouched even by giraffe. It had not rained up here for two and a half years and the heat was really very trying. " A word about your grand 450 [a H o l land double-barrel, like m y own], for it saved my life twice on this expedition when out elephant-hunting. O n the first occasion I had quite unexpectedly found three elephants standing under some palmtrees on the bank of a dry river-bed. I took m y companion up to look over the animals. W e were on the opposite bank of the dry river and we went up to about thirty yards to look them over. T h e y proved to be two cows with calves and a three-parts-grown animal, sex undeter mined. M y companion wished to take a kodak, as they made such a typical
From a photograph,
copyright IQIO,
by Kermit Roosevelt,
A h e r d of A f r i c a n elephants in a n open forest of h i g h timber. This photograph was taken by Kermit Roosevelt from a distance of about twenty-rive yards.
441
442
T h e Life-History of the African Elephant
African scene. H e fussed about with the kodak and I saw that the elephants had grown suspicious. A t length he pressed the button, which proved too much for the nervous system of the tembos [Suahili for elephants]. W i t h ears outspread and trunks curled up and screaming like locomotives, they seemed spontaneously all to charge straight for us. I knew my retreat, as I invariably make a study of the ground immediately behind and to each side of me when I go i n to tackle elephants, and I turned and fled to the only tree within reasonable distance. This was twelve yards off. T h e other man bolted on and so did all the niggers (six of them). O n reaching m y tree (fifteen inches i n diameter) I turned to face the charge and found the three ani mals just topping the bank from which we had been photographing (twelve paces off). I picked out the leader, the largest cow, and fired. This brought her up all acheck (second mates' language*) but the others came and jostled her and she, with them, started for me again. The second barrel killed her dead at nine paces, and as I knew the others would get me if I stayed I bolted for the river-bed. T h e *Mr. Cuninghame had served on whaling-ships in the arc tic seas; and we used to compare cow-punchers', bison-hunt ers', elephant-hunters', and whaling dialects.
dead cow caused them to swerve and I es caped them by a very narrow margin. It was the nearest call I have had for quite some time with elephant. T h e other man's 450-double jammed i n the safety-bolt and he never fired, but wisely kept on run ning, like the niggers, through the bush. The whole incident was all over i n twenty to twenty-five seconds. " O n the second occasion I was out with the same man on the foot-hills of south K e n i a and camping i n the same small open patch in the forest where you may remem ber I took you to [near where I killed my first elephant, a big bull, and not far from where Akeley was nearly killed by another bull]. We got a single bull elephant stand ing about fifteen yards off. I motioned my man to shoot, but he was decidedly jumpy over the business and made some noise. Round swung our friend and started to charge right on us. M y companion let drive with one barrel and managed to hit one of the outspread ears! H e had waited so long that i t didn't give me a fair chance, but one shot of the' Roosevelt g u n ' brought him down dead as a nail barely ten yards from me. O n this occasion there was ab solutely no chance of escape, as we could not move a step i n any direction i n the mass of tangled vegetation."
From a photograph by Elwin R, Sanborn. A b y s s i n i a n elephants at N e w Y o r k Z o o l o g i c a l
Park.
T H E
M A N B E H I N D
T H E
BARS
B y Winifred Louise Taylor FIRST
I H A V E often been asked, " H o w did you come to be interested in p r i s o n e r s i n the first place?" It all came about simply and naturally. I think it was F . W . Robertson who first made clear to me the truth that what we put into life is of far more importance than what we get out of i t ; later I learned that life is very generous i n its returns for what we put into it. In a quiet hour one day it happened that I realized that m y life was out of balance; that more than m y share of things worth having were coming to me, and that I was not passing them on; nor did I see any channel for the passing on just at hand. The one thing that occurred to me was to offer m y services as teacher in a Sundayschool. T h i s I proceeded to do, and the following Sunday I was assigned as teach er to a class of ten young men. There was at this time no library in m y home town, nor was there any place open to young men evenings except prayermeetings and saloons. W i t h i n the year this class had formed a club and attrac tively furnished a large, cheerful room to which each member had a pass-key, and had organized a small circulating library —destined to become the nucleus of a large free library—thus at one stroke meeting their own need and working out ward for the good of the community. Of course I was immensely interested in the class and i n the success of this l i brary venture. Accordingly, I offered m y services as librarian on Saturday after noons, while a member of the class filled the same office two evenings i n the week. This library was the doorway through which I passed into the prison life. One Saturday a little boy came into the library and handed me the charming Quaker love-story, " D o r o t h y F o x , " say ing, " T h i s book was taken out by a man V O L . L I V . — 42
PAPER
who is in jail, and he wants you to send him another book." Now I had passed that county jail al most every day for years; its rough stone walls and narrow barred windows were so familiar that they no longer made any impression upon me; but it had not oc curred to me that inside those walls were human beings whose thoughts were as m y thoughts, and who might like a good story, even a refined story, as much as I d i d ; and that a man should pay money that he had stolen for three months' subscription to a library seemed most incongruous. It transpired that the prisoner was a Scotch boy of nineteen who, being out of work, had stolen thirty-five dollars, ta king small amounts as he needed them. According to the law of the State the penalty for stealing any amount under the value of fifteen dollars was a sentence to the county jail for a period usually of sixty days, while the theft of fifteen dol lars or more was a penitentiary offence, and the sentence never for less than one year. I quote the statement of the case of this Scotch boy as it was given me by a man who happened to be in the library and who knew all the circumstances. " T h e boy was arrested on the charge of having taken ten dollars—all they could prove against h i m ; and he would have got off with a jail sentence, but the fool made a clean breast of the matter, and now he has to lie in jail for six months till court is i n session, and then he will be sent to the penitentiary on his own con fession." Two questions arose in m y m i n d : was it only "the f o o l " who had made a clean breast of the case? A n d if the boy was to go to prison on his own confession, was it not an outrage that he should be kept in jail for six months awaiting the formal ities of the next session of the circuit court? I did not then think of the tax payers, forced to support this boy in idle ness for six months. 443
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T h e M a n Behind the Bars
T h a t night I d i d not sleep very well; the Scotch boy was on m y mind, all the more vividly because m y only brother was of the same age, and then, too, the words, " I was i n prison and ye visited me n o t , " repeated themselves with insistent per sistence until I was forced to meet the question, " D i d these words really mean anything for to-day and n o w ? " Next morning I asked my father if any one would be allowed to talk with a pris oner in our jail. M y father said, " Y e s , but what would you have to say to a pris oner?" " I could at least ask him what books he would like from the l i b r a r y , " I replied. B u t I could not bring m y cour age to the point of going to the jail; i t seemed a most formidable venture. Sun day, M o n d a y , and Tuesday passed, and still I held back; on Wednesday I was driving with m y brother, and when very near the jail the spring of the carriage broke, and m y brother told me that I would have to fill in time somewhere un til the break was repaired. I realized that the moment for decision had come; and with a wildly beating heart I took the de cisive step, little dreaming when I entered the door of that jail that I was commit ting myself to prison for life. B u t we all take life one day, one hour, at a time; and five minutes later when m y hand was clasped through the grated door and two big gray eyes were looking straight into mine, I had forgotten everything else in my interest in the boy. I asked h i m why he told that he had taken thirty-five dollars when accused only of having taken ten, and he simply said, " Because when I realized that I had become a thief I wanted to become an honest man; and I thought that was the place to begin." H a d I known anything of the law and its processes I should doubtless have said, " W e l l , there's nothing for you to do now but to brace up and meet your fate. There's nothing I can do to help you out of this trouble"; but in my fortunate ig norance of obstacles I said, " I ' l l see what I can do to help y o u . " I had only one thought—to save that young man from the penitentiary and give him a fresh start in life. I began with the person nearest at hand, the sheriff's wife, and she secured the sheriff as m y first adviser; then I went to
the wife of the prosecuting attorney for the State, and she won her husband over to m y cause. One after another the legal difficulties were overcome, and this was the way the matter was settled: I se cured a good situation for W i l l y i n case of his release; W i l l y gave the man from whom he had taken the money a note for the full amount payable i n ninety days— the note signed b y m y father and another responsible citizen; the case was given a rehearing on the original charge of ten dollars, and W i l l y ' s sentence was ten days in the county j a i l ; and this fortunate settlement of the affair was celebrated with a treat of oranges and peanuts for W i l l y and his fellow prisoners. A good part of that ten days W i l l y spent in read ing aloud to the other men. Immediately after release he went to work and before the expiration of the ninety days the note for thirty-five dollars was paid i n full. N o w this Was the sensible, fair, and human way of righting a wrong. Nevertheless we had all joined hands i n "compounding a felony." W i t h W i l l y ' s release I supposed m y ac quaintance w i t h the jail was at an end; but the boy had become interested in his companions i n misery, and on his first visit to me he said, " I f y o u could know what your visits were to me y o u would never give up going to the jail as long as you l i v e . " A n d then I gave h i m my promise. " B e to others what you have been to m e " has been the message given to me b y more than one of these men. While a prisoner W i l l y had made no complaint of the condition of things in the jail, but after paying the note of his indebtedness, he proceeded to buy straw and ticking for mattresses, which were made and sent up to the jail for the other prisoners, while I furthered his efforts to make the existence of those men more en durable b y contributing various "exter minators" calculated to reduce the num ber of superfluous inhabitants i n the cells. A t the time I supposed that W i l l y was an exception, morally, to the usual ma terial from which criminals are made. I do not think so now, after twenty-five years of friendships w i t h criminals, of study of the men themselves, and of the conditions and circumstances which led to their being imprisoned.
T h e M a n Behind the Bars _ W i l l y ' s was a kindly nature, responsive, yielding readily to surrounding influ ences, not so much lacking i n honesty as in the power of resistance. H a d he been subjected to the disgrace, the humiliation, and the associations of a term in the peni tentiary, where the first requirement of the discipline is non-resistance, he might easily have slipped into the ranks of the ' ' h a b i t u a l " criminal, from which it is so difficult to find an exit. I am not sure that W i l l y was never dishonest again; but I am sure of his purpose to be honest; and the last that I knew of him, after several years of correspondence, he was doing well running a cigar-stand and small cir culating library in a Western town. F r o m that beginning I continued m y visits to the jail, usually going on Sun day morning when other visitors were not admitted. A n d on Sunday mornings when the church-bells were calling, the prisoners seemed to be—doubtless were— in a mood different from that of the week days. There's no doubt of the mission of the church-bells, ringing clear above the tumult of the world, greeting us on Sunday mornings from the cradle to the grave. I did not hold any religious services. I did not venture to prescribe until I had found out what was the matter. It was almost always books that opened the new acquaintances, for through the library I was able to supply the prisoners with entertaining reading. T h e y made their own selections from our printed lists, and I was surprised to find these selections averaging favorably with the choice of books among good citizens of the same grade of education. There certainly was some incongruity between the broken head, all bandages, the ragged apparel, and the literary taste of the man who asked me for " something by George E l i o t or Thack eray." A short story read aloud was always a pleasure to the men behind the bars. M o r e than once I have been able to form correct conclusions as to the guilt or the inno cence of a prisoner by the expression of his face when I was reading something that touched the deeper springs of human nature. A n d m y sense of humor stood me in good stead with these men; for there's no freemasonry like that of the spontane
445
ous smile that springs from the heart; and after we had once smiled together we were no longer strangers. One early incident among m y jail ex periences left a v i v i d impression with me. A boy of some thirteen summers, accused of stealing, was detained in jail several weeks awaiting trial, with the prospect of the reform-school later. I n appearance he was attractive, and his youth appealed to one's sympathy. Believing that he ought to be given a better chance for the future than our reform-schools then of fered, I tried to induce the sheriff to ask some farmer to take him in hand. The sheriff demurred, saying that no farmer would want the boy in his family, as he was a liar and very profane, and conse quently I dropped the subject. In the jail at the same time was a man of forty or over who frankly told me that he had been a criminal and a tramp since boyhood, that he had thrown away all chances in life and lost all self-respect forever. I took him at his own valuation, and he really seemed about as hopeless a case as I have ever encountered. One lovely June evening when I went into the corridor of the jail to leave a book, this old criminal called me beside his cell for a few words. " D o n ' t let that boy go to the reformschool," he began earnestly; "the reformschool is the very hotbed of crime for • a boy like that. Save him if you can. Save him from a life like mine. Put him on a farm. Get him into the country, away from temptation." " B u t the sheriff tells me he is such a liar and swears so that no decent people would keep h i m , " I replied. " I ' l l break him of swearing," said the man impetuously, " a n d I ' l l try to break him of lying. C a n ' t he see what / am? C a n ' t he see what he'll come to if he doesn't brace up? I ' m a living argument —a living example of the folly and degra dation of stealing and lying. I can't ever be anything but what I am now, but there's hope for that boy if some one will only give him a chance, and I want you to help h i m . " The force of his appeal was not to be resisted, and I agreed to follow his lead i n an effort to save his fellow prisoner from destruction. A s I stood there in the twi-
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T h e M a n Behind the Bars
light beside this man reaching out from the wreck and ruin of his own life to lend a hand in the rescue of this boy, if only the "good people" would do their part, I hoped that Saint Peter and the Record ing Angel were looking down. A n d as I said good-night—with a hand clasp—I felt that I had touched a human soul. T h e man kept his word, the boy gave up swearing and braced up generally, and I kept my part of the agreement; but I do not know if our combined efforts had a lasting effect on the young culprit. As time passed many of these men were sent from the jail to the State peniten tiary, and often a wife or family was left in destitution; and the destitution of a prisoner's wife means not only poverty, but heart-break, disgrace, and despair. Never shall I forget the first time I saw the parting of a wife from her husband the morning he was taken to prison. A sensitive, high-strung, fragile creature she was; and going out in the bitter cold of December, carrying a heavy boy of eighteen months and followed by an older girl, she seemed the very embodiment of desolation. I have been told by those who do not know the poor that they do not feel as we do, that their sensibilities are blunted, their imagination torpid. Could we but know! Could we but know, we should not be so insensate to their sufferings. It is we who are dull. T o that prisoner's wife that morning life was one quivering torture, with absolutely no escape from agonizing thoughts. H e r " h o m e , " to which I went that afternoon, was a cabin in which there was one fire, but scant food, and no stock of clothing; the woman was ignorant of charitable societies and shrinking from the shame of exposing her needs as a convict's wife. It is not difficult to make things hap pen i n small towns when people know each other and live within easy distances. I n less time, really less actual time than it would have taken to write a paper for the woman's club on " T h e Problems of Pov erty," this prisoner's wife was relieved from immediate want. T o tell her story to half a dozen acquaintances who had children and superfluous clothing, to se cure a certain monthly help from the city, was a simple matter; and in a few months the woman was taking in sewing
—and doing good work—for a reliable class of patrons. I have not found the poor ungrateful. Twenty years afterward this woman came to me i n prosperity from another town where she had been a successful dress maker, to express once more her gratitude for the friendship given i n her time of need. Almost without exception, with my prisoners and with their families, I have found gratitude and loyalty unbounded. When the men sent from the jail to the penitentiary had no family they naturally wrote to me. Sometimes they learned to write while i n jail or after they reached the prison just for the pleasure of inter changing letters with some one. A l l prison correspondence is censored by some official; and as m y letters soon revealed m y disinterested relation to the prisoners, the warden, R . W . M c C l a u g h r e y , now of national fame, sent me an invitation to spend several days as his guest, and thus to become acquainted with the institution. It was a great experience, an over whelming experience when first I realized the meaning of prison life. I seemed to be taken right into the heart of it at once. The monstrous unnaturalness of it all ap palled me. The great gangs of creatures in stripes moving i n the lock-step like huge serpents were all so unhuman. Their dumb silence—for even the eyes of a pris oner must be dumb—was oppressive as a nightmare. The hopeless misery of the men there for life, already entombed, however long the years might stretch out before them, and the wild entreaty in the eyes of those dying i n the hospital—for the eyes of the dying break all bonds— these things haunted m y dreams long afterward. Later I learned that even in prison there are lights among the shad ows; and that sunny hearts may still have their gleams of sunshine breaking through the darkness of their fate; but m y first impression was one of unmiti gated gloom. W h e n I expressed some thing of this to the warden his response was, " Y e s , every life here represents a tragedy—a tragedy if the man is guilty, and scarcely less a tragedy if he is in nocent. " As the guest of the warden I remained at the penitentiary for several days and received a most cordial standing invita-
T h e M a n Behind the Bars tion to the institution, w i t h the privilege of talking w i t h any prisoner without the presence of an officer. T h e unspeakable luxury to those men of a visit without the presence of a guard! Some of the men w i t h whom I talked had been in prison for ten years or more with never a visitor from the living world, and only an occasional letter. M y visits to the penitentiary were never oftener than twice a year, and I usually limited the list of m y interviews to twentyfive. W i t h whatever store of cheerfulness and vitality I began these interviews, by the time I had entered into the lives of that number of convicts I was so sub merged i n the prison atmosphere, and the demand upon m y sympathy had been so exhausting, that I could give no more for the time. I found that the shortest and the surest way for me to release myself from the prison influence was to hear fine, stirring music after a visit to the peniten tiary. B u t for years I kept m y list up to twenty-five, making new acquaintances as the men whom I knew were released. Prisoners whom I d i d not know would write me requesting interviews, and the men whom I knew often asked me to see their cellmates, and I had a touch-andgo acquaintance with a number of pris oners not on m y lists. Thus m y circle gradually widened to include hundreds of convicts and ex-con victs of all grades, from university men to men who could not read. However, it was the men who had no friends who always held the first claim on m y sym pathy, and as the years went on I came more and more in contact with the "habit ual criminals," the hopeless cases, the left-over and forgotten men; some of them beyond the pale of interest even of the ordinary chaplain—for there are chaplains and chaplains, as well as convicts and con victs. I suppose it was the very desolation of these men that caused their quick re sponse to any evidence of human inter est. I n their eagerness to grasp the friendship of any one who remembered that they were still men—not convicts only—these prisoners would often frank ly tell the stories of their lives, admitting guilt without attempt at extenuation. N o doubt it was an immense relief to
447
them to make a clean breast of their past to one who could understand and make allowance. This was not always so — some men lied to me and simply passed out of m y remembrance; but I early learned to sus pend judgment, and when I saw that a man was lying through the instinct of selfdefence, because he did not trust me, I gave him a chance to "size me u p " and reassure himself as to my trustworthiness. " W h y I just couldn't go on lying to you after I saw that you were ready to believe in m e , " was the candid admission of one who never lied to me again. Among these convicts I encountered some unmistakable degenerates. The most optimistic humanitarian can not deny that i n all classes of life we find instances of moral degeneracy. This fact has been clearly demonstrated by sons of some of our multimillionaires. A n d human na ture does not seem to be able to stand the strain of extreme poverty any bet ter than it stands the plethora caused by excessive riches. The true degenerate, however, is usually the result of causes too complicated or remote to be clearly traced. B u t throughout m y long experi ence with convicts I have known not more than a dozen who seemed to me black-hearted, deliberate criminals; and among these, as it happened, but one was of criminal parentage. Crime is not a disease; but there's no doubt that disease often leads to crime. Of the defective, the feeble-minded, the half-insane, and the epileptic there are too many i n every pris on—one is too many—but they can be counted by the hundreds in our aggregate of prisons. Often warm-hearted, often with strong religious tendencies, they are deficient i n judgment or i n moral back bone. The screw loose somewhere i n the mental or physical make-up of these men makes the tragedies, the practically hope less tragedies of their lives; though there may never have been one hour when they were criminal through deliberate inten tion. Then there are those whose crimes are simply the result of circumstances, and of circumstances not of their own making. Others are prisoners unjustly convicted, innocent of any crime; but every convict is classed as a criminal, as is inevitable, and under the Bertillon
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method of identification his very person is indissolubly connected with the crim inal records. E v e n in this twentieth cen tury, in so many directions an age of marvellous progress, there is a menacing tendency among legislators to enlarge the borders of life-sentence—not according to the number of crimes a man may have committed, but according to the number of times a man has been convicted i n courts notoriously indifferent to justice; too often according to the number of times the man has been " the victim of our penal machinery." I well remember a man three times sent from my own county to the penitentiary for thefts committed during the brain dis turbance preceding epileptic convulsions. O n one occasion, between arrest and con viction, I saw the man in an unconscious state and in such violent convulsions that it was necessary to bind him to the iron bedstead on which he lay. I knew but little of physiological psychology then; and no one connected the outbreaks of theft with the outbreaks of epilepsy. A n d the man,industrious and honest when well, was, i n consequence of epileptic men tal disturbance, convicted of crime and sent to the penitentiary; and owing to previous convictions from the same cause was classed as an "habitual c r i m i n a l . " L i k e instances of injustice resulting from ignorance are constantly occurring. In our large cities, where " r a i l r o a d i n g " men to prison is purely a matter of busi ness, no consideration is given to the i n dividual accused; he is no longer a hu man being: he is simply " a case." A very able and successful prosecuting at torney—success estimated by the number of "cases" convicted—once said to me: " I have nothing to do with the innocence of the m a n ; I'm here to convict." B y far the most brutal man whom I have ever personally encountered was a modern prototype of the English judge L o r d George Jeffreys—a judge i n one of our large cities who had held in his un holy hands the fate of many an accused person. However, with this one excep tion, in my experience with judges I have found then courteous, fair-minded, and glad to assist me when convinced that a convict had not been accorded justice.
We find in the prisons the same human nature as i n the churches; far differently developed and manifested, but not so different after all as we should expect, remembering the contrast between the home influence, the education, environ ment, and opportunity of the inmates of our prisons with that of the representa tives of our churches. I n our prisons we find cowardice, brutality, dishonesty, and selfishness. A r e our church-memberships altogether free from these defects? Sure ly, unquestionably, in our churches we do find the highest virtues—love, courage, fortitude, tenderness, faithfulness, un selfishness. A n d i n every prison in this land these same virtues—love, tenderness, courage, fortitude, faithfulness, unselfish ness—are to be found; often hidden in the silence of the heart, but living sparks of the divine life which is our birthright. A n d yet between these prisons and the churches there has long existed an almost impassable barrier of distrust, equally strong on both sides. I once called with a friend upon the wife of a convict, who related an incident in which she had received great kindness from a certain lady very prominent in church circles. " I was so surprised. I could not understand her being so kind, for she was a Christian." " W h y , there's nothing strange i n the kindness of a Chris tian, " said m y friend. " M i s s Taylor and I are both Christians." T h e prisoner's wife paused a moment, then said, with slow emphasis: "That is impossible." We all have our standards and ideals, not b y which we live but b y which we judge one another. T h i s woman knew the sweat-shops, and she knew that Christian as well as Jew lived in luxury from the profits derived from the labor of the sweat shops, and of the underpaid shop-girls. T o her the great city churches meant op pression and selfishness, power and wealth; arrayed against poverty and weakness, against fair pay and fair play. H e r own actual personal experience w i t h some per sons classed as Christians had been bitter and cruel; thus her vision was warped and her judgment misled. M u c h of the same feeling had prevailed through the prisons; and I know that one reason why so many of " the incorrigibles " gave me their confidence was owing to the word
T h e M a n Behind the Bars passed round among them: " Y o u can trust her; she is no Christian." T h i s has a strange sound to us. B u t it does not sound strange at all when we hear from the other side. " Y o u can't trust that man—he's been a c o n v i c t . " T h r o u g h the genius, the energy, the spiritual enthusiasm of that remarkable woman known among prisoners as " T h e L i t t l e M o t h e r , " the barrier between the churches and the prisons is recently and for the time giving way on the one side. The chaplains are taken for granted as part of the prison equipment, and their preaching on Sunday as the work for which they are paid. B u t " T h e L i t t l e M o t h e r " comes from the outside, literally giving her life to secure a chance for ex-convicts in this world. She brings to the prisons a fresh interpretation of the Christian re ligion, as help for the helpless, as a friend to the friendless. I n her they find at once their ideal of human goodness and lovely womanhood, and through her they are beginning to understand what the Chris tian churches intend to stand for. B u t to undermine the barrier on the side of society—to bring about a better under standing of the individuals confined be hind the walls which society still believes necessary for self-protection, is, in the very nature of the case, a far more difficult undertaking. Almost inaccessible to the outsider is the heart of a convict or the criminal's point of view of life. I n fact, their hearts and their points of view differ according to their natures and experi ences. B u t to think of our prisoners i n the mass—the thousand or two thousand men cut off from the world and immured in each of our great penitentiaries—is to think of them as The Inarticulate. T h e repression of their lives is fearful. A l l that is required of them is to be part of the machinery of the prison system; to work, to obey, to maintain discipline. Absolutely nothing is done to develop the individual. T h e mental and psychic influence of the prison is indescribably stifling and deadening. E v e r y instinctive impulse of movement, the glance of the eye, the smile of understanding, the stretch of weary muscles, the turning of the head, all must be guarded or repressed. The whole tendency of prison discipline is at once to detach the individual from
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his fellow man; at all costs to prevent communication between convicts; and to stifle all expression of individuality ex cept between cellmates when the day's work is over. A n d companionship of cell mates is likely to pall when the same two men are confined in a seven b y four cell for three hundred and sixty-five evenings in a year. Gradually but inevitably the mind dulls; mental impressions lose their clear outlines and the faculties become atrophied. I have seen this happen over and over again. When first the drama of prison life be gan to unfold before me I looked for some prisoner to tell the story; he, only, could know what it really meant. B u t the de sire to forget, to shake off all association, even the very thought of having been connected with convict life, is the instinc tive aim of the average man seeking re instatement in society. Occasionally a human document from the pen of an exconvict has appeared in print, but few of them have been convincing. T h e wri ter's own consciousness of having been a convict may prevent him from striking out from the shoulder; from speaking as man to man; or something in the mind of the reader may discount the value of the statement coming from an ex-convict; more likely than either the spirit is so gone out of the man before his release that he has no heart or courage to grapple with the subject; and he, too, shares the popu lar belief that prisons are necessary—• for others. It was the poet and the artist i n Oscar Wilde that made it possible—perhaps i n evitable—for him to rend the veil that hides the convict prison execution; and to etch the horror in all its blackness, like a scaffold silhouetted against the sky, i n " T h e B a l l a d of Reading G a o l . " T h e picture is a masterpiece, and it is the naked truth; more effective with the general reader than his'' D e Profundis," which is no less remarkable as literature, but is more exclusively an analysis of Oscar Wilde's own spiritual development during his prison experience. The Russian writer Dostoyevski, also with pen dipped i n the tears and blood of actual experience, has given scenes of Russian convict life so terrible and intense that the mind of the reader recoils with horror, scoring one more
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black mark against Russia, and thanking G o d that i n our dealings with convicts we are not as these other men. B u t not long ago a cry from the inside penetrated the walls of a Western prison in " C o n S o r d i n i , " a poem of remarkable power, written by a young poet-musician who, held by the clutches of the law, was suffer ing an injustice which a Russian would be slow to indorse. N o doubt other gifted spirits will have their messages. B u t , i n the mind of the public, genius seems to lift these men out of the convict into the lit erary class, and their most human docu ments are too likely to be regarded only as literature. Genius is rare i n all classes of life, and m y prison friends were of the common clay. T h e rank and file of our convicts are almost as inarticulate as dumb, driven cattle, many of them incapable of tracing the steps b y which they fell into crime or of analyzing the effects of imprison ment. Some of them have not learned how to handle words, and find difficulty i n expressing thoughts or feelings; espe cially is this true of the ignorant foreigners. One of the men whom I knew, not a foreigner, but absolutely illiterate, early fell into criminal life, and before he was twenty years old was serving a sentence of life-imprisonment. After a period of unspeakable loneliness and mental mis ery he was allowed attendance at the prison evening school. H e told me that he could not sleep for joy and excite ment when first he realized that through printed and written words he could come into communication with other minds, find companionship, gain information, and come i n touch with the great free world on the outside. As I look back through my twenty-five years of prison friendship, it is like look ing through a long portrait gallery, only the faces are living faces, and the lips unite i n the one message, " W e , too, are human beings of like nature with your selves." T o me, however, each face brings its own special message; for each one in turn has been m y teacher in the book of life. A n d now for their sakes I a m going to break the seal of my prison friendships, and to let some of these con victs open their hearts to the world as they have been opened to me, and to give
their vision of human life; to draw the picture as they have seen it. Some of them bear the brand of murderer, others belong to the class which the law denom inates as " i n c o r r i g i b l e . " I believe I had the reputation of knowing the very worst men i n the prison, " the old-timers." It could not have been true that my friends were among the worst men there, for m y prison friendships, like all friendship, were founded upon mutual confidence, and never once did one of these men betray m y trust. It was H i r a m Johnson who taught me what a smothering, ghastly thing pris on life i n America may be. One of the guards had said to me: " H i r a m Johnson is a life-man who has been here for years. N o one ever comes to see h i m , and I think a visit would do h i m lots of good." The man who appeared i n answer to the summons was a short, thick-set fellow of thirty-five or more, with eyes reddened and disabled by marble dust from the shop i n which he had worked for years. H e smiled when I greeted him, but had ab solutely nothing to say. I found that visit hard work: the man utterly unre sponsive; answering in the fewest words the commonplace inquiries as to his health, the shop he worked i n , and how long he had been there. Six months after I saw him again with exactly the same experi ence. H e had nothing to say and sug gested nothing for me to say. I knew only that he expected to see me when I came to the prison, and after making his acquaintance I could never disappoint one of those desolate creatures whose one point of contact with the world was the half-hour spent with me twice a year. When I had seen the man some halfdozen times, at the close of an interview I said, i n half-apology for m y futile at tempts to keep up conversation: " I ' m sorry that I haven't been more interest ing to-day; I wanted to give you some thing pleasant to think of." " I t has meant a great deal to m e , " he answered. " Y o u can't know what it means to a man just to know that some one remembered he is alive. T h a t gives me something pleasant to think about when I get back to m y c e l l . " We had begun correspondence at the opening of our acquaintance, but rarely
T h e M a n Behind the Bars was there a line i n his earlier letters to which I could make reply or comment. M a i n l y made up of quotations from the O l d Testament, scriptural imprecations upon enemies seemed to be his chief men tal resource. T h e man considered him self " r e l i g i o u s " and had read very little outside his Bible, which was little more intelligible to h i m than the original Greek would have been, excepting where it dealt w i t h denunciations. • I n m y replies to these letters I simply aimed to give the prisoner glimpses of something outside, sometimes incidents of our own family life, and always the as surance that I counted h i m among m y prison friends, that " there was some one who remembered that he was a l i v e . " It was five or six years before I succeeded in extracting the short story of his' life, knowing only that he had killed some one. The moral fibre of a man and the se quence of events which resulted in the commission of a crime have always in terested me more than the one criminal act. One day, in an unusually com municative mood, Johnson told me that as a child he had lost both parents, that he grew up i n western Missouri without even learning to read, serving as choreboy and farm-hand until he was sixteen, when he joined the Southern forces in '63, drifting into the guerilla warfare. I t was not through conviction but merely by chance that he was fighting for, rather than against, the South. It was merely the best job that offered itself, and the killing of men was only a matter of busi ness. Afterward he thought a good deal about this guerilla warfare as it related itself to his own fate, and he said to me: " I was paid for killing men, for shoot ing, on sight, men who had never done me any harm. T h e more men I killed the better soldier they called me. When the war was over I killed one more man. I had reason this time, good reason. The man was m y enemy and had threatened to kill me, and that's why I shot h i m . But then they called me a murderer, and shut me up for the rest of m y life. I was just eighteen years o l d . " Such was the brief story of Johnson's life; such the teaching of war. I n pris on the man was taught to read; in chapel he was taught that prison was not the
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worst fate for the murderer; that an avenging G o d had prepared endless con finement in hell-fire for sinners like h i m , unless they repented and propitiated the wrath of the Ruler of the universe. A n d so, against the logic of his own mind, while religion apparently justified war, he tried to discriminate between war and murder, and to repent of taking the one life which he really felt justified in taking; he found a certain outlet for his warlike spirit, or his elemental, human desire to fight, in arraying himself on God's side and against the enemies of the Almighty. A n d no doubt he found a certain kind of consolation i n denouncing in scriptural language the enemies of the L o r d . B u t all this while in the depths of John son's nature something else was working: a living heart was beating and the slug gish mind was seeking an outlet. A grad ual change took place in his letters; the handwriting grew more legible, now and again gleams of the buried life broke through the surface, revealing unexpected tenderness toward nature—the birds and the flowers. Genuine poetic feeling was expressed in his efforts to respond to m y friendship, as where he writes: " H o w happy would I be could I plant some thotte in the harte of my friend that would give her pleasure for many a long d a y . " A n d when referring to some evi dence of m y remembrance of my prisoners he said: " W e always love those littel for-gett-me-nottes that bloom in the harte of our friends all the year round. R e member that we can love that which is lovely." Dwelling on the loneliness of prison life, and the value of even an occasional letter, he writes: " T h e kind word cheares my lonely hours with the feelings that some one thinks of me. Human nature seems to have been made that way. There are many who would soon brake down and die without this simpathy." Always was there the same incongruity between the spelling and a certain dig nity of diction which I attribute to his familiarity with the Psalms. H i s affin i t y with the more denunciatory Psalms is still occasionally evident, as when he closes one letter with these sentences: " O n e more of my enemies is dead. T h e hande of G o d is over them all. M a y he
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gather them all to that country where the climate is warm and the worm dieth not!" T o me this was but the echo of frag ments of O l d Testament teaching. A t last came one letter i n which the prisoner voiced his fate in sentences firm and clear as a piece of sculpture. This is the letter exactly as it was written: " M Y DEAR
FRIEND:
" I hope this may find you well. It has bin some time since I heard from you and I feel that I should not trespass on you too off ten. Y o u know that whether I write or not I shall i n m y thottes w ander to you and shall think I heare you saying some sweet chearing word to incourage me, and it is such a pleasant thing, too. B u t you know theas stripes are like bands of steel to keep one's mouth shut, and the eye may not tell what the heart would say 'were the bondes broken that keep the lippes shut. If one could hope and be lieve that what the heart desired was true, then to think would be a pleasure beyond anything else the world could give. B u t to be contented here the soul i n us must die. W e must become stone images. " Y o u r s e truly, r
"HIRAM
JOHNSON."
