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•VOL. LIV NO. 5

NOVEMBER 1913

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SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE

PUBLISHED MONTHLY WITH ILLUSTRATIONS CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS charles SCRIBNER-PRESIDENT > Arthur GRD

H

Scribner

SCHIEFFelin

Treasurer Secretary

N E W YORK

597-599 FIFTH AVE. NEW YORK "CONSTABLE S COMPANY LIMITED LONDON

"It is not necessary to parboil this ham be fore broiling or frying" Potter's Grocery & M a r k e t 3532 Indiana Avenue

"Swift's Premium" Ham Put "Swift's Premium" Ham directly into the frying pan or onto the broiler, and it will re tain its original delight ful flavor and will not be salty. Try it.

Swift & Company U. S. A.

Chicago

\

Vol. L I V .

No. 5 .

SCRIBNERS MAGAZINE NOVEMBER 1913

CONTENTS D r a w i n g by Lucius Wolcott Hitchcock, reproduced c o l o r s , to a c c o m p a n y " T h e M a s t e r S t r a t e g i s t . "

in .

.

.

. .

.

•.

Frontispiece

Hudson Stuck, D . D . Archdeacon of the Yukon.

THE

Katharine Holland Brown .

553

Winifred Louise Taylor

.

563

Marjorie L. C. Pickthall

.

57§

Theodore Roosevelt

.

.

580

John Galsworthy

.

.

595

.

.

609

Harriet Prescott Spofford

.

621

. 6 2 2

MASTER

STRATEGIST

.

.

.

.

.

.

S3

1

T H E ASCENT OF D E N A L I . (MOUNT MCKINLEY.) I l l u s t r a t i o n s f r o m p h o t o g r a p h s b y the A u t h o r .

W i t h an i l l u s t r a t i o n ( f r o n t i s p i e c e ) r e p r o d u c e d in c o l o r s .

THE

M A N BEHIND

T H E BARS—SECOND PAPER.

IN

MONASTERY

GARDEN.

A

Poem

.

.

.

I l l u s t r a t i o n s b y S y d n e y A d a m s o n , r e p r o d u c e d in tint. THE

L I F E - H I S T O R Y OF T H E A F R I C A N R H I NOCEROS A N D HIPPOPOTAMUS . . Illustrations from p h o t o g r a p h s , and from d i a w i n g s by Philip R . Goodwin.

T H E DARK F L O W E R . (THE LOVE LIFE OF A MAN.) PART III.— A U T U M N . CHAPTERS XII-XV. (Concluded.')

AN

ENGLISH WRITER'S NOTES ON ENG LAND THINGS OF T H E PRESENT. I l l u s t r a t i o n s in t i n t b y H o w a r d G i l e s , o n e o f t h e m r e p r o d u c e d in c o l o r s .

IN

THE OLD PASTURE. Poem Illustrations by H a r r y T o w n s e n d .

.

.

.

Vernon Lee

.

.

.

T H E CUSTOM OF T H E C O U N T R Y ! BOOK V.—CHAPTERS X L - X L V I .

. . . (Concluded.)

Edith.Wharton

HIS

.

Linn Murdoch Huntington

648

Hermann Hagedqrn

656

PROFESSIONAL

HONOR

.

.

.

.

.

Illustrations by C. D . Williams. THE

GHOST.

THE

Poem

.

.

P O I N T O F V I E W — T h e Returning American—The Final Packing—Of T h i n g s

M a t e r i a l — O f T h i n g s Spiritual THE

Copyright,

FIELD

1 9 1 3 ,b y C h a r l e s Scribner's Sons. Entered

657

O F ART—John Trumbull.

as

A l l rights

Second-Class Matter

reserved.

(John

F.

Weir.)

Entered at N e w York

at the Post-Office Department,

Illustrated.

.

.

661

Post-Office as Second-Class Mail Ottawa,

Canada.

PRICE, 25 CENTS A NUMBER; $3.00 A Y E A R

Matter.

Index to Advertisements November, 1913

Every advertisement in SCRIBNER'S M A G A Z I N E deserves attention. Each will interest you. Each offers real service to you. If you accept that service you will have helpful, accurate information concerning the best business houses in the country and their products. SCRIBNER'S R E C O M M E N D S ITS ADVERTISERS unreservedly. They will pay par ticular attention to your correspondence if you mention SCRIBNER'S M A G A Z I N E . Even in buying personally articles advertised in this Magazine you will find it profitable to mention SCRIBNER'S.

Building—Furnishing Page Amer. Telephone & Telegraph Co. 75 Brunswick-Balke-Collender Co. . 82 Burns & Bassick—Casters, Tips . 84 W . K. Cowan & Co 82 Glidden Varnish Co.—Jap-a-lac . 80 Globe-Wernicke Co 8s Stewart Hartshorn—Shade Rollers 80 Haviland China

80

S. Karpen & Bros.—Furniture. Libbey Glass Co National Fireproofing Co. . . New Jersey Zinc Co Piedmont Red Cedar Chest Co. W . & J. Sloane—Furniture . .

.

83 83 . 81 85 . 84 5,11

Page 3 72

Tiffany & Co Western Electric Co

Musical Instruments Scribner Music Library . . 48b, 48c Victor Talking Machine Co. . . 73 Office Appliances

and

Stationery

Esterbrook Pen Mfg. Co. . . . 88c Hampshire Paper 103 L. & C. Hardtmuth—Koh-i-noor . 88a Typewriters Distributing Synd. . 88c Waterman's Fountain Pens 4th Cover John B. Wiggins—Calling Cards . 88c

Food Products Walter Baker & Co., Ltd. . 4th Cresca Imported Delicacies . Evans' Ale Genesee Pure Food Co.—Jell-O Holstein-Friesian Association .

Page Cover . 86 87 . 79 . 86

National Biscuit Co.—Nabisco Postum 4th Royal Baking Powder . . 4th Swift & Co.—Premium Ham 2d White House Coffee

Page . 77 Cover Cover Cover 87

Automobiles Page Pierce-Arrow Motor Car 3d Cover

2

For announcement

of the

Timken Detroit Axle Co. . White Co.—Automobiles .

December

number

see page

Page . 101 . 64

6

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T I F F A N Y & Co. F i f t hA v e n u e&37 S t r e e t th

New Y o r k

1914 B l u e A

Book

CATALOGUE-NOT ILLUSTRATED

IT GIVES THE RANGE OF PRICES OF THE MOST COMPREHENSIVE STOCK OF JEWELRY IN THE WORLD it IS REPLETE WITH SUGGESTIONS FOR APPROPRIATE GIFTS FOR EVERY OCCASION IT WILL HELP TO SOLVE THE PERPLEX ING PROBLEM OF WHAT TO SELECT FOR CHRISTMAS GIFTS it IS PARTICULARLY HELPFUL TO PER SONS WHO FIND IT INCONVENIENT TO VISIT NEW YORK it WILL BE SENT UPON REQUEST. THE

MAILORDER DEPARTMENT SUPPLIES ADDITIONAL INFORMATION

In answering advertisements please mention SCRIBNER'S

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Index to Advertisements November,

1913—Continued

Travel—Resorts—Tours Page . 92 . 90 . 88d . 88d . 88d

A. B. A. Travelers Cheques Agwi Steamship Lines Bureau of University Travel Frank C. Clark—Tours . ThoS. Cook & Son— Tours Cunard Gasparilla Inn . . . . Hamburg-American Line North German Lloyd Paine Tours Pinehurst

•

9i

. 88d . 89 . 94 . 88d . 96

Page Raymond &Whitcomb Co.—Tours 88d Red Star Line 9* Santa Fe 97 Southern Pacific Railroad . . . 95 Southern Railway 93 Swiss Federal R a i l r o a d s . . . . 94 Temple Tours 88d United Fruit Co 99 Where-To-Go Bureau . . . . 96 White Star Line 92

Books, Magazines, Etc. Page American Magazine 30 Atlantic Monthly 42, 43 Century Co 12-15 Chicago Tribune 69, 70 Country Life in America . . . 39 Craftsman 84 Curtis & Cameron—Copley Prints 48a Dodd, Mead & Co 33 Doubleday, Page & Co. . . . 3 4 - 3 8 E. P. Dutton & Co 29 Emerson Institute of Efficiency . 44 Encyclopaedia Britannica . . 3 2 a - 3 2 d Everybody's Magazine . . . . 28 Forest & Stream 88c Harper & Brothers . . . . 16-24 Houghton Mifflin Co 25 House Beautiful 88b Life 47

Page The Macmillan Co 59 McBride, Nast & Co 41 Munn & Co 84, 88 National Sportsman 94 North American Review . . . 46 Outdoor World & Recreation . . 98 Outing 48, 48a The Outlook Co 26, 2 7 L. C. Page Co 48a Review of Reviews Co 45 Scribner Book News . . . . 48d~57 Scribner Bookstore 58 Scribner's Magazine Notes . . 65, 66 Vogue 32 John C. Winston Co 31 World's Work 40 Youth's Companion . . . . . 102

Miscellaneous JEtnz Accident & Liability Co W . F. & J. Barnes— Lathes . V. J. Evans & Co.—Patents Hartford Fire Insurance Howard Watch . . . Dr. Jaeger's Underwear Pohlson's Gift Shop Sanatogen. . . U. S. Playing Card Co

For announcement

Page . 78 . 80

Vinol Waltham Watch Co

• 84 . 100 . 74 . 88c . 88c

Proprietary Articles Cuticura Soap Ivory Soap Lehn & Fink—Pebeco . . . Pears' Soap

• 67 . 100

Schools and See pages . . .

of the

December

number

Page 88a 71

Colleges . 60 to 63

see page

6

88a 104 . 76 68

SCRIBNER'S

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BEDROOM

SUITE

W i t h decorative painting, after tho Style o f James and Robert A d a m .

XVIII Century Bedroom Furniture During the last quarter of the XVIII Century the Master Craftsmen of that celebrated period perpetuated their fame by the production of unusually artistic Furniture wrought from beautifully figured and grained satin wood. This attractive wood was further embellished by exquisitely hand-painted garlands of flowers, panels and ovals, decorated with classic designs after the art of Angelica Kauffmann and Pergolisa. W e have designed and manufactured a number of handsome Bed' room Suites in the spirit of this charming XVIII Century Style. Each piece is made by hand of more beautiful satin wood than was obtainable in the olden times, and in a manner which insures endurance for many generations. In our enlarged Division o f Furniture and Decorations, w e are s h o w i n g many interesting motifs in Bedroom Suites, together w i t h a superb collection o f hand-made Furniture for all the rooms in the house, the diversity o f designs and w i d e range o f pieces p r o v i d i n g for e v e r y requirement o f decorative purpose and personal taste

W . & J. S L O A N E Interior Decorators

«

Furniture Makers

Fabrics and Floor Coverings FIFTH AVE. A N D FORTY-SEVENTH

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MAGAZINE

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In the christmas scribner A Group of Remarkable and Widely Contrasted Stories Sir Gilbert Parker's The Great Minus

Masquerade Island, by Georgia Wood Pangborn

A story of mystery in the Hudson's Bay region.

A story of unusual originality and fancy. "Captain Kidd and his crew are said to have meddled with our Islander's ancestry."

Katharine Fullerton Gerould's On the Staircase Things A ghost story of enthralling interest. by Alice Duer Miller A study in the psychology of nerves. James B. Connolly's In the Matter of a Bale of The Devil Hen Blankets by Katharine Mayo How a loyal naval officer was trimmed by politics and red tape.

A story of the Dutch South American jungle.

Theodore Roosevelt's The

Life - History of the African Buffalo, Giant Eland, Common Eland. Illustrated from photographs, and a drawing by Philip R. Goodwin f

Gran Boule, by Henry van Dyke, a Sailorman's Song of the Sea. The Man Behind the Bars — Stories of Life-Prisoners by Winifred Louise Taylor An English Writer's Notes A Schoolboy's Interview on England—The Celtic West with Abraham Lincoln, by (Cornwall, Wales, Ireland)—by William Agnew Paton VernOn Lee. Ulus. by Howard Giles A visit at the White House. Pictures—The number will be notably rich in its illustra tions, both in color and in black-and-white. The frontis piece, Christmas Morning, is from a painting by N . C. Wyeth

Z^RIBNER'S

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ADVERTISER

SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE 1914 A Famous Writer's First Long Novel Early in the coming year the Magazine hopes to begin the first long novel by an American author who for many years has had one of the largest audiences among contemporary writers; whose work in prose and verse has been not only of the first rank but based upon a deep and un failing optimism, concerning itself with human realities and ideals rather than with "problems." His short stories are among the best known wherever the Eng lish language is read; and his first novel will be awaited with a very uncommon interest. A detailed announcement will follow later.

Articles by Price Collier Price Collier, whose "England and the English from an American Point of V i e w , " " The West in the East from an American Point of V i e w , " " Ger many and the Germans from an American Point of V i e w " were all in the nature of veritable literary sensations, revealing a new critic of the nations with a mind of extraordinary acuteness and fund of knowledge, will contrib ute a series of papers about S W E D E N A N D N O R W A Y . As in his previous articles they will deal with the people, with social and political matters—of exceptional interest in both of these countries. No one has better succeeded in convey ing a clear impression of the essential qualities of the peoples about whom he writes. Evidently fair, he has the faculty of getting at the very heart of the nations, of making his readers see and understand them. The author's style sparkles with wit and humor, with surprises in the w a y of vivid revelations of character, with occasional touches of illuminative and penetrating sarcasm.

8

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SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE 1914 Madame Waddington Readers of the Magazine will anticipate with special pleas ure a new series of reminiscences by Madame Waddington, for every one will recall the charm of her " Letters of a Diplomat's Wife," " Italian Letters of a Diplomat's Wife," and " Chateau and Country Life in France." This new series of articles — " M y First Years as a Frenchwoman "—will deal with a most interesting period of French history covering M. Waddington's services: At the Ministry of Public Instruction, 1876-77; at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Berlin Congress, 1877-78; and as Prime Minister, 1879. The political, diplomatic, and social aspects of these years, intimate personal views of nearly all of the important personages of the times in diplomacy, literature, and art, the people met at various State func tions, private dinners, balls, the opera, the theatres, are commented upon in the author's own inimitable and delightful way. This is history written from the inside —from the personal point of view

Will appear early in the year —The articles on

North Africa and the Desert Tunisian Days —Figuig—Tougourt— On the Mat—Tripoli

By George Edward Woodberry One of the foremost of contemporary American poets. It may be foreseen what subjects these present to a traveller with the author's imagina tion, one with his sense of the pic turesque and poetic and eye for the wonderful color of the land and the kaleidoscopic spectacle of the people.

The Story of Atalapha By Ernest Thompson Seton Another of this favorite author's poetic and yet very true studies of life in the open. Illustrated by the Author.

Rudyard Kipling Whose "They," "007," " Wireless " were famous stories that first ap peared in this Magazine, will be rep resented by a new story to appear early in the coming year. T w o articles will be made up of

The Letters of William James the famous psychologist, edited by his brother, Henry James. F e w men of recent times have exerted so wide an influence for good or had so many loyal friends all over the world.

Good Hunting By Jesse Lynch Williams The story of hunting experiences, with a charming picture of an old Long Island homestead.

SCRIBNER'S

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9

SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE 1914 A Short Serial Maje:

A Love Story, by A R M I S T E A D C . GORDON A tender idyllic story of the old South.

Short Stories:

By Sir Gilbert Parker, Henry van Dyke, Richard Harding Davis, Mary R. S. Andrews, Katharine Holland Brown, James B. Connolly, Gordon Arthur Smith, Mary Synon, Barry Benefield and many others. — A remarkable group of stories by Katharine Fullerton Gerould, author of "Vain Oblations," including one of the best Ghost Stories of years.

The Rise and Fall When Payne Wrote of Negro Minstrelsy " Home, Sweet Home " The Evolution of Letters from Paris, 1822-1823 Scene Painting T w o articles by Brander Matthews, with unusual illustrations.

A Motor Number Early in the year —covering the en tire subject, and including an article on the " Route des Alpes," by Sir Henry Norman.

Special Numbers The appreciation shown to '' The Pan ama Number," " W a t e r and Power," " The N e w Suburb," and " The Mod ern T e r m i n a l " has guaranteed a large special audience eager for this popular treatment of subjects that are too often left entirely to technical journals. The best authorities write for these numbers and the illustra tions are beautiful as well as inform ing. The long-established Fiction and Christmas Numbers will appear as usual

Edited by his grandnephew, Thatcher T. Payne Luquer.

Art and Artists A . B. Frost and Guy Rose will con tribute a series of pictures illustrating phases of outdoor sports; W . J. Aylward will be represented by some remarkable paintings of old English fighting ships; Castaigne.N.C.Wyeth, F. C. Yohn, J. M. Flagg, L. W . Hitch cock, W . Herbert Dunton, Henry Reuterdahl, Frank Craig, Alonzo Kimball, Ernest Peixotto, F. C. Schoonover, Charles Huard, Carlton T. Chapman, Angus MacDonall, Walter Biggs, Florence E. Storer, Garth Jones, Philip R. Goodwin, and others will furnish illustrations for stories and articles; Earle Harrison, whose photographs in color of the Panama Canal created such a sensa tion, will have a new series of great beauty and interest.

10

SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE

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SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE 1914 Important Announcement for Next Year THEODORE R O O S E V E L T will

contribute to

SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE the account of the trip of adven ture and research which he will take in the early months of 1914 into the Paraguayan and Brazilian interiors,where he expects to travel by canoe and on foot through the great tropical forests, which so few white men have ever traversed. His experiences, observations of the country, the people, and the animal life will appear solely in SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE.

SCRIBNER'S

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Ancient Ghiordes Rug, size 5 ft. 5 in. x 4 ft. 2 in. with a wealth of wonderful detail in the design.