N o t for himself alone did this man speak—"to be contented here the soul in us must d i e . " " W e must become stone images." F r o m the deepest depths of his own experience it was given to this unlettered convict to say for all time the final word as to the fate of the "life-man " up to the present day. After this single outburst, if anything so restrained can be called an outburst, H i r a m Johnson subsided into much of his former immobility. L i k e all life-men he had begun his term in prison with the feel ing that it must come to an end some time. What little money he had was given to a lawyer who drew up an application for shortening of the sentence, the petition had been sent to the governor, and the papers, duly filed, had long lain undis turbed in the governor's office. When I first met Johnson he still cherished ex pectations that "something would be done" in his case, but as years rolled by and nothing was done the tides of hope
ran low. Other men sentenced during the '6o's received pardons or commuta tions or had died, until at last " o l d H i ram J o h n s o n " arrived at the distinction of being the only man i n that prison who had served a fifty-year sentence. N o w , a fifty-year sentence does not mean fifty years of actual time. I n dif ferent States the " g o o d t i m e " allowed a convict differs, this good time meaning that by good behavior the length of im prisonment is reduced. I n the prison of which I am writing long sentences could be shortened b y nearly one-half: thus by twenty-nine years of good con duct Johnson had served a legal sentence of fifty years. N o other convict i n that prison had lived and kept his reason for twenty-nine years. Johnson had become a figure familiar to every one i n and about the place. Other convicts came and went, but he remained; plodding along, never complaining, never giving trouble, doing his full duty within its circum scribed limits. Altogether he had a good record and the authorities were friendly to him. Hitherto I had never asked executive clemency except in cases where it was clear that the sentence had been unjust; and I had been careful to keep m y own record high i n this respect, knowing that if I had the reputation of being ready to intercede for any one who touched my sympathies, I should lower m y standing with the governors. B u t it seemed to me that Johnson, by more than half his lifetime of good conduct i n prison, had established a claim upon mercy and earned the right to be given another chance i n freedom. I found the governor i n a favorable state of mind, as i n one of his late visits to the penitentiary Johnson had been pointed out to h i m as the only man who had ever served a fifty-year sentence. After looking over the petition for par don then on file, and ascertaining that Johnson had relatives to whom he could go, the governor decided to grant his release. B u t as an unlooked-for pardon was likely to prove too much of a shock to the prisoner, the sentence was com muted to a period which would release him i n six weeks, and to me was intrusted the breaking of the news to Johnson, and
T h e M a n Behind the Bars the papers giving h i m freedom. W e knew that it was necessary for Johnson to be given time to enable his mind to grasp the fact of coming release, and to make very definite plans to be met at the pris on-gates b y some one on whom he could depend, for the man of forty-seven would find a different world from the one he left when a boy of eighteen. It gives one a thrill to hold in one's hands the papers that are to open the doors of liberty to a man imprisoned for life, and it was w i t h a glad heart that I took the next train for the penitentiary. M y interview with Johnson was un disturbed by any other presence, and he greeted me with no premonition of the meaning of the roll of white paper that I held. Very quietly our visit began; but when Johnson was quite at his ease I asked: " H a s anything been done about your case since I saw you l a s t ? " " O h , no,nothing ever will be done for me. I've given up all hope." " I had a talk with the governor about you yesterday, and he was willing to help you. H e gave me this paper which you and I will look over together." I watched in vain for any look of interest in his face as I said this. Slowly, aloud, I read the official words, Johnson's eyes following as I read; but his realization of the meaning of the words came with difficulty. When I had read the date of his release we both paused: as the light broke into his mind he said: " T h e n , i n January I shall be free." Another pause, while he tried to grasp just what this would mean to h i m ; and then, " I shall be free. N o w I can work and earn money to send you to help other poor fellows." T h a t was his uppermost thought during the rest of the interview. In the evening the Catholic chaplain, Father Cyriac, of beloved memory, came to me with the request that I have another interview with Johnson, saying, " T h e man is so distressed because in his over whelming surprise he forgot to thank you to-day." " H e thanked me better than he k n e w , " I replied. But, of course, I saw Johnson again the next day, and i n this, our last interview, he made a final desperate effort to tell me what his prison life had been. " B e
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hind me were stone walls, on each side of me were stone walls; nothing before me but stone walls. A n d then you came and brought hope into my life, and now you have brought freedom, and / can not find words to thank you." A n d dropping his head on his folded arms the man burst into tears, his whole body shaken with sobs. I hope that I made him realize that there was no need of words, that when deep calleth unto deep the heart understands in silence. Only yesterday, turning to my writingdesk in search of something else, I chanced across a copy of the letter I wrote to the governor after my interview with John son, and, as it is still warm with the feel ings of that never-to-be-forgotten experi ence, I insert it here. " I can not complete my Thanksgiving D a y until I have given you the message of thanks intrusted to me by H i r a m Johnson. A t first he could not realize that the long years of prison life were actually to be ended. It was too be wildering, like a flood of light breaking upon one who has long been blind. A n d when he began to grasp the meaning of your gift the first thing he said to me was, 'Now I can work and earn money to send you for some other poor fellow.' " N o t one thought of self, only of the value of liberty as a means, at last, to do something for others. H o w hard he tried to find words to express his gratitude! It made m y heart ache for the long, long years of repression that had made direct expression almost impossible, and in that thankfulness, so far too deep for words, I read, too, the measure of how terrible the imprisoned life had been. Thank heaven and a good governor, it will soon be over! H i r a m Johnson has a generous heart and true, and he will be a good man. A n d it is beautiful to know that spiritual life can grow and unfold even under the hardest conditions." What life meant to Johnson afterward I do not know; but I do know that he found home and protection with relatives on a farm, and the letters that he wrote me indicated that he took his place among them not as an ex-convict so much as a man ready to work for his living and en titled to respect. Being friendly, he no doubt found friends, and though he was a
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man near fifty, perhaps the long-buried spirit of youth came to life again i n the light of freedom. A t all events once more the blue skies were above h i m and he drew
N O
again the blessed breath of liberty. A l though he never realized his dream of help ing me to help others, I never doubted the sincerity of his desire to do so.
N I G H T
T H E R E
By W i l l i a m Hervey W o o d s T A K E it not clean away, M o t h e r which art in H e a v e n ; for Childhood's sake, A n d some long-cherished things time cannot take— Mem'ries of dusk o' day, A n d white beds waiting i n the candled gloom, While little heads bent i n the quiet room Around one knee to pray— E n d where they will, all our old dreams of rest Begin with twilight and a mother's breast. We are not wholly grown, B u t must be always what we once have been; Sometime, somewhere, the whitest head must lean; M a y h a p in heaven full-known M i d the long radiance and the rolling psalm, Our wistful hearts shall mind us of the balm Of earth-scenes, once our own— Where in sweet trance of lessening sight and sound, Soft-fingered N i g h t with darkness lapped us round. A n d must we lose the moon? N o r evermore far down a shadowy pass B y some still tarn, watch midnight i n a glass Star-crowned with double noon? Forego the dews, and Romance, and young dreams, A n d wind-blown voices of night-singing streams T h a t darkling idyls croon? Be patient with us, L o r d ; the moon-light shows Challenging splendors not all noon-tide knows. Then let it slowly go— Dear half of earthly life that we must miss, Velveted silence, stars, and slumber's bliss! Let lingering twilight glow Ere the All-morning on our darkness break, N o r this, T h o u Merciful, our frailty make, If we awaking so, One quivering moment turning from the light, Say, with wet faces, " 0 good N i g h t , good-night!"
T h e c y n o s u r e of the eyes a n d tongues of the w a s h e r w o m e n .
TROUT-FISHING
IN
N O R M A N D Y
By Ethel Rose ILLUSTRATIONS BY A . B . FROST A N D G U Y ROSE
N O R M A N D Y trout-fishing, like many the "Compleat Angler," dignified and another good thing of France, spoils sedate, his lawn bands immaculate, un one for most other places. der the blossoming trees of some appleSuch rivers as the noted chalk-streams orchard, or wandering through a meadow of England are unknown to us, and these intent on the quest while watched b y of which I write are, I fancy, no more to be cows knee-deep in buttercups and daisies. compared with them than with our own There is an intimate charm about this Maine or Canadian rivers or the waters of fishing, for you are nearly always i n the the West. E a c h is i n a class b y itself. village life—now beside some great slowA l l Normandy is pastoral—full of quaint turning mill-wheel, with the jealous miller villages drowsing i n the sun, with woods peeping from a window; now in a cottage and fields between—and the streams that garden on a trim path flanked by vege flow through this peaceful land partake of tables and flowers; now beneath the fra its character. Surely Izaak Walton would grant blossoms of an orchard, in which have loved them, and one can imagine may stand an old stone shrine; and now him, as shown by the stiff little print i n the cynosure of the eyes and tongues of the VOL. L I V . — 4 3
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Trout-Fishing in Normandy-
washerwomen as they slap the linen with their paddles on the stones of the lavoir. Or if not actually in a village it is impos sible to be far from one, and probably the pastured cattle will at first take a too friendly interest i n your proceedings, standing around in a close, wide-eyed cir cle, of which you may be unaware until your fly, swinging behind you as you cast, catches in one of them. Twelve years ago, and even less, a flyfisherman was a novelty i n these parts, except for an occasional local sport madly and literally thrashing the water with clumsy tackle, and the people regarded you with wondering and scornful amaze ment—until they saw you catch the fish. Nearly everywhere that we went, permis sion to fish was readily granted, for even where it is not preserved you must obtain the consent of the riverside proprietors; in some instances not so much for the privilege of fishing as for that of walking on their land; and as each little field and garden is apt to have a different owner, you are thus brought into relations with a goodly part of the population of the place. Also, there are sharp distinctions be tween rivers that are navigable or flottable and those that are not; for the former be long to the state, which rents the rights for net-fishing, though any one may fish on them from a boat with a ligne flottante; while on the little rivers the land-owners have all the fishing rights, and in some places even object to your wading. As i n the case of shooting, the landlord of the hotel is the first person to whom to apply for information, and you next inter view the guard to find out just where you may fish and where it is forbidden. It is a good plan to give a small tip to the guards and to obliging peasants, while by paying two or three dollars you can occa sionally get a bit of fishing for the season. One old guard of our acquaintance was exceedingly affable at first, but as the summer wore on he became so surly and disagreeable that we asked the reason of the change. H e said that when he gave us permission he had not supposed we could catch anything, as no one else could, but the truth was that we took too many and he did not like it. H e was less frank about his reasons for not liking it, which were that we interfered with his unlaw
ful traffic with the hotels, b y destroying night-lines and traps that we had more than once caught h i m setting. E v e n in our home village, when we suggested to the guard that it was his duty to remon strate with his poaching brother, he re plied deprecatingly: " W h a t would you? He sells them!" Another hoary sinner, not a guard this time, made his living b y wading boldly up and down the stream through every one's property, putting his hands into the holes under the banks, gently tickling the large trout that lay there, and deftly slipping them into his bag. H e had been arrested and imprisoned times innumerable, but as soon as he was free would be at his tricks again; so that i n the end he was actually left to poach as he pleased, the authorities having concluded that that was cheaper than so many proces and imprisonments. It is with no trace of regret that I chron icle his recent demise. It is now, however, becoming all the time more difficult to get fishing on the best rivers, for fly-fishing is getting to be more and more popular, and not only are many owners keeping their places for themselves, but the smaller ones in par ticular have discovered that they can make quite a sum b y renting for the sea son, or even for a term of years, at prices that would have seemed preposterous not so very long ago. Take, for instance, an old woman, who owns a deserted mill on the Durdent, where there are two good waterfalls and pools, i n all perhaps two hundred yards on either bank of the stream. T e n years ago, on our first visit, she invited us to fish there; the following spring she wanted twenty francs for two weeks, and finally got it from an English man. Since then her prices have soared like the lark, for last year she got six hun dred francs, and is planning to hold out for eight hundred next time. Of course it is not worth any such ridiculous amount, but it is simply astonishing how much a cautious, economical Frenchman will pay for a thing he wants. The number of enthusiasts or amateurs of this delightful sport is constantly in creasing, as its charm and art are realized and its fine points better appreciated; some of them are members of English clubs, and fish the preserved streams of
Trout-Fishing in Normandy England where rules are arbitrary and strictly enforced, and the standards of fishing are the highest in the world—in fact, the interchange of courtesies and ideas with British anglers is doing a vast amount to foster the correct sporting spirit. E v e n now there are French advo-
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earnestly engaged in trying to enact new laws against poaching, and to get both old and new enforced. The worse than indif ference displayed by officials in respect to these laws is appalling, and not only the sporting papers but the daily press wax sarcastic and indignant on the subject.
T h e p a s t u r e d cattle will take a f r i e n d l y interest i n y o u r p r o c e e d i n g s . — P a g e 456.
cates of the extreme dry-fly purist point of view who will fish only for a rising trout with an exact copy of the very fly that is on the water; though, as far as I am aware, there is no stream where hard-andfast rules on the subject prevail, and you may use fly, spinner, phantom, or as does the native, the lowly worm. The " C a s t i n g C l u b de F r a n c e " has for several years held an annual casting com petition in the Bois de Boulogne in Paris, an international affair where world's rec ords have been broken, some of them by Frenchmen. The Casting Club is quite the most important of those devoted almost exclusively to fly-fishing and is active in good works, being at present
Poachers show the most brazen indiffer ence to and defiance of authority, and the revengeful acts of the more lawless of them seem to have laid the powers that be under a spell of terror—they are lit erally afraid either to inflict or to execute sentences. I n a peculiarly shameful re cent case, where the offender was taken red-handed, after being scandalously ex onerated and having his illegal nets obli gingly returned to him, he remarked inso lently that he hoped they had at least had them properly dried! The sporting magazines also are taking up the subject of trout-fishing—and every thing that is not work seems to be a " s p o r t " in France, even photography!—
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so that there is, on the whole, quite an ani mated propaganda going on about pre serving, stocking, and guarding streams; and special appeals are being made to hotel proprietors to aid the good cause, and incidentally to enrich themselves, by advertising fishing opportunities, as is done on such a large scale in Great Britain, though it is as yet too soon to tell how farreaching the results will be. The " T o u r i n g Club de France," which has i n so many cases accomplished the seemingly impossible in the past ten years, is actively interested and that means as sured progress, for its monthly journal, free to every societaire, reaches over one hundred and thirty-five thousand mem bers alone (in France), and no corner of the country is too remote or difficult of access for it to penetrate. A l l France fishes—men, women, and children—so that it might truthfully be considered as the national pastime, for never have we seen anything to compare with it elsewhere. Fishing clubs and so cieties abound wherever there is any water more important than the village duckpond, most of them leagued into large or ganizations; but, with exceedingly few and recent exceptions, their object is the taking of coarse fish; and even where there are trout they are usually considered rather as a side issue, save on those rare streams where there is nothing else. It was on our first visit to the valley of the Durdent that we asked an old peas ant, past whose garden the river ran, if there was good fishing there. " N o ! " he replied disgustedly, "noth ing but trout." There were plenty of those at his very door, but he could not sit on a camp-stool or in a flat-bottomed boat under a large white cotton umbrella, with three or four rods fastened out i n front of him, and watch the floats bob while he dozed i n the sun, rousing now and then to the joy of a capture. N o trout for h i m ! Y o u can by no means put implicit trust in what the people tell you, for a miller will scowl and, even as you watch a beau tiful rise, assert that there isn't a fish in the river; while an old woman eager to chat will invite you into her garden, offer you a seat, assure y o u that there are whales everywhere, "Grosses comme ca,
monsieur!" and p l y you w i t h fruit and advice as long as you stay, which will probably be only until you have grasped the fact that there never was anything better than eels and chub within miles. Landlords will lure you with lies, and enthusiasts more patriotic than veracious will write to the magazines glowing let ters about the fishing i n their particular pays, as well as the fine local dishes and wines to be found i n their inns, until you burn with desire to go there and, after long waiting for the opportunity, find yourself, after spending an entire day on a beautiful A-looking stream, coming back tired and hungry, with a few six-inch troutlets, to an impossible dinner i n an auberge more prim itive than anything i n the wilds of Amer ica; though there is nothing like that in Normandy itself. A l l along the N o r m a n d y coast there is a succession of streams which vary in size and importance from the navigable Seine to the adorable brook that rises clear and cool i n the cress-beds of that even more adorable village, Veules-les-Roses, and flows not more than a mile before disap pearing underground beneath an old mill on the very beach. E v e r y one of these streams contains trout and, though none are now taken i n the Seine itself, most of its tributaries teem with them, and the Seine yields salmon even now as far up as Rouen, though twenty-five years ago they used to come up to the locks above Ver non, and the great flood year of 1910 saw a large one netted there i n the mouth of the Epte—a reminiscence of the "good old times." In the larger of the rivers that empty directly into the ocean, magnificent seatrout, running as high as fifteen pounds, are taken regularly with nets b y the mar ket fishermen, and this business goes on even i n the lower Durdent, which is sup posed to be reserved for members of the society. It is rare indeed that one of these big fellows will rise to the fly, and even then he will seldom do more than look at it. A spinner or a worm will occasionally account for one of them, and sometimes one will follow a small trout that is being reeled in, perhaps even going so far as to seize it, and making things lively for a few minutes. One patriarchal nine-pounder has made his home i n a certain garden
Trout-Fishing i n Normandy five miles from the sea, where he is never fished for, and is fed every morning i n company with at least a dozen others not so very much smaller, and it is indeed a
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in recent years, one is rarely taken much over half a pound i n weight, and it is claimed that, once they have made their pilgrimage to the sea, they never return.
A n o l d w o m a n eager to chat will invite y o u into her g a r d e n , . . . assure y o u that there are whales e v e r y w h e r e , " Grosses com me ca, monsieur* "—Page 458.
sight to stand on the little bridge and watch those beautiful fish leap and strug gle and splash for food right at your feet. The number of hatcheries scattered about on the different streams is really surprising, and though a few of them are private establishments or raise fish for market, it is hard to understand how all the others can make a living. Most of the N o r m a n d y trout are what we in America call " b r o w n trout," for, al though many rainbows have been put i n
There are places where a stranger may fish by joining the local society, the dues for a year varying from three to twenty francs; or, i n some instances, permits for one day are issued; and there are a few hotel-keepers who control fishing for the use of their guests. Lists of some of these may be found in the " A n n u a i r e " of the Casting Club and the "Angler's D i a r y " (British), while others may be discov ered b y one's self. Probably the best place i n N o r m a n d y
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for one who does not know the country in timately is the " Societe de la Durdent," on the river of that name, with its head quarters at Cany, the most important town. This club was formed by local an glers and land-owners, but may be joined by any one at any time, and includes among its members not only Parisians, but Englishmen who come over regularly. One of these last told us that the Durdent was " a n ideal chalk-stream," and that nowhere i n Great Britain could one get such good fishing at anything like the price. The dues are twenty francs for a year or any portion thereof, and this en titles one to fish on all the land reserved by the society. These "preserves" consist of certain meadows and fields scattered along the twelve-mile course of the stream, each place being indicated by a sign posted beside the road—which, during the best parts of the season and most Sundays, is hazy with the dust from the automobiles, carriages, and bicycles that fly up and down, with fishing-rods much in evidence. D o w n on the shore is the little bathingresort of Veulettes, with the best hotel on the river and a casino of sorts open i n the season; and for three miles above, the fishing on both banks of the stream be longs to the society, the greater part of it bordered by high-banked open meadows without a particle of protection. This is where the big fish lie, those wary ones who know what it means when a fly is flicked over their horizon, and where you have to humble yourself and " p l a y crocodile," as our French friend says, to keep them from seeing you. This was once a tidal river, and the fish ing-boats with their tawny sails came away in to anchor at Paluel, below the little Church of Notre Dame de Salut on the hill, under whose dusky roof hung hundreds of little ships, the votive offerings of the saved. N o w there is a huge dike, with a broad road atop, all across the valley's mouth, while the river flows out with rush and roar by the contracted tunnel built for i t ; and Notre Dame de Salut, neg lected, gets never even a glimpse of a stubby mast. In its upper reaches the river flows me andering through meadows from village to village, sometimes deep and still, some times more swift and shallow; gliding past
gardens and through hay-fields, and here and there turning the old wooden wheel of some mill—which makes me digress, to wonder for the one-hundredth time why millers, and more especially their wives, are the crassest people in France; for almost never will they let you fish, and our own village miller's spouse, a lady who has a fierce black beard, and is sedu lously avoided by her neighbors, once took two innocent French tourists literally by the ears and walked them off the place. For twelve years we have known and fished the Durdent practically every where except in the chateau grounds. It used to be simply marvellous, and I shall never forget our incredulous amazement the first time we wandered into the valley on bicycles, and sat down on the raised bank to rest under the trees. There were at least a dozen beautiful trout motion less before us, and we found that we could repeat the experience endlessly, seeing fish up to five pounds i n weight—a sight in deed! A n d what is more, we discovered that trout are the only fish in the river. Those were palmy days, when we fished almost at our own sweet will, and seldom met another rod, and when we supplied the hotel by bringing in a dozen fair fish, on an average, nearly every day for weeks, showing our landlady how to cook them with bacon, or rolled i n American cornmeal, with which we are usually provided. Much of this Arcadian simplicity has de parted now that the place is becoming so well known, but one good result of its pop ularity is that the small inns along the upper valley, formerly fit only for peas ants, are now decent little places where you can get an excellent meal, and even a room if you wish. As everywhere else, the luck of the days and the years varies according to the wind and the weather and the appalling fre quency of your having chosen a day when they are cutting the river-weed. This last is a real calamity, for the greater part of the river-bed is covered w i t h long, swinging, curtain-like masses of the stuff, which forms an ideal cover for the fish, and has been the grave of many a fond hope for a record-breaker. It is cut with incredibly long-handled scythes, and the mowing is done at all seasons of the year, and just when the fancy of the scythe-
Trout-Fishing in Normandy wielder strikes h i m to go forth Since it grows almost as fast as beanstalk, it is cut often, or would be choked, and when the
and do it. the fabled the river fisherman
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when the men, deprived of their habitual occupation, are obliged to resort to some thing else and take, with unpardonable energy, to mowing their lawns and cast-
i t is i n d e e d a sight to stand on the little b r i d g e and w a t c h those beautiful fish leap a n d s t r u g g l e . — P a g e 459.
sees its green masses come floating down —in bunches, and mats, and stray bits, and small hay-stacks—he may be for given for anything he may say, for at every cast he will get either a long green prize that must be dragged in and disen tangled, or a small wisp of leaf or stem that will, at the best, cause the wet line to veer and give h i m a smart slap in the face. What is worse, the fish usually stop rising during the passage of much weed. A law, often honored i n the breach, pro hibits the weed-cutting at stated times,
ing the results upon the water like a green veil—or remaking their strawberry beds; and for unexampled tenacity in clinging to a fish-hook let me recommend a seem ingly insignificant strawberry leaf or run ner. When the weed-cutting is just com pleted, the river-bottom looks as though it had been shaved—there is a mere stubble left—and the frightened fish dart wildly about in a vain search for cover the instant they see the shadow of your line on the water.
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For days together, if you chance on these or other evil times, you may get nothing at all, and not a rising fish will be seen; or the river may be seen to be peopled en tirely with small fry, which you carefully unhook and put back. B u t when the luck changes, all that is forgotten—the trout, good ones, are r i sing—there is plop, plop, plop, all about you—and you will get some nice halfpounders, and a few larger ones perhaps well over a pound; beyond that they are few and far between, and the day on which they are taken is a red-letter one. Y o u stay until the last minute, for you must not fish after sundown, and you go back flushed with success and the joie de vivre. There are comparatively few places on these Normandy streams where you can wade, for most of them are surprisingly deep, and where it is possible it means hip-boots and strength to force one's way against a mass of water. H a v e boots, though, by all means, for where they can be used it is well worth it, and they will be useful in the meadows, which are fre quently flooded several inches deep. One of the prettiest of the Normandy rivers is the Risle, also a chalk-stream, most of which is preserved, and even here there are droves of horrid chub in places; but in spite of that we rejoice whenever we have the good fortune to be asked to fish the preserves of a certain club over there. This club has ten members, consisting of high government officials, architects, bankers, and one Russian prince, whom the others pretend to suspect of being a nihilist. They rent almost three miles of the stream, here ten yards or so wide, and have every variety of water, from deep to shallow; including pools, rapids, long still stretches, and turns beneath tall trees, though most of it lies in open meadows. It is not difficult to fish, but you have to exercise great care in order to avoid being seen, though by July the reeds and grass are high enough to form a screen; and there is actually one wide shallow reach that can be got at only by wading. This preserve is near a small village on whose only street there is a combination grocery-shop and cafe, almost the last i m aginable place for a club-house for city men; yet here have we eaten many a good
meal and many a trout served up in sauce Normande, a delectable thing made of hot cream. The dining-room, eight feet b y ten, is behind the shop, and is exactly filled by the table and chairs, so that when all are there the first comers take the innermost seats and the dishes are handed i n at the door at one end of the room, and not in frequently out of the window at the other. Monsieur le patron, i n his shirt-sleeves, does the serving, and when he is not run ning down cellar to refill the carafes with good sour N o r m a n d y cider, he keeps up a running fire of talk w i t h every one, show ing a truly heartfelt interest in each indi vidual catch of the morning. H i s hand some wife does the cooking and comes at times to beam upon the company in a dig nified manner. A l l the members talk at once and all the time, and there is much joking and laughter with a nice spirit of camaraderie. Here are to be seen some of the most wonderful costumes and outfits that I have ever beheld. Such boots—high and thick, and laced and buckled and strapped! Such trousers — wide and baggy and tucked into the boots, or straight and slinky and reaching just below the knee! Such coats—with capes and without, with sleeves and without sleeves, and with i n numerable oddly placed pockets all bulg ing full! Such hats—water-proof or other wise, with single or double brims, even one brown-straw derby, and all of them twined with leaders and bristling with flies! Such k i n d enthusiastic faces under the hats, and such different degrees of skill!—from the little round-faced gentle man who had never, no, never caught any thing but chub, to our very good friend, the club's president, who is one of the most fervent anglers in France, a master of his rod and line, and also a martinet in en forcing drastic laws and waging war on poachers. We usually arrive about six in the morn ing, having come more than fifty miles in the dawn over the hard white roads, and we leave soon after five, very tired but always cheerful. There was one occasion, however, when we stayed for three blissful days i n the hottest J u l y of the most phe nomenally dry summer that even the old est inhabitant could remember; and we
Trout-Fishing i n Normandy caught trout—many and big—and most of the biggest i n the very most blistering part of a cloudless day. Monsieur and Madame gave up to us their own room with two big windows and
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the low hills and soft green clumps of trees. There is usually so much more to i t all than even the fishing. Once i t was wea sels. M y line had caught in a barbed wire,
This is where the big fish lie.—Page 460.
a most gorgeous suite of furniture. There was lavender-scented linen on the bed and —in spite of our modest trunk—there, laid out i n state, were their two most ele gant night-gowns, one adorned with red feather-stitching and the other with a sort of fluted M e d i c i ruff; accompanied b y a bonnet with strings and a long, pointed night-cap crowned with a tassel! .It rained gently on our last day, and was wonderfully beautiful, a sort of golden mist pervading the air and giving to the landscape such a soft, shifting play of color, as seen through the falling rain, that you stood forgetful of the trout to look over fields of reaped hay and grain toward
and as I turned to unfasten it, there, on the very wire, sat three baby birds just out of the nest all agape and unafraid i n a row. Naturally I stood motionless to watch them, and i n a minute m y eyes were at tracted b y a movement in the grass, and two weasels popped up not ten feet away. They looked at me inquiringly, but as I did not stir, they evidently took me for a new variety of tree stump, and com menced to play together exactly as two kittens would, their long, slender bodies exaggerating every movement until i t was positively ludicrous. Nearer and nearer they came, leaping and patting and biting and rolling over each other, until one sat
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erect like a squirrel and looked me in the face with his little black-bead eyes. H e was actually touching my foot, and as I moved it suddenly the little beast was so astonished to find that I was human that he sprang sideways into the air and landed plump in the river. Once in a while we put the folding canoe into the automobile and start at four o'clock of a summer morning for a place on the Eure where there is a picturesque and amusing inn and a good bit of water that one may fish. B y six we have ar rived, after passing on the way the exqui site chateau that was built for Diane de Poitiers at Anet; and soon we have the canoe in commission and get out the Thermos flask of hot coffee, for even in August it is cold at that hour when riding fast. The Eure is far too deep to wade here, and is in most places a strong river, often fifty yards wide. Where it flows through the forest it is wooded to the water's edge; elsewhere there are grassy waterside paths under wide-spreading trees, and, as always, stretches of open meadow. There are large fish here and, though the chub are a
H e m a y be f o r g i v e n for anything
nuisance, one generally gets something quite worth while, though not a numerous catch. Several years ago there was good sport in the Epte above Gisors, but most of it is guarded, and as the inhabitants of that pays did not receive strangers with the cordiality that makes one feel welcome, we go there no more. Below Gisors there were trout until the water was poisoned by mills, which were finally proscribed, and now the fish seem to be coming back, though a day's angling will probably yield few of a keepable size. Last May-fly week on the Epte, though, revealed the fact that there are some good trout there, for three afternoons of exciting sport, all of it wa ding, yielded to the other rod of this family eight brace of beautiful fish ranging from eight to twenty-nine ounces. The Bresle, which forms the northern boundary of Normandy, is supposed to be about the best of its streams, but it is practically all taken up in preserves, and there is scant hope for the outsider. On the Andelle, the Scie, and the streams i n the vicinity of Dieppe there are associations of property-owners organized
he m a y say, for at e v e r y cast he will get either a long g r e e n p r i z e or a small wisp of leaf or stem. — P a g e 461. > • • •
The riverflowsmeandering through meadows, sometimes deep and still.—Page 460.
to prevent poaching, to restock the waters, it! W i t h what a mad rush they break for etc., but they are of purely local interest, the nearest entangling weed or snag; and the members not even having any fishing how they thrash away from the approach in common. ing net that gets them at last. Fishing laws are not severe, the open It is, I suppose, a taken-for-granted pro season usually lasting from A p r i l 1 until ceeding, wherever trout are to be found, October, with here and there, as con that one should get up early i n the morn ditions demand, a close season of a few ing to go after them, but i t has not been weeks i n M a y and June. One may fish our experience that they take the fly best with practically anything one prefers, pro at that time; indeed, matutinal trout seem vided i t is flottant, that is, not a trap, net, to be few and far between. Late after or set line, though owners, or any one to noon is the usual time for the best rise, and whom they give such permission, m a y on hot, sunny days there seems to be an use absolutely anything they please. W e especially abundant hatch of fly between have never heard of even a club i n N o r eleven and three; but beware the delusion mandy where one is restricted to the use of what is known as the "evening rise," of the artificial fly, and I can fancy the ex which is a truly wonderful thing to see, pression of incredulous scorn on the pro and will keep you trembling with excite vincial angler's countenance at being told ment and trying fly after fly from your that there are places where one may use, box until long after the lawful hour, and not flies alone, but only dry flies at that. all i n vain. There is at least one place May-fly season is, perhaps, the most that we know of where the big fellows will exciting time, though not necessarily the bite only i n the evening, and you have to most remunerative. I n spite of its name, go for them i n a boat, but that is not the this fly is usually on during the first ten same thing. days of June, and i n the late afternoons In the American waters that we know, the river surface is a play of widening, chiefly N e w Y o r k and California rivers shifting, intercepting circles made b y r i and the lakes of Maine, you may see scat sing trout. H o w often the fly is missed! tered rises, but you seldom catch sight of How they leap upon i t when they do take the fish itself, and if you fish well and 465
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thoroughly i t is with about equal success whether they seem to be feeding or not. Here, one of the most exciting things i m aginable is to watch them, yourself well hidden, especially when they are feeding.
rush at things more rashly, make a real rise, and even throw themselves clear of the water repeatedly, a thing that is sel dom done b y a fish over half a pound in weight, though I once saw a beautiful ex
it means hip-boots and strength to force one's way against a mass of water.—Page 462.
They lie scattered all over the place, and perfectly visible through the clear quiet water; large ones, perhaps, only a few inches below the surface, just waving their tails or drifting a bit from side to side to inspect tempting-looking morsels. A s they come to the top they simply open their jaws to the floating fly, which disap pears within. Unless the insect flutters, as in laying eggs, there is no swirl or leap —their dorsal fins simply cut the water, and you get a glimpse of a broad back as they sink again and are ready for the next dainty. A t times they will not move even if they see you; but just t r y floating a fly over them and see how maddening it is nine times out of ten not to have them even swerve toward i t . T h e small fry
ample of one of the exceptions to that rule. I was sitting on the grass of the meadow with only m y head above the slightly raised bank of the stream when, not three feet from me, a trout of about two pounds leaped fully eighteen inches into the air right before m y eyes. It was a wonderful thing to see, so v i v i d that I could distinguish the spots and colors, in spite of its rapidity. Unless there is fly on the water you are not apt, on these streams, to get much for your trouble, especially if using dry flies, quite the most interesting w a y to fish; though, of course, you never know what unexpected thing m a y happen, or what leviathan may not have his curiosity aroused b y some floating novelty pre-
The approaching net that gets them at last.—Page 465.
sented when he least expects it, as, for i n stance, the four-pounder over which I , in plain sight, was drifting a big Soldier Palmer simply to get out line for a distant rising fish—when to m y awed amazement that great trout rose deliberately from the extreme bottom, and as deliberately seized the fly. Then the water boiled for a moment, but he broke away. Dry-fly fishing is more than a twice-told tale i n England now, and even here we have done i t for years, but it seems to have come to the front i n the United States very recently, to judge from the magazine articles that we see. According to the ex plicit descriptions and directions given b y some of these writers, there is a difference in the way i t is done, and we are looking forward to the results of our first expe rience with dry-fly i n home waters. W e think that some of the rather scornful criticism anent English practices must arise from ignorance of the utterly differ ent conditions prevailing over here. The contrast i n every way to an Amer ican fishing-trip is one of the charms and wonders of the experience, and once y o u have tried this intimate sort of fishing, i t
will vie in your memory with that of the mountain brooks, the forest lakes, and the tortuous overhung rivers of America. N o t that you cannot find those i n France also; for there are dashing mountain streams in the Jura, to be fished only by one who can climb rocks and wade waist-deep—and there are high secluded lakes and riotous brooks in the Pyrenees and the Vosges—as well as small, tree-shaded, and stony rivu lets i n the Creuse and i n the M i d i . B u t think of this land with its long history of civilization and its clustering communities; its valleys a succession of water-wheels and gardens; its thronging peasants, for centuries so regardless of laws; and you will wonder that there is a fish left i n all the length and breadth of France; and still more will you be aston ished to see, as you may i n town after town, as y o u look over the parapets of bridges i n busy main streets, anywhere from one to half a dozen trout swaying with the current and keeping a sharp eye open for choice bits of refuse. Y o u can oc casionally hook one of these sophisticated city-dwellers, and then there is excitement indeed! The baker, who has been watch467
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ing you from the corner of his door, rushes out in his floury clothes to give advice as to the best way of landing your prize; small boys in black aprons gather like a swarm of bees, some of them with ab breviated fishing-poles in their hands and little tin pails of goujon, the two-inch trophies of their quest. E v e r y one within sight or hearing runs to see the contest, and, as you finally carry your capture in triumph to the cook at the inn, you have a retinue of followers gesticulating eagerly as they recount to one another the details of the affair. Here one does not spend days or even many hours in a journey before reaching a wilderness where the trout hide far from the homes of men, for, at the worst, you are only three hours from Paris by the rapide, and all about you are picturesque villages and towns, even historic cities with their treasures; and all this on a net work of magnificent roads, any one of which will take you through some of the quaintest hamlets and most charming country in France. A l l this you have and more, for each person finds an added attraction appeal ing especially to him, according as he may care for camera, painting, walking, bicy cling, botany, hunting the elusive antique, or simply being lazy; for even the most i n veterate angler must rest once in a while, or sport becomes a toil. N o r will it be an extravagant pleasure, for your living expenses will vary from one to two dollars a day, and the extras are for you to regulate as you choose. It is, however, not i n the least degree a place where a novice can go with any old tackle, use the first fly he comes across in his box, stand boldly on the river-bank, cast at random, and come home with good trout i n his creel. It may surprise those who are not ac quainted with conditions here to know what the captain of one of the great trans atlantic liners said to us on the subject. He is an enthusiastic angler, but as his time is limited at each end of his route he fishes mostly on the Durdent in France and on Eastern club preserves in America; and he says it is too easy in the States, that "the trout rush up when they see you coming." For wild fish and exercise of skill you must go to Normandy.
The best of everything is none too good, and the latest word in English tackle as well as Leonard rods can be found in Paris in special shops and, oddly enough, i n the fishing department of the Grands Magasins du Louvre, which is, perhaps, more frequented by the best anglers in France than any of the other places; for, in addi tion to all kinds of paraphernalia, from rods to boxes and boots, they have a really remarkable collection of beautifully tied flies of the best English makes, as well as many from private patterns tied by Frenchmen for French waters. N o t so many years ago a French-made trout-fly was a fearful and a wonderful ob ject, large, clumsy, and poorly tied, so that you were obliged to buy all your flies at the one or two shops i n Paris where they could be found, or else order them from England. N o w you can get excellent ones,in an emergency,in all tackle-shops on trout-streams, or even in some of the little inns. It is a pleasure and satisfaction to be able to tie your own flies, and it is not difficult to learn to do it fairly well. The necessary kit is small, and it is not a bad occupation for country evenings. T o insure success, you will need, in addi tion to good tackle, all your powers of skill and observation, and all the accuracy that years of practice have given you. B u t when the luck is with you, and you have played Indian all of a soft gray afternoon, using the tiny, perfectly tied flies and making your most knowing casts, you can have the satisfaction of being certain that the trout in your basket are there owing to your skill, for they are old hands at the game. Since their troutlet days they have run the gauntlet of night-lines, nets, traps, bait-fishing, and every other ingenious de vice known to the French fisherman or poacher. T o most true lovers of the sport much of the charm of it lies in the being out of doors in all weathers and amid varied scenes; and if you have not before seen and enjoyed the French country, there are unknown delights of that kind to be found there. There will be sunny summer days when the fields of grain, the village, the mead ows, and the hills seem to float i n a deli cate gold haze; the greens, so v i v i d close at hand, becoming more delicate, bluer, more ethereal, i n the distance; when the
Trout-Fishing i n Normandy
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cattle stand i n close groups under the If you have high waders, put them on trees and the faint sweet smells of hay or late i n the afternoon, and go down to the blossoms or the not far distant ocean come little island where the dam is, at the foot to you now and then. of the long shallow reach; even out i n the
Late afternoon is the usual time for the best rise.—Page 465.
There are raw, damp days in early spring when the ground is like a sponge, the trees are nearly bare, and the keen west wind makes you glad you have on two sweaters, a rain-coat, and water-tight boots. A n d there are warm, gray, rainy days, more mist than rain, when you are coated all over with infinitely small silvery drops that look like hoar-frost, and you feel as if you were i n the living heart of a great bluegreen opal with shifting, changing lights, and no limits and no horizon—nothing but moving layers of pale mist through which you see soft greens of trees against soft blue of hillsides, wet gleams from redtiled roofs far away, faint, irregular shapes slowly moving through this dream-world, and near at hand, to give some substance of reality, the little dull-gray stream gli ding dizzily at your feet.
middle there the water is only half-way up your thighs, and the trout are making ever-widening circles all about you, while the lowering sun sends long shafts of pow dery gold between the straight tall stems of the poplars. Come up-stream slowly. It is only a quarter of a mile, but you can take two hours to do it, casting ahead of you into every nook and corner, and covering the open water as well—there are good fish under the farther bank along here. Meadows and tall bordering trees are on one side of you, and all the busy life of the highway on the other. Market-wagons go past—tall, green-topped affairs drawn by sturdy N o r m a n horses with big blue sheepskins on their high collars, and tufts and tassels of scarlet wool adorning their stout, sleek bodies.
M a r k e t - w a g o n s go past, d r a w n b y s t u r d y N o r m a n h o r s e s . — P a g e 469.
H i g h , lumbering, two-wheeled carts and the tea-table and the upturned canoe, rumble b y laden with bunches of freshly while Madame comes clattering down the washed carrots and turnips, cabbages and path in her sabots to see what luck you onions, on top of which, high above the have had. Madame is short and wide, her small, madly galloping horse, are perched skirts are abbreviated and voluminous, big, bareheaded Normandy peasant girls. her hair is white, and her eyes are small, T h e y laugh and scream, and the long- black, and snappy. T h e white strings of lashed whips crack smartly as they pass her cap float behind her. the stage from the Paris train. The stage is She takes your fish with much com crowded: papas, mamans, bonnes, and bebes ment in a curious patois that is hard to inside; bicycles, perambulators, trunks, understand, and she tells you that she has and household paraphernalia on top. a " b o n diner" all ready for you. Then comes a group of factory girls While you eat your pot-au-feu i n the lit from the town, who call "Bon soir" and tle dining-room with the windows open on comment on your looks and your strange the old cottage flower-garden, your trout clothes, particularly the high boots. are being fried crisp and brown i n front of A n d then the sun drops behind the hill the chicken which is turning on its spit and y o u have reached the inn garden. before the little fire of sticks on the big Y o u step out on the bank under the big open hearth where Madame does all of her horse-chestnut trees, beside the hammock not-to-be-despised cooking.
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THE
CUSTOM OF T H E COUNTRY BY E D I T H
WHARTON
BOOK V
XXXVII IN a d r a w i n g - r o o m h u n g with portraits of high-nosed personages i n perukes and orders, a c i r c l e of ladies and gentlemen, looking not unlike every day versions of the official figures above their heads, sat examining with friendly interest a lit tle boy i n mourning. The boy was slim, fair and shy, and his small black figure, islanded i n the middle of the wide lustrous floor, looked curiously lonely and remote. T h i s effect of remote ness seemed to strike his mother as some thing intentional, and almost naughty, for after having launched h i m from the door, and waited to judge of the impres sion he produced, she came forward and, giving h i m a slight push, said impatiently: " P a u l ! W h y don't y o u go and kiss your new granny?" The boy, without turning to her, or mov ing, sent his blue glance gravely about the circle. " D o e s she want me to? " he asked, in a tone of evident apprehension; and on his mother's answering: " O f course, you s i l l y ! " he added earnestly: " H o w many more do y o u think there'll b e ? " Undine blushed to the ripples of her brilliant hair. " I never knew such a child! T h e y ' v e turned h i m into a perfect little savage!" Raymond de Chelles advanced from behind his mother's chair. " H e won't be a savage long with me," he said, stooping down so that his fatigued finely-drawn face was close to Paul's. Their eyes met and the boy smiled. " C o m e along, old chap," Chelles con tinued i n English, drawing the little boy after him. "Il est bien beau," the Marquise de Chelles observed, her eyes turning from Paul's grave face to her daughter-in-law's vivid countenance. VOL. L I V . — 4 4
" D o be nice, darling! Say 'bonjour, Madame,' " Undine urged. A n odd mingling of emotions stirred in her while she stood watching P a u l make the round of the family group under her husband's guidance. It was " l o v e l y " to have the child back, and to find him, after their three years' separation, grown into so endearing a figure: her first glimpse of him when, in M r s . Heeny's arms, he had emerged that morning from the steamer train, had shown what an acquisition he would be. If she had had any lingering doubts on the point, the impression pro duced on her husband would have dis pelled them. Chelles had been instantly charmed, and Paul, in a shy confused way, was already responding to his advances. The Count and Countess R a y m o n d had returned but a few weeks before from their protracted wedding journey, and were staying—as they were apparently to do whenever they came to Paris—with the old Marquis, Raymond's father, who had amicably proposed that little Paul M a r v e l l should also share the hospitality of the Hotel de Chelles. Undine, at first, was somewhat dismayed to find that she was expected to fit the boy and his nurse into a corner of her contracted entresol. B u t the possibility of a mother's not finding room for her son, however cramped her own quarters, seemed not to have occurred to her new relations, and the preparing of her dressing-room and boudoir for Paul's occupancy was carried on by the house hold with a zeal which obliged her to dis semble her lukewarmness. Undine had supposed that on her mar riage one of the great suites of the Hotel de Chelles would be emptied of its tenants and put at her husband's disposal; but she had since learned that, even had such a plan occurred to her parents-in-law, con siderations of economy would have hin dered it. The old Marquis and his wife, who were content, when they came up from 471
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Burgundy in the spring, with a modest set of rooms looking out on the court of their ancestral residence, expected their son and his wife to fit themselves into the still smaller apartment which had served as Raymond's bachelor lodging. The rest of the fine old mouldering house—the tallwindowed premier on the garden, and the whole of the floor above—had been let for years to old-fashioned tenants who would have been more surprised than their land lord had he suddenly proposed to dispos sess them. Undine, at first, had regarded these arrangements as merely provisional. She was persuaded that, under her influ ence, R a y m o n d would soon convert his parents to more modern ideas, and mean while she was still in the flush of a com pleter well-being than she had ever known, and disposed, for the moment, to make light of any inconveniences connected with it. The three months since her mar riage had been more nearly like what she had dreamed of than any of her previous experiments in happiness. A t last she had what she wanted, and for the first time the glow of triumph was warmed by a deeper feeling. H e r husband was really charm ing (it was odd how he reminded her of Ralph!), and after her bitter two years of loneliness and humiliation it was delicious to find herself once more adored and pro tected. The very fact that R a y m o n d was more jealous of her than R a l p h had ever been— or at any rate less reluctant to show i t — gave her a keener sense of recovered power. None of the men who had been i n love with her before had been so frankly pos sessive, or so eager for reciprocal assur ances of constancy. She knew that R a l p h had suffered deeply from her intimacy with V a n Degen, but he had betrayed his feel ing only by a more studied detachment; and V a n Degen, from the first, had been contemptuously indifferent to what she did or felt when she was out of his sight. As to her earlier experiences, she had frankly forgotten them: her sentimental memories went back no farther than the beginning of her N e w Y o r k career. R a y m o n d seemed to attach more i m portance to love, i n all its manifestations, than was usual or convenient in a hus band; and she gradually began to be aware that her domination over him involved a
corresponding loss of independence. Since their return to Paris she had found that she was expected to give a circumstantial report of every hour she spent away from him. She had nothing to hide, and no de signs against his peace of m i n d except those connected with her frequent and costly sessions at the dress-makers'; but she had never before been called upon to account to any one for the use of her time, and after the first amused surprise at Raymond's always wanting to know where she had been and whom she had seen she began to be oppressed by so exacting a de votion. H e r parents, from her tenderest youth, had tacitly recognized her inalien able right to "go round," and R a l p h — though from motives which she divined to be different—had shown the same respect for her freedom. It was therefore discon certing to find that R a y m o n d expected her to choose her friends, and even her acquaintances, i n conformity not only with his personal tastes but with a defi nite and complicated code of family prej udices and traditions; and she was espe cially surprised to discover that he viewed with disapproval her intimacy with the Princess Estradina. " M y cousin's extremely amusing, of course, but utterly mad and very mal entouree. M o s t of the people she has about her ought to be i n prison or Bedlam: es pecially that unspeakable M a d a m e Adelschein, who's a candidate for both. M y aunt's an angel, but she's been weak enough to let L i l i turn the Hotel de Dordogne into an annex of Montmartre. Of course you'll have to show yourself there now and then: in these days families like ours must hold together. B u t go to the reunions de famille rather than to L i l i ' s in timate parties; go w i t h me, or with my mother; don't let yourself be seen there alone. Y o u ' r e too young and good-look ing to be mixed up with that crew. A woman's classed—or rather unclassed— by being known as one of L i l i ' s set." Agreeable as it was to Undine that an appeal to her discretion should be based on the ground of her y o u t h and goodlooks, she was dismayed to find herself cut off from the very circle she had meant them to establish her i n . Before she had become Raymond's wife there had been a moment of sharp tension i n her relations
T h e Custom of the Country with the Princess Estradina and the old Duchess. T h e y had done their best to pre vent her marrying their cousin, and had gone so far as openly to accuse her of be ing the cause of a breach between them selves and his parents. B u t R a l p h M a r veil's death had brought about a sudden change i n her situation. She was now no longer a divorced woman struggling to ob tain ecclesiastical sanction for her remar riage, but a widow whose conspicuous beauty and independent situation made her the object of lawful aspirations. The first person to seize on this distinction and make the most of it was her old enemy the Marquise de Trezac. The latter, who had been loudly charged by the house of Chelles with furthering her beautiful com patriot's designs, had instantly seen a chance of vindicating herself b y taking the widowed M r s . M a r v e l l under her wing and favouring the attentions of other suitors. These were not lacking, and the expect ed result had followed. R a y m o n d de Chelles, more than ever infatuated as at tainment became less certain, had claimed a definite promise from Undine, and his family, discouraged by his persistent bach elorhood, and their failure to fix his at tention on any of the amiable maidens ob viously designed to continue the race, had ended by withdrawing their opposition and discovering i n M r s . M a r v e l l the moral and financial merits necessary to justify their change of front. " A good match? If she isn't, I should like to know what the Chelles call one!" Madame de Trezac went about indefatigably proclaiming. " Related to the best people i n N e w Y o r k — w e l l , by marriage, that is; and her husband left much more money than was expected. It goes to the boy, of course; but as the boy is with his mother she naturally enjoys the income. A n d her father's a rich man—much richer than is generally k n o w n ; I mean what we call rich i n America, y o u understand!" M a d a m e de Trezac had lately discov ered that the proper attitude for the Amer ican married abroad was that of a militant patriotism; and she flaunted Undine M a r vell in the face of the Faubourg like a par ticularly showy specimen of her national banner. T h e success of the experiment emboldened her to throw off the most sacred observances of her past. She took
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up M a d a m e Adelschein, she entertained the James J . Rollivers, she resuscitated Creole dishes, she patronized negro mel odists, she abandoned her weekly teas for impromptu afternoon dances, and the prim drawing-room i n which dowagers had droned echoed with a cosmopolitan hubbub. E v e n when the period of tension was over, and Undine had been officially re ceived into the family of her betrothed, Madame de Trezac did not at once surren der. She laughingly professed to have had enough of the proprieties, and declared herself bored by the social rites she had hitherto so piously performed. " Y o u ' l l always find a corner of home here, dear est, when you get tired of their ceremonies and solemnities," she said as she embraced the bride after the wedding breakfast; and Undine hoped that the devoted Nettie would in fact provide a refuge from the ex treme domesticity of her new state. B u t since her return to Paris, and her taking up her domicile in the Hotel de Chelles, she had found Madame de Trezac less and less disposed to abet her in any assertion of independence. " M y dear, a woman must adopt her husband's nationality whether she wants to or not. It's the law, and it's the custom besides. If you wanted to amuse yourself with your Nouveau Luxe friends you oughtn't to have married Raymond—but of course I say that only in joke. As if any woman would have hesitated who'd had your chance! Take my advice—keep out of L i l i ' s set just at first. Later . . . well, perhaps R a y m o n d won't be so par ticular; but meanwhile you'd make a great mistake to go against his people—" and Madame de Trezac, with a "Chere Madame," swept forward from her teatable to receive the first of the returning dowagers. It was about this time that M r s . Heeny arrived with P a u l ; and for a while Undine was pleasantly absorbed in her boy. She kept M r s . Heeny in Paris for a fortnight, and between her more pressing occupa tions it amused her to listen to the mas seuse's N e w Y o r k gossip and her com ments on the social organization of the old world. It was M r s . Heeny's first visit to Europe, and she confessed to Undine that she had always wanted to " see something
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of the aristocracy—" using the phrase as a naturalist might, w i t h no hint of per sonal pretensions. M r s . Heeny's demo cratic ease was combined with the strict est professional discretion, and it would never have occurred to her to regard her self, or to wish others to regard her, as anything but a manipulator of muscles; but i n that character she felt herself en titled to admission to the highest circles. " T h e y certainly do things with style over here—but it's kinder one-horse after New Y o r k , ain't it? Is this what they call their season? W h y , you dined home two nights last week. T h e y ought to come over to N e w Y o r k and see!" A n d she poured into Undine's half-envious ear a list of the entertainments which had illu minated the last weeks of the N e w Y o r k winter. " I suppose you'll begin to give parties as soon as ever you get into a house of your own. You're not going to have one? O h , well, then you'll give a lot of big week-ends at your place down i n the Shatter-country—that's where the swells all go to i n the summer time, ain't it? B u t I dunno what your ma would say if she knew you were going to live on with his folks after you're done honey-mooning. Why, we read in the papers you were go ing to live in some grand hotel or other—• oh, they call their houses hotels, do they? That's funny: I suppose it's because they let out part of 'em. Well, you look hand somer than ever, Undine; I ' l l take that back to your mother, anyhow. A n d he's dead i n love, I can see that; reminds me of the w a y — " but she broke off suddenly, as if something i n Undine's look had silenced her. E v e n to herself, Undine did not like to call up the image of R a l p h M a r v e l l ; and any mention of his name gave her a vague sense of distress. H i s death had released her, had given her what she wanted; yet she could honestly say to herself that she had not wanted h i m to die—at least not to die like that. . . People said at the time that it was the hot weather—his own fam ily had said so: he had never quite got over his attack of pneumonia, and the sud den rise of temperature—one of the fierce "heat-waves" that devastate N e w Y o r k in summer—had probably affected his brain: the doctors said such cases were not uncommon. . . She had worn black
for a few weeks—not quite mourning, but something decently regretful (the dress makers were beginning to provide a spe cial garb for such cases); and even since her remarriage, and the lapse of a year, she continued to wish that she could have got what she wanted without having had to pay that particular price for it. This feeling was intensified b y an in cident—in itself far from unwelcome— which had occurred about three months after R a l p h ' s death. H e r lawyers had written to say that the sum of a hundred thousand dollars had been paid over to M a r v e l l s estate b y the Apex Consolida tion C o m p a n y ; and as M a r v e l l had left a will bequeathing everything he possessed to his son, this unexpected windfall hand somely increased Paul's patrimony. U n dine had never relinquished her claim on her child; she had merely, b y the advice of her lawyers, waived the assertion of her right for a few months after Marvell's death, w i t h the express stipulation that her doing so was only a temporary con cession to the feelings of her husband's family; and she had held out against all attempts to induce her to surrender Paul permanently. Before her marriage she had somewhat conspicuously adopted her husband's creed, and the Dagonets, pic turing P a u l as the prey of the Jesuits, had made the mistake of appealing to the courts for his custody. This had con firmed Undine's resistance, and her deter mination to keep the child. T h e case had been decided i n her favour, and she had thereupon demanded, and obtained, an al lowance of five thousand dollars, to be de voted to the bringing up and education of her son. This sum, added to what M r . Spragg had agreed to give her, made up an income which had appreciably bettered her position, and justified M a d a m e de Trezac's discreet allusions to her wealth. Nevertheless, it was one of the facts about which she least liked to think when any chance allusion evoked Ralph's image. The money was hers, of course; she had a right to it, and she was an ardent believer in "rights." B u t she wished she could have got it i n some other way—she hated the thought of it as one more instance of the perverseness w i t h which things she was entitled to always came to her as if they had been stolen.
T h e Custom of the Country The approach of summer, and the cul mination of the Paris season, swept aside such thoughts. T h e Countess R a y m o n d de Chelles, contrasting her situation w i t h that of M r s . Undine M a r v e l l , and the ful ness and animation of her new life with the vacant dissatisfied days which had fol lowed on her return from D a k o t a , forgot the smallness of her apartment, the incon venient proximity of P a u l and his nurse, the interminable round of visits with her mother-in-law, and the long dinners in the solemn hotels of all the family connection. The world was radiant, the lights were lit, the music playing; she was still young, and better-looking than ever, with a Countess's coronet, a famous chateau and a handsome and popular husband who adored her. A n d then suddenly the lights went out and the music stopped when one day R a y m o n d , putting his arm about her, said i n his tenderest tones: " A n d now, m y dear, the world's had you long enough and it's m y turn. W h a t do you say to going down to Saint D e s e r t ? " X X X V I I I
I N a window of the long gallery of the chateau de Saint Desert the new M a r quise de Chelles stood looking down the poplar avenue into the November rain. It had been raining heavily and persist ently for a longer time than she could re member. D a y after day the hills beyond the park had been curtained b y motion less clouds, the gutters of the long steep roofs had gurgled w i t h a perpetual over flow, the opaque surface of the moat been peppered by a continuous pelting of big drops. T h e water lay i n glassy stretches under the trees and along the sodden edges of the garden-paths, it rose i n a white mist from the fields beyond, it exuded i n a chill moisture from the brick flooring of the passages and from the walls of the rooms on the lower floor. E v e r y t h i n g i n the great empty house smelt of dampness: the stuffing of the chairs, the threadbare folds of the faded curtains, the splendid tapes tries, that were fading too, on the walls of the room i n which Undine stood, and the wide bands of crape which her husband had insisted on her keeping on her black dresses till the last hour of her mourning for the old M a r q u i s .