Antique Rug Masterpieces T h e above rug (once the treasured possession o f the W i r i n Mosque in the Department o f Debreh, Albania) with its skillfully blended color scheme, and its very rare arrangement o f "carnation columns" supporting the Mihrab, is but one o f a wonderful collection of gen^ uine, old Ghiordes masterpieces n o w on view in our establishment. W e should welcome a visit from collectors and those versed in the rug lore o f the East, w h o can find here veritable Antique types o f absorbing interest. Our stock o f fine, modern Oriental Rugs and reproductions of antique specimens, in the variety of weaves and range o f sizes, is unequalled in this country.

W . & J. SLOANE F I F T H A V E N U E A N D 47th S T R E E T , N E W Y O R K SAN FRANCISCO

WASHINGTON, D. C.


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The

November Century •contains the strongest and sanest study o f the feminist movement yet published,

"The Militant Women— and Women " by Edna Kenton, which is but one o f the many splendid tures,—literature, — o f this

art,

fea

humor,

number.


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The new spirit of The Century is shown in this issue. I f y o u will send the order below, before Nov. 10, y o u will receive this and the even finer issues to follow. Y o u will also get St. Nicholas for a year,—both magazines for $ 4 . 0 0 (regular price $ 7 . 0 0 ) — a n unpre cedented offer.

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THE CENTURY CO.'S NEW BOOKS The

Near East

By R O B E R T H I C H E N S . With eighteen illustrations by Jules Guerin, twelve in the beautiful colors of the original canvases, and many reproductions of fine photographs.

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Romantic America By R O B E R T H A V E N S C H A U F F L E R , author of " Romantic Germany." Frontispiece in color, and seventy-nine illustrations, plates in tint, by notable artists, including Maxfield Parrish, George Inness, Jr., Joseph Pennell, Andr£ Castaigne, Winslow H o m e r , etc.

A j o y o u s guide to A m e r i c a ' s most interesting a n d picturesque p l a c e s — r i c h in real in formation, with the characteristic charm of each region c a u g h t a n d pictured with delight ful s y m p a t h y

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Reminiscences of Augustus Saint-Gaudens

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" Y o u have inherited a very magnificent property— seventy thousand pounds a year, and Temple Barholm."

T. Tembarom The New Novel by FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT W h a t happened when a lad, to w h o m N e w Y o r k was the world, inherited vast English estates. b a r o m — and his friendly grin.

E v e r y b o d y likes T e m

A n d Little A n n ?

T h a t ' s the story, told b y the Princess of Story-tellers. Mrs. Burnett's happy fancy has never w o v e n so delightful and ap pealing a tale; and her magic pen has never written with such skill and charm. Charles S. Chapman has illustrated the look delightfully and in an entirely new way. Price $1.40 net, postage 12 cents.

The Truth About Camilla By G E R T R U D E H A L L A piquant tale centering in a fascinating Italian adventuress, w h o s e d a y s are c r o w d e d with c o l o r a n d adventure. Mrs. F r a n c e s H o d g s o n Burnett, w h o read the manuscript, wrote to the a u t h o r : " N e v e r w a s a creature better done than C a m i l l a . "

Price $1.30 net, postage IJ cents.

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Harper's

Magazine

lor

MAGAZINE

ADVERTISER

1914

" The Most Interesting Magazine in the

World"

HARPER'S M A G A Z I N E F O R

1 9 1 4

The policy of HARPER'S MAGAZINE may be summed up in a single word—inter'estingness. This quality is the one and only reason for the existence of any magazine. *\ In its short stories, its serials, its special articles, and its illustra tions this is the MAGAZINE'S first aim—to present something which is interesting—not something which you OUGHT to like, but some thing which you DO like. *\ Every month, while you are reading IIARPER'S MAGAZINE, its editors and publishers are busy making plans, sending out expedi tions, seeking new writers, all with a view to making the MAGAZINE for the new year better, more beautiful, and — more interesting. A few of these plans, which have already matured, are given here. But they are only a little foretaste of even greater things to come.

ARNOLD BENNETT'S N E W NOVEL " T h e Price of L o v e "

H

E R E is a novel of an absolutely unique sort. In the very first instalment the reader is brought face to face with an extraordinary situ ation in which all the principal characters of the story are involved. The mystery becomes more baffling as the story progresses, and not until the final chapters is it elucidated. In plot and exe cution it is the biggest thing that Mr. Bennett has done. Everybody in America and England will soon be discussing it. It begins in the D e cember number, and will be beautifully illus trated in full color by Mr. C. E. Chambers,

copyright, 1912, by

Krie'M^LM

B O O T H TARKINGTON'S Novel of American Life 1 Y J O writer of to-day knows and portrays American life so vividly, 1 ^ so truthfully, and with such humor as Booth Tarkington. The scenes of his new novel are laid not in the great cities of the East, but in his own country—the real A m e r i c a — t h e Middle West. Mr. TarIcington's earliest novel, " T h e Conquest of Canaan," was one of the most successful in the great line of H a r p e r serials. An even greater success is predicted for the new story which will follow Mr. Bennett's novel.


MAGAZINE

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ADVERTISER

Harper's Magazine

A New Series of By

"Old

for 191 i

Chester T a l e s "

M A R G A R E T DELAND

all the famous stories which have appeared in HARPER'S M A G A ZINE none have taken so strong a hold on the affections of the public as Mrs. Deland's " O l d Chester Tales." The simple announce ment of the fact that Mrs. Deland is writing more of these delightful stories will be of the greatest interest to all readers of the MAGAZINE. The first of the new Old Chester Tales will appear in an early number.

The Story of a B o y By

HENRY VAN DYKE

WITH deep reverence and with all his wonderful power of bringing ' * up before us the scenes and peoples of days long past, Dr. van Dyke has written a story of the boyhood of Christ. He tells the story with rare gentleness and simplicity and his narrative is one which is destined to become a classic which will rank with " T h e Story of the Other Wise M a n . " It will be illustrated in color by N . C. Wyeth.

In Australian By

NORMAN

By-Paths DUNCAN

N

E A R L Y ten months ago Norman Duncan set out on an interesting expedition for HARPER'S MAGAZINE. He went to discover Australia and with him w ent George Harding, the artist. He saw an Australia that the casual traveler will never see, and the articles which he has written are of a remarkable interest and novelty. They deal with the life of the gold-fields—the dry-blowers, prospectors, miners with tales of the days of the Coolgardie and Kalgoorlie rushes; with the vast Australian deserts, and the aboriginals which inhabit them; with life in the bush; with a long coaching trip through the Queensland back-blocks; with the trooper police and their adventurous lives; with tales of some extraordinary ar rests of white and native offenders; with the black-trackers; with the Queensland coast and the Great Barrier Reef, the shell-divers, beche-demer divers, island life, hurricanes; with the adventurous settlers of the tropical Northern Territory; with Papua (British New Guinea), the can nibals, pioneer planters, missionaries, exploration, and administration. r

Singing Through France By

R I C H A R D LE GALLIENNE

P

R O V E N C E is the land of poets and poetry — peculiarly a land for a poet to write about. M r . Richard Le Gallienne recently made a long walking trip through this romantic corner of France and has written a number of charmingly graceful articles descriptive of his journey.


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Chapters from an Autobiography By W . D. HOWELLS

T

H E life of William Dean Howells has been scarcely less typically American than that of Mark Twain — and no less interesting. Here and there in his books we have had glimpses of this life, but, after all, they were only glimpses. A t last Mr. Howells has consented to write for HARPER'S MAGAZINE some chapters which are truly autobiographical, and in them we see him in his most delightful vein. The chapters are of the greatest interest as giving not only a vivid picture of the author's early days and the men and women he has known, but in recording with both humor and fidelity certain unforgettable pictures of the life of the day.

DIPLOMATIC DIALOGUES By

THE

HON. DAVID

JAYNE

HILL

Formerly U. S. Ambassador to Germany E W of our diplomats have been gifted with so graceful a pen as the Hon. David Jayne Hill, who has written for HARPER'S MAGAZINE some notable contributions on diplomacy. These diplomatic dialogues are supposed to take place in a club at the capital and various states men, diplomats, lawyers, and judges take part in them. The result is a surprisingly clear and delightfully stated presentation of some most interesting phases of the problems of our international relations.

F

THE

W O N D E R L A N D ' OF SCIENCE

IN the field of science HARPER'S MAGAZINE occupies a unique posi*• tion. It is the one non-technical magazine for which the great men of the scientific world are willing to write. It has given to the world the first accounts of many of the most important scientific dis coveries of our time. The coming year promises astounding revelations.

TRAVEL BY LAND AND SEA HARPER'S M A G A Z I N E is a world magazine in other senses than •I *• its universal appeal. It sends out its own expeditions to little-known corners of the world; it publishes in each number strikingly novel and always interesting articles of travel. It brings the world to its readers. The outlook of the new year in this field is peculiarly attractive. In many strange corners of the world are explorers who will first tell their stories in the pages of HARPER'S. Delightfully illustrated articles on lessremote regions will be a feature and there will be many fascinating narra tives of little voyages of discovery in our own country and in Europe. Harrison Rhodes has written a number of unusual papers on "American Holidays"—pictures of the many varied places where we spend our idle hours. C. W. Furlong will tell of some strange people of the SouthAmerican interior. Robert C. Murphy describes his visit to the almost unknown South Georgia Island near Cape Horn. Ellsworth Huntington writes of his explorations of Yucatan, and there will be important articles on first ascents of hitherto unconquered mountains, nature sketches, aeroplane journeys, etc., etc.


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Unpublished Writings of MARK TWAIN

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M O N G the unpublished manuscripts now in the hands of M a r k T w a i n ' s literary executors are some of curious interest. All of this material comes first to the editors of HARPER'S MAGAZINE and the best of these M S S . — t h e most interesting—will appear for the first time in HARPER'S MAGAZINE during the coming months.

THE

LETTERS OF A DIPLOMAT'S

WIFE

M

A D A M E D E H E G E R M A N N - L I N D E N C R O N E , the author of these letters, is the American wife of the recently retired Danish Ambassador to Germany. Since 1875, when she re turned to the country of her birth and married the newly appointed Danish Minister to Washington, she has lived constantly in the society of the great world of affairs, first at one capital, then another. Through her letters we get a charmingly intimate glimpse, not only of many of our own great men, but of kings and queens, princes and potentates, the great artists and musicians, men and women with whom the writer has been on terms of friendship. T h e y are even more delightful reading than Madame de Hegermann's earlier letters describing her life in Paris during the Commune and her visits to the court of Napoleon I I I .

THE

CHANGING

AMERICAN

T

W O notable groups of articles presenting in different w a y s some of the most interesting phases of our national development will appear shortly. Walter W e y l , P h . D . , will picture the startling though subtle change in the American character and the causes that have brought about this change. Robert Bruere will tell of some of the important new ideas which are being adopted in the work of our rural schools, rural churches, and elsewhere, showing our general awakening to a greater sense of our responsibilities toward our fellow-men.

SHORT

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A R P E R ' S M A G A Z I N E publishes more short stories than any other illustrated magazine in the world. There are at least seven in every number, and they represent the best work of the great writers of America and England. N o stories of such quality, such humor, such dramatic power can be found elsewhere, for it is to HARPER'S that the great writers come first with their best work. A few of those who will contribute are W . D . Howells, Margaret Deland, Henry van D y k e , Perceval Gibbon, Alice Brown, M a r y E . Wilkins, Katharine Fullerton Gerould, James Oppenheim, Margaret Cameron, Susan Keating Glaspell, Cornelia A . P. Comer, A. S. M . Hutchinson, M a y Sinclair, Joseph Conrad, Elizabeth Robins, Meredith Nicholson, Georgia Wood Pangborn, Georg Schock, Marie M a n ning, Elizabeth Jordan, James B . Connolly, Margarita Spalding Gerry,etc. 35 cents a copy

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The Iron Trail

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The Way Home

By Rex Beach

By the Author of Of course you remember Kipling's " I f " about the man who could keep his head in every emergency. Well, here he is, the hero, as Rex Beach has drawn him in his new Alaskan story. There were plenty of things to stand up against, too; other men's schem ing, lack of funds, storms, glaciers, and misrepresentation. But he won his fight against Nature as he won the heart of an unusual heroine. The scene of their wild wooing on the bridge threatened by the flood is more dramatic than anything the author has ever written. Illustrated.

Post Svo, cloth. $1.35 net.

The Golden Rule Dollivers By Margaret Cameron Margaret Cameron has won fame as an inventor of unique plots and humor ous situations, but all the other com plications are simple compared with the scrapes of the Dollivers. Trouble ? N o end of it. Y e t even while the reader laughs much at the Dollivers, he sympathizes more. The humor of the book sparkles and sings like a crystal brook through the story. Eight illustrations in color. Post Svo, cloth. $ 1 . 0 0 net.

"The Inner Shrine" (Basil King) This new novel touches greater depths of human nature than even " The Wild Olive " or " T h e Street Called Straight." It deals with the most important things of life, single life, married life and church life, and portrays the inner motives of a selfcentered man. It is the story of the struggle between the spiritual and the material in the average man—a series of tense, emotional situations in which a strong man who was far from being a hero found himself. He found, too, a tower of strength in the love of the woman he had misunderstood. Illustrated. Post 8vo, cloth. $1.35 net.

Partners

By Margaret Deland

Once again in this perfect little story has Mrs. Deland portrayed the romance which lies, so often unsus pected, in the humblest surroundings. Humor, pathos, and loyalty to ideals make this story fragrant as an oldfashioned garden, and there is a near approach to tragedy—for tragedy lies in wait wherever hearts can suffer, if only in a little country post-office, .as here. Illustrated. Crown Svo, cloth. $ 1 . 0 0 net.

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Novels of English Life

By

By Mrs. Humphry Ward

H. G. Wells

The Coryston Family

The Passionate Friends

A d m i r e r s of t h i s d i s t i n g u i s h e d author's talent will b e glad to k n o w t h a t she h a s re turned to the style which made " T h e Testing of D i a n a M a l l o r y " s u c h a d e l i g h t . F i r s t i t is a l o v e story, w i t h a heroine w h o will rank as M r s . W a r d ' s m o s t c h a r m i n g p o r t r a y a l of y o u n g w o m a n h o o d of t o - d a y , t h e n a n a b s o r b i n g r e p r e s e n t a t i o n of t h e d r a m a t i c s t r u g g l e b e t w e e n the radical a n d aristocratic elements of p r e s e n t E n g l i s h s o c i e t y . L a d y C o r y s t o n , b y m e a n s of h e r p o s i t i o n , m o n e y , a n d c h a r a c t e r , is a p o w e r i n t h e l a n d , b u t f a t e o v e r t a k e s h e r when her children defy her in both love a n d politics.

Illustrated by Elizabeth Shippen Green. Post Svo, cloth. $1.35 net.

T h e s t o r y of t h e t u r b u l e n t l i v e s of o n e m a n a n d o n e w o m a n — s e p a r a t e d b y t h e b a r r i e r of the law, y e t attached b y something stronger than any law—stronger than themselves. A l o v e s t o r y w i t h a b a c k g r o u n d of h i g h i d e a l i s m a n d p r o p h e c y of t h e f u t u r e . V i v i d personali t i e s , a l o v e s t o r y w h i c h r e m i n d s y o u of t h e g r e a t l o v e s t o r i e s of t h e w o r l d , a n d t h e i n v i g o r a t i n g b r e a t h of i n t e r n a t i o n a l m o v e m e n t s m a k e t h i s n o v e l t h e m o s t i m p o r t a n t fiction t h e a u t h o r has y e t done. " W e h a v e no hesitation in saying that the char acter of M a r y is the finest and most complex that M r . Wells has ever created."—London Athenmun.

Illustrated. Post Svo, cloth. $1.35 net.

Novels of American Life By Kate Langley Bosher

By Will N. Harben

The House of Happiness

The Desired Woman

M r s . B o s h e r h a s f o u n d a n e w field. H e r w o r k in it h a s produced this book, which ap peals perhaps more deeply to h u m a n s y m p a t h y t h a n e i t h e r of i t s p r e d e c e s s o r s . There is a l o v e s t o r y i n i t , of c o u r s e , t h e w o o i n g of a c h a r m i n g g i r l b y a s p l e n d i d m a n ; b u t i t is t h e b o y , C r i c k e t , w h o w i n s t h e h e a r t of e v e r y reader. W h o that knows " M a r y C a r y " can forget her sweet, s u n n y nature? C r i c k e t is surely k i n to her. H i s cheerful outlook o n life, n o m a t t e r h o w d a r k t h e d a y , h i s l o y a l t y , and his roguish drolleries combine to m a k e h i m a delight. T h e l o v e r s are sharply tried, b u t t h e y rise t o h e i g h t s of s e l f - s a c r i f i c e a n d d e v o tion, a n d a t last achieve, in their souls, " T h e H o u s e of H a p p i n e s s . " Frontispiece.

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I n t h e p a g e s of M r . H a r b e n ' s n e w e s t b o o k o n e e n c o u n t e r s life i n G e o r g i a of t o - d a y i n a l l its intensity.

I t is t h e G e o r g i a of g r e a t m i l l s

a n d b i g e n t e r p r i s e s , of h e a v y s p e c u l a t i o n a n d t h e s o p h i s t i c a t i o n s of p e o p l e i n g r e a t c i t i e s , a s w e l l a s of s i m p l e m o u n t a i n homely ways.

folk a n d their

I t s k e y n o t e is t h e inevitable

t r i u m p h of l o v e a n d t o l e r a n c e , t h e f a r - s p r e a d i n g i n f l u e n c e of g o o d i m p u l s e s . " F u l l of strength a n d interest from the beginning to the end."—New York World.

Frontispiece. Post 8vo, cloth. $1.30 net.

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By Albert Bigelow Paine

Thirty "Peanut" Pieces of Silver Dramatic as a play, with t h e spiritual a p p e a l of a p o e t i c a l l e g o r y , is t h i s t e l l i n g of t h e v i s ion t h a t c a m e t o a b r i l l i a n t a t h e i s t i c o r a t o r . T h e coin that slipped from t h e g r e e d y p a l m of J u d a s d o w n t h r o u g h t h e a g e s i n t o t h e m o d ern lecturer's h a n d c o n v i c t e d h i m a s a n a c c o m p l i c e of t h e G r e a t B e t r a y e r . Illustrated.