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The summer had been more than usual ly inclement, and since her first coming to the country Undine had lived through many periods of rainy weather; but none which had gone before had so completely epitomized, so summed up i n one vast mo notonous blur, the image of her long months at Saint Desert. When, the year before, she had reluc tantly suffered herself to be torn from the joys of Paris, she had been sustained by the belief that her exile would not be of long duration. Once Paris was out of sight, she had even found a certain lazy charm i n the long warm days at Saint Desert. H e r parents-in-law had remained in town, and she enjoyed being alone with her husband, exploring and appraising the treasures of the great half-abandoned house, and watching her boy scamper over the June meadows or trot about the gar dens on the poney his stepfather had given him. Paul, after M r s . Heeny's depar ture, had grown fretful and restive, and Undine had found it more and more diffi cult to fit his small exacting personality into her cramped rooms and crowded life. H e irritated her by pining for his A u n t Laura, his M a r v e l l granny, and old M r . Dagonet's funny stories about gods and fairies; and his wistful allusions to his games with Clare's children sounded like a lesson he might have been drilled i n to make her feel how little he belonged to her. B u t once released from Paris, and blessed with rabbits, a poney and the free dom of the fields, he became again all that a charming child should be, and for a time it amused her to share i n his romps and rambles. R a y m o n d seemed enchanted at the picture they made, and the quiet weeks of fresh air and outdoor activity gave her back a bloom that reflected itself in her tranquillized mood. She was the more resigned to this interlude because she was so sure of its not lasting. Before they left Paris a doctor had been found to say that Paul—who was certainly looking pale and pulled-down—was i n urgent need of sea air, and Undine had nearly con vinced her husband of the expediency of hiring a chalet at Deauville for J u l y and August, when this plan, and with it every other prospect of escape, was dashed b y the sudden death of the old Marquis. Undine, at first, had supposed that the
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resulting change could not be other than favourable. She had been on too formal terms with her father-in-law—a remote and ceremonious old gentleman to whom her own personality was evidently an i n soluble enigma—to feel more than the merest conventional pang at his death; and it was certainly "more f u n " to be a marchioness than a countess, and to know that one's husband was the head of the house. Besides, now they would have the chateau to themselves—or at least the old Marquise, when she came, would be there as a guest and not a ruler—and visions of smart house-parties and big shoots lit up the first weeks of Undine's enforced seclusion. Then, b y degrees, the inexorable conditions of French mourning closed i n on her. Immediately after the long-drawn funeral observances the be reaved family—mother, daughters, sons and sons-in-laws—came down to seclude themselves at Saint Desert; and Undine, through the slow hot crape-smelling months, lived encircled by shrouded i m ages of woe i n which the only live points were the eyes constantly fixed on her least movements. T h e hope of escaping to the seaside with P a u l vanished i n the pained stare with which her mother-in-law re ceived the suggestion. Undine learned the next day that it had cost the old M a r quise a sleepless night, and might have had more distressing results had it not been explained as a harmless instance of transatlantic oddness. R a y m o n d entreat ed his wife to atone for her involuntary legerete by submitting with a good grace to the usages of her adopted country; and he seemed to regard the remaining months of the summer as hardly long enough for this act of expiation. A s Undine looked back on them, they appeared to have been com posed of an interminable succession of identical days, i n which attendance at early mass (in the coroneted gallery she had once so glowingly depicted to V a n Degen) was followed by a great deal of conversational sitting about, a great deal of excellent eating, an occasional drive to the nearest town behind a pair of heavy draft horses, and long evenings i n a lampheated drawing-room with all the windows shut, and the stout cure making an asth matic fourth at the Marquise's card-table. Still, even these conditions were not
permanent, and the discipline of the last years had trained Undine to wait and dis semble. T h e summer over, it was decided —after a protracted family conclave— that the state of the old Marquise's health made it advisable for her to spend the win ter w i t h the married daughter who lived near P a u . T h e other members of the fam ily returned to their respective estates, and Undine once more found herself alone with her husband. B u t she knew by this time that there was to be no thought of Paris that winter, or even the next spring. Worse still, she was presently to discover that Raymond's accession of rank brought with it no financial advantages. Having but the vaguest notion of French testa mentary law, she was dismayed to learn that the compulsory division of property made it impossible for a father to benefit his eldest son at the expense of the others. R a y m o n d was therefore little richer than before, and w i t h the debts of honour of a troublesome younger brother to settle, and Saint Desert to keep up, his available in come was actually reduced. H e held out, indeed, the hope of eventual improvement, since the old M a r q u i s had managed his estates with a lofty contempt for modern methods, and the application of new prin ciples of agriculture and forestry were cer tain to yield profitable results. B u t for a year or two, at any rate, this very change of treatment would necessitate the own er's continual supervision, and would not in the meanwhile produce any increase of income. T o faire valoir the family acres had always, it appeared, been Raymond's deepest-seated purpose, and all his frivol ities dropped from h i m w i t h the prospect of putting his hand to the plough. He was not, indeed, inhuman enough to con demn his wife to perpetual exile. He meant, he assured her, that she should have her annual spring visit to Paris—but he stared in dismay at her suggestion that they should take possession of the coveted premier of the H o t e l de Chelles. H e was gallant enough to express the wish that it were i n his power to house her on such a scale; but he could not conceal his surprise that she had ever seriously expected it. She was beginning to see that he felt her constitutional inability to understand any thing about money as the deepest differ-
T h e Custom of the Country ence between them. It was a proficiency no one had ever expected her to acquire, and the lack of which she had even been encouraged to regard as a grace and to use as a pretext. D u r i n g the interval between her divorce and her remarriage she had learned what things cost, but not how to do without them; and money still seemed to her like some mysterious and uncertain stream which occasionally vanished under ground but was sure to bubble up again at one's feet. N o w , however, she found her self i n a world where it represented not the means of individual gratification but the substance binding together whole groups of interests, and where the uses to which it might be put i n twenty years were consid ered before the reasons for spending it on the spot. A t first she was sure she could laugh R a y m o n d out of his prudence or coax h i m round to her point of view. She did not understand how a man so roman tically in love could be so unpersuadable on certain points. Hitherto she had had to contend with personal moods, now she was arguing against a policy; and she was gradually to learn that it was as natural to R a y m o n d de Chelles to adore her and re sist her as it had been to R a l p h M a r v e l l to adore her and let her have her way. A t first, indeed, he appealed to her good sense, using arguments evidently drawn from accumulations of hereditary experi ence. B u t his economic plea was as unin telligible to her as the silly problems about pen-knives and apples i n the " M e n t a l A r i t h m e t i c " of her infancy; and when he struck a tenderer note and spoke of the duty of providing for the son he hoped for, she put her arms about h i m to whisper: " B u t then I oughtn't to be worried. . . " After that, she noticed, though he was as charming as ever, he behaved as if the case were closed. H e had apparently de cided that his arguments were unintel ligible to her, and under all his ardour she felt the difference made by the discovery. It did not make h i m less kind, but it evi dently made her less important; and she had the half-frightened sense that the day she ceased to please h i m she would cease to exist for h i m . T h a t day was a long way off, of course, but the chill of it had brushed her face; and she was no longer heedless of such signs. She resolved to cultivate all the arts of patience and com
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pliance, and habit might have helped them to take root if they had not been nipped by a new cataclysm. It was barely a week ago that her hus band had been called to Paris to straighten out a fresh tangle in the affairs of the troublesome brother whose difficulties were apparently a part of the family tra dition. Raymond's letters had been hur ried, his telegrams brief and contradictory, and now, as Undine stood watching for the brougham that was to bring him from the station, she had the sense that with his arrival all her vague fears would be con firmed. There would be more money to pay out, of course—since the funds that could not be found for her just needs were apparently always forthcoming to settle Hubert's scandalous prodigalities —and that meant a longer perspective of solitude at Saint Desert, and a fresh pre text for postponing the hospitalities that were to follow on their period of mourn ing. The brougham—a vehicle as massive and lumbering as the pair that drew it— presently rolled into the court, and Ray mond's sable figure (she had never before seen a man travel i n such black clothes) sprang up the steps to the door. When ever Undine saw him after an absence she had a curious sense of his coming back from unknown distances and not belong ing to her or to any state of things she un derstood. Then habit reasserted itself, and she began to think of him again with a querulous familiarity. B u t she had learned to hide her feelings, and as he came in she put up her face for a kiss. "Yes—everything's settled—" his em brace expressed the satisfaction of the man returning from an accomplished task to the joys of his fireside. "Settled?" H e r face kindled. " W i t h out your having to p a y ? ' H e looked at her with a shrug. " O f course I've had to pay. D i d you suppose Hubert's creditors would be put off with vanilla eclairs?" " O h , if that's what you mean—if H u bert has only to wire you at any time to be sure of his affairs being settled!" She saw his lips narrow and a line come out between his eyes. " W o u l d n ' t it be a happy thought to tell them to bring tea?" he suggested. 1
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" I n the library, then. It's so cold here —and the tapestries smell so of r a i n . " H e paused a moment to scrutinize the long walls, on which the fabulous blues and pinks of the great Boucher series looked as l i v i d as withered roses. " I sup pose they ought to be taken down and aired," he said. She thought: " I n this air—much good it would do t h e m ! " B u t she had already repented her outbreak about Hubert, and she followed her husband into the library with the resolve not to let h i m see her an noyance. Compared with the long grey gallery the library, with its brown walls of books, looked warm and home-like, and R a y m o n d seemed to feel the influence of the softer atmosphere. H e turned to his wife and put his arm about her. " I know it's been a trial to you, dear est ; but this is the last time I shall have to pull the poor boy out." I n spite of herself she laughed incred ulously: Hubert's "last times" were a household word. B u t when tea had been brought, and they were alone over the fire, R a y m o n d unfolded the amazing sequel. Hubert had found an heiress, Hubert was to be mar ried, and henceforth the business of pay ing his debts (which might be counted on to recur as inevitably as the changes of the seasons) would devolve on his American bride—the charming Miss L o o t y Arling ton, whom R a y m o n d had remained over in Paris to meet. " A n American? He's marrying an American?" Undine wavered between wrath and satisfaction. She felt a flash of resentment at any other intruder's ven turing upon her t e r r i t o r y — ( " L o o t y A r lington? W h o is she? W h a t a name!") —but it was quickly superseded by the relief of knowing that henceforth, as R a y mond said, Hubert's debts would be some one else's business. T h e n a third con sideration prevailed. " B u t if he's en gaged to a rich girl, why on earth do we have to pull h i m o u t ? " H e r husband explained that no other course was possible. Though General A r lington was immensely wealthy, ("her father's a general—a General Manager, whatever that may be,") he had exacted what he called " a clean slate" from his future son-in-law, and Hubert's creditors
(the boy was such a donkey!) had i n their possession certain papers that made it possible for them to press for immediate payment. " Y o u r compatriots' views on such mat ters are so rigid—and it's all to their credit —that the marriage would have fallen through at once if the least hint of H u bert's mess had got out—and then we should have had h i m on our hands for life." Yes—from that point of view it was doubtless best to pay u p ; but Undine ob scurely wished that their doing so had not incidentally helped an unknown compa triot to what the American papers were no doubt already announcing as "another brilliant foreign alliance." " W h e r e on earth d i d your brother pick up anybody respectable? D o you know where her people come from? I suppose she's perfectly awful," she broke out with a sudden escape of irritation. " I believe H u b e r t made her acquaint ance at a skating rink. T h e y come from some new state—the general apologized for its not yet being on the map, but seemed surprised I hadn't heard of it. H e said it was already k n o w n as one o f ' the divorce states,' and the principal city had, in consequence, a v e r y agreeable society. La petite n'est vraiment pas trop mal." " I daresay not! We're all good-look ing. B u t she must be horribly common." R a y m o n d seemed sincerely unable to formulate a judgment. " M y dear, you have your own customs. . . " " O h , I know we're all alike to y o u ! " It was one of her grievances that he never attempted to discriminate between Amer icans. " Y o u see no difference between me and a girl one gets engaged to at a skating r i n k ! " H e evaded the challenge by rejoining: " M i s s Arlington's burning to know you. She says she's heard a great deal about you, and H u b e r t wants to bring her down next week. I think we'd better do what we can." " O f course." B u t Undine was still ab sorbed i n the economic aspect of the case. " I f they're as rich as y o u say, I suppose Hubert means to pay y o u back by and bye?" " N a t u r a l l y . It's all arranged. He's given me a paper." H e drew her hands
T h e C u s t o m of the Country into his. " Y o u see we've every reason to be k i n d to M i s s A r l i n g t o n . " " O h , I ' l l be as k i n d as y o u l i k e ! " She brightened at the prospect of repayment. Yes, they would ask the girl down. . . She leaned a little nearer to her husband. " B u t then after a while we shall be a good deal better off—especially, as you say, with no more of Hubert's debts to worry us." A n d leaning back far enough to give her upward smile, she renewed her plea for the premier i n the H o t e l de Chelles: "Because, really, y o u know, as the head of the house y o u ought to " " A h , m y dear, as the head of the house I've so many obligations; and one of them is not to miss a good stroke of business when it comes m y w a y . " Her hands slipped from his shoulders and she drew back. " W h a t do you mean by a good stroke of business?" " W h y , an incredible piece of luck—it's what kept me on so long i n Paris. Miss Arlington's father was looking for an apartment for the young couple, and I've let him the premier for twelve years on the understanding that he puts electric light and heating into the whole hotel. It's a wonderful chance, for of course we all benefit b y it as much as H u b e r t . " " A wonderful chance . . • benefit by it as much as H u b e r t ! " H e seemed to be speaking a strange language i n which familiar-sounding syllables meant some thing totally unknown. D i d he really think she was going to coop herself up again i n their cramped quarters while H u bert and his skating-rink bride luxuriated overhead i n the coveted premier? A l l the resentments that had been accumula ting in her during the long baffled months since her marriage broke into speech. "It's extraordinary of you to do such a thing without consulting m e ! " " W i t h o u t consulting you? B u t , m y dear child, you've always professed the most complete indifference to business matters—you've frequently begged me not to bore you with them. Y o u may be sure I've acted on the best advice; and my mother, whose head is as good as a man's, thinks I've made a remarkably good ar rangement." " I daresay—but I ' m not always think ing about money, as y o u are." As she spoke she had an ominous sense
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of impending peril; but she was too angry to avoid even the risks she saw. T o her surprise R a y m o n d put his arm about her with a smile. "There are many reasons why I have to think about money. One is that you don't; and another is that I must look out for the future of our son." Undine flushed to the forehead. She had grown accustomed to such allusions and the thought of having a child no longer filled her with the resentful terror she had felt before Paul's birth. She had been insensibly influenced b y a different point of view, perhaps also by a difference in her own feeling; and the vision of her self as the mother of the future Marquis de Chelles was softened to happiness by the thought of giving R a y m o n d a son. B u t all these lightly-rooted sentiments went down in the rush of her resentment, and she freed herself with a petulant move ment. " O h , m y dear, you'd better leave it to your brother to perpetuate the race. There'll be more room for nurseries in their apartment!" She waited a moment, quivering with the expectation of her husband's answer; then, as none came except the silent darkening of his face, she walked to the door and turned round to fling back: " O f course you can do what you like with your own house, and make any arrangements that suit your family, without consulting me; but you needn't think I ' m ever going back to live in. that stuffy little hole, with Hubert and his wife splurging round on top of our heads!" " A h — " said Raymond de Chelles i n a low voice. XXXIX U N D I N E did not fulfil her threat. The month of M a y saw her back in the rooms she had declared she would never set foot in, and after her long sojourn among the echoing vistas of Saint Desert the exigu i t y of her Paris quarters seemed like cosi ness. In the interval many things had hap pened. Hubert, permitted by his anxious relatives to anticipate the term of the fam ily mourning, had been showily and ex pensively united to his heiress; the Hotel de Chelles had been piped, heated and i l luminated i n accordance with the bride's
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requirements; and the young couple, not content with these utilitarian changes, had moved doors, opened windows, torn down partitions, and given over the great trophied and pilastered dining-room to a decorative painter with a new theory of the human anatomy. Undine had silently assisted at this spectacle, and at the sight of the old Marquise's abject acquiescence; she had seen the Duchesse de Dordogne and the Princesse Estradina go past her door to visit Hubert's premier and marvel at the American bath-tubs and the Annamite bric-a-brac; and she had been pres ent, with her husband, at the banquet at which Hubert had revealed to the aston ished Faubourg the prehistoric episodes depicted on his dining-room walls. She had accepted all these necessities with the stoicism which the last months had de veloped in her; for more and more, as the days passed, she felt herself in the grasp of circumstances stronger than any effort she could oppose to them. The very ab sence of external pressure, of any tactless assertion of authority on her husband's part, intensified the sense of her helpless ness. H e simply left it to her to infer that, important as she might be to him in certain ways, there were others in which she d i d not weigh a feather. Their outward relations had not changed since her outburst on the subject of H u bert's marriage. T h a t incident had left her half-ashamed, half-frightened at her behaviour, and she had tried to atone for it by the indirect arts that were her near est approach to acknowledging herself in the wrong. R a y m o n d met her advances with a good grace, and they lived through the rest of the winter on terms of apparent understanding. When the spring ap proached it was he who suggested that, since his mother had consented to H u bert's marrying before the year of mourn ing was over, there was really no reason why they should not go up to Paris as usual; and she was surprised at the readi ness with which he prepared to accompany her. A year earlier she would have regarded this as another proof of her power; but she now drew her inferences less quickly. R a y m o n d was as " l o v e l y " to her as ever; but more than once, during their months in the country, she had had a startled
sense of not giving h i m all he expected of her. She had admired h i m , before their marriage, as a model of social distinction; during the honeymoon he had been the most ardent of lovers; and with their set tling down at Saint Desert she had pre pared to resign herself to the society of a country gentleman absorbed i n sport and agriculture. B u t R a y m o n d , to her sur prise, had again developed a disturbing re semblance to his predecessor. D u r i n g the long winter afternoons, after he had gone over his accounts with the bailiff, or writ ten his business letters, he took to dab bling with a paint-box, or picking out new scores at the piano; after dinner, when they went to the library, he seemed to ex pect to read aloud to her from the reviews and papers he was always receiving; and when he had discovered her inability to fix her attention he fell into the way of absorbing himself in one of the old brown books with which the room was lined. A t first he tried—as R a l p h had done—to tell her about what he was reading or what was happening in the world; but her sense of inadequacy made her slip away to other subjects, and little by little their talk died down to monosyllables. Was it possible that, in spite of his books, the evenings seemed as long to R a y m o n d as to her, and that he had sug gested going back to Paris because he was bored at Saint Desert? Bored as she was herself, she resented his not finding her company all-sufficient, and was mortified by the discovery that there were regions of his life she could not enter. B u t once back in Paris she had less time for introspection, and R a y m o n d less for books. T h e y resumed their dispersed and busy life, and i n spite of Hubert's os tentatious vicinity, of the perpetual lack of money, and of Paul's innocent encroach ments on her freedom, Undine, once more in her element, ceased to brood upon her grievances. She enjoyed going about with her husband, whose presence at her side was distinctly ornamental. H e seemed to have grown suddenly younger and more animated, and when she saw other women looking at him she remembered how dis tinguished he was. It amused her to have him in her train, and driving about with him to dinners and dances, waiting for him on flower-decked landings, or pushing at
T h e Custom of the Country his side through blazing theatre-lobbies, answered to her inmost ideal of domes tic intimacy. H e seemed disposed to allow her more liberty than before, and it was only now and then that he let drop a brief reminder of the conditions on which it was accorded. She was to keep certain people at a dis tance, she was not to cheapen herself b y being seen at vulgar restaurants and tea rooms, she was to join with h i m i n fulfil ling certain family obligations (going to a good many dull dinners among the num ber) ; but in other respects she was free to fill her days as she pleased. " N o t that it leaves me much time," she admitted to M a d a m e de Trezac; "what with going to see his mother every day, and never missing one of his sisters' jours, and showing myself at the H o t e l de D o r dogne whenever the Duchess gives a payup party to the stuffy people L i l i Estradina won't be bothered with, there are days when I never lay eyes on P a u l , and barely have time to be waved and manicured; but, apart from that, Raymond's really much nicer and less fussy than he was." Undine, as she grew older, had developed her mother's craving for a confidante, and Madame de Trezac had succeeded i n that capacity to M a b e l Lipscomb and Bertha Shallum. "Less fussy?" M a d a m e de Trezac's long nose lengthened thoughtfully. " H ' m —are you sure that's a good sign?" Undine stared and laughed. " O h , m y dear, you're so quaint! W h y , nobody's jealous any more." " N o ; that's the worst of i t . " M a d a m e de Trezac pondered. " I t ' s a thousand pities you haven't got a son." " Y e s ; I wish we h a d . " Undine stood up, impatient to end the conversation. Since she had learned that her continued childlessness was regarded b y every one about her as not only unfortunate but somehow vaguely derogatory to her, she had genuinely begun to regret i t ; and any allusion to the subject disturbed her. "Especially," M a d a m e de Trezac con tinued, "as Hubert's wife " " O h , if that's all they want, it's a pity Raymond didn't marry Hubert's wife," Undine flung back; and on the stairs she murmured to herself: " N e t t i e has been talking to m y mother-in-law."
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B u t this explanation did not quiet her, and that evening, as she and R a y m o n d drove back together from a party, she felt a sudden impulse to speak. Sitting close to him in the darkness of the carriage, it ought to have been easy for her to find the needed word; but the barrier of his in difference hung between them, and street after street slipped by, and the spangled blackness of the river unrolled itself be neath their wheels, before she leaned over to touch his hand. " W h a t is it, my dear?" She had not yet found the word, and al ready his tone told her she was too late. A year ago, if she had slipped her hand in his, she would not have had that answer. " Y o u r mother blames me for our not having a child. Everybody thinks it's my fault." He paused before answering, and she sat watching his shadowy profile against the passing lamps. " M y mother's ideas are old-fashioned; and I don't know that it's anybody's busi ness but yours and mine." " Y e s , but " " H e r e we are." The brougham was turning under the archway of the hotel, and the light of Hubert's tall windows fell across the dusky court. R a y m o n d helped her out, and they mounted to their door by the stairs which Hubert had recarpeted in velvet, with a marble nymph lurking in the azaleas on the landing. In the antechamber R a y m o n d paused to take her cloak from her shoulders, and his eyes rested on her with a faint smile of approval. " Y o u never looked better; your dress is extremely becoming. Good night, m y dear," he said, kissing her hand as he turned away. Undine kept this incident to herself: her wounded pride made her shrink from confessing it even to Madame de Trezac. She was sure R a y m o n d would "come b a c k " ; R a l p h always had, to the last. During their remaining weeks i n Paris she reassured herself with the thought that once they were back at Saint Desert she would easily regain her lost hold; and when R a y m o n d suggested their leaving Paris she acquiesced without a protest. B u t at Saint Desert she seemed no nearer
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to h i m than i n Paris. H e continued to treat her with unvarying amiability, but he seemed wholly absorbed i n the man agement of the estate, in his books, his sketching and his music. H e had begun to interest himself i n politics and had been urged to stand for his department. T h i s necessitated frequent displacements: trips to Beaune or D i j o n and occasional ab sences i n Paris. Undine, when he was away, was not left alone, for the dowager Marquise had established herself at Saint Desert for the summer, and relays of broth ers and sisters-in-laws, aunts, cousins and ecclesiastical friends and connections suc ceeded each other under its capacious roof. O n l y Hubert and his wife were ab sent. T h e y had taken a villa at Deauville, and i n the morning papers Undine followed the chronicle of Hubert's polo scores and of the Countess Hubert's racing toilets. The days crawled on with a benumbing sameness. T h e old Marquise and the other ladies of the party sat on the terrace with their needle-work, the cure or one of the visiting uncles read aloud the Journal des Debats and prognosticated dark things of the Republic, P a u l scoured the park and despoiled the kitchen-garden with the other children of the family, the inhabi tants of the adjacent chateaux drove over to call, and occasionally the ponderous pair were harnessed to a landau as lum bering as the brougham, and the ladies of Saint Desert measured the dusty kilo metres between themselves and their neighbours. I t was the first time that Undine had seriously paused to consider the conditions of her new life, and as the days passed she began to understand that so they would continue to succeed each other till the end. E v e r y one about her took it for granted that as long as she lived she would spend ten months of every year at Saint Desert and the remaining two i n Paris. Of course, if health required it, she might go to. les eaux with her husband; but the old Marquise was very doubtful as to the benefit of a course of waters, and her uncle the D u k e and her cousin the Canon shared her view. I n the case of young married women, especially, the unwhole some excitement of the modern wateringplace was more than likely to do away with the possible benefit of the treatment.
A s to travel—had not R a y m o n d and his wife been to E g y p t and A s i a M i n o r on their wedding-journey? Such reckless enterprise was unheard of i n the annals of the house! H a d they not spent days and days in the saddle, and slept i n tents among the Arabs? (Who could tell, indeed, whether these imprudences were not the cause of the disappointment which it had pleased heaven to inflict on the young couple?) N o one i n the family had ever taken so long a wedding-journey. One bride had gone to E n g l a n d (even that was considered extreme), and another—the artistic daughter—had spent a week in Venice; which certainly showed that they were not behind the times, and had no oldfashioned prejudices. Since wedding-jour neys were the fashion, they had taken them; but who had ever heard of travel ling afterward? W h a t could be the pos sible object of leaving one's family, one's habits, one's friends? It was natural that the Americans, who had no homes, who were born and died i n hotels, should have contracted nomadic habits; but the new Marquise de Chelles was no longer an American, and she had Saint Desert and the H o t e l de Chelles to live i n , as genera tions of ladies of her name had done before her. Thus Undine beheld her future laid out for her, not directly and i n blunt words, but obliquely and affably, i n the allusions, the assumptions, the insinuations of the amiable women among whom her days were spent. T h e i r interminable conversa tions were carried on to the click of knit ting-needles and the rise and fall of indus trious fingers above embroidery-frames; and as Undine sat staring at the lustrous nails of her idle hands she felt that her in ability to occupy them was regarded as one of the chief causes of her restlessness. The innumerable rooms of Saint Desert were furnished with the embroidered hang ings and tapestry chairs produced by gen erations of diligent chatelaines, and the untiring needles of the old Marquise, her daughters and dependents were still stead ily increasing the provision. It struck Undine as curious that they should be willing to go on making chaircoverings and bed-curtains for a house that didn't really belong to them, and that she had a right to pull about and re-
T h e Custom of the Country arrange as she chose; but then that was only a part of their whole incomprehensible way of regarding themselves (in spite of their acute personal and parochial absorp tions) as minor members of a powerful and indivisible whole, the huge voracious fe tish they called T h e F a m i l y . Notwithstanding their very definite theories as to what Americans were and were not, they were evidently bewildered at finding no corresponding sense of soli darity in Undine; and little Paul's rootlessness, his lack of all local and linear ties, made them (for all the charm he exercised) regard h i m with something of the shyness of pious Christians toward an elfin child. B u t though mother and child gave them a sense of insuperable strangeness, it plainly never occurred to them that both would not be gradually subdued to the customs of Saint Desert. Dynasties had fallen, institutions changed, manners and morals, alas, deplorably declined; but as far back as memory went, the ladies of the line of Chelles had always sat at their needle work on the terrace of Saint Desert, while the men of the house lamented the cor ruption of the government and the cure ascribed the unhappy state of the country to the decline of religious feeling and the rise i n the cost of living. It was inevi table that, i n the course of time, the new Marquise should come to understand the fundamental necessity of these things be ing as they were; and meanwhile the for bearance of her husband's family exer cised itself, w i t h the smiling discretion of their race, through the long succession of uneventful days. Once, i n September, this routine was broken i n upon b y the unannounced de scent of a flock of motors bearing the P r i n cess Estradina and a chosen band from one watering-place to another. R a y m o n d was away at the time, but family loyalty constrained the old Marquise to welcome her kinswoman and the latter's friends; and Undine once more found herself i m mersed i n the world from which her mar riage had removed her. The Princess, at first, seemed totally to have forgotten their former intimacy, and Undine was made to feel that i n a life so variously agitated the episode could hard
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l y have left a trace. B u t the night before her departure the incalculable L i l i , with one of her sudden changes of humour, drew her former friend into her bedroom and plunged into an exchange of confi dences. She naturally unfolded her own history first, and it was so packed with incident that the courtyard clock had struck two before she turned her attention to Undine. " M y dear, you're handsomer than ever; only perhaps a shade too stout. Domes tic bliss, I suppose? Take care! Y o u need an emotion, a drama. . . Y o u Amer icans are really extraordinary. Y o u ap pear to live on change and excitement; and then suddenly a man comes along and claps a ring on your finger, and you never look through it to see what's going on out side. Aren't you ever the least bit bored? W h y do T never see anything of you any more? I suppose it's the fault of my vener able aunt—she's never forgiven me for having a better time than her daughters. H o w can I help it if I don't like the cure's umbrella? I daresay she owes you the same grudge. B u t why do you let her coop you up here? It's a thousand pities you haven't had a child. T h e y ' d all treat you differently if you had." It was the same perpetually reiterated condolence; and Undine flushed with anger as she listened. W h y indeed had she let herself be cooped up? She could not have answered the Princess's ques tion: she merely felt the impossibility of breaking through the mysterious web of traditions, conventions, prohibitions that enclosed her i n their impenetrable net work. B u t her vanity suggested the obvi ous pretext, and she murmured with a laugh: " I didn't know R a y m o n d was go ing to be so jealous " The Princess stared. "Is it R a y m o n d who keeps you shut up here? A n d what about his trips to Dijon? A n d what do you suppose he does with himself when he runs up to Paris? Politics?" She shrugged ironically. "Politics don't oc cupy a man after midnight. R a y m o n d jealous of you? Ah, merci! M y dear, it's what I always say when people talk to me about fast Americans: you're the only innocent women left i n the world. . . "
( T o be c o n c l u d e d . )
T H E
H I G H E R
P R E S S U R E
By Simeon Strunsky ILLUSTRATIONS
BY HANSON
OLD M A N T I L L O T S O N , of the Department of Classic P h i l o l o g y , once remarked to Professor Cooper, of the Biologic and Physical Sci ences, that if he, Tillotson, were Praxiteles or M . Auguste Rodin and had been commissioned to design a tablet in honor of the President of Silver L a k e University, he knew what he would do. H e would insist on depicting the head of that well-known institution as a gentleman in cap and gown travelling on his high speed, and i n front of him a plethoric phi lanthropist i n a checked suit and spats, clutching his pocket-book with both hands and sprinting for the railway-station while he emitted low cries of anguish. Tillotson confessed that he had borrowed the idea from a Greek vase of the late Mycenaean period. Professor Cooper smiled faintly at the jest and walked off to pay his respects to President Blankley. Cooper was far from being a toady, but his position compelled him to be careful. Tillotson was seventy, quite alone i n the world, and with means of his own. H e might indulge in a bit of satire now and then at anybody's expense. Cooper was poor and had work that he intensely wished to do and he had a wife who bore him three children, and he could not afford to keep a truly capable servantgirl. Silver L a k e offered no opportuni ties either for the higher life or the easier life. If he was imbittered, only Tillotson knew i t . T o him Cooper once remarked: Well, what did it matter if he did have to give up his researches in plant biology, i n which he had done brilliant work before he was married? A t any rate he could some day produce a matchless treatise on " Grease Deposits in the Kitchen Basins of M i d d l e Western Professors Engaged i n Maintaining a F a m i l y of F i v e on One Thousand T w o Hundred a Y e a r . " Unde484
BOOTH
niably, Cooper chafed under the yoke; but he was prudent. A n d , besides, he could not help admiring President Blankley. Blankley had been elected president i n succession to that eminent Hebraist and exhorter, Silas H . T r u m b u l l , D . D . , L L . D . , who for thirty years had conducted the affairs of the university with such singleminded devotion to the cause of true scholarship that the ardent undergraduate had acquired the habit of dropping out after the first half of the Freshman year and going to a college with a real football team. T h e enrolment was just 129 when Blankley took hold. H e had been se lected by the trustees on the ground of con spicuous courage and ability i n extracting money from reluctant rich men. E v e n T i l lotson, who was one of the late D r . T r u m bull's cronies, readily admitted that the new president was a marvel in the art of persuading the plutocracy of the high util ity of the humanities, the want of which they had never felt i n their own case. Yes, if you had pressed Tillotson hard, he would have confessed there must be some thing to a man who i n just a half-dozen years had increased the number of stu dents threefold, endowed Silver L a k e with a baseball team which won the State championship in its third year, and made large modern buildings of Flemish brick with marble trimmings grow where shab by colonial mansions had grown before. T h a t the university buildings grew faster than the faculty or the salaries of its mem bers was another matter. Blankley's feelings with regard to T i l lotson were rather mixed. A s a classic philologist Tillotson was a back number, but he was a distinct asset as a rare speci men of the fine old type of professor who might be expected to lend an air of schol arly verisimilitude to a somewhat bald and unconvincing assemblage of brick buildings. Blankley could take a furni-
T h e H i g h e r Pressure ture manufacturer from G r a n d Rapids, show h i m Professor Tillotson strolling i n meditation under the trees behind the library, and after describing two or three rather wide circles around that venerable figure, get a check for ten thousand dollars. But, on the other hand, Blankley could think of at least one fat endowment which had got away from h i m because of Tillot son's double-edged tongue. T a c t was a quality lacking i n the Tillotson tout en semble. If not watched carefully, he had an unfortunate way of breaking up those little festal dinners w i t h which Blankley was accustomed to signalize the final step in a process of successful monetary extrac tion. T o get up at a banquet, as Tillot son once did, i n the presence of a hide ously wealthy automobile manufacturer, and deplore the revolting conditions that prevailed i n modern industry, was deci dedly no way of going at things, as Blankley saw it. The banquet was only one feature i n the carefully elaborated Blankley treat ment for promising millionaires. The visitor was always met at the station by Blankley i n person and escorted to the president's house, where luncheon was served to the accompaniment of an irregu lar fire of small-arm oratory. The fact that Silver L a k e was a dry town was some thing Blankley was occasionally tempted to regret. After luncheon the conse crated v i c t i m was taken to the Assembly H a l l and i n the presence of the entire student body the degree of A . M . honoris causa was gently but firmly conferred upon him. The visitor then wore his new gown all over the campus, and saw a base ball game between Silver L a k e and H i a watha. If Silver L a k e was beaten, Blankley regretfully pointed out to his visitor that a really adequate gymnasium build ing with a baseball cage was one of the university's crying needs. Tea with the faculty ladies filled out the afternoon. In the evening came the banquet. It was the final charge of the Blankley O l d Guard. Battalions of faculty members were deployed i n close formation and the culture of the ages was let loose in ring ing speeches, at the end of which the guest of the evening usually grew reckless and pledged himself to a much larger sum than he had contemplated.
485
It will now be plain why President Blankley, on receiving a telegram defi nitely announcing the arrival at Silver Lake, at 10.15 the next morning, of W i l liam B . Harmon, of Cincinnati, immedi ately sent for Cooper. W i l l i a m B . H a r mon, according to Blankley's calculations, was good for a new Administration B u i l d ing, and probably an A l u m n i H a l l . It was the culmination of a long and ardent courtship and the president was going to take no chances with Tillotson. Could Professor Cooper, as an intimate friend of Professor Tillotson, find a way of convey ing the information that if by any chance Professor Tillotson were to absent him self from to-morrow's festivities, the rea sons for his absence would not be too closely inquired into? Cooper's first impulse was to decline the mission. B u t , reflected in Blankley's cold blue eye, he saw the image of the three little Coopers. H e hunted up T i l lotson the next morning. They had ram bled all over the campus and were now climbing the magnificent granite staircase leading to the library which was Blankley's special pride, and Cooper was finding it harder than ever to deliver his message. II T H E Y stopped at the head of the noble Roman stairway. Tillotson blinked i n the sun. "Conceding that I am imperfectly versed in the arts of diplomacy," said T i l lotson, " I can still, on occasion, smell a rat. D u r i n g the last quarter hour, m y dear Cooper, you have put me to the painful necessity of conjecturing what the devil you are driving at." " I have tried to be plain," said Cooper, gulping hard. " I t is about to-night's affair. Blankley wants things to pass off right, and he thought you'd take it as easily from me as from any one." " F o r a man of rigorously limited i m aginative powers, Blankley occasionally stumbles upon a fundamental fact," said Tillotson. " I t is undeniably true that we have friends i n order that we may endure at their hands what we would not suffer from our enemies." Cooper's lip quivered and he looked away.
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" I am sorry," he said. " I didn't mean to offend. W e needn't carry this thing any further." " D o n ' t misunderstand me," said the elder man hastily. H e took Cooper by the arm. " I like you, Cooper. If I had ever found time away from m y L a t i n philologies to marry and beget a son, I should have wished him greatly to resem ble you. N o t that the biologic sciences with which y o u have chosen to affiliate yourself can be imagined as approxima ting the classics i n higher usefulness. B u t aren't we all under the lash of Blankley? H e bestrides our narrow campus like a colossus of scientific management. I can readily comprehend how a young mar ried professor with his career still to make should be selected by Blankley for a deli cate mission." He stopped abruptly as with tightened lips the other turned to leave him. " I beg your pardon, Cooper," he burst out. " Y o u know this evil tongue of mine. I did not mean to hurt y o u . " " I t hurts because it is the truth," said Cooper. " M y God! Tillotson, what have I come to? I was going to turn the world upside down ten years ago. I had visions of big laboratories, miles of porcelain ba sins and glass shelving, beautiful measur ing machines, high-powered microscopes, leisure, liberty to do m y own work. A n d my researches so far have been mainly confined to the effects of hot water on table crockery." There was a slight per spiration on his forehead. " I ' d chuck it all for a decent job behind a dry-goods counter, only nobody would take me; I couldn't make good." Tillotson's hand tightened on the other man's arm. " O h , come now, Cooper, a wife and three kiddies isn't such a bad showing after all, is it now, even for ten years? Suppose you had stayed single. Y o u are not at all sure that you would be revelling now i n porcelain basins and slicing ma chines. Dux femina, we are too readily inclined to say the woman did it. If I had the shaping of m y life over again I should not be droning out my years i n a corner. Confound i t ! W h a t I mean is, a bathtub with a couple of fat babies in it is really a more delectable sight in the eyes of the Creator than that same bathtub
filled with disgusting protozoa disporting themselves i n a saline solution." Cooper smiled. H e was feeling better clearly. "It's over at any rate. I have told you. If Blankley has any more mes sages to deliver he can do it himself." " Y o u haven't told me," said Tillotson, " b u t I understand. I believe our entire academic body is to assemble at a repast this evening i n order to do honor to a suc cessful soap manufacturer with a wooden toothpick i n his m o u t h . " Cooper laughed. " I am not so sure about the last detail. T h e y say Harmon is a very decent fellow." " I distinctly visualize M r . H a r m o n , " said Tillotson, "as a vulgar and eminently successful man of business whose habit of using ' t h e m ' for ' they' is symptomatic of a general disability to distinguish between the accusative case and the nominative. I gather that with advancing years the mind of this successful but illiterate man ufacturer has turned to a monument cere perennius, more durable than soap; a college naturally. Hence it is imperative that the harmony of this evening's sym posium shall be dissipated b y no untoward event. There must be no hitch. W h a t ? " " B l a n k l e y did not say it i n so many words." " The gift for not saying things straight out constitutes one of Blankley's princi pal qualifications for the office of college president. T h e point is, to-night old T i l lotson must keep watch on that unruly tongue of his. Gentlemen i n the soap business are notoriously sensitive, whereas there is no telling how many hundreds of thousands of dollars a thoroughly conge nial atmosphere may elicit from a wealthy gentleman with a wooden toothpick in his mouth." " B u t why insist on the toothpick?" Tillotson shook his head gravely. " Gentlemen who say ' t h e m ' instead of ' t h e y ' invariably insert a toothpick into their mouths after a satisfactory meal." " B u t H a r m o n doesn't say ' t h e m ' in place of ' t h e y ' . " " V e r y well," said Tillotson; " I will not insist on the toothpick in so many words, merely reserving the right to retain a men tal picture of our guest as with a tooth pick. B u t y o u may reassure Blankley I will not run amuck. I will be silent.
T h e H i g h e r Pressure I will even applaud at the appropriate moment and contribute an encouraging 'Hear, hear,' whenever our distinguished guest loses the thread of his remarks and looks about h i m in painful confusion. Can a man promise more?"
487
oratory and only water to drink is an experience I would, on general principles, gladly avoid." " Y o u are not angry?" " M y dear Cooper, I am nearly two and a half times as old as you are. Ne frena
H e was a distinct asset as a rare specimen of the fine old type of p r o f e s s o r . — P a g e 484.
" I am not asking you to promise any thing," said Cooper, with a lapse into his former bitterness. " B u t nevertheless I promise," insisted Tillotson. " W a i t . I will do even more! I will relieve Blankley of even that irre ducible m i n i m u m of anxiety which m y presence, i n spite of all pledges of good behavior, is bound to evoke. I will not be there at a l l . I will spend the evening pleasantly at home. A dinner with much VOL.
LIV.—45
animo; in the bright lexicon of old age anger spells arteriosclerosis. Are you to speak?" " I shall say a few words in behalf of the scientific departments." " Y o u will tell me about it later. I am for the library. I have several i m portant citations to verify this afternoon. In the mean while please reassure Blankley. H e must have a great deal to worry about."
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H e patted Cooper on the shoulder, nod sion, when he looked up to find the shad ded brightly, and turned into the library ows thick i n the high, austere room. A n door. unknown gentleman was standing at some distance, looking forlornly about him. Professor Tillotson thought he rather liked III him. H e was short and filled out his T H E L a t i n texts proved to be far more clothes comfortably. Quite an ordinary, engrossing than Professor Tillotson had broad, good-natured, capable face, T i l anticipated. The hours went pleasantly lotson thought, and an eye that would as he sat there, reading, marking, dream have a merry glint i n it if the man were ing over favorite bits, reciting scraps from not so obviously unhappy. H e was look other texts suggested by the pages before ing about h i m with pursed-up lips, evi him. The library was deserted because dently impressed by his surroundings, by of the great occasion. Through an open the cold marble walls of the Roman struc window came the sound of a great stirring ture, the high dome, the lines of wellon the campus; but it had no other mean worn sheepskin and leather; impressed ing to the old gentleman than as a vague and appreciative, but unhappy. Tillotson background for his own meditations. H i s thought he invited consolation. luncheon hour passed, and several hours Professor Tillotson's tall figure un in its wake, and he was still at his desk. wound itself from his chair; his look of H e had been writing rapidly for some benevolent inquiry beckoned the stran time, bringing a highly important argu ger to him. The visitor dropped into a ment to an eminently satisfactory conclu chair on the other side of Tillotson's ta-
H e h a d been selected b y the trustees on the g r o u n d of c o n s p i c u o u s c o u r a g e a n d a b i l i t y i n e x t r a c t i n g m o n e y from reluctant r i c h m e n . — P a g e
484.
To
get u p at a b a n q u e t , as T i l l o t s o n once d i d . . . was d e c i d e d l y no way of g o i n g at t h i n g s . — P a g e 485.
ble and smiled at h i m across the litter of books. " Y o u are new here," said the scholar. " I am Professor Tillotson." The stranger wiped his forehead with a large silk handkerchief. " G l a d to meet you. I ' m a hunted ani mal," he said. " O u r campus," said Tillotson, "has an unusually pacific reputation for a Western college." " I don't mean the boys. A husky, frolicsome bunch, I should say; but there isn't one of them I ' d be afraid to meet at midnight on a lonely road. I refer to the men higher up." " Y o u mean our faculty?" " I do. I've had lunch and an A . M . degree and tea, and to-night's the ban quet. It's awful." " I am speaking to M r . H a r m o n ? " " T h a t was m y name this morning. After listening to the faculty orations it's a toss-up whether I am Napoleon, John the Baptist, or M r . Carnegie. Y o u have some very smooth talkers here, pro fessor." " I trust," said Tillotson, "that the gift of eloquence will never grow extinct among the countrymen of H e n r y C l a y and Daniel Webster." M r . H a r m o n glared up at a bust of Sophocles over Tillotson's head. " Y o u can hardly expect me to agree with you; I just came from there," he said. " Take it from me, professor, your
president is a bright young man. H e ' d be a live wire i n life-insurance. I tell you what. H e will be President of the United States some day if some one doesn't kill him first." " N o t quite that, I hope," said Tillotson. Harmon acquiesced. "Perhaps I ' m prejudiced. B u t that young man is so wise he frightens me. Took me off the train at 10.15 d I have been eating statistics ever since. Showed me a ton of card indexes and vertical files and expected me, as a captain of industry, to weep over them. I tell you what, pro fessor. I bet there's a card in his files for every man in the State with more than five thousand dollars in the bank, and a yellow card for the bachelor and childless class. I ' m convinced he has a lot of cards about me. I hate to think what he knows." " M r . Blankley is undoubtedly a very able modern young man," said Tillotson, studying his papers. " A b l e ! ' ' snorted Harmon. '' That young man drips executive ability. I ' d as soon think of endowing a model steam laun dry." " O u r university," said Tillotson, "has other features to recommend it; a some what longer sojourn will convince you on that point." " N o t me," said Harmon, and his jaw set defiantly. "There are just two things I want to know—how a man can hide for an hour or two and where one can get a a n
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490
drink. W e had water. It was awful." H e fanned himself with his handkerchief. "Presumably you are unaware," said Tillotson, " that by the terms of our char ter the sale of spirituous liquor is prohib ited within a radius of one mile from the campus; this of course includes the rail way-station. Experience has amply de monstrated the advisability of segregating the college from the saloon. I n its favor is the moral argument, the economic argu ment, the argument from public expedi ency " " S u r e , " said H a r m o n ; " B l a n k l e y has been saying it all afternoon. It's hear ing him say it that got me so thirsty." " T h e next train for Walton Junction," said Tillotson, " i s at 6.40, and my watch informs me that it is now precisely 5 o'clock. I have always regarded a pau city of train accommodations as of distinct advantage to a college community. It keeps the students i n town and it keeps strangers away. It has ever been my belief that one of the most inept institu tions evolved by man is the college situ ated i n a large city where the intelligent student may look out of the window and discover that his professor is not telling the truth. The monastic ideal is one we dare not abandon." " I suppose you are right," sighed H a r mon. " A t the same time," said Tillotson, "the laws of hospitality require that the stranger be comforted in his hour of need. I am myself addicted to a Scotch high on a chilly night before dinner and I de rive consolation from a black cigar. M y rooms are only five minutes away and are attainable by a pathway through the grove, where one may easily escape pub lic attention. Such bachelor resources as I dispose of I cheerfully " "Please don't say any more," said Harmon, rising with him. " I have al ways believed that colleges are greatly misunderstood." IV P R O F E S S O R T I L L O T S O N , as a man
of in
dependent income, maintained a stand ard of living that was well above the col lege level. H e was of a generation which believed that a certain epicurean flavor
went with the tradition of fine scholar ship. B y temperament and conviction Tillotson belonged i n one of those fine old Oxford colleges where the wine is as ancient as the prejudices. Also he had taken to H a r m o n from the first. N o t once did the professor find himself think ing of his visitor as with a toothpick in his mouth. As for H a r m o n , the felicity of his pres ent situation, i n one corner of Tillotson's library, with a bottle at his elbow, when contrasted with what he had escaped and what was still awaiting him, was so over powering that he preferred not to think. Tillotson had a man servant of the admi rable type that knows what one wants as soon as it is wanted. H e came and went silently. There was a fire i n the grate. The big library table seemed made to hold other things besides books. The other things were there. So H a r m o n lay back in his chair with one arm on the table and pulled blissfully at his cigar. Suddenly he laughed out loud. " K i n d of hard, isn't it, for a man with all sorts of executive ability to go and lose his guest of honor like a little girl with a baby-carriage? N o t that it makes any difference. M r . Blankley doesn't get a cent from yours t r u l y . " " Y o u think so?" said Tillotson from in front of the fireplace. " I am sure of i t . " Tillotson shook his head pityingly. " M y d e a r M r . H a r m o n , y o u are doomed to give Blankley a great deal of money be fore you leave our academic shades." " H e ' l l have to come at me with a club," said H a r m o n . " I discern no necessity for resorting to any violent process of amputation," said Tillotson. " Y o u are quite helpless in the matter. Y o u came to us with the inten tion of giving away a large fortune and you will undoubtedly do so. Y o u are only a victim of that m a d lust for distribution which sooner or later seizes upon our men of wealth and impels them to give away their money as rapidly as they acquired it from the rightful owners. It is only a question of how large a check it will be." H a r m o n grinned. " W i t h ordinary care I think I ' l l pull through," he said.
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491
" O t h e r men have come and boasted erate reporters. Tainted money? What but Blankley has got them for all that," other kind is there?" said Tillotson in measured tones. "There's two kinds of money," said T h e visitor looked at him and grinned Harmon. " Yours and the other fellow's." once more. Tillotson was not listening.
'Conceding
that I a m i m p e r f e c t l y v e r s e d i n the arts of d i p l o m a c y , " said T i l l o t s o n , smell a r a t . " — P a g e 485.
" I see that you have no prejudices against tainted money," he chuckled. " I entertain a peculiar abhorrence," said Tillotson, "for a shallow phrase that has been foisted upon a parrot world by sensation-mongering clergymen and illit
" I can still, on occasion,
" Y o u r specialty, I believe, is soap?" he said. "Sunlight soap," said H a r m o n ; "chem ically pure; cleanses the body and revives the mind; may be eaten by infants with impunity; on sale everywhere."
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T h e H i g h e r Pressure
" A h , yes, Sunlight soap," said Tillot son. " Well, several thousand years before Sunlight soap was placed upon the mar ket, a wise old R o m a n observed of money, Non olet—which is to say, gold is a nonodorous mineral. M o r e than that, money is the most powerful disinfectant known to science. T h e prejudice against what you describe as tainted money is a pop ular aberration to which I utterly fail to subscribe. Are you aware, m y dear M r . Harmon, that Europe is covered with colleges and cathedrals that testify to many a successful stroke of business by a feudal baron i n the open road on a dark night? Possibly, also, i n the intervals of soap-making this truth has occurred to you, that what we describe as the monu ments of civilization are frequently the monuments of the sins and vices of civili zation, inasmuch as many of our churches were built in expiation of crime and most of our palaces were built by princes as homes for their paramours. Thus it is a curious reflection that the history of art would have been much poorer if men had never committed murder and women had always been chaste." " It may be curious all right," said H a r mon, " b u t it doesn't get you anywheres. What amuses me is your trying to make out that it is a favor to take our money." Tillotson paused in the act of pouring himself a drink. " T h a t is exactly what I meant to con vey." Harmon grunted in disagreement, but was still too much at ease with the world to quarrel. " I ' m not against the colleges," he said. " T o m y mind there's nothing like a redhot, slam-bang interview between a couple of beefy elevens that have forgotten most of the things their mother taught them." " I gather," said Tillotson, " t h a t a foot ball match i n which no one has succeeded in bringing his shoulder into violent con tact with some one else's maxillary bone would be bereft of much of its charm for you." " E x a c t l y , " said Harmon. " S o it's all right about the advantages of a college education. A s an institution for giving father and mother four years of quiet home life, the college is all right. And that's about all you can say for i t . "
Tillotson came forward from i n front of the fireplace and faced his visitor across the table. H i s face was flushed. " T h e process of effecting the camel's transit through the needle's eye is mere child's play as compared with the task of getting through the average rich man's head the simple proposition that there are other profits i n life than those registered in pass-books and disbursed upon auto mobiles and spurious old masters." H a r m o n laughed. " B l a n k l e y said that; said it a dozen times over. H e said we needed the col lege man to carry the message of culture into the market-place. The trouble is, your college man most of the time fails to deliver the message because he can't spell very well. I have them working for me in the shipping department." " I f it were not for our colleges," said Tillotson, leaning forward across the ta b l e — " i f it were not for our universities and the flame of the ideal which they help to keep alive, your commercialized society would go down to hell, M r . Harmon. I repeat, sir, to hell. W e are one of the few redeeming facts that keep you from be coming as Sodom and Gomorrah." " I dare say the country will survive," said H a r m o n . " A n d your consciences—what about them?" shouted Tillotson. " W h a t will you do when you have no colleges on which to bestow your ill-gotten wealth? As it is, you can hardly muster up courage to look yourself i n the face." Harmon refilled his glass. "There's no use in getting hot about it, is there? I don't mind saying, professor, you'd have made a big success i n the soap business." Tillotson laughed scornfully. " Di meliora! T h a t is a possibility that I can contemplate only with the deepest horror. The thought that at this moment I might be sitting here i n your place, an object of charity, makes me thankful for many things in m y past life that I have hitherto failed to appreciate." " Who's asking for charity? " demanded Harmon. " Y o u , sir. Y o u are afflicted with the necessity of finding some one to take your money. I n a few minutes you will be seeking out Blankley."
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" Y o u are afflicted with the necessity of finding some one to take y o u r m o n e y " — P a g e 492
T h e Higher Pressure
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" N o t if I know i t , " said Harmon, bring ing his feet to the floor with a crash. " I'll buy a stableful of automobiles first. I ' l l find something to do, but I won't leave m y money to a crowd that isn't capable of appreciating what is being done for them." Tillotson's long fingers were beating rapid time close to Harmon's face. A s sault seemed imminent, but with a su preme effort he checked himself. " S i r , " he said, " I can imagine no de gree of provocation that will justify a man in turning his guest out of doors. E v e n the most rudimentary conception of hos pitality, as entertained, let us say, by the benighted Andaman Islanders or the na tives of the virtually unknown interior plateau of Tibet, would not permit such a step. Neither, however, am I under the compulsion of enduring the company of one whose outlook upon life is as offensive to me as his business methods are abhor rent. I will leave you, sir, to the com munion of your ill-regulated thoughts and will walk about the garden until such a time as you have grown thoroughly ashamed of yourself. If you ring, Wilson will bring you another bottle, and there are more cigars i n the drawer at your left hand." V T I L L O T S O N was at the door before his visitor could rally under the fury of this icy blast, but drew back sharply. H e had nearly run down Cooper who stood in the doorway dazed for a moment, and then, i n response to Tillotson's beckoned invita tion, entered the room. A t the sight of Harmon he started and had a wild desire to laugh as he thought of Blankley. On Tillotson the young man's presence acted like a dash of cold water. H e pulled him self together and rose to his duties as a host. " Y o u two have met?" " I ' v e had the pleasure," said Harmon. " M r . Cooper made the shortest speech of the lot." Cooper laughed. " I didn't mean to intrude. I thought Professor Tillotson might be interested i n the strange disappearance of M r . H a r mon. T h e y are making a house to house search."
" L o o k here, Blankley doesn't suspect!" cried the frightened philanthropist. " N o , " said Cooper, " b u t I imagine I ought to let him know. H e will be calling in the police very likely." " Y o u ' l l hold off half an hour, won't y o u ? " pleaded H a r m o n . " I am having the time of m y life, Cooper. Just half an hour and I ' l l come out and give myself U
P-" " H a l f an hour it is," said Cooper, and walked out laughing. H a r m o n sank back into his chair and pulled vehemently at his cigar. Tillotson became absorbed in the fire. " D o you think a hundred thousand would do i t ? " said H a r m o n . Tillotson turned sharply i n his direc tion. " D o what?" " Oh, everything," said H a r m o n . " Put the Department of L a t i n Philology in first-class shape. I mean everything—new building, new apparatus, telescopes, testtubes, and all that truck; make it the most up-to-date philology department in the country, bar none." Tillotson got to his feet and looked down at him. " D o I gather that you are offering me the sum of one hundred thousand dollars for use in connection with m y own work?" " I do," said H a r m o n fervently, " a n d I want you to take it and do what you like with it, professor. L a t i n philology is ca pable of great things with the right man be hind i t . " Tillotson walked up and down the room in plain agitation. W h e n he turned to H a r m o n his face was grave. " I t is a truly princely offer, sir, and does you infinite credit. I thank you most heartily and beg to assure you that the L a t i n department is i n no need of pecuniary assistance." H a r m o n got to his feet i n fervent pro test. " Oh, come now, Professor Tillotson—as a favor." " T h e efficiency of the L a t i n depart ment," continued Tillotson, " does not de pend upon the elaborate laboratory meth ods you have outlined. T h e number of my students has not outgrown the capacity of our lecture-rooms. A s a matter of fact we frequently meet in m y own bedroom.
T h e H i g h e r Pressure There have been times when I thought fondly of a steam-heating plant i n M e t calf H a l l , but it has been a fancy of the moment. O n general principles I should greatly hesitate to steep my work i n an atmosphere of money. M e n who go i n for the advanced study of L a t i n are rea sonably insured for life against the risk of excessive prosperity and it is well that their training should begin as early as possible. Nevertheless, I thank y o u . " Harmon struck the table with his fist. " I f you think it's to be Blankley, I tell you no. I ' l l make straight for the train." Tillotson looked at the fire and com muned audibly with his soul. " W e have in our college a department of biology, a science, I am bound to ad mit, which is as yet of uncertain standing and of extremely problematic cultural value. B u t the head of the Department of Biology, who is at the same time its faculty, is a young man of fine intellectual gifts, of high promise, and of true gentle manly instincts, a man who might easily have made, but for a mistaken ambition, an excellent L a t i n i s t . " " Y o u mean Cooper?" " I do. T h e Department of Biology is greatly i n need of money. It needs a laboratory and much of the complicated machinery involved in the pursuit and cap ture of the highly elusive amoeba. It also needs an endowment of sufficient dimen sions to enable the wife of the professor of biology to secure the services of a robust and willing Swedish domestic." " V e r y well," said H a r m o n ; "he can have it and welcome. I like the m a n . " " I hoped that y o u would," said Tillot son. " I f I may venture the suggestion, half the sum which you so generously proffer should be placed outright at the disposal of the head of the Department of Biology. T h e remaining half should be made an endowment fund and presented to the university, conditioned upon the retention of Professor Cooper as head of the department with a free hand i n its management." " W i l l Blankley stand for i t ? " " M y dear M r . H a r m o n , as you have remarked, M r . Blankley is a practical young man. N e x t to being in the posses sion of money, M r . Blankley has a passion V O L . L I V . — 46
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for being in its vicinity. The matter could be arranged." " T h a t ' s settled then," said Harmon and sighed. " T h a t is, if you are quite sure the L a t i n department couldn't use any part " " O h , very sure. I have described con ditions in the department. M y personal needs are few. I have a little money of my own. Sometimes the desirability of taking in all the French and German pub lications in my field has made me wonder whether my fondness for choice cigars was not extravagance." " I wouldn't say that," declared Har mon with swift emphasis. " N o t under the circumstances. I wouldn't consider any amount of foreign books essential under the circumstances." " V e r y much as I have reasoned," said Tillotson. "Especially if one takes into account the very important considera tion that the German philologists are con tinually advancing new views which I can neither follow nor approve. So you per ceive there is really no reason why I should press your generosity too far." H a r m o n sighed again, took in the com fortable glow of the room, and rose. " N o w for Blankley. I have had a bully time, Professor Tillotson." " I t has been a pleasure," said Tillot son. " Before parting from you, I am im pelled to remove all possibilities of mis understanding from the mind of one whose friendship, I am frank to say, I should be happy to win and retain." Harmon flushed. " T h a t is very good of you, professor." Tillotson went on: " M y prejudices against the practical man of business are largely traceable to the type of business man who thinks there is no greater thing in life than to sell enor mous quantities of iron beds, or biscuits, or—let me be frank—soap. Hitherto I have failed to discern any merit in selling the public what it wants. If one were to sell the public something it does not want, it would be a real distinction. That is why I look upon the book agent as the highest type of the modern business man. Y o u are sure you won't have another cigar?" " I believe I w i l l . " " T h a t is what I used to think," Tillot-
T h e Choice
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son went on. " I recognize now that I have been uncharitable." H a r m o n laughed. "There's something in soap after all, professor." " I confess there is. Its value may frequently be overestimated, but there are few sights more refreshing to an old man's eyes than a little group of children w i t h china bowl and clay pipe engaged in the beautiful occupation of blowing bub bles." " G o o d L o r d ! " said H a r m o n . " Y e s . The construction of iridescent globes of soap and water must come, I i m agine, of all human sensations, nearest to
T H E By
Julia
the joy that possessed the heart of the Creator when the evening and the morn ing were the sixth day. Y o u will run down to see me some week in the near fu ture? I n the summer I fish, you know. Do you?" "Do I!" " W e are very fortunate," said Tillotson. " B u t I won't detain you. D o you know"—as he held the door open for H a r m o n — " I frequently tire of m y Latin philologies? O n such occasions I am seized with a strange desire to run a motor bicycle." " T h a t ' s o d d , " said H a r m o n . " I ' v e al ways wanted to go on the stage."
CHOICE C. R.
Dorr
A V O I C E came down from regions far away, Solemn and stern, yet most divinely sweet. "Choose thou, O soul, the pathway for thy feet When thou art done with Earth's bewildering day! T h e high gods speak through me. They bid me say When thou no more shalt hear life's surges beat Upon the shores of time, nor wake to greet The glorious morn, high noon, nor twilight gray, They give thee leave to choose thy destiny. Wilt live again in some new sphere? or go Through the strange paths the living may not know T o utter nothingness? Yet hear thou me Ere thou decidest, for the gods decree Who lives immortally shall never sow In the new soil the seed of earthly woe, Of earthly love, or earthly memory." A n d thus I answered:—"Give me leave to die Once and forever, ye who ne'er have known The might of human love, nor shared its throne, Tasted its bread and wine, nor lifted high Its royal banners to the bending sky! Too sweet, too strong Earth's tender loves have grown; Rather than life whence their dear ghosts have flown, O ye who are immortal, let me die!"
THE
DARK (THE
PART
BY
LOVE
LIFE
O F A
MAN)
III—AUTUMN—(CONTINUED)
JOHN
G A L S W O R T H Y
VIII NOW that she was gone, it was curious how little they spoke of her, considering how long she had been with them. A n d they had from her but one letter, written to Sylvia very soon after she left, ending: " D a d sends his best respects, please; and with m y love to you and M r . Lennan, and all the beasts,
FLOWER
NELL.
" O l i v e r is coming here next week. We are going to some races." It was difficult, of course, to speak of her, with that episode of the flower, too bizarre to be told, the sort of thing Sylvia would see out of all proportion—as, i n deed, any woman might. Y e t , what had it really been, but the uncontrolled i m pulse of an emotional child longing to express feelings kindled b y the excitement of that opera? W h a t but a child's feath ery warmth, one of those flying peeps at the mystery of passion that young things take? H e could not give away that pretty foolishness. A n d because he would not give it away, he was more than usually affectionate to Sylvia. They had made no holiday plans, and when she suggested that they should go down to H a y l e he eagerly agreed. There, if anywhere, this curious restlessness would leave him. T h e y had not been down to the old place for many years; indeed, since Gordy's death it was generally let. They left L o n d o n late i n August. T h e day was closing i n when they arrived. Honeysuckle had long been improved away from that station paling, against which he had stood twenty-nine years ago, watch ing the train carrying A n n a Stormer away. In the hired fly Sylvia pressed close to him, and held his hand beneath the an
cient dust rug. B o t h felt the same excite ment at seeing again this old home. N o t a single soul of the past days would be there now—only the house and the trees; the owls and the stars; the river, park, and logan stone! It was dark when they ar rived; just their bedroom and two sittingrooms had been made ready, with fires burning, though it was still high summer. The same old execrable Heatherleys looked down from the black-oak panellings. The same scent of apples and old mice clung here and there about the dark corridors, with their unexpected stairways. It was all curiously unchanged, as old houses are when they are let furnished. Once in the night he woke. Through the wide-open, uncurtained windows the night was simply alive with stars, such swarms of them swinging and trembling up there; and, far away, rose the melan choly velvet-soft hooting of an owl. Sylvia's voice close to him said: " M a r k , that night when your star caught i n m y hair? D o you remember?" Yes, he remembered. A n d in his drowsy mind just roused from dreams, there turned and turned the queer nonsensical refrain: " I never—never—will desert M r . Micawber. . . ." It was a pleasant month, of reading, and walking with the dogs the country round, of lying out long hours amongst the bowl ders or along the river-banks, watching beasts and birds. The little old greenhouse temple of his early masterpieces was still extant, used now to protect watering-pots. B u t no vestige of impulse toward work came to him down there. H e was marking time; not restless, not bored—just waiting. B u t for what, he had no notion. A n d Sylvia, at any rate, was happy. She bloomed in these old haunts, lost her fairness i n the sun; even took again to a sunbonnet, which made her look extraordinarily young. 497
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T h e trout that poor old Gordy had so har ried were left undisturbed. N o gun was fired—rabbits, pigeons, even the few par tridges enjoyed those first days of autumn unmolested. T h e bracken and leaves turned very early, so that the park in the hazy September sunlight had an almost golden hue. A gentle mellowness reigned over all that holiday. A n d from Ireland came no further news, save one picture post-card w i t h the words: " T h i s is our house.
NELL."
In the last week of September they went back to London. A n d at once there began i n h i m again that restless, unrea sonable aching—that sense of being drawn away out of himself; so that he once more took to walking H y d e Park for hours, over grass already strewn with leaves; always looking—craving—and for what? A t Dromore's the confidential man did not know when his master would be back, he had gone to Scotland with M i s s N e l l after the Saint Leger. Was Lennan disap pointed? N o t so—rather relieved. B u t his ache was there all the time, feeding on its secrecy and loneliness, unmention able feeling that it was. W h y had he not realized long ago that youth was over, love finished with, autumn upon h i m ! H o w never grasped the fact that ' T i m e steals away!' A n d , as before, the only refuge was i n work. T h e sheep-dogs and ' The G i r l on the Magpie H o r s e ' were fin ished. H e began a fantastic ' r e l i e f — a n y m p h peering from behind a rock, and a wild-eyed man creeping, through reeds, toward her. If he could put into the nymph's face something of this lure of Y o u t h and Life and Love that was drag ging at him, into the man's face the state of his own heart—it might lay that feeling to rest. A n y t h i n g to get it out of himself! A n d he worked furiously, laboriously, all October, making no great progress. . . . W h a t could he expect when Life was all the time knocking with a muffled tapping at his door! . . . It was on the Tuesday after the close of the last Newmarket meeting, and just get ting dusk, when Life opened that door and walked i n . She wore a dark-red dress, a new one, and surely her face—her figure— were very different from what he had remembered! T h e y had quickened and become poignant. She was no longer a
child—that was at once plain. Cheeks, mouth, neck, waist, all seemed fined, shaped; the crinkly light-brown hair was coiled up now under a velvet cap; only the great gray eyes seemed quite the same. A n d at sight of her his heart gave a sort of dive and flight, as if all its vague and wistful sensations had found their goal. Then, i n sudden agitation, he realized that his last moment with this girl—now a child no longer—had been a secret mo ment of warmth and of emotion; a moment which to her might have meant, in her might have bred, feelings that he had no inkling of. H e tried to ignore that flighting and diving of his heart, held out his hand, and murmured: " A h ! N e l l ! B a c k at last! You've grown." Then, with a sensation of every limb gone weak, he felt her arms round his neck, and herself pressed against him. There was time for the thought to flash through h i m : T h i s is terrible! H e gave her a little convulsive squeeze—could a man do less—then just managed to push her gently away, trying with all his might to think: She's a child! It's nothing more than after ' C a r m e n ' ! She doesn't know what I am feeling! B u t he was conscious of a mad desire to clutch her to him. The touch of her had demolished all his vague ness, made things only too plain, set him on fire. H e said uncertainly: " C o m e to the fire, m y child, and tell me all about i t . " If he did not keep to the notion that she was just a child, his head would go. Perdita—'the lost one'! A good name for her, indeed, as she stood there, her eyes shining in the firelight— more mesmeric than ever they had been! A n d , to get away from the lure of those eyes, he bent down and raked the grate, saying: " H a v e you seen S y l v i a ? " B u t he knew that she had not, even before she gave that impatient shrug. Then he pulled himself together, and said: " W h a t has happened to you, child?" " I ' m not a child." " N o , we've both grown older. I was forty-seven the other day." She dived—heavens! how supple she was!—caught his hand, and murmured:
Autumn " Y o u ' r e not old a bit; you're quite young." A t his wits' end, with his heart thump ing, but still keeping his eyes away from her, he said: "Where is O l i v e r ? " She dropped his hand at that. " O l i v e r ? — I hate h i m . " Afraid to trust himself near her, he had begun walking up and down. A n d she stood, following him with her gaze —the firelight playing fitfully on her red frock. W h a t extraordinary stillness! What power she had developed i n these few months! H a d he let her see that he felt that power? A n d had all this come of one little moment in a dark corridor, of one flower pressed into his hand! W h y had he not spoken to her roughly then— told her she was a romantic little fool? God knew what thoughts she had been feeding on! B u t who could have sup posed—who dreamed? A n d again he fixed his mind resolutely on that thought: She's a child—only a child! " C o m e ! " he said; " t e l l me all about your time in Ireland?" " O h ! it was just dull—it's all been dull away from y o u . " It came out without hesitancy or shame, and he could only murmur: " A h ! you've missed your drawing!" " Y e s . C a n I come to-morrow?" That was the moment to have said: N o ! Y o u are a foolish child, and I an elderly idiot! B u t he had neither cour age, nor clearness of m i n d enough; nor— the desire. A n d , without answering, he went toward the door to turn up the light. " O h , no! please don't! It's so nice like this." The shadowy room, the bluish dusk painted on all the windows, the fitful shining of the fire, the pallor and darkness of the dim casts and bronzes, and that one glowing figure there before the hearth! Her voice, a little piteous, went on: " A r e n ' t you glad I ' m back? I can't see you properly out there." He went back into the glow, and she gave a little sigh of satisfaction. T h e n her calm young voice said, ever so distinctly: "Oliver wants me to marry him, and I won't, of course." He dared not say: W h y not? H e dared
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not say anything. It was too dangerous. A n d then followed those amazing words: " Y o u know why, don't you? Of course you do." It was ridiculous, almost shameful to understand their meaning. A n d he stood, staring in front of him, without a word; humility, dismay, pride, and a sort of mad exultation all mixed and seething within him i n the queerest pudding of emotion. B u t all he said was: " C o m e , my child; we're neither of us quite ourselves to-night. Let's go to the drawing-room." IX B A C K in the darkness and solitude of the studio, when she was gone, he sat down before the fire, his senses in a whirl. W h y was he not just an ordinary animal of a man that could enjoy what the gods had sent? It was as if on a November day some one had pulled aside the sober curtains of the sky and there in a chink had been A p r i l standing—thick white blossom, a purple cloud, a rainbow, grass v i v i d green, light flaring from one knew not where, and such a tingling passion of life on it all as made the heart stand still! This then was the marvellous, enchanting, maddening end of all that year of restless ness and wanting! This bit of Spring suddenly given to him in the midst of Autumn. H e r lips, her eyes, her hair; her touching confidence; above all—quite unbelieva ble—her love. N o t really love—her child ish fancy. B u t on the wings of fancy this child would fly far, too far—all wistfulness and warmth beneath that light veneer of absurd composure. T o live again—to plunge back into youth and beauty—to feel Spring once more—to lose the sense of all being over, save just the sober jog-trot of domestic bliss; to know, actually to know ecstasy again, in the love of a girl; to rediscover all that youth yearns for and feels, and hopes, and dreads, and loves. It was a prospect to turn the head even of a de cent man. . . . B y just closing his eyes he could see her standing there with the firelight glow on her red frock; could feel again that mar vellous thrill when she pressed herself against him in the half-innocent, seducing
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moment when she first came i n ; could feel again her eyes drawing—drawing h i m ! She was a witch, a gray-eyed, brownhaired witch—even unto her love of red. She had the witch's power of lighting fever in the veins. A n d he simply won dered at himself that he had not, as she stood there i n the firelight, knelt, and put his arms round her and pressed his face against her waist. W h y had he not? B u t he did not want to think; the mo ment thought began he knew he must be torn this way and that, tossed here and there between reason and desire, p i t y and passion. E v e r y sense struggled to keep him wrapped in the warmth and intoxica tion of this discovery that he, in the full of autumn, had awakened love in Spring. For though it was absurd that she could have this feeling, yet there was no mistake. Her manner to Sylvia just now had been almost dangerously changed; there had been a queer cold impatience in her look, frightening from one who, but three months ago, had been so affectionate. A n d , going away, she had whispered, with that old trembling-up at him, as if offering to be kissed: " I may come, mayn't I? A n d don't be angry with me, please; I can't help i t . " A monstrous thing at his age to let a young girl love him—compro mise her future! A monstrous thing by all the canons of virtue and gentility! A n d yet—what future?—with that nature —those eyes—that origin—with that fa ther, and that home? B u t he would not —simply must not think! Nevertheless, he showed the signs of thought, and badly; for after dinner Syl via, putting her hand on his forehead, said: " Y o u ' r e working too hard, M a r k . Y o u don't go out enough!" H e held those fingers, fast. Sylvia! N o , indeed, he must not think! B u t he took advantage of her words, and said that he would go out, and get some air. H e walked at a great pace—to keep thought away—till he reached the river close to Westminster, and, moved by sud den impulse, seeking perhaps an antidote, turned down into that little street under the big Wren church, where he had never been since the summer night when he lost what was then more to him than life. There she had lived. There was the house
—those windows which he had stolen past and gazed at with such distress and long ing. Once more he seemed to see that face out of the past—the dark hair, the dark soft eyes, and sweet gravity; and it did not reproach h i m . F o r this new feel ing was not a love like that had been. Only once could a man feel the love that passed all things, the love before which the world was but a spark i n a draught of wind; the love that, whatever dishonor, grief, and unrest it might come through, alone had i n it the heart of peace and joy and honor. Fate had torn that love from him, nipped it off as a sharp wind nips off a perfect flower. T h i s new feeling was but a fever, a passionate fancy, a grasping once more at Y o u t h and W a r m t h . A h , well! but it was real enough! A n d , in one of those moments when a man stands out side himself, seems to be lifted away and see his own life twirling, Lennan had a vision of a shadow driven here and there; a straw going round and round; a midge i n the grip of a mad wind. Where was the home of this mighty secret feeling that sprang so suddenly out of the dark, and caught you by the throat? W h y did it come now and not then, for this one and not that other? W h a t did man know of it, save that it made h i m spin and h o v e r like a moth intoxicated by a light, or a bee b y some dark sweet flower; save that it made of him a distraught, humble, eager puppet of its fancy? H a d it not once al ready driven h i m even to the edge of death; and must it now come on him again with its sweet madness, its drug ging scent? W h a t was it? W h y was it? W h y these passionate obsessions that could not decently be satisfied? H a d civilization so outstripped man that his nature was cramped into shoes too small —like the feet of a Chinese woman? W h a t was it? A h ! W h y was it? A n d faster than ever he walked away. P a l l M a l l brought h i m back to that counterfeit presentment of the real— reality. There, in Saint James's Street, was Johnny Dromore's club; and, again moved b y impulse, he pushed open its swing door. N o need to ask; for Dromore was in the hall, on his way from dinner to the card-room. T h e glossy tan of hard exercise and good living lay i n his cheeks as thick as clouted cream. H i s eyes had
Autumn the peculiar shine of superabundant vigor; a certain subfestive air i n face and voice and movements suggested that he was going to make a night of it. A n d the sar donic thought flashed through L e n n a n : Shall I tell him? " H a l l o , old chap! Awfully glad to see you! W h a t you doin' with yourself? W o r k i n ' hard? H o w ' s your wife? Y o u been away? Been doin' anything great? " A n d then the question that would have given h i m his chance, if he had liked to be so cruel: "Seen N e l l ? " " Y e s , she came round this afternoon." " W h a t d'you think of her? C o m i n ' on nicely, isn't she?" T h a t old query, half-furtive and halfproud, as much as to say: ' I know she's not i n the stud-book, but, d—n it, I sired her!' A n d then the old sudden gloom, which lasted but a second, and gave way again to chaff. Lennan stayed very few minutes. Never had he felt farther from his old school chum. N o ! Whatever happened, Johnny D r o more must be left out. It was a position he had earned with his goggling eyes, and his astute philosophy; from it he should not be disturbed. He passed along the railings of the Green Park. O n the cold air of this last October night a thin haze hung, and the acrid fragrance from little bonfires of fallen leaves. W h a t was there about that scent of burned-leaf smoke that had always moved h i m so? Symbol of parting!— that most mournful thing i n all the world. For what would even death be but for parting—a sweet long sleep, a new adven ture ! B u t if a man loved others—to leave them, or be left! A h ! and it was not death only that brought partings! He came to the opening of the street where Dromore lived. She would be there, sitting b y the fire i n the big chair —playing with her kitten, thinking, dream ing, and—alone! H e passed on at such a pace that people stared; till, turning the last corner for home, he ran almost into the arms of Oliver Dromore. The young man was walking with un accustomed indecision, his fur coat open, his opera hat pushed up on his crisp hair. D a r k under the eyes, he had not the
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proper gloss of a Dromore at this season of the year. " M r . Lennan! I've just been round to you." A n d Lennan answered dazedly: " W i l l you come i n , or shall I walk your way a bit? " " I ' d rather—out here—if you don't mind." So i n silence they w ent back into the square. A n d Oliver said: " L e t ' s get over by the rails." They crossed to the railings of the square's dark garden, where nobody was passing. A n d with every step Lennan's humiliation grew. There was something false and undignified even in walking with this young man who had once treated him as a father confessor to his love for N e l l . A n d suddenly he perceived that they had made a complete circuit of the square garden without speaking a single word. " W e l l ? " he said. Oliver turned his face away. " Y o u remember what I told you i n the summer. Well, it's worse now. I've been going a mucker lately in all sorts of ways to try and get rid of it. B u t it's all no good—she's got me." A n d Lennan thought: You're not alone in that! B u t he kept silence. H i s chief dread was of saying something that he would remember afterwards as the words of Judas. Then Oliver suddenly burst out: " W h y can't she care? I suppose I ' m nothing much, but she's known me all her life, and she used to like me. There's something—I can't make out. Could you do anything for me with her?" Lennan pointed across the street. " I n every other one of those houses, Oliver," he said, "there's probably some creature who can't make out why another creature doesn't care. Passion comes when it will, goes when it w i l l ; and we poor devils have no say in i t . " " W h a t do you advise me, then?" Lennan had an almost overwhelming impulse to turn on his heel and leave the young man standing there. B u t he forced himself to look at his face, which even then had its attraction—perhaps more so than ever, so pallid and desperate it was. A n d he said slowly, staring mentally at every word: r
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" I ' m not up to giving you advice. T h e only thing I might say is: One does not press oneself where one isn't wanted; all the same—who knows? So long as she feels you're there, waiting, she might turn to you at any moment. T h e more chival rous you are, Oliver, the more patiently you wait, the better chance you have." Oliver took those words of little com fort without flinching. " I see," he said; "thanks! B u t , m y G o d ! it's hard. I never could wait." A n d , with that ep igram on himself, holding out his hand, he turned away. Lennan went slowly home, trying to gauge exactly how any one who knew would judge him. It was a little difficult in this affair to keep a shred of dignity. Sylvia had not gone up, and he saw her looking at h i m anxiously. T h e one strange comfort i n all this was that his feeling for her, at any rate, had not changed. It seemed even to have deep ened—to be more real. Up-stairs i n their bedroom how could he help staying awake, how could he help thinking, then? A n d long time he lay, staring at the dark. As if thinking were any good for fever in the veins! X P A S S I O N never plays the game. It, at all events, is free from self-consciousness and pride; from dignity, nerves, scruples, cant, moralities; from hypocrisies, and wisdom, and fears for pocket, and posi tion in this world and the next. Well did the old painters limn it as an arrow or a wind! If it had not been as swift and darting, earth must long ago have drifted through space untenanted—to let. . . . After that fevered night Lennan went to his studio at the usual hour and nat urally did not do a stroke of work. H e was even obliged to send away his model. The fellow had been his hair-dresser, but, getting i l l , and falling on dark days, one morning had come to the studio, to ask, with manifest shame, if his head were any good. H a v i n g tested his capacity for standing still, and given h i m some introductions, Lennan had noted him down: " F i v e feet nine, good hair, lean face, something tortured and pathetic.