The sympathy, the insight, t h e rare p o w e r to portray t h e inner most springs of action that make Mr. Paine's " B i o g r a p h y of M a r k T w a i n " o n e of t h e b e s t lives e v e r w r i t t e n in t h e English tongue, are here d e v o t e d t o the e x position of the h e a r t of a little b o y . H e is a v e r y poor little b o y , a n d his h o m e is f a r a w a y a m o n g the hills; b u t h e is l o y a l i n his friend s h i p e v e n t o t h e m e m o r y of t h e d e s p e r a d o w h o was good t o him, a n d a b o u t w h o m h e will be

Cloth, 50 cents net; leather, in jour different shades, $1.00 net.

l i e v e n o ill. Illustrated. i6mo, cloth, 50 cents net; leather, in four shades, $1.00 net.

By Norman Duncan

By Maude Radford Warren

Finding His Soul

The Main Road

A big-hearted, merry man, a hustler, is one of t h e best travelling salesmen in his line. H i s little b o y dies, a n d t h e cruel b l o w unhinges his reason; instead of try i n g t o sell g o o d s h e i r r i t a t e s b u y e r s b y h i s railing against the unjust G o d w h o let his son die. T h e firm sends h i m a b r o a d in the hope of rescuing h i m from his bitter unreason. H e visits the H o l y L a n d . T h e r e a l i t y of t h e l a n d w h i c h g a v e r e l i g i o n to t h e Western W o r l d arouses him. O n C h r i s t m a s E v e , a m o n g t h e h i l l s of B e t h lehem, he h a s a wonderful experience: finds his soul.

Illustrated. i6mo, cloth, 50 cents net; leather, in four shades, $1.00 net.

By Eleanor Stuart

The Romance of Ali The

fragrant

charm

of t h e Orient

breathes from e v e r y page of this romance of a n E n g l i s h b o y w h o s e c h i l d h o o d w a s spent in a n Eastern harem, and w h o later became a power in E u r o p e a n diplomacy. T h e r e is a g o l d e n t h r e a d of h u m o r i n t h e contrast between t h e Oriental mind a n d its O c c i d e n t a l setting.

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This story reveals t h e wonderful itin erary of a w o m a n ' s j o u r n e y from sentimentalism t o passion, showing t h e broad highroad o n which she started, confident of a r r i v i n g q u i c k l y a t a g o a l , t h e b l i n d alleys where her inexperience led her, t h e long and w e a r y detours she h a d t o m a k e . B u t there a r e pictured also t h e bright spots where she f o u n d happiness, the c o m panionship of friends a n d the g l o r y a t t h e journey's end.

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By Holman Day

Squire Phin Other writers h a v e drawn with s y m p a t h y t h e characteristics of M a i n e vil lagers; but M r . D a y seems to h a v e appro p r i a t e d a s h i s o w n field t h e c o m i c s i d e of their natures. Squire P h i n L o o k is t h e p e a c e m a k e r of t h e little s e a p o r t , a c h i e v i n g his pacific p u r p o s e s b y reason, j o k i n g , o r justifiable wiles. His brother Hiram re turns h o m e after t w e n t y y e a r s absence, bringing w i t h h i m s o m e of t h e properties of t h e c i r c u s h e h a s m a n a g e d . H i s c o m i n g is t h e s i g n a l f o r t h e o u t b r e a k o f c e r t a i n old animosities, a n d t h e S q u i r e h a s h i s h a n d s full.

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BELLES-LETTRES

Familiar Spanish Travels By William Dean Howells I n this n e w book of travels M r . Howells relates the incidents a n d impressions of his trip through Spain. I n a leisurely, discursive fashion he notes w h a t most appealed to h i m as he journeyed from San Sebastian through B u r g o s , M a d r i d , T o l e d o , C o r d o v a , Seville to Granada, R o n d a , Algeciras, a n d Tarifa. L i k e a glorified kinemacolor film, he passes in review Spanish scenery, the architecture of cathedrals a n d palaces; theatres a n d hotels; picturesque street scenes; Moorish remains; the K i n g a n d Queen; beggars a n d guides; gipsies a n d d o n k e y s . A n d b a c k of all, adding richness to the scene like a figured tapestry, is the romantic history of Spain's past. 32 illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth, $2.00 net.

Social and Economic Forces in American History From the "American Nation"—A History edited by Albert Bushnell Hart

}

C o n s e c u t i v e views of American life, manners, and customs from the early d a y s of the first colonies are here described b y the distinguished scholars who h a v e contributed t o the twenty-seven volumes of the " A m e r i c a n N a t i o n . " O n e period of life after another passes before the reader, unobscured b y needless details, a n d affords a general and v e r y striking outline of the v a r y i n g phases of American life. Crown Svo, cloth, $1.50 net.

The American Civil War A Short History By James Kendale Hosmer T h i s two-volume history of our great conflict, from 1861 to 1865, provides a work a t once brief, compact, and impartial. While D r . Hosmer has succeeded in picturing the whole of the great conflict within reasonable a n d convenient limits, he has, nevertheless, k e p t the full interest of a stirring nar rative. I n presenting this history in individual form and new dress, the publishers of the " A m e r i c a n N a t i o n " feel t h a t t h e y will h a v e gratified m a n y readers who desire a short, convenient, a n d authori tative history of the great conflict. With frontispiece and maps. Crown Svo, per set, $3.00 net.

Miracles of Science

Whistler Stories

By Henry Smith Williams

By Don C. Seitz, Author of "Surface Japan," etc.

T h e story of the modern miracles of the laboratory and observatory told in popular language free from technicalities, so t h a t the least scientific reader will understand a n d enjoy it. T h i s record of the scien tific progress of one of the most wonderful epochs in all history—our o w n time—takes up the thread of the narrative where the author's " S t o r y of Nine teenth C e n t u r y Science " left it. Illustrated. Crown Svo, cloth, $2.00 net.

Prayer—What It Is and What It Does By Dr. Samuel McComb T h e writer, w h o is associate director of the E m manuel C h u r c h M o v e m e n t in B o s t o n , points o u t in this book the new interest in prayer which is appar ent e v e r y w h e r e . Scientifically minded m e n no longer scoff a t this wonderful force, he shows, b u t are endeavoring to understand something of its nature and its results. T h e aim of prayer, the effect of prayer, the practicability of prayer are all em phasized, a n d the author concludes with valuable hints as to how the habit of p r a y e r m a y be acquired. i6mo, cloth, 50 cents net; leather, $1.00 net.

T h i s collection of Whistler anecdotes h a s been industriously gleaned from m a n y sources. Here for the first time these stories m a y be found all to gether, without the distraction of other material. Here are gossipy, w i t t y stories of Rossetti, Millais, M a c M o n n i e s , George M o o r e , Justin M c C a r t h y , Oscar W i l d e , Disraeli, D u Maurier, C a r l y l e , H e n r y Irving, M a r k T w a i n , E d w i n A b b e y , Labouchere and, of course, Ruskin. i6mo, cloth, 75 cents net; leather, $1.00 net.

Hunting at High Altitudes Edited by George Bird Grinnell A n account of unique hunting expeditions a n d a d venture in the R o c k y M o u n t a i n s , M o n g o l i a , a n d T u r k e s t a n , C u b a , a n d A l a s k a . I t includes Colonel P i c k e t t ' s memories of a bear hunter. George L . Harrison, Jr., writes of shooting the ibex and the great argali dwellers in the T h i a n - S h a n M o u n t a i n s ; R o g e r D . Williams tells how t h e y hunt deer in C u b a , and M a d i s o n G r a n t gives an interesting account of wild life in A l a s k a . T h e book is written b y m e m bers of the well-known B o o n a n d C r o c k e t t ' C l u b . Illustrated. Crown Svo, $2.50 net."

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Gulliver's Travels Illustrated by

Louis Rhead I n these fantastic stories Mr. R h e a d h a s f o u n d a m p l e s c o p e for his unusual illustrative talents. E a c h g e n e r a t i o n of y o u n g r e a d e r s is absorbed in its t u r n in the strange a d v e n t u r e s of t h e i m m o r t a l G u l l i v e r i n t h e c o u n t r i e s of t h e p y g m y L i l l i putians, the gigantic Bobdingnagians, the

H o u y h n h n m s , t h a t r a c e of t a l k i n g horses, e t c .

Illustrated and uniform with the Illustrated Editions, by Louis Rhead, of "Robinson Crusoe, "Robin Hood," etc. Over one hundred illustrations. 8vo, cloth. $1.50.

Book of Indian Braves

B

y

K

Author of " Ten Boys from Dickens."

a

t

e

Dickinson Sweetser

H e r e , t o l d i n a w a y t o i n t e r e s t e v e r y b o y a n d g i r l , a r e t h e h i s t o r i e s of f a m o u s w a r c h i e f s . A m o n g t h e m a r e : P o w h a t a n , m i g h t y l e a d e r of t h i r t y t r i b e s ; S e q u o y a , i n v e n t o r o f t h e C h e r o k e e a l p h a b e t ; P o n t i a c , t h e a r c h c o n s p i r a t o r ; n o b l e C h i e f J o s e p h ; t h e fierce fighters—Black H a w k , T e c u m s e h , Osceola, Sitting Bull, and others equally notable. T h e s e s k e t c h e s of t h e i r t h r i l l i n g l i v e s a r e full of " W i l d W e s t " a t m o s p h e r e a n d I n d i a n i m a g e r y .

Illustrated. Colored frontispiece.

Mark Tidd

$ 1 . 5 0 net.

By Clarence B. Kelland

H e r e is a s p l e n d i d s t o r y , t e l l i n g of t h e e x p l o i t s of f o u r a s n a t u r a l a n d r e s o u r c e f u l y o u n g s t e r s a s e v e r l i v e d . F r o m M a r k T i d d ' s a r r i v a l in t o w n t h i n g s b e g a n t o h a p p e n . T h e scheming f a t b o y , s l o w b u t c o u r a g e o u s , is a n e w c h a r a c t e r in b o y fiction; a n d i n c i d e n t a n d h u m o r a r e a s c o m p l e t e l y b l e n d e d t o g e t h e r a s t h e e g g s a n d flour i n t h e c a k e s M a r k ' s m o t h e r u s e d t o m a k e .

•

Illustrated. Post 8vo, cloth. $1.00 net.

Harper's Beginning Electricity

Harper's Aircraft Book

By Don Cameron Shafer

By Alpheus Hyatt Verrill

T h i s book is an introduction to electricity, carefully planned to avoid the difficulties so often met with in scientific books for y o u n g readers, and is direct and convenient in its application. Simple explanations are given for experiments and devices which every b o y will love to make. T h e r e is a brief outline of the history of electricity. A m o n g the chapters are those devoted to the telegraph, telephone, and the electric motor. Illustrated.

Crown 8vo. $1.00 net.

Explains in a simple, lucid manner the principles and mecha n i s m s i n v o l v e d in h u m a n flight, and tells b o y s how to de sign and construct model aero planes, gliders, and man-carrying machines. A c c u r a t e , comprehen sive, and up to date. Instead of mere theories, here are actual facts and results, the experiences of noted aviators and builders. Illustrated.

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iO M A N Y of the public this inevitable change in the conditions of sale will present itself in this simple form: "It is now easy, a?id will be then almost impossible, for me to secure a work which I long since determined to obtain sooner or later." The success of the new Encyclopaedia Brit annica, of which 51,243 copies (1,486,047 volumes) have already been sold, has made the existing system of small monthly payments so familiar that its discontinuance may, at first glance, seem to be a sudden and violent dis turbance of established usage. But it should be remembered that every advertisement of the work has explicitly described the current offer as provisional, and the price as tempo rary, and subject to increase by stages until it reached the normal figure of $7.50 per volume, i.e., the price at which the 7th, 8th and 9th editions were sold. The increase to $5.75 a volume which has been fixed to take effect in England as from December 22nd, and very shortly thereafter in this country, marks a stage in this upward process.

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THE NEW

ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITANNICA

11TH

EDITION

T

H E I M M E N S E G R O W T H OF A single payment K N O W L E D G E renders an en of $5.00 secures cyclopaedia more of a necessity delivery complete. to-day than ever before. For the same •reason, a book which to-day affords a thorough answer to any ques tion that can reasonably be asked must inevitably be voluminous. The contents of the 11th edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica would fill between 400 and 500 ordinary octavo books. Printed, as previous editions were printed, on ordinary paper, the 29 quarto volumes make a row 7 feet long. The ever-increasing bulk of the Encyclopaedia Britannica promised to become a serious menace to its usefulness. The present edition was already far advanced towards completion when a member of the editorial staff, rebelling at the thought that all the precious material passing through his hands was destined to be buried in volumes too cumbersome for easy reading, urged the employment of India paper. The idea was unheard of. Nothing larger than an octavo Bible had ever been printed on India paper. Seldom, however, has a revolutionary change found more complete justification in the event. INDIA PAPER IMPRESSION The use of India paper has resulted in light, slender, elegant volumes, inviting for reference, a pleasure to read; and the whole 29 quarto v o l u m e s ; 1,000 pages each ; 44,000,000 words ; 4 0 0 plates ; 7,000 44 million words go into a cubic space of only 2 feet. The other illustrations ; 800 m a p s . greater need of the day for an encyclopaedia has been met by a Occupying a cubic space of only 2 ft. work which surpasses in usefulness all earlier editions, not only by reason of the more exhaustive and systematic character of its contents, but also in virtue of its compact and infinitely more usable form. The Encyclopaedia Britannica, 11th Edition, is copyright in all countries subscribing to the Berne Convention by the Chancellor, Masters and Scholars of the University of Cambridge

THE

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Eleven Editions: a Century and a Half of Development

More Useful Because More Systematic

1. N o m o r e striking evidence c o u l d b e given of the immense expansion of k n o w l e d g e in m o d e r n times than the growth of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. T h e three v o l u m e s of the first edition (1708), mainly the w o r k of a single hand, have grown to 29 v o l u m e s in the 11th edition, the outcome of collaboration a m o n g s o m e 1,500 distinguished specialists. A n d this g r o w t h of the Encyclopaedia Britannica is an indication a l s o of the extent to which the need of such a w o r k has increased with the expansion of knowledge. If a b o o k of this kind was in demand 145 years a g o , when a useful ac count of k n o w l e d g e c o u l d be given in three v o l u m e s , h o w much more is such a resource needed to-day, when the required inform ation occupies a l m o s t ten times as many volumes?

4. Hitherto, at the beginning of the task of issuing the E n c y clopaedia Britannica, the editor had immediately in view the publi cation of the first v o l u m e only, containing, perhaps, 6 0 0 articles. T h e inevitable tendency, therefore, was to take the corresponding v o l u m e of the previous edition as a basis and correct the articles so far as, viewed separately, they s e e m e d to call for correc tion. In the present case, the editor had in view the issue, n o t of a single v o l u m e , but of the entire work, since the w h o l e w a s to b e published simultaneously. H i s first business, therefore, w a s to plan, with the assistance of his permanent editorial staff and his contributors in each department, h o w each individual s u b j e c t — e . g . , E n g l i s h H i s t o r y , Chemistry, Religion—could best b e dealt with in a series of connected articles, each of which should give the reader precisely the information he requires under the heading to which he w o u l d naturally refer, while together they should form an exhaus tive treatment of the w h o l e subject.

A

Nearer Approach to Perfection

2 . Besides the growth that naturally accompanies the increase of k n o w l e d g e , each successive edition s h o w s also an internal im provement upon its predecessor. T h e instrument is ever perfecting itself, until w e c o m e to the present edition, and to an advance for which the w h o l e history of encyclopaedias affords no measure. A p a r t altogether from the i m m e n s e superiority of its compact and handy format, the 11th edition excels all previous b o o k s of the kind in the following points:—(a) it is m o r e t h o r o u g h l y and consistently abreast of its times, (&) it will appeal to the reader as m o r e exhaus tive, and (c) to the enquirer as easier of reference.

An Advantage Peculiar to this Edition 3 . T h e s e and other i m p r o v e m e n t s — w h i c h m a y all be included in the general statement that the 11th edition is m o r e systematic than its predecessors—are the result of a circumstance peculiar to the preparation of the 11th edition. F o r the first time in the mak ing of an extensive w o r k , the w h o l e b o o k was planned and executed as one consistent w h o l e , and no part of it was printed and published until the w h o l e material from A to Z was assembled.

32c

The Perfected Instrument 5.

T h e 11th edition, therefore, is n o mere revision, b u t a

ivork founded

upon a fresh survey.

11 is singularly easy of

new

refer-

ence because, in every case, a separate article is accorded to the topic upon which the inquirer seeks information, whereas previously it w a s too often lost in an " o m n i b u s " article of inordinate length. It is extraordinarily exhaustive, because these separate articles were not written independently and at haphazard, according to the exigencies of the alphabet and the particular v o l u m e in preparation, but in pursuance of a well considered scheme p l a n n e d to m e e t the demands of the w h o l e subject. W h e t h e r he turn to its pages for the answer to a specific question or for enlightenment upon the w h o l e of a great subject, the reader will find the 11th edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica more

•useful, more thorough,

more interesting,

than he could have imag

ined possible in a w o r k of such i m m e n s e scope, or than he c o u l d have expected from his acquaintance with any other encyclopaedia whatever.

NEW ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITANNICA

11TH EDITION

Closing of the subscription lists for the New E N C Y C L O P A E D I A BRITANNICA— 11th Edition, 29 volumes, published by the Cambridge University Press, of England. Price to be increased from $29 to $50, according to the binding. No more monthly payments. N O W — $ 4 . 7 5 a volume, and sold direct to the public for monthly instalments, the complete set delivered on a first payment of only $5.00.

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extraordinary compactness, flexibility, and lightness of the India paper edition, in its various bindings (occupying a cubic space of but 2 feet) immediately appealed to the general public. Of the 51,000 sets already bought, 9 1 ^ per cent, have been on India paper and only 8)4 V cent, on ordinary paper, the same as that used for the old 9th edition, and those are chiefly for public isstitutions. er

THE BINDINGS

Of the bindings, the dark red full morocco edition forms the handsomest addition to any library, worthy a collection of the most expensively bound books; the dark green sheepskin, by its extreme flexibility, the ease with which it is handled, and its comely appearance, has proved by far the most popular with the general public; the cloth binding has been regarded as entirely satis factory by those who had to choose the cheapest form. There is also a beautiful binding (India paper) in full limp velvet Form of Subscription for the LAST SALE on the suede, Prayer Book style, round Instalment System and Before the Price is Increased corners, gilt edges. Having ex treme flexibility, being lined with The Encyclopaedia Britannica Co., leather, the backs may be folded 120 West 32nd Street, New York. back against each other and the Please send m e the new E n c y c l o p a e d i a Britannica, n t h edition, 2g v o l u m e s , volume may be doubled up and published b y T h e C a m b r i d g e University Press, of E n g l a n d . I enclose $ slipped into a coat pocket. a n
«

*>»

There is a spontaneity, a freshness, a search light-like glimpse of passing things in Vernon Lee's " A n English Writer's Notes on England." They give the impression of one who is think ing aloud, quite unconscious of any effort at writing for effect. In a sentence or a para graph she makes us realize a scene, understand a character, feel the presiding spirit of a place. As realized, carefully drawn pictures, her de scriptions are strikingly fine. They vibrate with color, with atmosphere, and Mr. Giles has charmingly translated a number of them into pigment. In the December (Christmas) number she will write of "The Celtic West (Cornwall, Wales, Ireland)." What a field for a writer with the author's love of the romantic and her faculty for bringing it out! Tintagil, on the moors, Ireland—The En chanted Woods, Killarney—The Land of King Arthur, of Merlin, of Rough-Tor (where the devil-hounds are heard in full cry), Dozmary Pool, "where Arthur was drowned, and whence the arm stretched Excalibur." "Tintagil! This tiny, remote village of granite and slate cottages, of modern boardinghouses on the bleak, grassy rocks above the harborless sea; how its fame has gone abroad in all the poetry of every country! Its name become familiar as that of Sparta or Troy, its little chieftains gathered with the demigods of Homer in the triumphant processions of Pe trarch, and the viewless winds of Dante! The sea—to-day it was blue, tipped with white as with sea-gulls, but barely amounting to waves •—breaks on the rocks and reefs, from Boscastle to Tintagil, leaving no stretch, not the tiniest, of sands, on the great cliffs, of which the ruined castle, with walls of uncemented granite, seems a part."

Of all that has been written about Lincoln, the formal lives, the histories, have any of them made known the man more clearly than some of the little anecdotes, the stories of his tenderness, sympathy, magnanimity? The

NOTES

stories of his pardons, of his generous thought of others, of his big humanity at times when both his mind and his heart were heavily burdened with the welfare of the nation that looked to him for guidance. The December number will have a short article, " A School boy's Interview with Abraham Lincoln," by William Agnew Paton. It is one of those intimate, near impressions of the Lincoln that men loved. Here is the picture of him as he appeared to a boy of fourteen: " When the attendant who had presented my card to the President, and had then ushered me into the secretary's office, closed the door behind me and I found myself actually in the presence of Abraham Lincoln, I had the grace to feel embarrassed, for I then realized that I, a mere schoolboy, was intruding upon the patience and good nature of a very busy over wrought man, the great and honored President of a country in the agony of a civil war. Not ing my hesitation, Mr. Lincoln very gently said: 'Come in, my son.' Then he arose, dis entangling himself, as it were, from the chair, advanced to meet me, and it seemed to me that I had never beheld so tall a man, so dignified and impressive a personage, and certainly I had never felt so small, so insignificant, 'so unpardonably young.' " *•»

***

In Miss Winifred Louise Taylor's article in the December number on " T h e Man Behind the Bars" she will deal with prisoners who have been committed for serious crimes, among them murderers sentenced for life. She tells a number of stories about individual prisoners, and some of them are full of pathos and the lesson of lives wrecked through more or less purely accidental circumstances. The state of mind of the average convict seems to be one of indifference, but now and then the monster of remorse pursues its victim relent lessly. "During the first years when I was in touch with prison life I had only occasional glimpses of remorse for crimes committed. The minds of most of the convicts seemed to dwell on the 'extenuating circumstances' more than on the criminal act, and the hardships of prison life were almost ever present in their thoughts. I had nearly come to consider the remorse pic tured in literature and the drama as an unreal thing, when I made the acquaintance of Ellis Shannon and found it—a monster that gripped the human heart and held it as in a vice."

SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE

67

ADVERTISER

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Colonel Henry Watterson, the famous Editor, writes: *' I feel I o w e it to truth to state that I have made a thorough trial of S a n a t o g e n and that I have found it most efficacious a n d beneficent. I d o not think I could have recovered m y vitality, as I have done, without this Sanatogen operating equally upon t h e digestive organs and nerve centers."

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G


E MAGAZINE

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6S

SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE

G o o d

ADVERTISER

O l d

Par Excellence, the Soap for the Complexion. Indeed a veritable Soap de Luxe. So long ago as 1789 PEARS was supreme, and to-day, after 124 years of trial, the public still regard it as

"All rights secured" OF

ALL

SCENTED

SOAPS

PEARS'

OTTO

OF

ROSE

IS

THE

BEST

Drawn

by Lucius

Wolcott

Hitchcock.

C H R I S T I N E ' S SOFT, D O C I L E M O U T H SET H A R D . SHE STARED A N D - S I L V E R B A R T H A T W A S T H E SEA.

DOWN

AT THE

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— " T h e Master Strategist," page 558.

SCRIBNER'S VOL.

LIV

MAGAZINE

N O V E M B E R , 1913

NO.

5

Hard work on Muldrow Glacier.

T

H

E

A

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C

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N

T

(MOUNT B Y

H U D S O N

O

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D E N A L I

McKINLEY) S T U C K ,

D . D .

Archdeacon of the Yukon Illustrations

from

photographs

' A Y S M r . Gil bert Chest erton, in one of his e s s a y s , quoting from the Psalmist, " I will lift up mine eyes unto the h i l l s , " and he adds, with something of the flippancy that at times disconcerts e v e n the- warm est admirers of this stimulating though whimsical genius, "but I will not lift up my body to them unless I have to." It is quite otherwise with the present writer. Again and again, now from one distant elevation and now from another, during eight win ters of continuous travel in the interior of Alaska, the splendid vision of the great-

S

LIV.—50

Author

est and loftiest mountain mass in North America has appeared before his eyes, and each time has left him with a keener long ing to reach its summit. Always delight ing in climbing, and interested in the annals of climbing, he brought the hypsometrical instruments used on this ascent, and the personal climbing equipment, to the country nine years ago, in the knowl edge that it contained an unclimbed moun tain of the first class. But the opportunity of using them did not come. Even to a man living in Alaska the time and the ex pense involved in an attempt to ascend this mountain are considerable, though the expense be solely that of equipment and subsistence. It was only last year that he found himself in a position to plan the enterprise satisfactorily, and was abLe to secure the co-operation of Mr. H. P. Karstens, without whom it would not have been entered upon at all. The ex pedition was thus a joint one, and this

Copyright, 1913, by Charles Scri bner's Sons.

Vol.

by t h e

All rights reserved.

53i

532

The Ascent of Denali

explanation is written because Mr. Karstens has been spoken of in the news papers as a hired guide. Meanwhile a number of attempts had been made to reach the summit—none with complete success. The expedition of 1912 was so nearly successful that it seems almost ungenerous not to call it the first ascent; yet the top is the top, and to be forced to turn back within three or four hundred feet of the top is to have failed to complete the ascent. So it seemed that the mountain-top had waited for us. There is just one sensible, economical way to get supplies within climbing dis tance of Denali, and that is by water from the interior. In September, 1 9 1 2 , Mr. Karstens took his gasolene launch and a poling-boat loaded with a ton and a half of foodstuffs from Fairbanks, and pushed the "outfit" up the Kantishna River, and up its tributary, the Bearpaw, to a point about fifty miles from the base of the mountain, and there cached both the po ling-boat and its contents. It was done in less than a week. Had we been able to send in the stuff a little earlier, when the rivers were higher, it could have been cached still nearer the mountain. On 1 4 t h March, 1913, after a winter spent on the trail, the writer and his halfbreed boy, Walter Harper, picked up Mr. Karstens in Fairbanks and went down with the dog-team to Nenana, on the Tanana River. Here, at the mission, the other members of the party joined us: Mr. R. G. Tatum and two native boys taken out of the school, Johnny and Esaias. Equipment and supplies that came from the "outside" too late to go in with the foodstuffs lay here, and another dog-team was procured, so that we started across country for the Kantishna mining-camp, six men and boys, and fourteen dogs strong. The Kantishna camp is one of the small est of Alaskan gold camps, supporting some thirty men. In 1906 there was a wild stampede to this region, and two or three thousand people went in, chiefly from the Fairbanks district. Town after town was built—" Diamond City," " Glac ier City," "Bearpaw City," "McKinley City," "Roosevelt"; but the next summer the boom burst, and all the thousands streamed out. The " cities " are now mere collections of tumble-down cabins, up-

grown with brush and weeds; and the moose roams through them at will. Gold there was and is yet, but in small quan tities only. Our journey led us right through this camp, and we lodged over night in the solitude of some of these " cities." But even thirty men living and mining in a district break trails and keep them open, and our journey from Nenana of about ninety miles to " Diamond City," where our cache was made, was over good hard surface, either snow-trail or "over flow" ice. Packing on one's back a mer curial barometer that one dare not intrust to the sled, over the uneven slipperiness of the frozen overflow is a precarious busi ness, but there was no help for it. From " D i a m o n d " the relaying of the supplies began; but even yet, as far as the McKin ley Fork of the Kantishna, we had a hunt ing-trail to follow, and only when we left that stream to ascend its tributary, the Clearwater Branch, did we begin to break trail through the winter's snow, some twenty-five miles from the base of the mountain, the mighty wall of the whole Alaskan range now stretching before us. Long before, in the bright clear March weather, we had glimpse after glimpse of Denali and Denali's Wife, looming larger each day. But it should be stated that the view which this face of the group presents is never a satisfactory one. The foreshortened receding ridges, the rece ding dome, lack strong lines and decided character. The same is true in even greater degree of the aspects from the southern slope of the range, all travellers and all photographs agreeing as to their tameness. There is only one face of the Denali group that is entirely satisfying, that is ade quate to the full picturesque potentiality of a twenty-thousand-foot elevation. The writer knows no other view com parable with that of the west face from Lake Minchumina, which he had upon a winter journey to the Iditerod, by way of the Kuskokwim, two years ago, but which very few white men have ever seen, and none others who have attempted the as cent. There the two mountains rise, side by side, out of a wide marshy country, probably not much more than one thou sand feet above the sea, sheer precipitous rocks, utterly inaccessible, savage and su perb. There are no rounded shoulders, no ridges, no receding slopes, no horizontal

The Ascent of Denali lines at all to break into the dignity and might of the uplift; the western face is stark. It may be doubted if there be else where in the world so sheer an elevation from so low a plain. There is, perhaps, no photograph of this face in existence; the writer's films were spoiled. The short and easy route by which the Muldrow Glacier is reached was discov-

533

ioth April, at about four thousand feet, hills and valley alike still covered with snow. Our concern at this camp was the pro viding and preserving of a sufficient meat supply for subsistence on the mountain, and it was an easy task. First Karstens killed a caribou and then Walter a moun tain-sheep. Then Esaias happened into

Relaying from Diamond City, where the cache was made, to the base camp.

ered after much scouting and climbing by McGonogall and Anderson in 1910, on the occasion of the pioneer, or "Sour dough," attempt upon the mountain, to which a further reference will be made. The men in the Kantishna camp who took part in that attempt gave us all the in formation they possessed, as they had done to the climbing party of the previous summer. There has been no need to make reconnoissance for routes since these pio neers blazed the way; there is no other practical route than the one they discov ered. The two subsequent parties have followed precisely in their footsteps as far as the Grand Basin, at sixteen thousand feet, and it is the merest justice that such acknowledgment be made. From the Clearwater we struck straight across country to the opening in the range called Cache Creek, and pushed up the creek some three miles to its forks, and there established our base camp on

the midst of a herd of caribou as he climbed over a ridge, and killed three. We could have had as many more as we cared to kill, but these were enough. Then we went to work preparing the meat. Why should any one haul canned pemican hundreds of miles into one of the greatest game countries on earth? We made our own pemican of the choice parts of this tender, juicy meat and never lost appetite for it or failed to enjoy it and assimilate it. The meat was boiled until well done in a fifty-pound lard-can. Then it was stripped from the bones and minced and salted and peppered. Some cans of but ter having been melted, a mass of this minced meat was rolled in it and then moulded and compressed b y the hands into a ball weighing about a quarter of a pound. We made a couple of hundred of such balls and froze them, and they kept perfectly, even until our outgoing jour ney. The liquor in which all this meat

534


had been cooked, with the marrow of the an aneroid's convenience. It had been bones added, was then boiled down into carried for eight winters in the hind sack of the writer's sled, and about five pounds of rich, had proved itself exceed thick, meat-extract jelly. ingly sensitive and reli Four balls of pemican, able at c o m p a r a t i v e l y t w o tablespoonfuls of low altitudes. These in this caribou extract, a struments, and a boilingpackage of Erbswurst point thermometer, com and a cupful of rice made prised the hypsometrical the chief ration for the equipment — all of ad evening meal for the four equate s c a l e save the of us when we were on the six-inch " M o u n t a i n " higher r e a c h e s of the aneroid, which read only mountain, and we were to a little below fifteen always well nourished. inches, and was taken There were other basealong to observe its be camp tasks. The climb havior—the first oppor ing-irons had to be fitted tunity since it was pur to the individual mocca chased, nine years ago sin; the snow-shoes had •—and to judge whether to be rough-locked by or not the i n g e n i o u s lashing a h a r d w o o d , '' throwing o u t " device is wedge-shaped bar under really a remedy for the neath them, just above i n h e r e n t , persistent the tread, and studding faults of elastic-chamber Ascension Day. the side-rails with screwMuldrow Glacier. barometers. calks. Thus equipped, they were of the utmost Meanwhile the relayservice on the lower glacier, steep and ing had gone on; the freight was all forsnow-covered in many places. Theinstru- ward to the pass by which the glacier is ments were all overhauled, the mercurial reached, and most of the two cords of dry barometer set up w o o d cut at the and read, and the last t i m b e r ; and two a n e r o i d s , a the time had come three-inch, threew h e n one of the circle Watkin, and native boys with a six-inch patent o n e of the dog"Mountain" Watteams must return kin—the l a t t e r to Nenana while never in action at yet there was snow all until by turning to return upon. So a powerful thumb on the 15 th April s c r e w the spring Esaias went back, outside the vacuum b e a r i n g the last box draws its walls word from us that apart—-were ad could be received justed to the mer until we came down curial barometer. from the mountain The three-circle —the last word aneroid is not as that was received w e l l k n o w n in for more than two America as it de months. Johnny serves to be, for its we kept to help us T h e writer, at left, and H. P. Karstens in camp on concentric circles w i t h the freight the Clearwater. g i v e a far m o r e ing on the glacier open scale than any other form of the in and to stay at base camp and tend the strument can give, and greatly enhance dogs when that should be done.

The Ascent of Denali It was on the n t h April that Karstens and the writer wound their way up a nar row, steep ravine, and at the head of it, some twenty-five hundred feet above the base camp, came all at once in sight of the Muldrow Glacier, lying two hundred feet below. There it stretched, smooth and almost level, the great broad high way to thecliffs and peaks of Denali, the one avenue that permits approach to them. It was with a leaping of the heart that we

535

below and thrust into the snow. It was not merely our own passage we had to pro vide for, but the passage of the dog-sleds. The team we retained was cut in two, three dogs to a little Yukon sled; for a full team would be difficult, if not impos sible, to handle amidst those complicated crevasses. Three miles further up, the Muldrow takes another and more decided southerly bend and is again much crevassed, receiv-

Entering the range.

stood and gazed at it, and traced its course in the distance where it swept toward the south and began to rise steeply, some four miles away. A week later we were camped upon its surface, at about the farthest point our vision had commanded from the pass. The elevation was near seventyfive hundred feet, and to that height the passage of the glacier was easy enough. But immediately above our camp the ice rose sharply a couple of hundred feet, and began to be badly crevassed. For half a mile or so beyond was an intricate tangle of crevasses that it took a long time to un ravel. Back and forth across the glacier we had to go, now almost to this wall and now almost to the other, crossing here by a snow bridge and there by a jammed ice-block, building bridges of snow-blocks where none could be found, and staking out each section of the trail as we estab lished it by willow shoots brought from

ing two steep but short tributaries from the western cliffs at an elevation of about ten thousand feet. It finishes its course in another mile and a half, with an almost due north-and-south direction (magnetic) at an elevation of about eleven thousand five hundred feet, in a basin bounded by rocks and ice. Almost directly opposite the pass by which we reached the glacier it unites with another great ice-stream at the base of a bold pyramidal mountain which, un less it already bears some name not known to us, we would take the liberty of naming Mount Farthing, in honor of the memory of a devoted gentlewoman who died at the mission at Nenana two years ago. These two glaciers come, one from one side, one from the other, of the northeast ridge that bounds the basin referred to in the preceding paragraph, and together they drain the ice from the whole north-

C a m p on the C l e a r w a t e r , at the last timber. CFrum left to right) T a t u m , Esaias, Karstens, Johnny, a n d Walter.