Give him a turn, if possible." T h e turn had come, and the poor man was.posing in a painful attitude, talking, whenever permitted, of the way things had treated him, and the delights of cutting hair. This morning he took his departure with the simple pleasure of one fully paid for services not rendered. A n d so, walking up and down, up and down, the sculptor waited for Nell's knock. W h a t would happen now? F o r all his thinking had made nothing clear. Here was offered what every warm-blooded man, whose Spring is past, desires—youth and beauty, and i n that youth a renewal of his own; what all men save hypocrites and Englishmen would even admit that they desired. A n d it was offered to one who had neither religious nor moral scru ples, as they are commonly understood. In theory he could accept. I n practice he did not as yet know what he could do. One thing only he had discovered during the night's reflections, that those who scouted belief i n the principle of L i b e r t y made no greater mistake than to suppose that L i b erty was dangerous because it made a man a libertine. T o one with any de cency, the creed of Freedom was—of a l l — the most enchaining. E a s y enough to break chains imposed b y others, fling his cap over the windmill, and cry for the moment at least: I am unfettered, free! H a r d , indeed, to say the same to his own unfettered self! Yes, he himself was in the judgment-seat; b y his own verdict and deci sion he must abide. A n d , though he ached for the sight of her, and his will seemed paralyzed—many times already he had thought: It won't do! G o d help me! Then twelve o'clock had come, and she had not. W o u l d ' The G i r l on the Magpie Horse' be all he would see of her to-day— that unsatisfying work, so cold and devoid of witchery? Better have tried to paint her—with a red flower i n her hair, a pout on her lips, and her eyes fey, or languor ous. G o y a could have painted her! A n d then, just as he had given her up, she came. After taking one look at his face, she slipped in ever so quietly, like a very good child. . . . Marvellous the instinct of even the young when they are women! . . . N o t a vestige in her of yesterday's seductive power; not a sign that there
Autumn had been a yesterday at all—just confi ding, like a daughter. Sitting there, telling him about Ireland, showing him the little batch of drawings she had done while she was away—had she brought them be cause she knew they would make him feel sorry for her?—what could have been less dangerous, more appealing to the protect ive and paternal side of him than she was that morning? A s if she only wanted what her father and her home could not give her; only wanted to be a sort of daughter to him! She went away demurely, as she had come, refusing to stay to lunch, mani festly avoiding Sylvia. Only then he realized that she must have taken alarm from the look of strain on his face, been afraid that he would send her away; only then perceived that, with her appeal to his protection, she had been binding him closer, making it harder for h i m to break away and hurt her. A n d the fevered aching began again—worse than ever—the moment he lost sight of her. A n d more than ever he felt i n the grip of something beyond his power to fight against; some thing that, however he swerved and backed and broke away, would close in on him, find means to bind h i m again hand and foot. In the afternoon Dromore's confiden tial man brought him a note. The fellow, with his cast-down eyes and well-parted hair, seemed to Lennan to be saying: " Y e s , sir—it is quite natural that you should take the note out of eyeshot, sir— but I know; fortunately, there is no neces sity for alarm—I am strictly confidential." A n d this was what the note contained: " Y o u promised to ride with me once— you did promise, and you never have. D o please ride w i t h me to-morrow; then you will get what you want for the statuette instead of being so cross with it. Y o u can have Dad's horse—he has gone to New market again, and I ' m so lonely. Please —to-morrow, at half past two—starting from here. NELL."
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" M r . Dromore will be away till Saturday, sir." Now, why had the fellow said that? Curious how this desperate secret feeling of his own made him see sinister meaning in this servant, in Oliver's visit of last night—in everything. It was vile! H e could feel, almost see, himself deteriora ting already, with this furtive feeling in his soul. It would soon be written on his face! B u t what was the use of troubling? What would come, would—one way or the other. A n d suddenly he remembered with a shock that it was the first of November, Sylvia's birthday! H e had never before forgotten it. I n the disturbance of that discovery he was very near to going and pouring out to her the whole story of his feelings. A charming birthday present that would make! Taking his hat, i n stead, he dashed round to the nearest flower shop. A Frenchwoman kept it. What had she? What did monsieur de sire? "Des oeillets rouges? J'en ai de Men beaux ce soir." No—not those? White flowers! "Une belle azalee?" Yes, that would do—to be sent at once —at once! Next door was a jeweller's. H e had never really known if Sylvia cared for jewels, since one day he happened to re mark that they were vulgar. A n d , feeling that he had fallen low indeed, to be trying to atone with some miserable gewgaw for never having thought of her all day, be cause he had been thinking of another, he went i n and bought the only ornament whose ingredients did not make his gorge rise, two small pear-shaped black pearls, one at each end of a fine platinum chain. Coming out with it, he noticed over the street, i n a clear sky fast deepening to indigo, the thinnest slip of a new moon, like a bright swallow, with wings bent back, flying toward the ground. T h a t meant—fine weather! If it could only be fine weather i n his heart! A n d i n order that the azalea might arrive first, he walked up and down the square which he and Oliver had patrolled the night before.
To hesitate i n view of those confidential eyes was not possible; it must be ' Y e s ' or ' N o ' ; but if ' N o , ' it would only mean When he went i n , Sylvia was placing that she would come i n the morning in the white azalea in the window of the stead. So he said: drawing-room, and stealing up behind "Just say ' A l l r i g h t ! ' " " V e r y good, sir." T h e n , from the door: her he clasped the little necklet round her
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throat. She turned round and clung to him. H e could feel that she was greatly moved. A n d remorse stirred and stirred in him, that he was betraying her with his kiss. But, even while he kissed her, he was hardening his heart. XI N E X T day, still following the lead of her words about fresh air, he told Sylvia that he was going to ride; and did not say with whom. After applauding his resolu tion she was silent for a little, then asked: " W h y don't you ride with N e l l ? " He had already so lost his dignity that he hardly felt disgraced i n answering: " I t might bore her!" " O h , no! it wouldn't bore her." H a d she meant anything by that? A n d , feeling as if he were fencing with his own soul, he said: " V e r y well; I w i l l . " He had perceived suddenly that he did not know his wife, having always till now believed that it was she who did not quite know h i m . If she had not been out at lunch-time, he would have lunched out himself— afraid of his own face. For feverishness in sick persons mounts steadily with the approach of a certain hour. A n d surely his face, to any one who could have seen him being driven to Piccadilly, would have suggested a fevered invalid rather than a healthy middle-aged sculptor i n a cab. The horses were before the door, the little magpie horse, and a thoroughbred bay mare, weeded from Dromore's racingstable. N e l l , too, was standing ready, her cheeks very pink and her eyes very bright. She did not wait for h i m to mount her, but took the aid of the confidential man. What was it that made her look so perfect on that little horse—shape of limb, or something soft and fiery i n her spirit that the little creature knew of? They started i n silence, but as soon as the sound of hoofs died on the tan of R o t ten R o w she turned to him and said: " I t was lovely of you to come. I thought you'd be afraid—you are afraid of me." A n d Lennan thought: M y G o d ! you're right!
" B u t please don't look like yesterday. It's too heavenly. I love beautiful days, and I love riding, a n d — " She broke off and looked at h i m . ' W h y can't y o u just be nice to me'—she seemed to be saying— ' a n d love me as you ought!' T h a t was her power—the conviction that he did, and ought to love her; that she ought to, and did love h i m . H o w simple! B u t riding, too, is a simple passion; and simple passions distract each other. It was a treat to be on that bay mare, with her springy action, and mouth of velvet. Who so to be trusted to ride the best as Johnny Dromore? A t the far end of the R o w she cried out, " L e t ' s go on to R i c h m o n d now," and trotted off into the road, as if she knew she could do with h i m what she wished. A n d , following meekly, he asked himself: W h y ? W h a t was there i n her to make up to h i m for all that he was losing—his power of work, his dignity, his self-respect? W h a t was there? Just those eyes, and lips, and hair? A n d as if she knew what he was think ing, she looked round and smiled. So they jogged on over the bridge and across Barnes C o m m o n into Richmond Park. B u t the moment they touched turf, with one look back at h i m she was off. H a d she all the time meant to give him this break-neck chase—or had the loveli ness of that autumn day gone to her head —blue sky and coppery flames of bracken in the sun, and the beech leaves and the oak leaves; pure H i g h l a n d coloring come south for once? When, i n the first burst, he had tested the mare's wind, this chase of her, indeed, was sheer delight. Through glades, over fallen tree-trunks, i n bracken up to the hocks, out across the open, past a herd of amazed and solemn deer, over rotten ground all rabbit-burrows, till just as he thought he was up to her she slipped away by a quick turn round trees. Mischief incarnate; but something deeper than mischief, too! H e came up w i t h her at last, and leaned over to seize her rein. W i t h a cut of her whip that missed his hand b y a bare inch, and a wrench, she made him shoot past, wheeled i n her tracks, and was off like an arrow, back amongst the trees—lying right forward
Autumn under the boughs, along the neck of her little horse. T h e n , out from amongst the trees, she shot down-hill. Right down she went, full-tilt, and after her went Lennan, lying back, and expecting the bay mare to come down at every stride. This was her idea of fun! She switched round at the bottom and went galloping along the foot of the hill—and he thought: " N o w I've got her!" She could not break back up that h i l l ; and there was no other cover for fully half a mile! Then he saw, not thirty yards in front, an old sand-pit. G o d ! She was going straight at that! A n d shouting frantically he reined his mare outward. B u t she only raised her whip, cut the magpie horse over the flank, and rode right on. H e saw that little demon gather its feet and spring—down, down, saw h i m pitch, struggle, sink—and she, flung forward, roll over and lie on her back. H e felt nothing at that moment, only saw the fixed vision of a yellow patch of sand, the blue sky, a rook flying, and her face upturned. B u t when he came on her, she was on her feet, holding the bridle of her dazed horse. N o sooner d i d he touch her then she sank down. H e r eyes were closed, but he could feel that she had not fainted; and he just held her, and kept pressing his lips to her eyes and forehead. Suddenly she let her head fall back, and her lips met his. T h e n she opened her eyes, and said: " I ' m not hurt, only—funny. Has Magpie cut his knees?" N o t quite knowing what he did, he got up to look. T h e little horse was crop ping bramble leaves, unharmed—the sand and fern had saved h i m . A n d her languid voice behind h i m said: " I t ' s all right— you can leave the horses. T h e y ' l l come when I c a l l . " N o w that he knew she was unhurt he felt anger. W h y had she behaved i n this mad way—given h i m this fearful shock? But, i n that same languid voice, she went on: " D o n ' t be angry w i t h me, please don't be angry. Y o u see, I thought at first I ' d pull up, but then I thought: ' I f I jump, he can't help being nice to me'—so I did. Don't leave off loving me because I ' m not hurt, please." Terribly moved, he sat down beside her, took her hands i n his, and said:
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" N e l l ! N e l l ! It's madness! It's all wrong." " W h y ? D o n ' t think about it. I don't want you to think—only to love me." " Child, you don't know what love i s ! " For answer she only flung her arms round his neck; then, since he held back from kissing her, let them fall again, and jumped up. " V e r y well. But I love you. Y o u ' c a n think of that, and you can't prevent me." A n d , without waiting for help, she mounted the magpie horse from the sand-heap where they had fallen. Very sober that ride home! T h e horses, as if ashamed of their mad chase, edged close to each other, so that now and then his arm would touch her shoulder. H e asked her once what she had felt while she was jumping. " O n l y to be sure my foot was free. It was rather horrid coming down, thinking of Magpie's knees"; and, touching the little horse's goat-like ears, she added softly: " P o o r dear! H e ' l l be stiff to morrow." She was again only the confiding, rather drowsy, child. O r was it that the fierce ness of those past moments had killed his power of feeling? A n almost dreamy hour—with the sun going down, the lamps being lighted one by one—and a sort of sweet oblivion over everything! A t the door, where the groom was waiting, Lennan would have said goodby, but she whispered: " O h , no, please! I am tired now—you might help me up a little." A n d so, half-carrying her, he mounted past the Vanity Fair cartoons, and through the corridor with the red paper and the V a n Beers drawings, into the room where he had first seen her. Once settled back i n Dromore's great chair, with the purring kitten curled up on her neck, she murmured: " Isn't it nice? Y o u can make tea; and we'll have hot buttered toast." A n d so Lennan stayed while the confi dential man brought tea and toast, and, never once looking at them, seemed to know all that had passed, all that might be to come. Then they were alone again, and, ga zing down at her stretched out in that great chair, Lennan thought: ' T h a n k G o d ! I ' m
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tired—body and soul!' Suddenly she looked up at h i m , and pointing to the picture, that to-day had no curtain drawn, said: " D o you think I ' m like her? I made Oliver tell me about myself this summer. That's why you needn't bother. It doesn't matter what happens to me, you see. A n d I don't care—because you can love me without feeling bad about i t ; and you will, won't y o u ? " Then, with her eyes still on his face, she went on quickly: " O n l y we won't talk about that now, will we? It's too cosey. I am nice and tired. D o smoke!" But Lennan's fingers trembled so that he could hardly light his cigarette. A n d , watching them, she said: "Please give me one, D a d doesn't like my smoking." The virtue of Johnny Dromore! Y e s ! It would always be by proxy! " A r e you very fond of him, N e l l ? " "Yes." " H o w do you think he would like to know about this afternoon?" " I don't care." A n d once more Lennan thought: G o d help me! Then, peering up through the kitten's fur, she said softly: " O l i v e r wants me to go to a dance on Saturday—it's for a charity. Shall I ? " " O f course; why n o t ? " " W i l l you come?" "I?" " O h , do! Y o u must. It's m y very first, you know. I've got an extra ticket." A n d against his will, his judgment— everything, Lennan answered: " Y e s . " ( T o be
She clapped her hands, and the kitten crawled down to her knees. When he got up to go, she d i d not move, but just looked up at h i m ; and how he got away he d i d not know. Stopping his cab a little short of home, he ran, for he felt cold and stiff, and, letting himself i n with his latch-key, went straight to the drawing-room. T h e door was ajar, and Sylvia standing at the window. H e heard her sigh; and his heart smote him. V e r y still, and slender, and lonely she looked out there, with the light shining on her fair hair, so that it seemed almost white. T h e n she turned, and saw h i m . H e noticed her throat working with the effort she made not to show him anything, and he said: "Surely you haven't been anxious! N e l l had a bit of a fall—jumping into a sandpit. She's quite mad sometimes. I stayed to tea with her—just to make sure she wasn't really hurt." A n d as he spoke he loathed himself; his voice sounded so false. She only answered: " I t ' s all right, dear," but he saw that she kept her eyes —those blue, too true eyes—averted, even when she kissed him. A n d so began another evening and night and morning of fever, subterfuge, weariness, aching. A round of halfecstatic torment, out of which he could no more break than a man can break through the walls of a cell. . . . Though it live but a day i n the sun, though it drown i n tenebrous night, the dark flower of passion will have its hour. . . .
concluded.)
T H E
GIFT
OF
ROSEY
By Barry Benefield ILLUSTRATIONS
BY W I L L I A M
E V E N on this last day before slinking away into the dim limbo of unwanted and for gotten newspaper men he was punctual. A s he came up out of the subway sta tion with a noon edition of an afternoon newspaper i n his hand he noticed that it lacked five minutes of twelve. H e rode up to the sixteenth floor of the Chron icle building and walked into the long, clean editorial room. As he laid his over coat and cane on the desk in front of him the hands of the clock came together, as if i n a handshake of congratulation; dear old Walter was preserving one journalis tic virtue until the end. Before he had sat down two rival office boys rushed at h i m with fresh Chronicles, that he might clip out his yesterday's space. H e took both papers and smiled and said thank you, and they backed away, abashed, fearful lest the affection ate haste of this voluntary service to M r . H a m l i n might have exposed emotion, of which, being men i n the making, they were ashamed. A l l about him reporters were cutting out great slithers of space, at seven dol lars a column, and calculating noisily how much they had made on Tuesday. Open ing one of his papers, the gray-haired, boy-faced reporter searched through i t ; he found his little story of the day before hidden in a corner of the routine page be tween "Yesterday's F i r e s " and " B a n k rupt Notices." Its accidental position, the result, he was veteran enough to know, of the make up man's filling up an unexpected hole with anything unimportant that came to hand, struck h i m as peculiarly appro priate to his case; and he sat staring at his story with a wry smile. T w o weeks before the suspicion had got through to a sober part of his mind that his presence on the Chronicle was embarrassing to the VOL.
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O B E R H A R D T
city and managing editors, and that they were too tenderly loyal to discharge him because they had all three been cubs to gether some fifteen years before; so he had resigned at once, giving the usual notice. It had not been hard for him, mean while, to arrange for an exit into the ob scure regions of press agency, that hell of prideful newspaper men. H e was glad that the job was to carry him to the P a cific coast, into new surroundings. There was an unspoken compact among the three men that he was to drop silently out of the ranks, thus escaping the inevitable cruel questions of his kindly brother re porters. In the sobriety brought by the first shock to his pride he had gone, one morn ing after the paper had been put to press, to the huge, dusty cabinets at the end of the deserted office containing the local copy for several years past, that he might look back at himself through his stories. H e read page after page where he had omitted important words, run words to gether, left yawning gaps between sen tence and sentence, paragraph and para graph: hideous gibberish until the loyal hands of night city editor and copyreaders had toiled to make it into sense. Here and there he had found a story bear ing his name which had obviously been rewritten on a machine other than his own, and i n which he had recognized the mannerisms of this and that reporter, some of them cubs. So he had been forced to know that not only the day city editor and the managing editor, but also the night city editor, the copy-readers, the very youngest cub had all stood on guard about him, shielding him from the impatient high executives, insuring him a living space bill at the end of each week, saying nothing to him, and thus trying to save even his self-respect. The scrubwoman, coming i n at 4 A . M . , 507
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had discovered him sitting brokenly at a desk with his head lying on a litter of his crazy old stories; asleep, so he had told her, and had put away the copy and walked with great dignity out of the door. As he stared at his latest story sand wiched between "Yesterday's F i r e s " and " B a n k r u p t N o t i c e s " he thought of that scene, and hated to think of it. H e was glad that the big city editor's cheerful, booming voice now began calling from the boxed-in southeast corner behind him, calling first to his most reliable and highly paid men, then to the varying degrees of cubs. One by one they hurried into the office to receive instructions, and Walter tried to guess what stories they would have in the next day's paper. The noon edition he had read on the subway train had given him a general idea of the run of news. I n his summaries there kept recur ring in his mind with painful, envious in sistence the thought: " M a y b e he will get on the front page in the morning." H e twisted nervously at the corner of his paper, his ears straining on from name to name, listening for one he did not bear. The voice from the southeast corner behind him stopped calling out names. Among the chaffering reporters, as they looked up addresses, supplied themselves with copy paper, and got ready to start out on their stories, there was a confident, joyous camaraderie from which he felt ex cluded. Singly and in groups they disap peared through the glazed door. M r . Gray, the city editor, having laid the framework of his next day's paper, hurried out for a quick lunch. The assist ant city editor was laboriously searching through the latest inundation of after noon editions for stories they had found but had not had time enough to get the good out of. The office boys were stealth ily playing cards in the far end of the long room. The three or four very young cubs left were ploughing through the aged classics, cultivating their styles, they re assuringly told themselves. The great room lay empty and forlorn. Walter got up and strolled over to one of the windows looking down on Broad way. It was matinee day, and along the little lane flowed double streams of wom en's hats, multitudinous dots of moving color that hid the gray sidewalks. T h a n k
the L o r d , he had no wife, nor any depend ent women folk; they would be in for hard times now. The city editor came back presently and sat down. Walter said to himself that if he walked about in the neighbor hood of the always open door and engaged the god in conversation maybe he would remember what day this was. B u t that was a cheap trick and he shoved it in stantly aside. Returning to his desk, he dropped into a chair, leaned his head on the back of it, and gazed up at the stainblotched white plaster ceiling. B u t he could not sit still. Merely for the sake of movement he got up again and patrolled the aisle by the Broadway win dows, looking down at the dear little, bent, human street that he would never see again. After a while the assistant city editor came softly up behind him and handed him a clipping from an afternoon paper. " M r . Gray thinks a nice funny story may come out of this," he said. " A n d it might be a big story. Rosey the Black hander!" H e laughed nervously, placatingly, pityingly. In the subway, going down to police headquarters, Walter read the small clip ping carefully. A regulation Black-hand letter had demanded that an upper Sec ond Avenue baker place $20 on the side walk i n front of his shop; penalty for fail ure to comply or for telling the police, death and destruction for his whole fam ily. T h e German baker had rushed to the police; and at the appointed time a pack age containing a marked dollar bill had been placed on the sidewalk, partly hid den under a flour barrel as directed, while two detectives watched from across the deserted street. A t 11.30 o'clock the night before M a x Rosenbaum had been arrested picking it up. I n the Harlem Police Court he had said that he lived at 437 East Eighty-second Street with his mother. H e was now in the court prison, held for the next higher tribunal. A t headquarters the two detectives, anxious to get their names i n the paper as much as possible, eagerly corroborated all that was i n the clipping. It appeared to Walter, coming down the steps, that there was nothing to do except to go back to the office and try to make a burlesque
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on the idea of a single Rosenbaum posing Suddenly, going down the subway as a band of ferocious, blackmailing Ital steps, he stopped, turned, came leaping ians for the sake of $20. A n d yet Rosey back to the light again. It had occurred lived i n East Eighty-second Street with to him that Rosey's side of the story had
He twisted nervously at the corner of his paper, his ears straining on from name to name, listening for one he did not hear.—Page 508.
his mother. Walter's mind did not wel come ridicule to-day; i t is a stabbing weapon which he did not want to use on anybody. H e would return to the office and report that the story was not worth printing. W h a t d i d it matter if a few lines from h i m were left out of the paper to-morrow?
not been told, and he felt guilty that he had not thought of that before. M a y b e there wasn't anything to be said for h'im, but all his newspaper training, all his in stincts demanded that Rosey have his chance. Hurrying eastward through Grand Street to a Second Avenue elevated sta-
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tion, he rode up to Eighty-second Street. N u m b e r 437 was over near the East River. Walter climbed the four flights of damp, slick stairs, and was invited into a rear kitchen, which is also the tenement's parlor and drawing-room. A tall, dingy, tired young woman was making a smoky coal fire i n a cooking-stove. A tense, clean, dark-faced little German woman was frankly changing a skirt that was wet for one that was d r y ; she had been out doing by-the-day washing, she ex plained. A baby lay i n a cradle i n one corner, patiently blinking his eyes be cause the smoke hurt. " I came to talk about your son M a x , " said Walter tentatively, sitting down i n a chair indicated by the old woman. " M a y b e the gentleman come from the hospital," she ventured encouragingly, as she bustled about in the thickly clut tered kitchen. " Y o u tell him about your brother, M i n n i e ; I have not much Eng lish. M a x , he is a fine boy, but he did have much bad luck dis year. M i n n i e has good E n g l i s h . " She took up the work at the stove, and the daughter, sitting down b y the cradle, began talking in a weary, dim voice oc casionally lit with a flash of feeling. "Three years ago M a x got a job i n King's iron-yard up on the Harlem River. Then he married the Slav girl down in Seventieth Street, which I will say N a talka is a nice, sweet little thing. A t first they boarded with her people, but when the baby came they rented two rooms three doors away an' started i n for theirselves right. N a t a l k a is the craziest thing about M a x an' the baby. " J u s t before last Christmas a piece of iron fell on M a x ' s left hand. A t the hos pital he stayed six weeks, for the doctors said they wanted to try to save it, which I will say was very good of them. B u t they didn't. There was trouble with the blood, so they cut off the whole arm i n the end. A n ' he came home very weak. H e certainly did look funny. " L o n g before that, though, N a t a l k a had given up the two rooms, not able to pay the weekly rents, an' sold the furni ture—what there was of it—an' gone to live with her people. B u t they have only three rooms theirselves, an' two younger children besides; an' up here we have only
three with m y husband—he's a truck driver, you know—an' two children an' my mother; so neither family could take in another whole family. N a t a l k a stayed with her people, an' M a x said he'd stay up here, for a while, till he could look around. N a t a l k a cried about breakin' up, an' m y husband said she was foolish; but men, they don't know, they don't know." She ran both hands back over her face and hair, and then held them for a while over her eyes. " W e l l , " she went on i n a dry, tired voice, " N a t a l k a said she was goin' to get a job pastin' gold bands on cigars in the factory at First Avenue an' Sixtieth Street, where her father works, but her mother said not to because she couldn't 'tend to her own children right, much less a little baby too. So M a x said he would go down there every day an' 'tend to all the children same as a woman, till he could get a job. H e thought he could be a night watchman, his eyes bein' good anyhow, when he got all right again— when he stopped bein' weak an' puny, I mean, you know. " A n ' it wasn't long before Natalka got to be a swift bander, the pay bein' by the thousand pasted on, an' she said pretty soon they would be fixed up in two rooms by theirselves again. A n ' then one night about two weeks ago M a x found a fivedollar bill on Second Avenue coming home late, because he always stays down at Natalka's an' talks as long as he can; they are certainly nutty about each other yet. Well, sir, N a t a l k a liked to have had a fit about that, an' ever since M a x goes along with his eyes on the ground, grabbin' up everything he sees. B u t he hasn't found anything more. " H e did not come home last night, so I guess Natalka's people let him sleep there for a change. M a x has the promise of a night-watching job next month, an' we think it is all right for them now. The way things are lookin' they are goin' to be very happy again soon. A gentleman was here once before from the hospital to ask about h i m . " The tall young woman smoothed the covering over the baby and went to the stove to help her mother. Walter got up, walked over to the rear kitchen window,
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and stood staring down at the littered " W h o ' l l tell N a t a l k a ? " she asked, as court below, trying to think what to do. her mother rushed out of the door. T h e It was clear to him that no word had old woman did not stop. come to either family from M a x , but he " I ' l l do i t , " said Walter. " I ' l l pass her knew the hazard a prisoner's message place going down-town."
W a l t e r strolled o v e r to one of the w i n d o w s . . . . T h a n k the L o r d , he had wife, nor a n y d e p e n d e n t w o m e n f o l k . — P a g e 508.
runs who can not tip the attendants. So he told the women all he knew about the arrest. Before he had finished the old woman was putting on her hat and beg ging frantically for directions how to reach the H a r l e m Court prison. The young woman slowly stirred the gray pot tage of tripe and onions on the stove, shaking her head in a vague, helpless, hopeless way.
no
W i t h i n fifteen minutes he stood before the cigar factory at First Avenue and Sixtieth Street, wishing that it was not his part to tell Rosey's wife. A n d yet it was already 5.45 o'clock; he had no time to waste; the factory workers would be in the disorder of home-going soon. Climbing the stairs to the pungent fifth floor, he found the foreman, who sent for N o . 46. There came into the anteroom a
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plump little Slav girl, with light hair spun into the fineness of vapor about her tem ples, with great fright i n her gray eyes. " I ' d like to talk to this lady alone," said Walter to the curious foreman. Then he told Rosey's wife. She threw her apron over her head and stumbled, whim pering, into a corner, laying her head be tween the walls. Presently he saw her falling to one side, and he caught her i n his arms. The foreman came running back to answer his call, but by this time N a t a l k a had opened her eyes and was struggling fiercely to get loose. Racing back into the work-room, she reappeared with her hat i n her hand, and went falling and catching herself clatteringly down the unlit stairs, and into the street. Running to keep ahead of her, the gray-haired, dignified man fought a way for the stumbling girl through the thick crowds of home-going workers and their desperately playing children, and saw her safely to her door. I n the dark hall she seized his hand and kissed it, and ran up the stairs. H e stood listening until he heard her speak to some one on the second floor. T o visit the complaining baker and argue fiercely and futilely with him, to visit Rosey in his cell and talk cheerfully to him, to revisit the old German mother and cool her flaming wrath, took all his time up to 8 o'clock. H a v i n g had dinner, he went to the office and sat down before his typewriter. It was 10 o'clock. H e wrote slowly. There was no hurry for h i m . H e had no other assignment to cover, and this was to be his last story. When it was done he estimated that it would just about fill one of the short columns on the front page. A t n o'clock he sent it to the night city editor's desk and sat watching fearfully across the room to see its course. Walter saw him take it out of the boy's hand, glance at the name on it, and shove it into the bottom of the pile of copy i n front of him. The day city editor had doubtless reported that Hamlin's story would probably be nothing more than a filler in case of need. A t 11.30 the composing-room tele phoned up for rush copy to fill an unex pected hole; Walter's trained ear could easily understand that from the half of the conversation that he heard shouted
above the din and bustle of the office. H a l t i n g in the work of reading stories that were certainly important, the electric little night city editor tore at the pile of copy in front of h i m , parcelled out the matter to his assistants with orders to hustle, stopped a second over three or four pages of manuscript, and called to the brilliant cub that had often rewritten Walter's things, as now he knew from the old copy cabinet. " T r y to find out what this is all about," Walter heard h i m saying. " I f you can understand what the lunatic wants to say, give me two sticks of it. N o t an other line. I want only the bones, and damn few of them. H u r r y . " Poor old Rosey! Walter thought of him. It was already fixed i n his mind that it was his story that was to be cut down to obscurity, that would most likely be hidden on the routine page among the "Yesterday's F i r e s " and " B a n k r u p t N o tices." It was to catch the eyes of the police judge, of the district attorney, pos sibly of a volunteer lawyer for Rosey's defence, that he had tried, he hated to think how hard, to write something good enough for a spread head and the front page. H e knew the power of front-page print i n The Chronicle. H e got up and went into the day city editor's boxed-in corner; it was unused and dark at night, and he stayed in there; it was more congenial to him than the bright, excited room outside. Leaning his arms on the iron railings guarding a win dow that looked south on Broadway, he stared far down into the thin, red chasm of blazing light. A faint blurred buzzing came to his ears through the open win dow. The thousands only recently turned out of the theatres, minimized to the size of insects by the distance, were struggling to get down into two little hooded holes that were subway stations. The slowmoving trolley-cars, cabs, and automobiles were larger bugs herding the insects into the holes. Suddenly a suggestion from down there exploded in his mind. A shattering shiver shot through his backbone, and he put his hand to his mouth lest he cry out. W h y , the night city editor had just said, " T r y to see what the lunatic wants to say." H e had thought that the mental fog would
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clear away when he had removed the first ple in the car, but he shrank back in a cause of i t ; perhaps i t was now independ corner; he was not to escape the affec ent of the first cause. H e had thought tionate vigilance of the elevator man who the story was all right. Yes, but so he had had just come on for the late shift.
" I came to talk about your sou Max," said Walter tentatively, sitting down in a chair indicated by the old woman.—Page 510.
thought many times before. What do all lunatics think? Presently he caught himself laughing quietly, and was i n terror. Coming out of M r . Gray's office, he slipped along the deserted row of desks near the eastern wall, and so finally got to the lockers at the far end of the long room. H e put on his hat and stole through the door. There were only two or three other peo-
" W e l l , how are you, M r . H a m l i n ? " he called eagerly over the heads of two men in front of the fugitive. " V e r y well, A d a m , thank y o u , " he mumbled, wondering if he was answering correctly. " A n d how are you? " " O h , me? I ' m fine." Down-stairs, rushing out on the side walk into the midst of the surging crowds, he let himself be carried up on beyond
" T r y to find out what this is all a b o u t , " W a l t e r h e a r d h i m s a y i n g . — P a g e
Times Square. The solidity of the shoul ders that bumped him back and forth, the power of a man as emphasized by the tre mendous momentum of many together, were exquisite comforts to him. "These are not bugs," he said to him self, laughing out hysterically. A woman jammed against his side looked at him quickly, drew away uneasily. As far up Broadway as Columbus Circle the narrow thoroughfare was still filled with people. Central Park was his desti nation, and he turned into its south western gate. Presently he came to the M a l l ; and, passing through that, de scended those splendiferous stone steps with the lilies and doves and cupids carved into their side walls. H e stopped a moment at a fountain that gurgled joyously as it spouted twinkling little streams into the air. Crossing the bridge that humps its back like a sleepy cat, and stumbling over the hill to his right, 514
512.
he came to the hidden cove that he was looking for. Some pair of lovers had dragged a bench down to the very edge of the water. Walter sat down. A t last he was alone. E v e n i n the daytime the middle of Cen tral P a r k is quiet and calm. N o w he heard the faintest ripple along the shore a dozen yards away. Above and about him the A p r i l leaves, too young yet to rattle, were rustling tinily like soft silk. The spring wind was playing gayly over the park with the large green odors of the trees and the pretty party-colored odors of the scattered flower-beds. T h e lake was latticed with shimmering silver bands made by the lights set all around its cir cling shores. Across the water clustered the flotilla of boats i n which the city's children voyage around the mysterious wooded bends to make good their hopes. Walter sat very still, lest he again dis turb a flock of ducks lying asleep on the
T h e Gift of Rosey small, rocking waves near by. F o r the moment his m i n d was clean of the fear that had driven h i m from the office; was rid of the vague plan that had made him seek out this deeper part of the lake. T i m e was slipping by, and he was glad; when 3 o'clock came he would go back to the office, get his things, and, like the children i n the boats, turn another hope ful bend. After a while the M e t r o p o l i t a n towerclock down at T w e n t y - t h i r d Street laid three tremendous strokes across N e w Y o r k , and Walter leaped to his feet. H e hurried out of the park and down the strangely quiet Broadway. When he slipped inside The Chronicle building's re volving doors it was 3.30 o'clock. " Y o u haven't got a story for to-day's paper, have you, M r . H a m l i n ? " asked A d a m i n the elevator, worried about him, knowing it was too late for that. " N o , indeed." "Something special, I guess?" "Yes." There was no one on the sixteenth floor except Sharkey, the office boy left behind to gather up and put away the editorial ink-wells and glue-pots and precious scis sors, and to sort out and tie up into bun dles the day's local and telegraph copy. H a v i n g done the first part of his work, he stood at a desk doing the last half. The green-shaded lamp i n front of h i m was the only light turned on. T h e long room that had been so clean at noon was now a dirty wallow of littered paper and other debris of thirty or forty men too busy to be tidy. T h e dead air was thick and sour with stale tobacco smoke. T h e Irish boy was spasmodically singing and dancing to keep himself company i n this dim loneli ness. " H e l l o , M r . H a m l i n , " he cried out gladly. " H e l l o , Sharkey." The ghosts the old reporter had laid i n the park had all come back to him here. The good spirits that had risen for him there had all fled. H u r r y i n g across the room, he turned on the green-shaded light above his desk. T h a t helped some; he sighed i n relief. Pulling out the three drawers that be longed to h i m , he put them all up on the desk in front of him. H e began taking out VOL.
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and stacking i n convenient piles for trans portation these little leavings of the fifteen best years life could give h i m . B u t he could not take them all with h i m ; some must be thrown on the floor with the other litter. H i s aged, blunt-pointed scissors, he could not forsake them. H e and OneD r i n k Archie O'Toole had shared them; their co-partnership names were bitten into the inside of the blades with the acid of the ink they had used. A n d Archie was now the paper's London man with full charge of all the paper's European serv ice. Here was a musty, mouse-nibbled scrapbook in which he had proudly pasted his front-page stories when he was a cub; there were many of them. The stiff, yel low pages spoke to him, and he sat down and commenced going over his splendid first years with them. " M r . H a m l i n , " called out Sharkey sud denly, a little guiltily. " Y e s , Sharkey?" " T h e managing editor gave me a note to put i n your box just before he left. M a y b e you'd like it now. Gee, I nearly forgot i t . " Running to the mail-boxes on the wall, he brought an envelope and, laying it down b y the gray-haired, boy-faced man, went back to the end of the row of desks and set to work again. Walter read it. " D E A R W A L T E R : Good heavens, man,
you reconsider that resignation business; we can't lose you. See me to-morrow. Don't fail. VARICK." "Sharkey," Walter called softly. " Y e s , sir." " G e t me a last edition." His story was i n the centre of the front page. H e read it to the end. A l l his, not a word changed, not a sentence altered! "Sharkey!" he shouted into the shrink ing shadows of the deserted office. H e leaped to his feet. " Y e s , sir." " W e have given Rosey back to his wife." That's what he thought about first. H e was right, as it proved; but what all of us of The Chronicle thought about most, when we had learned of the story, was that Rosey had given him back to his paper; we were very grateful to Rosey.
T H E
N E W
R E V O L T
AGAINST
B R O A D W A Y
B y John Corbin AN actor long known as one of our foremost artists was lately playing at the Garrick Theatre, N e w Y o r k , which is u n d e r the man agement of a leading pro ducer and has long been associated with the higher order of drama. Repeatedly when he embarked i n a taxi-cab from a prominent restaurant for his evening's per formance, the Broadway pathfinder bland ly inquired where the Garrick might be. Finally, i n a mood of humorous indigna tion, the actor said: " W h y , don't y o u know? It is where John M a s o n is starring in the new Bernstein piece." " B e g par don, mister," said the cabby; " y o u ' l l have to put me wise to them ginks too." I n telling the story M r . Mason remarks that there may be something i n the idea that the play business has been spoiled by the overbuilding of theatres. Some fifteen years ago, when the once portentous theatrical syndicate was form ing,there were seventeen producing-houses in N e w Y o r k . To-day there are over forty. Y e t the managers complain that it is impossible to make the public aware of the appearance of a new play or star! Several first-class theatres have opened their doors to moving-picture shows. One of the most successful managers lately predicted that i n the near future the rest of them would be converted into garages for storing the motor-cars of the people who attend them. T h e conditions are similar throughout the country. F o r many years there has been a revolt against Broadway and all that it stands for. W e are familiar enough with the cry that the drama has been debased by being commercialized. To-day, after all allow ances are made for the exaggerations of humor, or of despair, the fact is clear enough that the drama has become not only inartistic but uncommercial. This fact has given the revolt a new point of attack. I n times past the de mands of the more intelligent public could 516
be safely disregarded, and the result was that remonstrance was loud—and none too good-tempered. Of late the manager has become willing to listen to the voice of the intelligent. A n d so the voice of the intelligent has become gentle, their atti tude helpful and k i n d . Y e t the revolt is none the less a revolt for being welldirected and well-mannered. The concrete result is that N e w Y o r k , Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia, and many other centres, have organizations, the ob ject of which is to co-operate with the managers i n making good plays succeed. Already the movement has more than jus tified itself; but if we take into account the inner needs and ultimate possibilities of the situation it will be evident, I think, that as yet it is only i n its first tenta tive beginnings. Out of the despair of the manager has risen a hope for art-loving playgoers. Whether or not the automo bile public continues in its devotion to the " m o v i e s , " the people who are behind the drama-league movement foresee a time when an increasing number of good plays will be offered to the patronage of intelli gent public not only i n the big cities but in the one-night stands. T h e movement has of late received an impetus from the formation of an organi zation along thoroughly new lines i n the theatrical metropolis. Before many sea sons are past, it is hoped, the methods of the N e w Y o r k organization will be under stood and powerfully aided i n every city and town i n the land. T o gain a clear idea of these methods it is necessary to trace the origin of the con ditions which they have been devised to meet. A few years ago the overbuilding of theatres was very plausibly explained. E v e r y attempt to dissolve the theatrical syndicate legally had been frustrated by one of those quaint constructions of the antitrust law which b i d fair to make the name of Sherman famous. Only one re course remained. A n independent band of managers paralleled the pipe-line, so to r
T h e N e w Revolt A g a i n s t Broadway speak, and not only gained a foothold in all the leading cities but was able to force the policy of the open door upon one-night stands. A d m i t t e d l y there were not plays and audiences enough to fill all the houses new and o l d ; but the more hopeful felt that i n the course of time the theatrical public would grow to fit the shell that commercial rivalry had made for it. The defeat of the syndicate, however, far from putting an end to the building of theatres, has apparently speeded it up. Now that the field is open to new man agers, new managers are springing up on every side—each with his producing house or houses. E v e r y season of late N e w Y o r k has witnessed the opening of from three to half a dozen theatres, and the re luctant town is threatened with four or five more. James Huneker once called the newspaper critics a chain-gang; but at the worst they then wore their common fetters only two or three evenings a week. Before the middle of the past season one of the N e w Y o r k critics deposed that he had seen and reviewed over eighty per formances—an average of five a week. The total of dramatic productions for the year was one hundred and eightyone. Is it strange that art lacks distinc tion and business lacks effective advertise ment? F r o m the point of view of the native playwright the situation has one very hope ful aspect. T h e opening of new houses, together with a falling off i n the supply of export drama from Europe, threw wide to him the door of opportunity. Hopeful souls looked for the birth of a worthy na tional drama. American plays there have been i n plenty, and many of them have had a strong appeal to the public. N e w themes have been broached, grave and gay, many of them full of intrinsic possi bilities. B u t the sad fact seems to be that the sudden increase of playwrights, act ors, and producers has brought a general lowering of artistic standards. If any thing worthy of the name of dramatic lit erature has appeared i n the offing it has escaped the hopeful eye. T o put the case concretely, no playwright has challenged the eminence of our leading dramatists of the older order, M r . Augustus Thomas and the late Clyde F i t c h . W i t h the multipli cation of theatres the drama has become a machine-made commodity handled whole
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sale, whereas art is essentially an indi vidual and retail product. T o get some sense of the difference one has only to think back fifteen years to the days of Augustin D a l y and the stock com pany at the old L y c e u m Theatre. Whether a decline had already set in from the days of the older stock companies I can not say; but one was at least certain of finding a generally able revival of the old comedy and a well-modulated performance of the modern school of English drama, then in its heyday. A m i d all our reduplication of theatres there is now no house with which the classical tradition is associated and no house devoted to the more modern school of English comedy—Shaw, Galsworthy, and the rest. Among some forty theatres of the first class there are only two or three which make even a pretence of re garding the drama as an art. Frequently in the mad scramble to keep the many theatres open a single manager has three or four pieces in rehearsal at the same time. H e scorches from house to house in a taxi-cab, making a suggestion here, a command there, and leaving stagemanager, author, and actors to make the best of ideas which they only partly grasp or, grasping them, regard as of very doubt ful value. Recently, after a play had been produced, a manager decided that an en tire third act was wrong, and ordered it rewritten. The author expired, and a play doctor was called in. There was not time for him to witness a performance or even to read the prompt-book, which was so cut and scrawled over as to be almost illegible. So the stage-manager outlined the story and sketched the suggested third act. Over night the first aid evolved it. It was a very good act, as he himself ad mits; but it had certain drawbacks—for which he was obviously not to blame. A lady who in the first act had been of the most dubious reputation was transformed under his touch to an angel of sweetness and light. T h a t defect was remediable; but after the performance an actress to whose mother the manager owed a debt of grati tude went into hysterics because her " great scene" i n the third act had disappeared. There was no way to interpolate the scene into the new act; and so, owing to this wholly adventitious and most unfortunate circumstance, the play failed. According to the latest reports, the author is still dead.
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Obviously it is the part of wisdom to give a production a preliminary tour out side of N e w Y o r k to whip it into shape be fore the all-important opening. N o t so many years ago this was always done. There were several " t r y - o u t " towns— N e w H a v e n , Buffalo, Washington—each at the beginning of a brief circuit ending in Broadway. A t best it is a dog's life to have new plays tried on y o u ; and with the multiplication of productions " all the lit tle dogs, T r a y , Blanche, and Sweetheart," turned up their paws and died. Also, for the lack of audiences, the plays frequently passed away before their metropolitan debut. The N e w Haven-Hartford-Springfield circuit, once the happy path to fame and fortune, is now familiarly called the Death Trail. A t N e w H a v e n recently a hopeful dram atist inquired at the box office as to the advance sale of tickets and was told that it amounted to seven hundred dollars. I n reporting the happy news to his star, he remarked that he had always known the title of the piece, " P l a y B a l l , " would prove a winner. T h e actor's face clouded. " T h e r e may be something," he said, " i n the fact that this burg regards me as a favorite son." T h e two strolled to the theatre to see how much farther the sale had progressed. " W h y , " said the man ager, " I thought you were asking about a charity matinee we are having." H e grinned and held up the fingers of one hand. F o r the evening performance the sale was precisely four dollars. T h e ball game was called on account of the frost, and the favorite son returned to the Broad way of his adoption. In the modern rush of productions the try-out is often limited to a single per formance, and for this Atlantic C i t y is a favorite dog. T h e denizens of the board walk are i n a mood to be easily pleased, and if they are not pleased it doesn't much matter, for they are transients and quite unable to organize a local spirit of re sentment. T h e A t l a n t i c C i t y dog has as many lives as a cat. Y e t even here there is a drawback. A watch-dog should not too easily wag his tail. One of last season's productions, " T h e Conspiracy," went with a mad whirl. After the crucial act there were upward of twenty curtain calls. When the play " s t r u c k " Broadway a good half of the
newspapers, and among them all the more serious organs of opinion, scouted it and flouted it. T h a t they did not actually rout it was due to the fact that the play was genuinely novel and amusing, and was recognized as such by the papers whose standards are those of the man in the street. T h e reason for this division of opinion became obvious on a sober second thought. T h e play was a brisk detective comedy, almost a farce, with nothing more serious i n it than a melodra matic thrill or two. Y e t it had been heralded as a play of N e w Y o r k life deal ing w i t h the white-slave traffic. It was natural enough that the serious critic should judge it according to its profes sions rather than according to the per formance—and so condemn it. The de fect was remedied with the shake of a L a m b s ' C l u b pen, and the play was finally carried to a rather unusual success; but for a moment the work of author, actors, and manager trembled i n the balance, and all for the lack of the leisure and selfcriticism necessary to bring any creative work to completion. Imagine the production under such con ditions of anything as subtly complex, as delicately modulated, as a really artistic drama! Y e t art and entertainment are grist alike to the Broadway mill. Let us suppose, however, that a really worthy play is produced, and well pro duced—a play dealing with some new phase of life in an original and stimula ting manner. Under the most favorable conditions it is pretty sure to encounter opposition; and i n the case of a critical public wearied b y almost nightly attend ance at the theatre the chances are greatly increased. B u t against the competition of twoscore rival " a t t r a c t i o n s " a play has to make a very decisive impression or it is submerged and lost. Almost inevitably the result is the neg lect of sober art and the triumph of sen sationalism. H i g h comedy gives way to farce, drama to melodrama. One of the leading managers, who founded his for tune on a recognition of native plays, and has produced more of them perhaps than any other man i n the history of our drama, now makes it his rule to attempt no piece which does not bid fair to " h i t the public between the eyes." The progress of sensationalism may be
T h e N e w Revolt Against Broadway read i n the competitive shouting of the electric signs up and down Broadway. F i v e years ago if a play was blazoned forth as " A H i t " or " A Laughing Success" enough had been said. N o w the favorite terms are " A Scream," " A n U p r o a r , " " A R i o t . " T h e signs that make these allega tions flash on and flash off with a sudden ness that stabs the eye; like the witch's oil they burn green and blue and white. H o w shall one announce in such terms a play with a serious purpose, an artistic intention ? A few years ago M r . Augustus Thomas produced " T h e Witching H o u r , " the purport of which was psychic, spirit ual. Its appeal to the public lay in the fact that it brought home i n lay form truths which have long been the essence of our religious teaching. M r . Thomas had serious difficulty i n getting the play pro duced; if it had been the work of an un known author it would probably never have had a hearing. E v e n when it suc ceeded there was still little appreciation of its intrinsic value. It was proclaimed on the signboards in the terms of the prize-ring as " A Dramatic K n o c k o u t . " One effect of competitive shouting is that no voice is clearly heard. F o r many years we have had no producer, no actor, no playhouse that commands the attend ance of intelligent people by standing un equivocally for the best; and it is now be coming daily more evident that there is no remedy i n slap-dash sensationalism or even i n the most strident advertising. The managers themselves realize that the one sure way to make a play succeed is to induce folk to see it and then talk about it. In modern life the public of means and intelligence is larger than ever before in the history of the world, and yearly grow ing larger. It is interested i n the drama as it has not been since the days of E l i z a beth. The more artistic order of plays are printed, and, what is more, very widely read. One of our leading universities has a course i n play construction. N o w what the intelligent public looks for in the play house is farce or comedy founded on fresh, true observation, drama or melodrama that has its springs i n deep and sincere feeling; and, so often failing to find this, it has learned to duck the blow between the eyes, to dodge the dramatic knockout. It refuses to venture an evening's leisure and
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the price of seats on a play until it is as sured of its value by the word of mouth of those who have seen it. In the problem of producing good plays this is the critical factor. T o keep open a Broadway theatre costs from five to eight thousand dollars a week. T o give a play its chance of finding out an intelligent audience means the risk, and often a loss, of a small fortune. The crying need in the business of the theatre is some means by which good plays can command at once the attendance of a considerable body of well-placed people—people whose judgments spread abroad i n rapidly w i dening circles. T o launch it successfully it is as necessary to have an artistic audi ence on the spot as an artistic perform ance. The readiest means to insure this was hit upon, in a large measure accidentally, almost a decade ago by the People's I n stitute of N e w Y o r k . L e d by the late Charles Sprague Smith, it was doing a very important social and educational work on the lower East Side. I n special it rec ognized clearly that, properly conducted, the drama is one of the most powerful of all means toward informing the mind and developing right social instincts. It was M r . Smith's ambition eventually to es tablish a theatre devoted to popular art. As a first step he devised a plan for insur ing that whatever was of value in the current drama should be made accessi ble to his people. H e organized a drama committee and made arrangements with the managers by which the plays it rec ommended should be opened to work men, school-children, and teachers at halfprices. F r o m the point of view of Broadway there was little philanthropy i n the scheme. E v e n at that time the managers were aware that there was a desperate need to get the public into their houses during the first weeks of a run. M a n y a play was tided over to success by the People's Institute sale of tickets at halfprice. In one case of which I have knowl edge a piece that had started on the dol orous path to the storehouse became so successful that the author—whose prof its are only a percentage of those of the manager—received an offer, which he refused, of seventy-five thousand dollars for his royalties. The play was " T h e
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M a n of the H o u r " ; and its author, M r . George Broadhurst, who had tried for several years i n vain to get recognition as something more than a writer of farce, was started on a career of rather phe nomenal success. T h e classical instance is "Peter P a n . " Neither Barrie's reputation nor M i s s Adams's popularity availed to attract the public capable of appreciating it. T h e verdict of Broadway was voiced b y one of the critics who declared that Barrie's ex quisite fantasy must live or die by the standards of such plays as "Babes in T o y l a n d , " and that it could not for a moment endure the comparison. Under the old conditions it must certainly have endured that comparison—and died of it. T h e play-goers from the People's Institute had a different standard, and in the early weeks of the run contributed to the box of fice no less than eighteen thousand dollars. W i t h this help the production gained time to find out its special public. Impending disaster was converted into a very suc cessful run; and the play has ever since been revived from time to time. D u r ing the holidays last year it crowded the theatre to the doors, breaking all records for receipts at the Empire Theatre, where as the most successful new productions played to half an audience. There was one difficulty in the People's Institute scheme. The half-price vouch ers found their way into barber-shops and tobacco-shops and were sold to the general public b y scalpers. Very naturally the managers objected. M r . Smith struggled ably against this abuse, and even suc ceeded in getting a law passed making the general sale of the vouchers a crime. B u t he did not live to carry his work to ulti mate success. In a modified form the M a c D o w e l l Club took up the work. T h i s is an organization devoted to music and the allied arts which has a very large membership among people of means and intelligence. Its peculiar aim was to facilitate the production of good plays by helping them to succeed. It asked no concession from box-office prices •—not even the usual first-night courtesies. When a production did not come up to the committee's standards, it took no action. When it did, it sent out a bulletin to the club members, a large body of whom were pledged to go to every play recommended
during the first three weeks of its run, discuss it as widely as possible, and urge others to attend. W h e n a play had some special point of novelty or artistic value, as for example, " S u m u r u n ' ' or " T h e Y e l low Jacket," the M a c D o w e l l C l u b gave a conference on the subject, w i t h brief ad dresses and an informal discussion. Sim ilar work was taken up b y the Woman's Cosmopolitan C l u b i n N e w Y o r k and by drama leagues i n many cities. One of the managers concerned i n the production of " S u m u r u n " is authority for the statement that it succeeded in New Y o r k solely b y virtue of the work done by the M a c D o w e l l Club. T h a t it failed on the road was partly due to the lack of such assistance, but partly also, no doubt, to the frank sensuality of several of its inci dents. I n the case of " T h e Seven Sis ters" the work of the M a c D o w e l l Club brought success i n the face of press criti cisms, which were almost universally un favorable. W h e n the production went to Chicago the league there took up the work. Its members flocked to the play and started it on a career of really astonishing success. When the M a c D o w e l l C l u b undertook to do a similar service b y Percy M a c k aye's picturesque fantasy, " T h e Scare crow," there developed a weakness i n its scheme of operation. T h e Chicago press criticisms of " T h e Seven Sisters" had been favorable; but rightly or wrongly those of " The Scarecrow " were not. The local leaguers, who had flocked to the pro duction which received a double verdict of approval, now proved false to their pledges. A mere handful attended. The manager, who had counted on the league to back up an artistic endeavor, incurred a loss of twenty-five thousand dollars. If the various leagues are to have any real power and authority, they must be able not only to recommend attend ance but to command i t ; and here the leaguers encountered a very grave diffi culty. W h e n a play is successful—and most good plays still are—all the seats on the forward part of the floor are sold through the ticket agencies at an advance of half a dollar each, so that those who wish to pay only the box-office price can get nothing i n front of the tenth row. M u c h can be said against this system, but from the business point of view it has very
The
N e w Revolt Against Broadway
great advantages. It not only facilitates the sale and distribution of seats, but en ables the management to vary its prices with the success of the production. I n the problem of building up a run this is a very important factor. T h e managers urge, moreover, that in late years the rental of real estate, the salaries of actors, and the expensiveness of productions have mounted alarmingly. T h e agencies charge no more for seats than is charged i n every metropolis of Europe. I n England, for example, the box-office price of an orches tra stall is half a guinea, or $2.62, and the London ticket agencies charge the usual commission besides. Y e t the sad fact re mains that when leaguers pledged to go to a production are unable to get good seats at the box-office price their enthusiasm in the cause of the manager becomes strangely cold. Conversely, when they are able to buy good seats they find them selves in an atmosphere of unsuccess—• the effect of which is also chilling, how ever worthy the play. In many cases, moreover, the manager prefers to forego assistance rather than admit a lack of suc cess, and so the production is withdrawn before the public is aware of its danger. In a word, it is impossible to insure that the league members attend plays which have been recommended without first in suring that they shall be able to secure seats from which they can see them and hear them. The D r a m a Society of New Y o r k has hit upon a scheme which promises to solve the difficulty and to make the organization a power for incalculable good. Instead of relying on the informal pledges of its mem bers it requires a guarantee that they will actually support the plays which its com mittee designates. Concretely it imposes a yearly membership fee of forty dollars. For this it gives ample return. The member receives the bulletins of the league, free admission to two or three "conferences" on dramatic subjects of the hour, and a pair of seats on the for ward part of the floor to each of ten pro ductions recommended b y the committee as artistically worthy of support, whether or not they b i d fair to prove popular. This means a saving of ten dollars in the course of the season over the prices charged by the ticket agencies. T h e dues may be paid i n a single sum or i n ten instalments,
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which are due on receipt of bulletins rec ommending plays. Whenever an instal ment is not paid promptly the member is dropped and his place given to the next in order on a waiting-list. I n each case he is allowed to designate the evening he pre fers to attend, provided only that it falls within the first month of the run. The committee furthermore saves him the time and trouble now necessary to secure good seats. O n presenting his membership card at the box-office before the perform ance he receives the allotted tickets. I n the case of out-of-town play-goers this is a very valuable consideration. The signal advantage of the new plan, however, is that by making the season's play-going more cheerful it greatly en larges the league membership, and thus gives an immediate atmosphere of success to productions that otherwise would have to struggle for months against failure. Last year " The Yellow J a c k e t " played to half-capacity until the last week of its long run. If it had had the backing of the D r a m a Society from the start it would probably have achieved instant success. Incidentally something of the social at mosphere which used to distinguish N e w Y o r k play-going is restored. Occasion ally one meets a friend and is able to dis cuss the performance. On paper the manager and ticket agent sacrifice i n money what the league mem ber gains—but only on paper. What ac tually happens is that the manager is assured of receiving a very considerable sum of money at the start which he would not otherwise receive. The ticket agent loses nothing except in the cases, which are exceedingly rare, i n which he is able to dispose of approximately the entire for ward part of the house during the first month of the run. E v e n then the loss to both manager and ticket agent will ulti mately be made up to them, and more than made up, b y the advertising which the play receives from the bulletins of the league, and especially from the fact that those who have seen the play talk about it to their friends. I n many more cases than hitherto the society should be able to do for the business of the theatre what was done in the cases of " T h e Seven Sis ters" and "Peter P a n " — namely, put manager and author i n the way of profits which aggregate a liberal fortune.
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The work of the society is not limited to M a n h a t t a n — i n fact has only its small be ginnings there. There is a large suburban population, on L o n g Island, in N e w Jer sey, and i n Westchester County, which would find the bulletins sent out b y the league, the reduction of twenty per cent in the cost of good seats, and especially the facility afforded for securing them, a pow erful stimulant to play-going. I n the outer fringes of this area there are rural districts the inhabitants of which are reached b y publishing the bulletins i n local papers—papers the circulation of which aggregates one hundred and fifty thousand. If ably managed, the society should secure among its members a sale of seats large enough to insure that no good play adequately acted shall fail. Meantime the drama leagues through out the country have developed an al most national organization, led b y the very able and active Chicago centre. U n like the D r a m a Society of N e w Y o r k they merely recommend attendance, the members buying tickets or not, as they see fit. Y e t the influence which they exert through their bulletins is very large. Chicago is also the home of T h e Theatre Society, a novel organization which is rapidly developing its activities. I n its first year it supported a stock company, the D r a m a Players, which made nine productions, some of them of the very highest order artistically. T h e cost, how ever, was $35,000. L a s t year it had no stock company; but it held the lease of a theatre, and b y offering a guarantee to productions already i n existence it at tracted to Chicago plays that otherwise would not have gone there. I n this way it stood sponsor for no less than thirtyfive productions, and the year's deficit was reduced to about fifteen thousand dollars. L i k e the D r a m a Society of N e w Y o r k it offers special terms for tickets to its members, but only i n the case of the productions which are made under its guarantee. A l l of these varied organizations work in harmony for the general good. T h e i r efforts should be especially fruitful i n promoting the success of good plays on the road, between the great dramatic cen tres. I n small towns and one-night stands the business of the theatre has of late been virtually ruined. A t best the general
level of productions has been lowered, and amid the clamorous vociferations of the press agents it has become impossible to learn i n advance the true character of a production. Often a play which has been well worth seeing on Broadway is sent out with a cast so markedly inferior as to make it a weariness to the spirit. It is no part of the work of any of the organizations to disparage any production. T h e i r aim is always constructive, never destructive. Whenever a road production is adequate, however, they are prepared to make the fact manifest to the play-goers of the road, working to this effect in collaboration with the advance agent. Already many small cities have drama leagues. T h e central organizations co operate w i t h these, supplying not only bulletins but information as to the qual ity of the production as it is actually sent out from Broadway. I n almost any town there are " the makings " of a league which, with modifications of the general scheme adapted to local conditions and necessities, will insure to the play-goer all the advantages received b y members of the central organizations. T h e com mittees are willing to send out printed matter, even a lecturer and manager who will collaborate i n forming the local or ganization. I n many a town there are women well qualified to lead i n such work, and a very considerable public of people of means who would gladly pledge them selves to support plays which are reason ably sure to prove good. T h e end of the present decade will i n all probability see the organization of intelligent play-goers along all of the chief theatrical routes, from Broadway to San Francisco—a truly na tional organization of dramatic art. Such an undertaking requires constant watchfulness and energy on the part of its managers. I n the past the local leagues have been volunteer organizations, slen derly financed, and their work in some cases spasmodic. T h e Theatre Society of Chicago and the D r a m a Society of New Y o r k are liberally subsidized by com mittees of public-spirited men and women, to the end that their work shall be unre mitting and business-like. M u c h will be accomplished if such organ izations succeed in rescuing for the intelli gent public all of the plays of value which Broadway now produces; but the possi-
T h e Point of V i e w bilities of the movement go far beyond this. According to an old saying, it takes a man of talent to write a good play but a man of genius to get it acted. Whatever strengthens the chance that an intelligent play will find out its proper audience strengthens also the chance of its produc tion. T h e power of the drama society is obviously limited to friendly and helpful action; but for this very reason it is the strongest, the most decisive power that has ever been exerted in behalf of our dra matic art.