eastern face of the mountain. The west ern containing-wall of the eastern branch (which Professor Parker named the M c Kinley Glacier), is also the eastern containing-wall of the western branch, and from the junction of the glaciers right up to their head and end, is one stupendous escarpment of ice-covered rock towering five or six thousand feet above the glacier floor. The other wall of the glacier, along which we travelled (which is the McKinley Glacier or the western fork of the Muldrow Glacier, as the geographers shall see fit), consists of a series of lofty, inaccessible cliffs, deeply seamed with snow gullies and crusted here and there with hanging glaciers. It was the 3 d May ere we had trans ported all our stuff to the head of the glac ier and had established our* immediate climbing-base. The work had been labo rious both for dogs and men—sometimes carried on in snow-storm and keen wind, sometimes in a moist heat of sun beating down through vapor with never a breath of breeze. The cold we had expected, but it seemed strange that seacoast city heat should be possible at this altitude, with millions of tons of ice beneath our feet and naught but snow and ice visible anywhere. Snow-blindness none of us was troubled with at this or any time. The 536

amber glasses with side-pieces of yellow celluloid are a perfect defence against this affection. Our experience on this moun tain with these glasses, after long and dis tressing experiences in Alaska with all other descriptions of snow-glass, satisfied us that no man anywhere need suffer any more from snow-blindness. Our boric acid and zinc sulphate were never touched. One man ahead of the dogs, and one man at the gee-pole behind the dogs, roped together, took each sled slowly along the winding trail, over the crevasses, and up the glacier; and when one load was safely cached we descended for an other. At last everything was forward, and we found ourselves, with wood for a month and food for two months, estab lished at the head of the glacier. That wood was precious; it had been hauled twenty miles and raised nearly ten thou sand feet. It seems a great deal of labor to expend for fuel, but, as it turned out, it was wise. We had the large nine-byeleven-foot tent to inhabit, and it took a wood-stove to heat it. And we were en abled to live in comfort during a long, tedious period of waiting. Just before we moved into our upper glacier camp we met with a misfortune that might easily have been a disaster. A load had been hauled up to the head

The base camp at about 4,000 ft. T h e ridge is one of ttie glacier walls.

and cached, and when lunch was eaten Karstens and the writer lit their pipes. One or the other threw a careless match away, which must have fallen upon the pile of three small silk tents that lay on the top of the cache. We went down for another load, not dreaming of danger from fire on a glac ier, but when we returned the cache was almost consumed. A wind had sprung up and fanned the smouldering tents to flame, and we were greeted by the sight of dense smoke rolling from our painfully freighted supplies. All our sugar, our powdered milk, our baking-powder, a box of pilot bread, all our spare socks and stockings, thirty spools of photographic film, all our prunes, most of our raisins, most of our tobacco, with all sorts of wearing-apparel, and the three silk tents, were gone. Even the handles of one of the shovels and one of the axes were burnt off. We were just in time to save our far-hauled wood. So the first three or four days at the new camp were devoted to the repair of our losses, so far as they were reparable— and those days were the only consecutive bright clear days in three weeks. Down to the base camp Johnny and Walter must go for canvas sled-covers to make new tents of; and while the tents were making others set to work constructing a dozen

pair of socks out of the camel's-hair lining of a sleeping-bag. It was fortunate that Walter had a No. 3 kodak, with six or eight films for the same, that were not in the cache that burnt; fortunate also that the caribou pemican and the other sup plies for the higher work had not yet been brought up; but the check was a severe one, and our losses, especially the sugar and the baking-powder, were felt keenly. We were without sugar for five weeks, and without bread for two, for our sour dough refused to sour at the higher elevations. However, there was no use fretting about it; we should have had to send nearly fifty miles for even a small supply, and Karstens's laconic advice, "Forget it!" was adopted. Then Johnny and the dogs went down, and, lest there be no other oppor tunity to record his fidelity and unselfish ness, let it be told here as one instance of it that he would not touch the sugar left for his use, but saved every spoonful of it against our return. When we first reached the head of the glacier we were puzzled by the scene that presented itself. The whole floor of the basin was strewn with great blocks of ice, and this we supposed to be the discharge of the hanging glaciers incrusting the walls. But the northeast ridge which bounded the glacier's head did in no way 537

538


conform to the description given by the though, so soon as the Parker-Browne party climbers of last summer, nor to the photo reached the foot of the mountain, the lad graph of it which accompanied their de der by which they had climbed so nearly scription. In a magazine article we had to the top was broken up. It is impor received just before leaving Fairbanks, Mr. tant that the reader be able to compose, Belmore Browne described this ridge as in his mind's eye, the environment of our " a steep but practicable snow ridge." On camp at the head of the Muldrow Glacier— to "visualize the the contrary, it was scene,"in the slang a confused, jagged of the day; for to mass of rocks and do so is to have the ice. Twenty-five key to the simple hundred feet above orography of De us it did, indeed, nali—of this face suddenly become of it at least. The a s m o o t h , steep great highway of snow r i d g e , but the glacier comes at that point its to an abrupt end, smooth slope a cul-de-sac. On ceased with a clean, the right hand the sharp, vertical wall of the glacier cleavage, and all be soars up almost at low was shattered once to the enor confusion. T h e mous ice-incrusted "low col "in which cliffs of the North the Parker-Browne Peak, eight or nine party made their t h o u s and feet camp no longer ex above. On the left isted. In its place hand the great icy was a great gap ridge which has from w h i c h the formed the other ridge rose again by wall of the glacier a sheer ice gable. breaks down rap The explanation idly and sweeps to c a m e to us in a the right, enclosing flash, bringing the the h e a d of the simultaneous glacier, and then ejaculation from climbs rapidly Karstens and the again about four writer—" the earth thousand feet to a Camp at the head of Muldrow Glacier, at feet. quake!" The Par pass which gives In the background is the perpendicular ice-fall by which the ker-Browne expe glacier in the Grand Basin discharges into the Muldrow access to the Grand Glacier, a fall of about 4 , 0 0 0 feet. dition reported a or U p p e r Basin, severe earthquake still rising far beyond and above the basin on the 6th July, 1 9 1 2 , two days after they to its culmination in the South Peak, the had descended the mountain, and spoke highest point of the mountain. Four thou of seeing great rocks dislodged. As was learned later, the seismographic instru sand feet above the head of the Muldrow ments at Washington recorded it as the Glacier, at right angles to it, but thus still severest shock since the San Francisco within the same walls, lies the upper glac disturbance in 1906. So this was the ier, occupying the Grand Basin between havoc it had wrought! The huge blocks the two great summits of Denali. And of ice strewn upon the glacier floor were there is no connection between the two not the normal discharge of hanging glac glaciers save a perpendicular ice-fall by iers, as we had wonderingly supposed; which the one discharges into the other. they were the incrustations of ages, may So here are the two ridges rising to the be, ripped off the rocks, hurled down from two summits of the mountain, and here the ridge by this convulsion. It was as are the two glaciers discharging the one 1 1 , 5 0 0


539

into the other at right angles by an ice-fall they descend, and throw out before them of four thousand feet. There is no pos- clouds of snow and ice dust that curl sible passage up the right-hand cliffs; there and roll half-way to the other wall. The

Detail of northeast ridge shattered by the earthquake.

is no possible passage up the ice-fall. The ridge in front of us which climbs to the Grand Basin is the only means of reaching the higher regions of the moun tain. Now slice the crest bodily from three-fourths of that ridge and deposit it in broken masses at the foot, hack and hew and shiver the ice, and upturn the rocks upon which that crest was founded, and you have the situation as it presented itself to us. One prominent feature was omitted: at the pass where the ridge gives access to the Grand Basin stands a granite tower, an uplift of the ridge itself far too large and imposing to be called by the mountaineering term "gendarme," which seems to stand sentinel over the way to the great heights, for only around its base may that way be found. It is the most picturesque and conspicuous feature of the mountain from below. We called it the Browne Tower, and the pass beside it, the gateway to the Grand Ba sin, the Parker Pass. Into the lower basin, from time to time, snow avalanches descend from the lofty steep gullies of the north cliffs, while the frequent thunderous precipitations of the ice-fall from the Grand Basin shake and crack the whole broad sheet upon which

greater of these discharges were startling, but really very noble sights. One does not recall the description of so high an ice-fall on any other mountain. It was not difficult to gain the crest of the lowest portion of the ridge, degraded yet further as it has been by the earth quake; but when it was gained, at about three hundred feet elevation above the glacier floor, what a discouraging pros pect stretched before us! Mile upon mile of huge ice-blocks, heaped in confusion, resting at every insecure angle, some on their points, some on their edges, with here and there gaps that went down to the black rock, and here and there pin nacles that soared forty or fifty feet in the air, and everywhere the snow-slope under them falling away too steeply for any pas sage—this was the sole path to the heights we wished to climb. We then sought to reach the crest of the ridge much further along, beyond as much of this chaos as possible, but it was three days ere we found a way to the crest that did not take us under overhanging icebergs that threatened to fall upon our heads as the overhanging hill threatened Christian in the "Pilgrim'sProgress." Atlastwewent straight up a steep gully, half of it snow

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and half ice-covered rock, cutting steps would be used again and again by men all the five hundred feet to the top, and with heavy packs on their backs, relay were on the ridge half a mile further along, ing food and camp equipage along the with half a mile of the ice-blocks out ridge. And we were determined from the flanked. But ahead the prospect was just first to take no unnecessary risks what ever. We realized as d i f f i c u l t and that the passage dangerous. We of this ridge was a could cut out no risky thing at best. more of the ridge. T o go along it day The slopes beyond after day seemed the gully by which almost like tempt we r e a c h e d the ing P r o v i d e n c e . crest of the ridge Doubtless we erred b r o k e w i t h the on the side of cau same sharp, earth tion, never trust quake c l e a v a g e ing s n o w when the w h o l e ridge steps could be cut displayed twentyin ice, always stay five hundred feet ing upon the top a b o v e , but hori because nothing zontally instead of c o u l d fall on us vertically. there, conscien So our task lay tiously using the plain and onerous, r o p e , yet never enormously more depending upon difficult and dan it at all. gerous and labori T h e weather ous t h a n t h a t doubled the time which our prede and the toil of the cessors e n c o u n p a s s a g e of this t e r e d . We must ridge. Not until cut steps in those the trail had been ice-blocks, over made along more them, around than half of it did them, on the sheer we find a place sides of them, un where we thought der t h e m , what it safe to pitch a ever seemed to our Another detail of the northeast ridge shattered by the earthquake. tent, and thus had judgment the best to descend each way of circumven ting each individual block. Every ten day to our glacier camp. It is easy to be yards presented a separate problem. On critical of one's self and one's companions either side the ridge fell precipitously to a upon retrospect. Probably if we had made glacier floor, five hundred feet below on the a place to camp on that ridge a week be one hand, fifteen hundred feet below on fore we moved up, it would have furthered the other, with yawning crevasses half-way the enterprise. But it does not conduce down that eagerly swallowed every scrap to peace of mind to be lodged in such nar of ice and snow dislodged by our axes, and row compass that to roll out of bed would would as eagerly have swallowed us. At be to roll into eternity. From Whitsun the gap in the ridge, with the ice gable day to Trinity Sunday inclusive were only beyond it, the difficulty and danger were two days in which we could make progress perhaps at their greatest. It took a day's on the ridge at all, and on one of those cutting to make steps down the slope and days the clouds poured over so densely and then straight up the face of the colossal enveloped us so completely that it was im ice-slab of the gable. The steps had to be possible to see far enough ahead to lay deep and wide. It was not merely one out a course. On that day we toppled into passage we were making. These steps the abyss a mass of ice as big as a two-


541

story house that must have weighed hun thing, when a fine day came, how brilliant, dreds of tons. It was poised upon two beyond all that the lower levels know, it points of another ice mass and held upright was! From our perch on that ridge the lofty by a flying buttress of wind-hardened snow. peaks and massive mountain shoulders Three or four blows of Karstens's axe sent rose on every side and gleamed in the it hurling down dazzling sunshine; ward. It passed and, as l i t t l e by out of sight into little we g a i n e d the cloud-smother higher eminence, immediately, bnt ever n e w p e a k s we heard it bound and ridges thrust and rebound until themselves into it burst with a re view. We were port like a cannon, within the hall of and s o m e d a y s the m o u n t a i n l a t e r we saw its kings indeed: kings fragments strewn nameless here in all over the flat fif this multitude of teen hundred feet lofty summits, but b e l o w . What a that elsewhere in sight it must have the w o r l d would been w h e n the have each one his w h o l e ridge was name and story. heaving and shat And h o w eager tering, and shower and impatient we ing down its bergs grew to rise high upon the g l a c i e r e n o u g h , to pro floor! One d a y gress far enough on we were d r i v e n that ridge, that we off the ridge by a m i g h t gaze into high w i n d t h a t the Grand Basin threatened to tear itself from which us from our foot the thunderings holds, and on an c a m e — the spa other a fine hope cious hall of the ful morning gave two l o r d s para place to a sudden mount of all the dense snow-storm mountains of the Our camp at Parker Pass, about 15,000 feet—looking up into the Grand Basin. that sent us hastily continent—the below again. Al North and South ways, all day long, while we were on that Peaks of Denali! Our hearts beat high ridge, the distant dull thunder of ava with the anticipation, not only of gazing lanches resounded from the Grand Basin upon it, but of entering it and pitching far above us, into which the two summits of our tent familiarly in the midst of its au Denali were continually discharging their gust solitudes. T o come down again; to snows. It sounded as though the King of pass day after day in camp on the glacier Denmark were drinking healths all day floor, waiting for the bad weather to be long to the salvoes of his artillery, that done that we might essay it again; to watch custom "more honored in the breach than the tantalizing, and, as it seemed, meaning in the observance." From such fancy the less, fluctuations of the barometer for en mind passed easily enough to the memory couragement ; to listen to the driving wind of that astonishing composition of Grieg's, and the swirling snow or gaze out upon the "In the Hall of the Mountain Kings," blank nothingness of all-encompassing va and, once recalled, the stately yet stac por—how tedious that was! cato rhythm ran in one's ears continually. It was not quite so tedious for the writer For if we had many days of cloud and as for some of the others, for there was smother of vapor that blotted out every always Walter's education to prosecute as

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it had been prosecuted for the last three years—desultorily, but not wholly un satisfactorily. An hour or two of writing from dictation, an hour or two of reading aloud, a little history and geography, gave the day variety and occupation. A pupil is a great resource. Karstens drew plan after plan of a motor-boat in which the power of a single engine should be satis factorily transmitted to twin propellers— no simple problem. Tatum learned the Thirty-nine Articles by heart. But naval architecture palled after a while, and even controversial divinity, and time hung heavily on their hands. We made our camp at the head of the glacier on the 3d May; we left it on the 25th. Thus for three weeks we had been held there, and nearly all our wood had been burnt. Scarce an hour of usable weather had been lost, but those hours had been few, all told. At last a small flat place on the ridge had been reached where camp might be made, and we moved up there, to an elevation of about thirteen thousand feet, overjoyed at the opportunity of advancing. We were now much nearer our work, and it progressed much faster, although as the ridge rose it grew steeper and steeper and even more chaotically dis rupted. Our situation was decidedly pleasanter than it had been below; our spacious tent was indeed exchanged for a tin}'- one, in which we could no more than sit upright, and the four of us, lying side by side, could turn only by common con sent; which was disgraceful overcrowd ing, but warm. Our wood-stove also was superseded by a little Primus stove, burning kerosene, which is still, in the writer's opinion, far and away the best portable stove despite all the new-fangled " alcohol utilities." But when the clouds cleared we had a noble, wide prospect; we had much more sunshine, and there was not the sense of damp immurement which the walls and mists of the glacier gave. The aneroids had kept fairly well with the mercurial barometer and the boilingpoint thermometer, until we moved to the ridge; from this time they displayed a progressive discrepancy therewith that put them out of serious consideration, and one was as bad as the other. Eleven thou sand feet seemed the limit of their good

behavior. T o set them back day by day, like Captain Cuttle's watch, would be to depend wholly upon the other instru ments anyway, and this is just what we did, not troubling to adjust them. They were read and recorded merely because that routine had been established. Says Burns: " T h e r e was a lad was born in K y l e , B u t w h a t n a ' d a y o' w h a t n a ' s t y l e , I d o u b t it's h a r d l y w o r t h the while T o be sae nice wi' R o b i n . "

So they were just aneroids: aluminum cases, jewelled movements, British-armyofficer patented improvements, Kew cer tificates, import duty, and all—just an eroids, and one was as bad as the other. Within their limitations they are exceed ingly useful instruments, but it is folly to depend on them for measuring great heights. The rapidity with which the weather changed up there was a constant surprise to us. At one moment the sky would be clear, the peaks and ridges standing out with the sharpest definition; literally five minutes later they would all be wiped out by the dense volumes of vapor that poured over from the south. Perhaps ten min utes more and the cloud would have swept down to the glacier, and the sun would once more be dazzlingly bright on the heights, or the vapor might thicken and deepen to a heavy snow-storm. Perched up here one readily understood that Denali and his lesser companions of the Alaskan range are a prime factor in the climate of interior Alaska. They are our great bar riers against inundation by the illimita ble vapor of the ocean, our ramparts against the hateful humidity of the coast. They assure us our light snowfall and our clear, dry winters, full of the stimula tion of windless cold. Day by day Karstens and Walter went up to resume the finding and making of a way. T w o were all that could profitably be thus employed, turn and turn about; with three or four on the rope some were always cold through inaction and merely hampered the workers. So Karstens and Walter volunteered to make the trail, and Tatum and the writer relayed the stuff from a cache below to a cache above, and then on to another above that. The point

The Ascent of Denali toward which the advance party was working was the earthquake cleavage, a clean, sharp vertical cut in the ice and snow fifty feet in height. Above that point all was smooth, though fearfully steep; below was the confusion the earth quake had wrought. At last, late in the evening of the 27th May, looking up the ridge upon our re-

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Just before reaching the steepest por tion of the snow ridge, where it seemed to go straight up, we came upon vestiges of a camp made by our predecessors of a year before, dug in a hollow of the snow. An empty biscuit carton, a raisin package, some trash and brown paper, were as fresh as though they had been left yesterday. Truly the terrific storms of this region are

A b o v e the clouds and above all the Alaskan range except Denali himself.

turn from packing a load to the cache, we saw Karstens and Walter standing clear-cut against the sky upon the surface of the unbroken snow above the earth quake cleavage, and we gave a great shout of joy. They heard us, far above as they were, and shouted a response, and all hearts were light that night. The way was clear to the Grand Basin now; the slow, laborious chopping was over; the trail was made. Yet the weather was still against us, and, with fierce winds and blinding snow, held us from advance until the 30th. On that day we went up the ridge, bag and baggage, threading the in tricacies of the step-cutting, passing the specially dangerous serac below the cleav age, mounting by a flanking approach the vertical wall of the cleavage itself, and then pursuing our way along the cocks comb of hard snow, steep to the very limit of climbability, that stretched up and up to the Parker Pass.

like the storms of Guy Wetmore Caryl's clever rhyme, that "come early and avoid the rush." They will sweep a man off his feet, as once they threatened us, but will pass harmlessly over a cigarette-stump and a cardboard box; our tent in the glacier basin, surrounded by a wall of iceblocks as high as itself, we found over whelmed by snow that had melted to ice upon our return, but each rush with which we had staked the trail was still standing all the way down to the pass. At last the slope was ended and the up standing granite slabs, amongst which is the natural and unmistakable campingplace, loomed through the mist that had enshrouded us all day. A shovel and an empty alcohol can proclaimed that our predecessors had used the spot; any party that ever climbs the mountain will prob ably use it. The storms and snows of ten or a dozen winters may make a " steep but practica-

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ble snow-slope" of the northeast ridge again. One winter only has passed since the convulsion that disrupted it, and al ready the snow is beginning to fill up its gaps and chasms. All the summer through, for many hours on clear days, the sun will melt those snows, and the frost at night will glaze them with ice. The more conformable ice-blocks will gradually be cemented together, while the fierce winds that beat upon the ridge will gradually wear away the supports of the more egregious and unstable blocks, and one by one they will topple into the gulf. It will probably never again be the smooth, homogeneous slope it used to be; the "gable" will probably always present a wide cleft, but the slopes beyond it, stripped now of their accumulated ice so as to be unclimbable, may build up again and allow the gable to be flanked. The earthquake cleavage, some fifteen hun dred feet above the gable, will perhaps re main the crux of the climb, the broken masses below it being especially difficult and dangerous, with a loose snow-slope at an acute angle that it is impossible to avoid crossing; but with care and pains the cleavage can be surmounted, as we surmounted it, and wind and sun and storm may mollify the forbidding abrupt ness even of this break in the course of time. The writer, having nothing to his credit in the matter at all, thinks that the suc cessful passage of this ridge would be counted a brilliant piece of mountain eering in any country in the world, and would ask the privilege of naming it the Karstens Ridge, in honor of the man who led the way and, with Walter's help, hewed the staircase up this splintered backbone of ice and rock, three miles at least in length and rising four thousand feet. With the exception of this ridge, Denali is not a mountain that presents any special difficulties of a technical kind. Its diffi culties lie in its remoteness, its size, the great distances of snow and ice its climb ing must include the passage of, the bur dens that must be carried again and again over those distances. We estimated the actual linear distance of travel from the glacier pass to the summit of the moun tain at about twenty miles. Like nearly all Alaskan problems, the ascent of this

mountain is mainly a transportation problem. But the northeast ridge, in its present condition, adds all of sensation and danger that any man could desire. The Parker Pass is the most splendid coign of vantage on the whole mountain, except the summit. From an elevation of more than fifteen thousand feet it over looks the whole Alaskan range, and the scope of vision to the east, to the south east, and to the northeast, is almost unin terrupted. Mountain range rises beyond mountain range until only snowy sum mits are visible in the great distance, and one knows that beyond the last of them lies the blue sea. The near-by summits, red with granite or black with shale, and gullied from top to bottom with snow and ice, the broad highways of the glaciers at their feet carrying parallel moraines that look like giant tram-lines, stand out with vivid distinction. Mount Hunter raises its head above the lesser peaks. The two arms of the Muldrow Glacier, right in the foreground, display their course from their head to their junction and from their junction to the terminal snout, re ceiving their groaning tributaries from every evacuating height. The dim, blue lowlands, now devoid of snow, stretch away to the northeast, with threads of stream and patches of lake that still carry ice along their banks. Turning around and looking upward, the slabs of granite are like a gateway through which the Grand Basin opens to our view. The ice of its glacier sweeps with almost a cataract curve to its pre cipitation, four thousand feet below us, and the Grand Basin, between the two great summits, rises with progressive leaps of jagged blue serac for five or six miles, until its upper rim is about four thousand feet above us. On the right are the sheer dark cliffs of the North Peak, soaring to an almost immediate summit five thousand feet above the pass; in the midst is the broken, heaving, glittering ice of the glac ier, eager, as one fancied, for its fall; on the left is just visible the receding horned snow dome of the South Peak, the highest uplift of the mountain. And all this splen dor and diversity yielded itself up to us at once; that was the most sensational and spectacular feature of it. We went to sleep in a smother of mist that hid


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everything; we had seen nothing as we made to the fatigue of packing. Itiscerclimbed; we rose to a sparkling clear day. tain that those who have carried a pack The clouds were mysteriously rolling away only on the lower levels cannot conceive from the lowest depths, the last wisps of how enormously greater the labor is at vapor were sweeping over the ultimate these heights. As one rises, and the density heights. The sun shone hot upon the gran- of the air is diminished, so it would seem ite slabs, and we basked in his rays and that the weight of the pack, or the ef fect of the weight felt t h a t l i v i n g of the pack, is in was once more a delight. the same ratio in From this time creased. We prob on our a d v a n c e ably moved from was rapid, and the three hundred to weather progress two hundred and ively fine. T h e fifty pounds, d e clouds enveloped c r e a s i n g some us from t i m e to what as the food time still, but nev was c o n s u m e d , er for long. Trav each of the four ersing under the times the camp cliffs of the north was advanced in east r i d g e , we the Grand Basin. reached the Grand The p a c k i n g of B a s i n and made these loads, relay o u r first c a m p ing them forward therein at about and all the time sixteen thousand steeply rising, was feet e l e v a t i o n . labor of the most C o l d it was at exhausting kind; times, even in the and t h e r e is no sunshine, with "a p o s s i b l e way in nipping and an ea which it may be ger air," but when avoided in the as the wind ceased cent of this moun on the glacier it tain. Even Kar w o u l d g r o w in stens, who packed tensely hot. On his "hundred and the 4 t h June at The North Peak, near the summit of which the Pio. a q u a r t e r " day neer or " Sour-dough " party of climbers planted 3 p. m . the t h e r after day over the a flagstaff, in 1910, which is still standing. m o m e t e r in the Chilkoot Pass in full sunshine rose 1897, and is still to 5 0 F., the highest temperature record in his early thirties, would admit that he ed on the whole journey. But it was al was " heavy." T o roam over glaciers and ways cold at night, io° below zero being scramble up peaks free and untrammelled the highest minimum during our stay in is mountaineering in the Alps—to toil up the Grand Basin, and 2 1 below zero the ward with a forty-pound pack on one's lowest. Here we appreciated our supera back and the knowledge that to-morrow bundant bedding of down quilts and cam- one must go down for another is moun el's-hair blankets and wolf-robe, with cari taineering in Alaska. In the ascent of bou-skins under us next the ice. We were this twenty-thousand-foot mountain ev burnt as brown as Indians, lips split and ery member of the party climbed at least noses peeled in spite of continual applica sixty thousand feet. tions of lanoline; but, thanks to those be The altitude affected the writer so se neficent amber glasses, no one had the riously as he rose in the Grand Basin that slightest irritation of the eyes. his packing had to be reduced to the mer Some passing reference has already been curial barometer and the ruck-sack of in0

0

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struments and cameras. But Tatum and Walter, in the vigor of their twenty-first year, were always most kindly willing to offer their broad shoulders for additional burdens. Even this load caused such con stant stopping to regain breath, such fits of panting, that he had at last to be re lieved of all save the mercurial barometer, to which he clung tenaciously. He had always expected it to be broken and much preferred to break it himself than subject any other to that mortification. By the time the eighteen-thousand-foot camp was reached, and Karstens had been congratu lated upon making the highest camp ever made in North America, Mr. Fitzgerald's experience on Aconcagua had come to the writer's remembrance, and he recalled with a sinking of the heart that, although every other member of the party reached the summit, that gentleman himself was never able to do so despite repeated at tempts. While we were resting, on our way to this last camp, sitting on the glacier, now enjoying the beautiful turquoise blue of the serac and now gazing at the sombre pinnacles of the North Peak, we fell to talking about the pioneer climbers of this mountain, who claimed to have set a flag staff near the North Peak's summit; as to which feat a great deal of incredulity has existed in Alaska, not without some rea son; and we renewed our determination that if the weather served, when we had ascended the South Peak and reached our goal, we would climb the North Peak also, to seek for traces of this earliest exploit on Denali. All at once Walter cried out, " I see the flagstaff!" eagerly pointing to the rocky peak nearest the summit, for the summit itself is covered with snow. Kar stens, looking where he pointed, saw it also, and, whipping out the field-glasses, one by one we all looked and all saw it distinctly, standing out against the sky. Through the glasses it rose sturdy and strong, one side covered with crusted snow; and we were greatly rejoiced that we could carry down confirmation of the matter. It was no longer necessary to climb the North Peak. One would like to tell the laboriously unravelled story of this extraordinary ascent; as a tour de force of "sour-dough" mountaineering it is certainly unique in climbing annals.

The bare fact is all that can be stated here: That in 1 9 1 0 three miners of the Kantishna—Anderson, Taylor, and McGonogall—members of an expedition or ganized by Tom Lloyd, who had never been on a snow mountain before, without ropes or any special equipment save enor mous climbing-irons strapped under their moccasins, carried a fourteen-foot flag staff up twenty thousand feet and planted it so firmly that it stands there yet. We could have attempted the summit from the seventeen-thousand-foot level of the Grand Basin without making our last camp at all, but we deemed it best to re duce the extent of the final climb as much as possible. So we packed everything up another thousand feet. Here the hypsometer boiled at 180.5 d mercurial barometer stood at 15.061. "This is about the level of perpetual snow on the great peaks of the Himalayas, but we had climbed some fourteen thousand feet of ice and snow since leaving our base camp. We were now within about twenty-five hundred feet of the summit, with rations of food and fuel for a couple of weeks, which at a pinch could be stretched to three. The end of our painful transporta tion was accomplished as we had planned it; we were at the base of the final peak, prepared to besiege it. If the weather should prove bad we could wait. We could advance our parallels, could put an other camp on the ridge at nineteen thou sand feet, and yet another half-way up the dome. If we had to fight our way continuously and could advance but a couple of hundred feet a day, we were confident that, barring accident or desper ate misfortune, we could reach the top. But it would be a poor success that did but set our feet on the highest point; we wanted a clear day. And we were prer pared to wait for it. As so often happens, when everything unpropitious is guarded against, nothing unpropitious occurs. It would have been a wonderful chance indeed if, supplied for only one day, a clear day had come. But supplied against bad weather for two or three weeks, it was no wonder at all that the very first day should have presented itself fine and bright. Our ill fortune had exhausted itself below; here, where above all other junctures we should a n

t

n

e

The Ascent of Denali have chosen to enjoy it, we encountered our good fortune. At four o'clock in the morning of the 7th June, we went out into a brilliant day

547

(one of which we were passing round), the centre of the ridge rising above both peaks. It was bitterly cold; all the morning toes and fingers were without sensation, kick

Starting for the last day's climb. T h e rocks 011 the upper left hand are at about 19,000 feet, and are the highest rocks on the mountain.

with never a cloud in the sky. The sun was shining, but a keen north wind was blowing and the thermometer stood at — 4 F. The north wind that bit into us shrewdly was really our friend: it had swept the vapor from the whole moun tain. We took a straight course up the great snow ridge that rose immediately south of our camp and then around the peak which rises from it—quickly told, in deed, but slowly and laboriously done, although the climbing-irons gave us suf ficient grip upon its hard surface to avoid the toil of step-cutting for the most part. It was necessary to make the traverse high up on this peak instead of around its base, so much had the ice been shattered by the earthquake in the lower portions. But above this point there was no further earthquake sign. The summits were un touched. As we passed around the peak, there rose before us the horseshoe ridge which masks the final height of Denali—a horseshoe ridge of snow, opening to the east, with a low snow peak at either end 0

V o l . LIV.—51

them and beat them as we would. All were clad in full winter hand and foot gear, more than had sufficed at 5 0 F. below zero on the Yukon trail. Within the writer's No. 16 moccasins were no less than five pairs of the heaviest socks. Upon his hands were a pair of the thickest Scotch wool gloves, thrust inside huge lynx-paw mittens lined with Hudson's-Bay duffle. Yet until nigh noon his feet were like lumps of iron and his fingers con stantly numb. What should we have done with the usual leather foot-gear used in Alpine work? It is certain that cold is felt much more keenly at these altitudes than it is below. Karstens beat his feet so violently and so continually against the hard snow to restore the circulation that two of his toe-nails sloughed off after ward. By eleven o'clock we had been climbing for seven hours and were well around the peak, advancing up the hol low of the horseshoe ridge, but even then there were grave doubts if we should suc ceed in reaching the summit that day; it 0

548


in some measure sheltered from the north wind, and the sun full upon us gave us more warmth, with occasional hints of dig ital existences. It was hereabout that the climbing party of last year was driven back by the bliz zard that descended upon them when so near their goal. And indeed not until we had stopped for lunch and had drunk the scalding hot tea from the vacuum bottles, did we all begin to be confident that this day would see the completion of our ascent. The writer's shortness of breath b e c a m e more and more distressing as he rose; all were more affected than at any time before, but none of the others in this acute way. The fits of panting be came more frequent and more violent; at such times everything would turn black before his eyes and he would choke and seem unable to re cover his breath at all. Yet a few moments' rest recovered him as completely as ever, to struggle on another twenty or thirty paces, and to sink gasping on the snow again. There were no other symp toms ; it was simply asphyxi The r a i s i n g o f the f l a g . * ation owing to the inability [Extract from writer's letter a c c o m p a n y i n g the photographs.] to inhale sufficient oxygen, It is on one of the little haycock summits of the crater-like basin (60 ft. x 20 ft., or there abouts) which occupies the summit of Denali. where the pressure was con It'has been snapped on another picture, to which other picture the dark figure i m p i n g i n g upon the flag-bearer belongs. siderably less than half an It was thus atmosphere. Walter had al ready i n s i s t e d upon assu ming the mercurial barom eter, which the writer had hoped to carry to the top. He surrendered it, however, glad to accept the boy's eager kindness, more than one. However, when there content now if he should succeed in get is no sensation left in the feet it is hard ting himself to the top. to be quite sure whether they are actu ally freezing or not, and the attack upon At last the crest of the ridge was reached the summit was given the benefit of the and we stood well above the two peaks doubt. which rise at the ends of the horseshoe. Once entirely around the peak, we were We had been aware for some time that we were above the North Peak, for its apex * This and the two following pictures were considered failures by the writer, who said that his "first impulse was had been like an index as we rose, and we to tear them u p " ; but they have seemed of such interest as documents showing the difficult conditions, that it has been had paused and noted the spot where decided to print them. The intense cold made it practically we seemed level with it. But still there impossible to feel when the camera was snapped. wassocold. Anintimation fromanymember of the party that his feet were actu ally freezing would have sent us all back, and the word had trembled on the lips of


549

stretched ahead of us, and perhaps one aneroid was read at once at 13.2 inches, hundred feet above us, another small ridge with its mendacious altitude-scale point with a pair of haycock summits. This is ing confidently at 23,300 feet. A thou the real top of Denali. From below it sand feet of this excess is, of course, the merges indistinguishably even on a clear day, with the crest of the horseshoe ridge, with which it is parallel, but it is not a part of it, but a culminating ridge be yond it. With keen excitement we pushed on. Walter, who had been in the lead all day, was the first to scramble up; a native Alaskan, he is the first human being to set foot upon the summit of Alaska's great mountain, and he had well earned the lifelong distinction. KarstensandTatum were close behind him; but the last man on the rope, in his en thusiasm and excitement some what overpassing his narrow wind margin, had almost to be hauled up the few final feet, and lost consciousness for a moment as he fell upon the floor of the little basin that o c c u p i e s the summit. The top of this mountain is a small crater-like snow-basin, about sixty or sixty-five feet long, and twenty or twenty-five feet wide, much c o r n i c e d on the southwest side, and looking as if every violent storm might some what change its form. Of its two little snow turrets the south ern one is slightly the higher. When breath was recovered T h e r e a d i n g of the instruments. and the panting was done, all the T h e tent has been thrown down that the picture might be taken, and shows party gathered in a group and a the mercurial barometer on its tripod and the B. P. thermometer. brief prayer of thanksgiving to Almighty God was said for granting us our fault of the makers of aneroids, who per heart's desire, and permitting us to reach sist in putting their zero at 31 inches in in safety the top of his great mountain. stead of at 30; but the remainder repre This prime duty done, we fell at once to our sents the loss of the instrument since scientific duties. The instrument tent was leaving the base camp. While we stayed set up; the mercurial barometer, taken upon the summit it dropped to 1 3 . 1 5 , and from its leather case, and then from its shot us up another hundred feet into the wooden case, was swung upon its tripod; a air. Soon the water was boiling in the little rough zero was established; and it was left tubes of the hypsometer, and the mercury awhile to adjust itself to conditions before column rose to 1 7 4 . 9 and stayed there. attempting a reading. It was a very great There is something positive and uncom gratification to find it uninjured. The promising about the boiling-point ther boiling-point apparatus was put together mometer : it reaches its mark unmistakably and its candle lighted. The three-inch and does not budge. The reading of the 0