-THE I
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In the wilderness of the mid-Victorian drama M a t t h e w A r n o l d cried out: " T h e theatre is irresistible. Organize the thea tre!" H e had in mind the Theatre F r a n cais; but i n America every attempt at founding a stock company thus far has failed, though each one has brought us nearer the goal. Ultimately, no doubt, the N e w Theatre idea will prevail; but to that end a more immediate opportunity demands attention. The first step toward organizing the theatre is to organize the public.
POINT OF VIEW -
W O N D E R whether a recent contributor to "The Point of View " can be altogether right in saying that in this age of the open eye and the trained critical faculty a radical change has taken place in our friend ships, and that we now not only choose our friends more carefully than in the The O l d easy-going days of old, but regard Friendships them critically and try to improve them after we have taken them—shall we say—to our hearts? The well-balanced and reasonable affection with which, as it seems, we regard them, scarcely involves such a quickening of the pulses as that expression would denote. Even in the old times we were not abso lutely and without exception undiscriminating, just as in the present age of criticism one finds here and there an impulsive per son who enters rashly into an intimacy. Undoubtedly he who takes time to choose, who exercises "the great modern virtue— selectiveness," is wise; yet there may be a happy intuition which transcends his slow wisdom. There really is such a thing as friendship at first sight.—friendship in the highest sense; and it is not unreasonable to think that the more "psychologically wide-awake" we are, the more immediate may be our recognition of our friend in the stranger who comes to meet us. Under favorable auspices it may not take ten min utes to find that we speak the same language, that we are tuned to the same pitch; and that is the all-important thing. For al-
though we have faults innumerable and glar ing, although we even, at times, get on each other's nerves—if the note struck by one vibrates in the soul of the other, all these things count for nothing; unless, indeed, they count for everything. Friends or enemies we must be—strangers never. I have experienced one such instantaneous friendship which has withstood the chances and changes of twenty years and has sur vived the inevitable discovery of faults on both sides. In this matter of selection I doubt whether we have changed very much. We have less mental leisure than we had in older and simpler times; we have more amusements and hosts of playfellows (and these, if you like, we criticise easily enough); we meet and part more casually, we take life less seriously, and we don't have time for many friendships; nevertheless, we have our friends, whom we do not, .after all, choose very methodically. As for our method of dealing with them, there is much to be said for the old way of taking them like good or bad weather—a thing which we cannot alter. There is something far finer in the old-fashioned loy alty which forbade us to discuss them, than in our willingness to listen to criticism of them and our pleasure in making them and their idiosyncrasies a subject of conversation —if, indeed, these things be true of us. It does not need a trained eye to see faults in a friend. The eye of affection is usually pretty keen, however blind it may pretend
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to be in public; and we have always seen these faults, and may even have tried, more or less wisely, to mend them—an un gracious task. For my own part, I don't want to be a "constructive critic" of my friend. I want to take him as he is. Let other people dwell on his faults; I will turn my eyes aside. Surely, if he can put up with me, I can make shift to bear with him; and, if we are to improve each other, it must be unconsciously. The fineness of his char acter may inspire me, or I may have some quality which he likes well enough to emu late. Not but that, in the exigencies of in timate intercourse, we can be plain-spoken enough if the occasion demands. We may be able to tell each other home truths, we may even be on good quarrelling terms. As a woman once said to me of her closest friend: " F . and I ge't cross with each other some times—very cross indeed; but we are simply obliged to get over it, you know." But to scan one another's faults deliberately, and to set out in cold blood and with careful tact to express our adverse criticism with a view to improving one another, that is not, in my idea, what friendship is for. Friendship is for happiness, for comradeship, for the ame lioration of the loneliness of human life, for the joy of an unselfish affection. It is no association for mutual improvement. In every real friendship there is apt to oc cur a critical period, when the first enthusi asm has passed and the two become aware of each other's imperfections. If it can sur vive that crisis, it is good for a lifetime. Thank heaven, not even an indefinite in crease of the critical faculty will have any effect on it.
A
E D U C A T I O N aplenty, but not so many eminent educators as of old; special ized teachers, splendidly equipped laboratories, and students counted in terms of thousands, but, inevitably, a decline in the personal influence of the professor; girls studying side by side with boys, or Centenary in big colleges of their own, and under similar conditions; plenty of sport for both boys and girls, but not much time for reading. Such seems to be the sum ming up of persons who remember the days of the giants—Agassiz, Gray, Peirce, Child, and the rest—with whom, as one of their old students says, "we were in constant and in-
timate relations as pupils after our freshman year." A t the same time, the sisters of these boys were being educated by women of equal eminence. The present year will see a quiet celebra tion of the centenary of one such woman— Sarah Porter, of Farmington, of whom, at the time of her death in 1 9 0 0 , Professor Sloane wrote: "She was one of the few con spicuous builders of character in the modern world." There were always many who wondered what was the secret of Miss Porter's unique influence. Hers was one of the great intel lects of her time, but it was not in that alone that the explanation lay. Nor yet was it entirely accounted for by the force, eleva tion, and ardor of her character. In per sonal appearance she was plain and unimposing, although even among strangers she commanded instant deference. In the tech nical details of study there were schools more thorough than hers, even at the time when the women's colleges were just coming into existence, and a girl's education was not the thoroughgoing affair that it is now. She spared no pains and no money to offer the best, but her regard for the individuality of her pupils was so great that it led her to dis card, as far as possible, the machinery of education. More than usual it rested with the pupil whether she got much or little out of her stay at school. There was no fixed course of study, no graduation. On the other hand, there was a healthy sentiment in favor of learning one's lessons; and Miss Porter arranged each girl's list of studies personally. Many visitors came to her, seeking to learn the "method" which had brought her such renown. To such as were after her own heart she willingly gave such help as could be given, but the sort of person who, in more ways than one, "meant business," would go away baffled by the very simplicity of it all. To one such inquirer Miss Porter was heard to say, in the mildest of tones: " I don't know that I have any particular method. I am pretty arbitrary, and they all do as I say." In point of fact, her method varied with the varying characters of her girls, but it con tained one unchanging element. She always idealized us. We all know how stimulating it is to be rated more highly than we deserve. From this came her one defect (if one choose to consider it so) as a teacher of elementary
T h e Point of V i e w subjects. She was too large for us. Her fault, her inspiring fault, was the assump tion that you knew more than you did, and that you had something of her own quick ness of apprehension. This did not make for thoroughness in such a matter as Latin grammar, for instance; but oh, how hard you tried to live up to her estimate of you! Con sidering that girls who left school at eighteen or nineteen were pretty sure to forget most of what they had learned from books, it does seem as if an ounce of inspiration under Miss Porter were worth a pound of Latin gram mar under any one else. One did not so soon get over that impetus to the spirit. The secret of her profound influence on us need not have been hard to discover, once you had experienced it; only that the young are often blind and are usually inarticulate as to the deeper things. It lay, of course, primarily in her own character, in the power of her intellect, the severity of her principles, the ardor and fidelity with which she pur sued her lofty aims, the reverence and depth and enlightenment of her Christianity, and the tenderness of her affection. Add to this her divine power of idealization and how could we fail to be deeply and permanently impressed? Trifling and self-absorbed as we may have been, crude and unawakened as we could not help being, we yet could not but be conscious of her greatness; and when such a woman as this showed that she cared for you—for you, yourself, not for you just as one of her girls—and that she thought better of you than you deserved, it behooved you to rise above yourself and make good. What she taught by precept was much; what she taught by simply being herself was more; most compelling of all was her gen erous belief in us, forcing us upward by as suming that we already stood on a higher level than we had attained and that we were still aspiring. Needless to say that for such an inspiration to avail there must be some power of response. Wings there must be, even though they are but embryonic; but how few of us there are who have not those wings in embryo! The power which de mands that they be unfurled is the great power in our lives. That power Miss Porter was to us. For herself, I think that this gift of idealization was a saving thing. If she had seen us quite as we were, how should she not have had her periods of enervating discouragement, how have kept unbroken
525
the "cheerful hopefulness" which she her self recognized as one of the elements of her success? The only time I ever saw her dis couraged was on an occasion when a former trusted pupil had felt impelled by conscience to confess some old sins of deception and dis loyalty. Deception was the one sin which Miss Porter could not forgive, and, once her eyes were opened, there was no keener judge than she. She told us about it in her weekly talk. There was something in her tone when she spoke of her trust in that girl which penetrated our hearts; and when she said that it made her wonder whom she could trust, we felt that we could not forgive the person who had so shaken her confidence—a person whose name we naturally never knew. " I wish she had not told me," she ended; and we learned then that one has not always a right to shift a weight off one's conscience by confession; that the enduring burden is part of the punishment. It was not in the nature of things that we should fully appreciate Miss Porter's char acter while we were still in the school. We were too young and undeveloped to take her measure. But the bond between us lasted all our lives, and the school was a home to which we never ceased to look back. She was always interested in us, always ready to write those wonderful letters, so full of wis dom and of overflowing affection, always ready to welcome us when we went to see her. We never ceased to be her "girls," even though we might become grandmothers.
IT must occur to one sometimes to wonder what sensation the average, unimagina tive citizen experiences who looks upon an Egyptian obelisk standing in Central Park, New York. A n Egyptian obelisk is not really very impressive if viewed with an uninformed eye. If the sight A r t and does not bring a rich reaction from S p i r i t of that part of one's brain where the appropriate ethnological, mythological, and historical suggestions are stored away, the interest aroused can be scarcely more than a transient impact on the surface-layer of curiosity. On the other hand, if the ancient shaft means something to the imagination, if you know enough about it to see it intel ligently, the fact of seeing it in exile is apt to produce a sharp sense of discomfort. It may be true that not many people have
the Place
526
The
Point of V i e w
M r . Dallin's beautiful praying Indian, which now adorns, astride the Indian pony, as wonderful in his way as the Indian himself, an empty space in front of the Museum of Fine Arts, in Boston. Or imagine this same infinitely remote and alien race bringing to light the work of another American sculptor, the giant presentment of Black Hawk which, near Oregon, Illinois, looks toward the south from a high bluff above Rock River, and which Lorado Taft hopes may so look for long ages to come. Let us imagine these statues taken away to the ends of the earth, and made the subjects of learned disquisi tions by the connoisseurs of that strange people. What could they divine of the mystery and poetry that are the essence of these works? Scarcely, to-day, do we un derstand them ourselves. They are some thing of which every American should be conscious, as an intangible, but infinitely suggestive, background to his life. Yet only a rare poet among us feels the meaning of this heritage, and seeks to preserve it, or something of its mood, before time and in difference shall have blurred all its outlines. What chance, then, for the far-away people to come at the innermost truth of it, or to know our two pieces of sculpture for what they meant the day they were modelled? Of the building of museums and the ac cumulating of "collections" there will be no end; and the gathering together of the precious things of the earth will continue to follow, as it has always done, the course of power and material prosperity. A n d who could wish it otherwise, as the world is to day? Not an American, certainly, to whose shores the flood of artistic treasures is now flowing in a golden stream. A n d yet—the fancy persists of some visionary millenni um in which civilization and the sense of the beautiful should be so universal over the world, that the objects created by the art of different peoples would be left in the surroundings that gave them birth. This, at least, is how we may imagine that There, alone, they would be truly inter matters took place. Let us suppose, in preted; and by that subtle and wonder some far remote future, some members of a ful solvent once called by Mrs. Meynell the race wholly distinct from ours unearthing "spirit of place." any such feeling; but it is equally true, I suspect, that more people are likely to have it, as time goes on, and the level of the com mon intelligence grows higher. Even now, if one were to suggest that the temples of Paestum be transported to the vicinity of a cosey beer-garden in a nice little German town, or the Taj Mahal to the base ball grounds of a progressive American city, it is certain that half the civilized world would be shocked. Yet such things have, of course, been done, in kind, and not in frequently in degree, since the dawn of civilization, and doubtless long before. The whole race has been engaged in removing, wherever it was possible, the rare things, the precious things, or the significant things, that belonged to one people, and transferring them to the possession of some other people who, without fully understanding what it saw, yet eagerly laid hold of what it could. The history of all these transplantations would throw a very curious light on the birth and development of the aesthetic sense in man. It is possible, indeed, to study such odd parallelisms in the habits of certain animals that one might well speculate how far back in the evolution of the living organ ism that formative force, the love of the beautiful, may reach. If there existed no prehistoric ethnological connection to ac count for the presence, in Etruscan tombs, of vessels which bear distinctively Assyrian designs, such objects must have come to the Etrurians at the hands of trading Cartha ginians—who made great commerce with the art of the ancient world. On Assyrian tem ples—or Egyptian obelisks—these figures and designs formed picture-writing, understanded of those who wrote; but, in these Etruscan tombs, did they signify more, really, than the bright shreds and trinkets that tempt the magpie to steal and hide? These were curious vessels, and unusual; they must have seemed choice and rare; hence something to be eagerly treasured.
-THE
FIELD
The
O FA R T -
Husbandman.
Section of pediment, House of Representatives, Washington, D . C .
RECENT WORK BY PAUL W. BARTLETT T H A T the Venetians, with all their genius, were able to paint their pic tures a premier coup on their white grounds—as has been asserted—may be doubted: the proverbial great truth con cerning "easy writing" may also be found in the kingdom of art. When this work of art includes, in addition to the technical prob lems involved, the much wider questions of general human interests—the longer the time and the greater the care, naturally. And even i n this age there may be found artists who practically shut themselves up in their ateliers and work out with endless care and undoing and doing over their sub tle harmonies of representation, of form, or of light, color, and space, polishing them like jewels. When the problem is to invent and carry out (with some more or less vague and great appropriate and monumental and representative theme) such a large creation as a pediment for a public building of the first importance—then will it be certainly long ere the work is finally "good." A n VOL.
LIV.—49
example of this much choosing and rejecting may be found in the great marble groups for the pediment of the House of Representa tives wing of the Capitol at Washington, on which Paul Bartlett, the sculptor, has been working for more than four years, and is yet far from conclusion. His first model was de livered and accepted and the contract signed in February, 1 9 0 9 , and a reproduction of this model was given in these pages in July, 1 9 1 0 . Since then, with various interrup tions owing to the pressure of other work, he has been re-designing, casting away, and re creating, mostly in his Paris studio, till he has practically decided upon the revised scheme of the whole and practically com pleted the figures for the right side of the pediment, that devoted to Husbandry, or the labor of the fields, of the Agriculturist. The photographs here given of these figures will enable the reader to form a conception of the style and manner of the whole. The central figure, of "Democracy," is about nine feet in height, and the others, somewhat larger than life, will range from 527
528
T h e Field of A r t
presentation in the round to a high relief. The horizontal cornice on which they stand is something over sixty feet from the ground, and about forty-two feet from the top of the great flight of steps which leads up to the
began with the upright central figure, dom inating the whole—a symbol, and not hu man as are the others. In the original de sign she was to represent Peace and stood by her altar, with a winged head-dress, car-
D e t a i l of pediment, H o u s e of R e p r e s e n t a t i v e s .
N o r t h e n d of p e d i m e n t .
entrance. The extreme length of the pedi ment is eighty feet, of which at least sixty will be occupied by the sculptured groups; the depth of the recess of the tympanum about three feet, and the height in the cen tre about eleven feet. It is proposed to cut these figures in Georgia marble, which has larger crystals and is somewhat more mellow in tone than the colder, white Italian stat uary marble. This rearrangement of the whole design
rying her circular shield on her left arm and with her right extending her olive-branch. Now it is rather thought that she will be Democracy, protecting Genius; she has de scended a step or two, so as not to rise so high into the apex, leans her buckler on the altar, and extends a protecting arm over the winged and youthful figure of Genius crouch ing at her side but holding carefully upright his flaming torch. The Indian hunter, who formerly stood at her left, carrying a slain
T h e Field of A r t
529
deer on his shoulder, has been quite abol cherub caressing the ram, who comes next, ished in pursuance of the sculptor's general shall be moved farther along so that his foot conclusion that he will have more lightness shall be beyond hers. The presentation of and space and freedom of action, and that, this pastoral, like an ode by Theocritus, is in particular, in this presentation of open-air completed by the little lamb, and, at the labor, on the right, he will have air and open termination, the flowery strand is to be ness and a suggestion of sunshine. There lengthened and the curling wave pushed will be no deep holes, farther to the right. and consequently no On the l e f t , or dark shadows, in the southern, side of the white marble; more pediment, of w h i c h over, by a very ingen the figures are not ious scheme of ad yet completed, will vancing and receding be presented the L a p l a n e s , of alterna bor of the shops and tion of p r o j e c t i n g the foundries, with a heads or figures near background of vapor ly free, en ronde bosse, or steam, and, at the and receding bodies, e n d , Navigation, a he secures not only boy and his boat and a play of light and a suggestion of the shade but also avaryocean w h i c h flows ing series of pictures around all the world. p r e s e n t e d to the Nearest the central spectators at differ figure comes a group ent points of view. of i r o n - w o r k e r s , T h e r e a p e r , who then a seated woman stood next to the In measuring cloth, dian, has been re s y m b o l i z i n g spin Statue of B e n j a m i n F r a n k l i n . tained but consider ning, and serving to T o be erected at Waterbury, C o n n . ably modified; he balance the farmer's s t a n d s among the wife on the other side waving grain, his left hand on his hip, his —as the young navigator beyond her cor right holds upright the handle of his scythe, responds to the infant shepherd. In the the blade on the ground. From these two whole great composition the sculptor sought central upright figures the groups extend to present a balance of forms and a rhythm of nearly to the right-hand end of the tympa arrangement; his general theme, which he num, diminishing gradually in height with a thought presented to him by the assembly of fine air of doing so of their own free will and the people's representatives which meets in not at all because of the gradually descending this building, was Democracy, with an ex cornice above their heads. First comes the pression of its beauty. husbandman, stooping over the mighty re Among the other commissions which have cumbent ox, his servant—the head of the occupied M r . Bartlett's time and delayed animal furnishing the highest projecting the completion of the Washington pediment point and his body receding. Formerly there was one to execute the six figures for the were two of these oxen—which was found to front of the new public library in New be one too many. The background of all the York, over the central entrance. The mafigures on this side is a suggestion of grain quette, or model for this fronton, which was and herbage and flowers and fruits; the grace accepted by the architects, Messrs. Carrere ful nude boy, or genius, who succeeds the and Hastings, in 1010, showed two draped ox, is laden with great bunches of grapes. and dignified male figures, Philosophy and Since these photographs were taken in Paris History, at the northern and southern ends, Mr. Bartlett has decided to have more space and two graceful feminine groups over the between this youth and the reclining woman, centre, Drama and Poetry the northern, and so that his foot will come quite clear of her Romance and Religion the southern. These hand on the ground, and in like manner the statues are backed by very flat pilasters.
530
T h e Field of A r t
Here again, time and mature consideration, and also that difference of opinion between architect and sculptor which will occasion ally arise, led to numerous modifications, and the great and open question of what is "architectural sculpture" came to the fore. This sculptor differs with some of his con freres and with some of the builders of build ings in not considering it indispensable that the figures on facades and cornices shall restrain themselves to architecturally con structive considerations. As an addition, a decoration, an ornament, something to em bellish and complete when the strictly prac tical and necessary requirements shall have been fulfilled, he avers that the sculptured figures may enjoy more freedom of dimen sion and of grace and motion than the purists will allow, and he cites numerous instances of this freedom in recognized mas terpieces, ancient and contemporary, as the statues on the palace at Versailles, those on the Monnaie in Paris, and those on the Louvre. A practical demonstration of his belief may be seen in the figure of History which has been mounted for some months at the northern end of this decoration, a draped and bearded philosopher well ad vanced in years, grasping his folios under his arm and not at all concerned with the perpendicularity of his attitude or of his draperies, with his structural relation to the column under him. A somewhat sim ilar figure will represent Philosophy at the southern end, and these statues are com pleted in the marble. Of the two central, feminine groups, inspired originally by some thing like an eighteenth-century grace and lightness in the accepted models, there will be, however, changes to record; the com pleted model of the figure of Romance, with her pensive, sensitive face, which turned back to glance ever so lightly at grave Phi losophy, her book and her flowers and her lightly lifted skirt, will be replaced by a more sedate and architecturally tempered muse. The sculptor's affections, however, are for the more sympathetic and intimate rendering of his theme; and the more per sonal maid has found other appreciators who will have her made immortal in white marble for other localities. The northern group, Drama and Poetry—Poetry on the left, listening, waiting for her inspiration, that she may do nothing base, and Dra ma with her three masks—has been com
pleted in the plaster and in the manner ap proved. As if all these wide-embracing, technical, artistic, and humanitarian propositions had not been enough, the sculptor has also under taken another. Being given a commission for a statue of Benjamin Franklin to be placed on the public green, under the trees, in Waterbury, Conn., he resolved to depart from the usual placid conceptions of the philosopher's personality and to endeavor to express in his figure his highest quali ties, "his mentality." What he apparently wished to do—instead of the usual, conven tional presentation of a mind at work, ab sorbed, head bowed, the body motionless and in complete physical repose—was to show the thinker, his mind active but ab sorbed and intent, in the very fullest exer cise of his highest faculties, unconscious of his accidental seat and his momentary at titude, projecting himself into the invisible, the creative, lifting himself away from his duller fellows. This curious and original presentation—an attempt to represent in art that which by some of the schools would be considered unadvisable so far removed is it from the merely plastic and visual—may be compared with a vastly different work, Rodin's "Penseur." M r . Bartlett's statue, the more it is studied, will seem like a very successful attempt to suggest this sudden arrest of the merely physical in a concentra tion of intellect and will. And it is suggested by the limited means at the command of a sculptor. It is probably largely because of these higher qualities in M r . Bartlett's art that he has been awarded such honors in the older capitals abroad. M . Benedite, the di rector of the Luxembourg, asked him recent ly to execute some work for that museum, in which he has been represented for many years; on April 10, 1913, he was appointed director of sculpture in the Glasgow School of the Fine Arts; he is a member of the Royal Academy of Belgium, in which the only other American is Sargent; he has been elected (on the first ballot) as correspondent of the Institut de France. Of these foreign corresponding members there are only eight in sculpture, and he is the second American after Saint-Gaudens. Four days after the erection of his equestrian statue of Lafay ette in the court of the Louvre, July 4, 1908, he was promoted officer of the Legion of Honor.
WILLIAM WALTON.
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Once u s e d , i t is s i m p l y i n d i s p e n s a b l e . G r a t e f u l o n .handkerchief or c l o t h i n g ; a fragrant L o t i o n or Spray; a refreshing a d d i t i o n to the B a t h , the Basin, or to t h e t u m b l e r w h e n b r u s h i n g t h e t e e t h : i t i s mildly antiseptic and always delightful. ^ ^ ^ ^ = A S K Y O U R D R U G G I S T F O R IT. REFUSE ALL SUBSTITUTES I
street,
N e w
Record
of
J.
M.
Efficiency
M . S H O C K
A B S O R B E R S ?
I f n o t , W r i t e f o r o u r free b o o k l e t t o - d a y , o r c a l l at a n y o f J . M . A g e n c i e s . T h e r e is o n e i n e v e r y l e a d i n g c i t y .
the
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d r a w n b y the a u t o itself, w h i c h c o n v i n c e d E a r l e L . O v i n g t o n , the famous aviator and technical expert? H a v e you heard w h y Westg a r d , the v e t e r a n p a t h f i n d e r of the A . A . A . , a n d K o h l , the ' r o u n d the-world motorist, both place their absolute reliance on
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Write for Catalog No. 212
This
i l l u s t r a t e s
sectional of the
the
construction
famous
Sectional Bookcases Y o u can buy a Globe-Wernicke Bookcase S e c t i o n at a b o u t the p r i c e o f a g o o d g i f t - b o o k ^ a n d y o u b u y a s e c t i o n n o w a n d t h e n as y o u r b o o k c o l l e c t i o n g r o w s . This is t h e p r a c t i c a l a n d e c o n o m i c a l w a y to p r o v i d e b e a u t i f u l q u a r t e r s for y o u r books. I t is j u s t one f e a t u r e o f G l o b e - W e r n i c k e B o o k c a s e s — o t h e r f e a t u r e s a r e d e s c r i b e d i n o u r c a t a l o g , N o . 212, w h i c h a l s o i l l u s t r a t e s t h e v a r i o u s G l o b e - W e r n i c k e styles. W r i t e for it today. T e a r out t h i s a d n o w so y o u w i l l n o t f o r g e t . , HE ( a b o u t
to c o m p l a i n of the
"it b e l o w , w h e n
he
sees its
"iterested i n y o u r m u s i c ;
piano-playing in
fair o c c u p a n t ) . — I
it is so
soothing
7 ? w z « J M > m w ^ z ^ e ^ j ^ ^
was
the so
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74
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After Every EXERCISE
Amateur Photograph/ is more than snapping a shutter. The time will come when you feel the need of a
; •
Bausch and Lomb-Zeiss! Tessar Lens —the lens that works with a fraction of the light needed for ordinary lenses—takes the quickest movement sharply—and gives you clear, clean, accurate negatives. // you are Interested in better results, send for literature.
Bausch & Ipmb Optical (5. 6 0 7 ST. PAUL ST.
R O C H E S T E R , N.Y.
CUTICURA S0AP Assisted b y C u t i c u r a O i n t ment is essential for the t o i let and bath because it does so m u c h to allay irritation, redness a n d roughness of the face and hands, remove dust and grime and keep the s k i n soft and clear under all conditions of exposure. Cuticura Soap and Cuticura Ointment are sold throughout the world. Send post-card to nearest depot for free sample of each with 32-page book: Newbery, 27, Charterhouse Sq., London; R. Towna & C o . , Sydney, N . 9 . W.; Lennon, Ltd., Cape Town; Muller, Maclean & C o . , Calcutta and Bombay; Potter Drug and Chem. Corp., Boston, U . S . A . OS-Men who shave and shampoo with Cuticura Soap will find It best for skin and scalp.
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t e e t h
a n d f o r
k e e p l i f e —
PeBeCO T O O T H
P A S T E
laves and cleans the teeth, because it overcomes the cause of 95% of all decay. It neutralizes the acids formed in almost everyone's mouth by fermenting remnants of food, and ren ders them so harmless that they cannot weaken the enamel. B y thus keeping intact this hard "armor plate" of the teeth, Pebeco makes it impossible for the decay-germs to reach the softer interior "dentine" and "pulp." S o that the decay, germs have no chance to form the familiar "cavities," which ordinarily grow larger and deeper till either your dentist fills them or the entire tooth is destroyed.
Send for F R E E 10-day Trial Tube and Acid Test Papers and prove by actual test that Pebeco preserves the teeth, as well as beautifully whitens them, purines the breath of all odors and gives such a refreshing sensation that its use is a distinct pleasure. Pebeco originated in the hygienic laboratories of P . Beiersdorf & C o . , Hamburg, Germany, and is sold everywhere i n extra-large tubes.
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C
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e
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by s u m p t u o u s " R o t t e r d a m , " 24,170 t o n s ; 16th a n n u a l F e b . 2; 6 4 d a y s , $ 4 0 0 u p , i n c l u d i n g h o t e l s , g u i d e s , d r i v e s , s h o r e trips; Stop-overs. F .C C L A R K , T i m e s Building, N e w York. mr^ I • • mm s\ m/m.
R
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S i x m o n t h s l e i s u r e l y t r a v e l de Luxe. Limited private tours leave E a s t b o u n d O c t . 18, N o v . 8, 29; S o u t h b o u n d (the A n t i p o d e s ) O c t . 28. S P E C I A L S H O R T T O U R S W e s t b o u n d O c t . 4 ; E a s t b o u n d J a n . 10, 1914.
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A series o f h i g h - c l a s s T o u r s t o T H E O R I E N T , i n c l u d i n g E g y p t , t h e N i l e , H o l y L a n d , Greece, etc., leave during Nov., Jan., Feb., a n d March. C O O K ' S N I L E S T E A M E R S leave C a i r o every few days d u r i n g t h e season for t h e F i r s t a n d Second C a t a racts, t h e S u d a n , etc. A l s o elegant p r i v a t e steamers a n d dahabeahs for families a n d private parties.
S O U T H
T H E
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105 d a y s "or l o n g e r , $ 1 5 2 5 t o $ 1 9 8 5 , i n c l u d i n g a l l e x p e n s e s . S p e c i a l w e s t b o u n d t o u r , 5% m o n t h s , r e m a r k a b l e r o u t e , s a i l i n g f r o m S a n F r a n c i s c o , O c t . 28. A l l e x p e n s e s — f i r s t - c l a s s t h r o u g h out. O t h e r d e p a r t u r e s J a n u a r y a n d F e b r u a r y . A s k for P r o g r a m . P I L G R I M
T O U R S
R A Y M O N D & W H I T C O M B C O . , Agents & New York Philadelphia San Francisco
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T H O S .
Orient
U l / V < l < < rtji . 1. . l r . M A T * - r . r \ * - i l ' r . if •JTl. U L i n 3_. l U T I M l l K L ^ J l 'JlA-l >LT . nrt IririT-r-adcrr I U - ' V L - - m i : ^ ' ' r - n ."i^"ir,V r . . l •^•jv il^Li'z 11 .• AzS S . T E M P L E TOURS, 8 Beacon St., BOSTON, M
R O U N D E G Y P T
"
LrfVII
C O O K
&
Panama
S O N ,
245 BROADWAY. N E W YORK, or Boston, Chicago, Montreal, Toronto, S a n Francisco,
Philadelphia. L o s Angeles
How
to S e e
SWITZERLAND You
w h o have
have
r e v e l e d i nt h i s
yet t o learn o fits m o s t
Summer exquisite
Paradise charm.
Let u s tell y o u a l l about the j o y that awaits y o u in this l a n d o f bright sunshine a n ddazzling
R A Y M O ND - W H I T C O M B
snow where W i n t e r sports a r eat their best— Ski-ing, Tobogganing, Bob-sleighing, Skating,
Tours of Luxury
Hockey,
Round the World S m a l l parties, private i n c h a r a c t e r — T h e highest travel plane— E x c e p t i o n a l i n e v e r y w a y . D e p a r t u r e s O c t o b e r to J a n u a r y .
S O U T H
A M E R I C A
THE H O L Y
L A N D
T u r k e y , G r e e c e , a n d B a l k a n S t a t e s . D e p a r t u r e s J a n u a r y 24, F e b r u a r y 2 1 , a n d M a r c h 7,
E U R O P E Tours
to Spain, Algeria, Italy, France. J a n u a r y to A p r i l .
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T H E PLAYGROUND OF E U R O P E ' S ROYAL FAMILIES S w i s s c o o k i n g a n d t h eh o s p i t a l i t y o fo u r hotels and pensions
will make
Let
y o u plan
us help
tours, but w e p l a n
W o n d e r f u l T o u r l e a v i n g O c t o b e r 18. O t h e r d e p a r t u r e s i n January and February.
E G Y P T
from
C O .
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2 4 1
76
y o u r stay w o r t h while. a trip.
Our sole purpose is to answer questions and enable you to see the most in the time at your disposal. We have just prepared a special se lection of profusely illustrated Books. We call it Pocket Series R. Gives vivid descriptions of the most noted places. Tells how