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mercurial barometer is a slower and more delicate business, but with care will give a very much closer result. It takes a good light and a good sight to be sure the ivory zero-point is exactly touching the surface of the mercury in the cistern; it takes care and precision to get the ver nier arm exactly level with the top of the column. And then there are all sorts of corrections to be applied before the figures can be used, and calculations to be made from the simultaneous or nearly simultane ous reading picked out from those kindly taken for us during our whole absence by Captain Michel, the officer in command of the signal corps at Fort Gibbon, on the Yukon. The reading on the mountain top was approximately 13.6 inches. Meanwhile Tatum had been taking a round of angles of the prominent peaks with the prismatic compass. He could not handle it with sufficient exactness with his mitts on, and he froze his fingers doing it barehanded. We had talked about a small theodolite and a plane table, but were very glad we had not burdened ourselves with them; we could not have used them—it was too bitterly cold. Not until this scientific work was all done did we indulge ourselves in the won derful prospect that stretched all around us. We were above the whole visible world. Immediately before us, in the direction in which we had climbed, lay— nothing: an awful void, a sheer gulf many thousands of feet deep; and one drew instinctively back from the little parapet of the snow-basin when one had glanced below. Beyond, perhaps fifteen or twenty miles away, and three thousand feet below, with nothing but space be tween, was the great mass of Denali's Wife, or "Mount Foraker," as some white men misname her, majestically filling all the middle distance. It was our first glimpse of her during the whole ascent. Denali's Wife does not appear upon the horizon save from the actual summit of Denali, for she is completely hidden by his South Peak until the moment when his South Peak is surmounted. On that spot one understood why the view of the mountains from Lake Minchumina is the grand view. There are no slopes and ridges, no buttresses, no lesser peaks— nothing but that awful void from the top to nigh the bottom of the mountain. Be

yond Denali's Wife, stretched blue and vague to the southwest the wide valley of the Kuskokwim, with an end of all moun tains. T o the north we looked right over the North Peak to the foot-hills below, dotted with lakes and lingering snow, gleaming with water-courses. We had hoped to see the junction of the Yukon and Tanana Rivers, one hundred and fifty miles away to the northwest, as we had often, in the winter, seen the summit of Denali from that point, but the haze that almost always qualifies a clear sum mer day inhibited that stretch of vision. Perhaps the forest fires we found raging on the Tanana were already beginning to foul the northern sky. It was, however, to the south and the east that the most marvellous prospect spread before us. What infinite com plexity of mountains, range upon range, until gray sea merged with gray sky in the ultimate south! The near-by peaks and ridges stood out, startlingly stereo scopic—the glaciation, the river drainage, the relation of each part to the others, all revealed. There the Chulitna and Sushitna, with networks of shining tributa ries, received the southern waters for Cook's Inlet; here the Kantishna and the Nenana, their forks and their affluents, gathered the northern waters for the Yukon and Bering Sea. In the distance, the snow-covered tops of a thousand peaks dwindled and dwindled away, floating in the thin air when their bases were no longer distinguishable, stretching perhaps one hundred and fifty, perhaps two hun dred, miles; the whole beautiful crescent curve of the Alaskan range uncovered from Denali to the coast. Overhead the sky took a blue so deep that none of us had ever gazed upon a midday sky like it before, yet by no stretch of speech could it be called black, as has been said by some about the sky at great alti tudes; it was a deep, rich, lustrous, trans parent blue, as dark as a Prussian blue, but intensely blue, a hue so strange, so increas ingly impressive, that to one at least it "seemed like special news of God." " Surely 'tis h a l f - w a y to eternity T o go where o n l y size a n d color live,"

as a new poet sings. We first noticed the dark tint of the upper sky in the Grand Basin, and it deepened as we rose.

T h e saying of the T e Deum. This picture was snapped three times instead of mice. Karstens's finders were freezing and the bulb-release was broken. figures were in the group. Left to right, Walter, Tatuni, and the author, with parkee hood drawn up.

It is difficult to describe at all the scene which the top of the mountain displayed, and impossible to describe it adequately; one was not occupied with the thought of description, but wholly possessed with the breadth and glory of it—with the amazing immensity of it. Only once, perhaps, in any lifetime is such a vision granted; cer tainly never before had been vouchsafed to any of us. Not often in the summer-time does Denali completely unveil himself and dismiss the clouds from all the earth be neath. Y e t we could not linger, unique though the occasion, dearly bought our privilege; the miserable limitations of the flesh gave us constant warning to depart; we grew colder and still more wretchedly cold. The thermometer stood at 7 in the full sunshine, and the north wind was keener than ever. The writer's fingers were so cold that he would not venture to withdraw them from his mitts again to change the film in the camera, and the other men were in like case; indeed our hands were by this time so numb as to render it almost impossible to operate a camera. A number of photographs had been taken, though not half we should have liked to take—and there yet remained the ceremonies we had determined upon.

Only three

When the mercurial barometer had been read, the instrument tent was thrown down and abandoned, and its tent-pole used for a moment as a flagstaff, while Mr. Tatum hoisted a little United States flag he had patiently and skilfully constructed in our camps below out of two silk handkerchiefs and the cover of a sewing-bag. Then the tent-pole was put to its permanent use. It had already been carved with a suit able inscription, and now a transverse piece was securely lashed to it, and it was planted on one of the little snow turrets of the summit: the sign of Our Redemption, raised high above North America. [It was of light, dry birch—had been one of the rails of a basket-sled — and, though six feet high, so slender that we think it may weather many a gale; and Walter planted it so deeply and so firmly that it could not be withdrawn again. Then we gathered around it and said the Te Deum. There is much else to tell, but the space is gone. The descent was full of interest; the return journey in the first flush of summer as different as possible from the journey of approach. But even this narrative, hydraulically compressed into prescribed limits, must 55i

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not close without an earnest plea for the restoration of the native names of this mountain and its companion peak. If there be any authority or standing what ever in such a matter from the accom plishment of a first complete ascent, the writer values it only as it may give weight to this plea. T o have the incompara ble view of these mountains from Lake Minchumina, as he did in 1911, is to rec ognize at once the simple appropriate ness of the native names. There, side by side, they rise: Denali, "the Great One," the master peak; Denali's Wife, the lesser but still enormous mass; while far below, the little peaks that stretch between like ruined arches of some Gothic cloister, are the children. Why should a man who saw them a hundred miles away, fifteen years ago, be permitted to abolish names immemorially bestowed by the original inhabitants of the land and substitute for them the names of modern politicians? The geographical societies of the world have long since set their faces against this clapping of modern names upon great mountains that lift their ancient heads amongst ancient peoples. The English geographers prefer K 2 , the surveyor's designation of the second highest peak of the Himalayas, which the Duke of the Abruzzi climbed in 1909, the highest point ever reached by man, to " Mount GodwinAustin," so long as there is question about the native name, despite Colonel Godwin-Austin's long connection with the Trigonometrical Survey of India; and the Continental geographers will not yet call the world's highest known peak after Sir George Everest, who first fixed its position and altitude, despite the accidental appro priateness of the name, and the assurance of the British Government that it bears no distinctive native name, until they are better satisfied of this last. Some call it Gaurisankar, and some Lupti Chang. There seems, indeed, to men of feeling, a certain ruthless arrogance in the temper that comes to an unexplored land and contemptuously ignores the native names of conspicuous natural objects, almost always significant and appropriate, and overlays them with new names that are neither the one nor the other: this, in general, without specific application to the renaming of Denali. Even great men

have not been free from this folly. The world lost one of its most stately placenames when David Livingstone, in an excess of loyalty, substituted " Victoria F a l l s " for " t h e Thundering Smoke." If it be permitted to propose a com promise, the writer would venture the following suggestion: since the name of the martyred President is closely asso ciated in the popular mind with this moun tain, and no one would wish to detract from honor done his memory, let that name be retained for the highest peak, perhaps twenty thousand five hundred feet high, or even a little more, which the present expedition is the first to climb; let it be called the " M c K i n l e y Peak of Denali"; let the North Peak, some twenty thou sand feet high, be called after the men who climbed it and set the flagstaff upon it in 1910, the "Pioneer Peak of Denali," members as they were of the Order of Alaskan Pioneers; but let the name "De nali" be retained for the whole mountain mass. As regards the companion peak, not associated with any martyred or he roic character, the plea is entered for the simple restoration of the native name, "Denali's Wife." Theie yet remains of obligation a trib ute to the three members of the expedi tion who displayed a kindly consideration for one, much their senior, who could not always measure up to their physical strength and endurance; to Karstens, in domitable, indefatigable, resourceful, the real leader of the party; to Tatum, gentle and willing, bearing his full share of every burden; to Walter, strong and agile, eager and loyal, who took to mountaineering as a duck takes to water. Nor must Johnny be forgotten, who stayed a month all by himself at the base camp, and killed cari bou and fed the dogs—and would not use the sugar. T o Bishop Rowe, who gave his "cordial assent" to the undertaking and the necessary leave of absence, and so rendered it possible, there is lasting ob ligation—one more added to a long list. T o the men in the Kantishna, generous of help and hospitality, we all owe our thanks; and to those at the various mis sion stations who took a personal inter est in the enterprise and furthered it by every means in their power there is a debt of deep gratitude.

THE

MASTER

STRATEGIST

By Katharine Holland Brown ILLUSTRATION

(FRONTISPIECE)

BY L U C I U S

JIGID in immaculate linens, whiter than white samite, the a d m i r a l sat at t h e veranda rail. T h e r e was not a glint of expression in his hard, handsome, elderly face. 'His heavy jaw was set. His nar row ice-blue eyes, always so oddly light in his bronzed face, stared unblinking, past columned marble and velvet-green terrace, past the rainbow sunken gardens, past the gray cliff-rim, down to the silver bar that was the sea. Across the veranda, sheathed like an ancient empress in her dull-hued sump tuous wrappings, his aunt sat watching him. She had laid down the knitting which her restless old hands craved. Against the rich blurred-silken rug that covered her knees, that gray-yarn sock, with its homely needles, fairly stuck out of the picture, as comically astray as a dandelion in the flaunting exotic borders below. Above their naive pastime the aunt's brown, withered hands lay locked and tense. Half-hidden in swathing lace, her brown face peered out, masked in scrutably beneath its hundred wrinkles. Her deep eyes, hooded in dark, shrivelled lids, like the eyes of a tired old hawk in the sunshine, held a dim yet steady flame. And on her face lay a faint amusement, a queer sardonic gleam. She was eighty-seven years old. For twenty of those interminable years she had sat in her chair, bound prisoner. On her face glimmered always that calm, pitying humor of one who, aloof, waiting, has long watched the hurrying world rush by on its futile road. Although, as a flippant grandson once put it, there was precious little that had ever got by Aunt Celestia. A t length she spoke. " S o you've made up your mind. Christiny shall not marry Lawrence Gar diner. That's settled and solid. H'm. ;

WOLCOTT HITCHCOCK

Then why are you actin' so pouty, 'Siah?" The admiral squirmed. When you have toiled for half a century to live down a droll old rustic name, it is a little try ing to have that buried chagrin dug up once more. Worse, he felt darkly that Aunt Celestia often dragged it out, much as she dragged out her own quaint old ways of speech, purposely to heckle him a bit. " Y e s . I have made my decision. It is final." "That's no great job for an Ipswich Stafford." His aunt fumbled with her needles. Her voice was amazingly young. It flowed with a round sweetness and depth from her lean old throat. " T h e Staffords were all as set as the Champney Elm. Queer, that the Stafford blood in Christiny doesn't bob up, right now, and have its say. But that child gives up to you at every turn. And she's your own granddaughter. I don't understand it." The admiral frowned. " Christine is a dutiful child. As to dis position, she is very like—" he halted. Then his harsh face lighted with a curious inward shining. "She is very like Marianna used to be. Marianna was always so—so gentle." That white glow van ished from his face. He sagged a little in his chair. "Anybody'd need to be gentle to live in the same house with you, 'Siah. Or with me, either. Now, why aren't you satisfied with Lawrence?" " I t is no use to discuss my reasons, Aunt Celestia." " I aim to discuss 'em, just the same." Aunt Celestia's needles snapped. " L a w rence is good blood. None better in New England. He's well educated; stood up head at Harvard Medical, they say. He's poor, of course. But he has eight hun dred a year. So they needn't starve out553

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right. He has three good hospital offers this minute " " Y o u must have looked him up thor oughly, Aunt Celestia." " I did that. What else do I keep my secretary-woman for? And he's young, and healthy, and grand to look at. And he and Christiny think the world belongs to them. Now, 'Siah, it's your turn." The admiral glowered at the horizon. He held his venerable aunt in deep esteem. Y e t in his soul he longed to order her to the brig for insubordination. " I have little to say." His face dropped into iron grooves. "Christine is too young for marriage." " She's twenty-two. Y o u were twentythree when her ma was born, weren't you?" " T h a t was very different, Aunt Ce lestia. Christine is only a child. And Lawrence is a spoiled cub. He has no judgment." " N o judgment?" " He wants to resign out of the service. When I myself suggested his appointment as surgeon on the Connecticut!" The admiral reddened ominously. " S a y s he has 'other plans for his life-work.' Im pudent young blockhead!" "Oho. So he won't be a navy doc tor? Wants to stay out and be his own boss?" "Listen, Aunt Celestia. That boy is a waster, I tell you. An utter waster. He has no gratitude. He has heaved all his chances overboard. Says all the godlike splendors of gold braid and buttons aboard the Connecticut won't balance a work ing laboratory ashore. Says he's going to spend his life on preventive medicine. Pre ventive poppycock! Glorified hygiene, that's all it means. Says he wants to be a public-school physician in New York. Can you believe it? He'll take a piffling job ashore, because it will give him plenty of mumps and measles to practice on, and three or four hours a day to tinker with his condemned germs!'' The admiral sat back, quite purple. " Y e s . " His aunt nodded. She bent over her knitting. " I ' v e talked with Lawrence myself. He's some obstinate, too, 'Siah. Says he's perfecting a new stain, so's he can sort out some germs that have never been sorted out before. ' Iso

lated,' he calls it. Says if he can just iso late one single germ, and find one anti toxin, he'll feel prouder than if he'd blown up all the navies of Europe." She raised her dusk lids and gave the admiral a long glance. " T h a t ' s no ha'penny aim, Josiah. It's the fighting will of the great pioneers, the great discoverers. If I was you, I'd full as lieve watch my grand child's husband build up health for com ing generations as build himself a fine fig ure in the navy. What d' you say?" The admiral found his broad sea-way blocked by a small but convincing reef. " I want Christine's future provided for. I don't propose that her life shall be cramped by her husband's needs." " Tut, tut. Christiny won't be a pauper. Unless I live forever, she'll be pretty well fixed. T r y again, Josiah." " I do not like Lawrence's change of plan. It looks as if the boy were vacil lating." " M a y b e Lawrence and Christiny want to do their own plannin'. Listen, Josiah." Her sweet, deep voice rose, challenging. "When folks are young and healthy and high-spirited, they don't ask to be settled. They want to break away from the trod den roads, to set out and explore. If I know Christiny, she's eager to share Law rence's life, to the last ditch. She won't care whether she's rich or poor, long's she knows she's Lawrence's partner. And knows she's doing her share." Her voice rang on a strange and passionate note. " M y , what wouldn't I give to be young again! An' startin' out with my own part ner—an' doin' my share!" The admiral fell back upon vested au thority. "Christine will listen to my advice. There is nothing more to say." There was a long silence. It might— perhaps—have been the silence of defeat. A t last Aunt Celestia's needles began again their clicking rhythm. "Where will Christiny stay next month while you're conducting battle manoeu vres? Can't I keep her with me? " " Thank you, Aunt Celestia. But Mrs. Fitzgerald Jones has begged me to let her have Christine for a month. A t Lenox, you know." " M r s . Fitzgerald Jones!" Aunt Celestia's knitting fell from her

T h e Master Strategist hands. Her lean old body stiffened erect. Her eyes blazed wide. " T h a t dough-faced Ensign Jones's ma! I see. You'll send Christiny to visit them. You'll give that sissy young snip every chance. Right over poor Law rence's head!" The admiral leaped up as if a mine had exploded under his port bow. Aunt Ce lestia stormed straight on. " I know now, 'Siah. That's why Law rence doesn't suit! Fitzgerald Jones has two millions in his own right. And he'll never worry you by vacillatin' behavior. He hasn't enough git-up-and-git to vac illate, if he tried. So you're deliber ately puttin' those children apart! So you're deliberately planning an engage ment " " I ' m deliberately doing nothing of the sort!" roared the admiral. " I ' m the last man on earth to force Christine into an unwelcome marriage. But give the sissy snip his due. Jones is not an entrancing object, I'll admit. But he has money, position, a settled place in life. All those things count. Your idea that Christine shall be her husband's partner, share his struggles, fight beside him to the last ditch — all very charming, Aunt Celes tia. But those romantic days are past and gone. Moreover, Lawrence has had the whole road. Now Jones shall have his chance. And I'll wager you anything you say, Aunt Celestia, that Jones will win!" Then the admiral looked down the gar den. And the admiral's mouth closed with such precipitation that he narrowly escaped biting his eloquent tongue. Up the terrace came two loitering fig ures. The late sunshine laid kindling fin gers on Christine's fair head, her beauti ful downcast face. Close beside her walked young Gardiner, that husky, splen did young giant, his black head bent eager ly above her grave white loveliness. The two mounted the stairs and greeted the elder people deferentially. But it was obvious that to their blank intent young eyes the stately Aunt Celestia and the commander-in-chief of the North Atlantic Fleet were as the marble columns behind them. Silent, as wrapped in some still enchantment, they wandered down the veranda to the deep arch where late wisVOL.

LIV.—52

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taria drifted in violet shadows on the marble floor. For a long minute the admiral stared absently at Christine. Then, with an odd, sharp sigh, he turned away and sat look ing out to sea. Aunt Celestia knitted on. Her face was tranquil as a mask of ivory. A t last she spoke. "See, it's the eighteenth that battle manoeuvres begin, 'Siah?" "Yes." " I've always laid out to ask you just what battle manoeuvres are." Her voice was suave as honey. " I wish you'd ex plain 'em, slow and easy, so I'll under stand." The admiral looked at the two rapt young faces, deep in the wistaria shade. This was tactful of Aunt Celestia. He took up the shrewdly neutral topic. "Battle manoeuvres are battle manoeu vres, that's all. Our ships, the Red Squad ron of the North Atlantic, are ordered to attack a certain port. The Blue Squad ron is sent to defend that port. All meth ods of actual warfare are used. Torpedoes, submarines, night attack, everything." " I f you'd get a chance, would you slip up on the other admiral, 'Siah? Would you take him by surprise?" "Would I ? " The admiral's glum face warmed with delighted reminiscence. " D o n ' t you remember the time I bagged Admiral MacMahon and his whole di vision?" " W h a t did you do to him, 'Siah?" " D o to him? Put him out of. action. Forced him to unconditional surrender." The admiral chuckled sinfully. " M y or ders were to hold him back from attack ing Provincetown. He, on his part, was to take Provincetown, and scoop in my squadron at the same time. Now, I know MacMahon pretty well. So I sent a decoy after him. One of my crack destroyers, looking completely disabled, was towed diagonally across his course, headed for Boston Light. MacMahon is a grasping old pirate. I'd counted on that bargaingrabbing nature of his; I knew he couldn't see one lone destroyer limp by, without giving chase. Give chase he did, though it was late afternoon, and threatening fog, and a mighty ticklish chance. M y destroyer dodged into Fairport Harbor.

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Pelting after, like so many rats into a trap, came MacMahon's ships. T h e y were within a mile of the breakwater when the fog rolled in. That was all I wanted. M y ships were hidden just past the head lands. We came steaming round the cape, and bottled him up at the harbor mouth before you could say Jack Robinson. T h a t trick put his whole squadron out of ac tion. It would have cost him his sword in real war. Poor old MacMahon! He was pretty well cut up." " S o you treat the other admiral just like your enemy." The clicking needles stopped short. Beneath the hooded lids Aunt Celestia's old eyes lighted with a cold flame—like the eyes of a wise old hawk, dozing in the sun. " Y o u ' d fool him with a decoy boat, then slip up and trap his ships, and disqualify him as an officer " "Nonsense; no. Not'disqualify.' Nev er." The admiral glanced restively at those still absorbed young faces. " T o lose is no proof of inefficiency. It shows that the loser is lacking in strategy. He is short on forethought. He isn't watch ing out for surprises. ' T h e essence of strategy is forethought,' " he quoted, a little pompously. "Precisely as 'the es sence of tactics is surprise.' I outplayed him, that was all. And there is no ill feeling between MacMahon and myself. The old chap is a good loser. I could not pay him a higher compliment." There was a mild complacence in his eye. " I see." The steady needles flashed on. Again the admiral looked at the two in the wistaria shade. Again that odd wistful light crossed his harsh face. They did not heed his glances. Their quiet voices came and went, low as the beemurmur in the garden below. He glanced at Aunt Celestia—her help less, chained old body; her dim old face, with its brave humor, its stony patience. His own face softened. What a long, strange, eventful comedy her life had been! Seventy years ago Aunt Celestia and his mother had been sisters together in a quiet old Puritan home, back in the New Hampshire hills. Celestia was the elfin changeling of that sober flock, a beauti ful, vivid, self-willed girl—"our cardinalflower," he had heard his mother call her, many a time. Celestia was destined for

the missionary field. So her pious father had decreed. B u t when she was seven teen Warren Boardman, her boy sweet heart, now a daring young adventurer from the West, came back, and demanded her for his wife. Kind, inexorable, her parents put him aside. Their Celestia was called to a higher path. Their Celestia, however, arose straightway, and packed her skimpy little hair trunk. Then she called her kinsfolk together. Over and over the ad miral had heard his mother tell those quiet, defiant words. "Warren is not just my lover. He is my man. He is the other half of me. We shall be wed to-day. Then we go away, to the Far West — to Ohio. Y o u will choose, my father, whether we go in peace or in anger. B u t go we shalL For we two are one flesh." Swallowing his wrath, the wise father had given her a seemly wedding, and a brand-new feather-bed. Insolently hap py, she and her Warren had set their faces to the sunset. For twenty-two years they had toiled and prospered. Celestia's rare letters home were so many exultant chronicles of thriving children, of widening lands. Then came the Civil War. Warren and the two eldest boys joined the Union ar my. Celestia and the five younger chil dren stayed at home and worked the farm —and waited. In '62 Warren was brought home to her. For two years he was to Celestia as her adored piteous child. With her soul and with her body she cherished him, pouring her indomitable spirit into him, holding the life in his shattered flesh by the sheer power of her passion and her tenderness. In '64 he died. Then the two boys came back, worn and haggard, the spring of life broken in them. Celestia put her dead away and gave herself to her children. The admiral remembered his first sight of her. Through those hurtling war years he had thought of her, his mother's dear est sister, with sympathy, yet with a comfortable sense of her secure means. When the war broke out he knew that she and Warren had owned over a thousand acres of land. It was good to feel that she need not face poverty as well as bereave ment.

T h e Master Strategist In ' 7 1 , not six weeks after he and Marianna were married, he was ordered to Vicksburg. B y snatching a day out of their journey they could make a detour and see Aunt Celestia. From a bleak way-station they had driven miles on miles, down through wet gray November country. They did not see the desolate roads, the bare, cold fields. Young and gay and successful, they were going to see Aunt Celestia—Aunt Celestia, herself the one young, gay, successful, vivid figure in all their bleak traditions. " She's just like a cardinal-flower, moth er used to say," he told Marianna over and over. And Marianna, all lovely eager ness, looked forward as to the vision of a princess—a princess in a strange palace, far away. A t last they drove up a miry lane and stopped before a low log house. Around it stretched dead gray bottom-lands. Above it hung a gray and bitter sky. " T h i s can't be the place!" Marianna's blue eyes were wide. " O f course not. But I'll stop and ask the w a y . " A group of shy tow-headed children hovered round, and stared at the wonder of Marianna. One stammered bashfully, would they not 'light and get warm? They crossed the puncheon floor to the hearth. The dusky room was clean and bare, and gaunt as poverty. But over the mantel hung a queer little faulty draw ing in india-ink—a girlish face, under lan guishing ringlets—his own mother's face. Amazed, he turned to Marianna. Then he looked through the low door. Up the dripping lane floundered two tired plough-horses. Their shaggy heads drooped. The black mud clung to their fetlocks. Behind them strode a woman. Her coarse skirts were heavy with loam. Her sun-browned face was ashen with fa tigue. But she held her head high, and she entered her mean cabin with a noble graciousness. " I f I'd known you were coming, I'd have left my ploughing till to-morrow." Her deep eyes searched the man and the girl. " N o need to tell me. You're my sis ter Evelina's own boy. And this is your wife? " She put out her big, stained hands, with a beautiful greeting. " A n d I—I'm Celestia."

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This Celestia! This lank, gray, beaten field-woman was the cardinal-flower of his mother's wistful memory! She had made them welcome. She had built up her scanty fire. She had set her poor best before them: bread and mush on earthen plates, and a hoarded golden mor sel of honey. Nothing more. " Y o u ' l l think it shame that I don't even offer you silver spoons to eat with." She flushed painfully. " B u t it's all gone, every piece. I sold it, and all our furni ture, too, when I sold our house and came down here to live. I had to do it, so's to pay the taxes and hold on to our land. For—for he said I mustn't let oneinch g o . " Her gray eyes burned with sombre fire. " Now he's gone, seems like the least I can do is to hold it fast. There's over twelve hundred acres, countin' the unbroke land in Michigan, and that forest tract in Ar kansas. Folks say I'm foolish to try. But I'll never let it g o . " She had kept her word. Summer and winter she slaved to hold that land. She rose before daybreak to cook and churn. She bent her weary back to the plough. She studied nights to help the younger children along. A t last, long after she had seen her youngest child safely through col lege, when the grim, breaking strain was ended, then, with arch-irony, Fate turned the wheel. On the wild Michigan land copper was discovered. A year later a great railroad built a terminal on the very edge of her Arkansas forest. Wealth poured in upon Aunt Celestia, a golden stream. She took it with the same sardonic quiet that she took the curious weakness that had already bound her to her chair. She gave bountiful allowances to her children. In her dead love's name she set up chari ties with a shrewd and generous hand. Then she did what nobody on earth but Aunt Celestia would ever dream of doing. Old and frail and helpless, she had herself carried to the sea-shore. There, on a high cliff, she had ordered the building of this palace where she now sat, a moveless an cient chatelaine. " Y e s , it's queer I didn't go back to New Hampshire and fix up the old home, instead," she said crisply to her bewildered kin. " B u t I'm past eighty years old. And all my life I've hankered to sit and

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neighbor with the sea. He used to know. He promised me, time and again, that some- day we'd go back and build us a house, high on a rock, lookin' straight out toward sunrise. And we'd fill it with beautiful things, and have all our friends to visit us. Now I shall have my house and my friends, and my sea, and my sun rises, just as we two planned. He'd be better satisfied so. And so shall I." Those years which had brought her such changes had brought bitter changes to the admiral. His Marianna had slipped away within the year. Their baby daugh ter had grown to womanhood; then she, too, had been taken from him. Her three children came home to the admiral. They had been the pride of his lonely days. The boys were fine youngsters; but Christine—Christine, this tall, goldenheaded, rose-cheeked young Dian, had somehow a deeper hold. The admiral was the type of man who loves to lavish on his womenkind. It rasped his grim loving old heart to think how little he had been able to give to Marianna and his daughter. Of late a dogged aim had crys tallized in his mind. In so far as his slender income permitted, he had trained Christine to the habits and the view-point of wealth. A girl of Christine's beauty and distinction—it was all very obvious. In time she would possess great riches. He would fit her for all the obligations that her high estate would entail. Aunt Celestia's needles clicked on, a mystic tune. In the late sunlight they wove a checkered arras on the marble floor, a mesh of eerie sorcery. Bent above them, her old face took on the veiled, watchful calm of an old necromancer watching her thin, potent web of shadow and sun. " Y o u planning to spend a week at camp, Josiah?" The admiral brightened. Of all the sumptuous playthings that Aunt Celestia gave her guests, the Boars' Head Camp was his delight. " I've been figurin' that you'd like to go. You'll find a whole parcel of my friends there. Doctor Benedict, and Judge Cur tis, and so on. A n d — " her dark lids flickered. The silver needles were flying like airy shuttles in that charmed web.

" Y o u might's well take Lawrence along. That will show folks that there's no hard feeling. N o matter what happens after ward." The admiral's eyes twinkled at this guileless feminine surrender. " T h a t is a capital plan, Aunt Celestia. Lawrence will appreciate the opportu nity. (And so will Fitzgerald Jones)," he added, under his breath. " I will talk it over with the boy at once. Lawrence!" He stood up, a fine, imperious figure. Aunt Celestia's slow eyes turnei from him to the two reluctant children. Then her old face brooded, bland. Sullenly yielding in every burly inch, young Lawrence lagged away beside the admiral. Aunt Celestia looked at Chris tine. Her needles plied on. " Y o u look taller than ever to-day, Christiny. Seems like you must be 'most grown up." " I am grown up." Christine's beauti ful grave face turned angry scarlet. Her slim young body shook. " I am twentytwo years old. When you were twentytwo " " W h e n I was twenty-two I had a hus band and three children, and forty acres of cleared land, and a four-room house. And I owned the earth." Christine's soft, docile mouth set hard. She stared down at the blue-and-silver bar that was the sea. Aunt Celestia picked up a stitch. " Your grandpa and I have had quite a chat." Her deep old voice was silken. " H e ' s going to camp to-morrow. Law rence goes with him." Silence. " Y o u n g Mr. Jones will stay right here. Nice young man, he is. Kind of slackbaked. B u t that's no fault of his." The goaded damsel turned. " W h i c h of us are you siding with, Aunt Celestia?" "Siding with, Christiny!" Christine towered above the wheeled chair. "Because—oh, you know, you know what I mean! It's all grandfather's doing. He—he wants me to have everything. The old pig-headed, precious lamb!" Quick mists blurred those angry young eyes. " I f he wasn't so dear, it wouldn't be so hard for me. B u t he has set him-


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enjoyed every hour, although now and then the sight of young Lawrence's im passive face, the hard antagonism behind the boy's silences, gave him an ugly twinge. Each night he planned to talk the matter over with him and close the whole inci dent, kindly and finally. But somehow the opportune moment never presented itself. More, there were hours when even the admiral's disciplined memory broke bounds. Defeat is bitter to the young. Then the blow fell. On the last morning a fagged guide on a stumbling, lathered horse came pound ing up from Eagle Point. He brought a telegram from Aunt Celestia—a grim, ter rifying command. " C o m e at once; bring Lawrence; tell entire party to follow immediately; I want you all here; it is Christine's wish." Christine! Baffled, panic-stricken, the two men dashed away, leaving the other guests t® follow as they could. Heart-sick, be wildered to frenzy, they reached Eagle Point. There they found an automobile and a second telegram. "Nobody dead, but come at once." " T h a t means Christine is hurt in an accident. Or else she's terribly ill. Why couldn't they tell u s ? " groaned Lawrence. " V e r y likely it's Aunt Celestia her self."^ Shaken with dread, yet hotly an gered at the torturing suspense, they rushed on. It was early dusk when their car swung into the long drive. As they sped up through the lawns, their clutching fear yielded; for there was no pulse of terror in that calm air. In the twilight the great house bore a look of hushed and gracious festival. Soft light poured along the broad verandas. A deeper glow shone from the great windows. From the terraced gar den there rose a misty amber gleam. Aunt Celestia's excellent Pattison, look ing very badly flustered indeed, met the tired, excited men at the door. " M a d a m requests you, sir, to come to her sitting-room at once. And, Mr. Gar diner, madam asks you to read this note, and begs that you will go to your own room—immediately.'' Not waiting to hear Lawrence's as As always, the admiral found Aunt tounded word, the admiral strode across Celestia's camp much to his taste. He the hall.

self against Lawrence always. He won't try to understand. Aunt Celestia! Can't you ram it into his darling solid head?" " R a m in w h a t ? " " W h a t all this means. For Lawrence and for me." All the passion faded from her face. She stood there, white, tall, very gentle. " Grandfather plans for my future. But what I want is, my Now. And Larry has been Now to me ever since I was old enough to pull his hair and take his blocks away from him at kindergarten. Noth ing has ever mattered, but just Larry. " L a r r y isn't just my lover, either," she blundered on, in her droll, inarticulate young speech. " H e ' s a piece of me. He's the whole thing. That's why I took bi ology, all through college, so I could help him in his laboratory. I want to work right with him, and play right with him. Just as we've always done. We used to build sand-forts at the beach, and he'd be commander, and I'd be the garrison, and the other children would be redskins. Then he'd rush out and attack them, and I'd stay and hold the fort; or if the red skins were too much for him, I'd rush out and fight too. We always did things to gether. And now we want to keep right on doing things together. I'll take any chances, along with Larry. I wouldn't mind danger, nor terror, nor pain. I don't suppose you can see what I mean, Aunt Celestia " " I can make out some idea." " A n d grandfather wants me to give it all up. 'And make a suitable, successful marriage.' Oh, grandfather knows a lot about marriage, maybe!" She swept her wet lashes with a trembling hand. Then her blue eyes flashed, sweet, defiant. " B u t when it comes to Life, just you believe me, Aunt Celestia, grandfather has another guess coming!" Aunt Celestia watched her race down the lawn in dryad flight. Her needles leaped fast and faster, clashing like pixy lances. Her old hawk eyes were points of light. " Y e s . Christiny put it pretty well. Josiah may know a lot about marriage. But when it comes to livin', breathin' flesh and blood, I reckon Josiah has another guess coming."

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His aunt sat alone before her desk. The admiral's quick, anxious questions were silenced in amazement. He had never seen Aunt Celestia look as she looked to night. It was not the flowing magnifi cence of her velvet gown, her pearls, her laces. It was the wonderful new light that fairly glowed upon her; a light that clasped her, enfolded her, like a very cloak of youth. " S i t down, Josiah." Her voice rang high and clear. " Sit down, Josiah, I say. That big, solid chair yonder. You'll need it." " W h a t on earth " " Easy, Josiah. We haven't much time. It's just half past seven. A t half past eight, Christiny is to be married. T o Lawrence Gardiner. Bishop Soames performs the ceremony. Y o u are to give her away. Go get ready now. You'll have to be pretty spry " "Christine—Lawrence! M—married to-night!" The words jerked gasping from the admiral's mouth. His face grew chalk-white. "Yes. It's all fixed. Lawrence's mother just reached here. She's some astonished, but she's mighty pleased. She's always loved Christiny dearly. I wired for the boys. They came this noon. Then there's a parcel of Christiny's school friends, too. They'll be bridesmaids. Now, I hope you're going to be real rea sonable, Josiah. I'm dependin' on it that you'll behave just as good-humored as Admiral MacMahon did. That time you bottled him up in Fairport Harbor." "What!" "There, you've no call to feel mortified, Josiah. It's no proof of inefficiency. It just means that I'm older than you, and some smarter when it comes to gettin' what I want. I kept in mind what you said about the best part of strategy bein' forethought. Well, I used all the fore thought I've got. And how the essence of tactics is surprise. Well, I guess I've surprised you, and everybody else. I've outplayed you, as you say. Seems like I opened a pretty mean bag of tricks." Her old hands played restlessly with her laces. " A n d you my own nephew, too. But when I'd listened to Christiny, and looked in that child's face, then I knew I was right. So I went ahead."

" I f you'd just tell me! If you'd make it clear " She sighed, then smiled patiently, as at an unruly small boy. "Well. First, I got you out of the way, and sent Lawrence with you. Then I set to work. I couldn't do much my self." She cast an ironic glance at her useless, swaddled limbs. " B u t I could run things from my chair. Just as you run things from your flag-ship bridge. I had a-plenty folks to fire my guns for me." Her face broke into wicked crinkles. " M a d a m e Lucile came from New York right off, and brought four sewing-women, and they made things fly. Christiny's wedding-dress is grand enough for a duch ess. Then I didn't send out formal invi tations. I had my secretary-woman'write notes to a few folks that Christiny and Lawrence know best and like best. And to a few of my friends that they ought to know. Like Mrs. Woolvermann, and the Kings, and the German ambassador and his wife. And Justice Wells, and the Richardsons from Brookline. And they all wrote right away, and said they'd be pleased to come. Then I had my secre tary write a full account of the wedding and send it to The Postscript. And she sent a copy to The Times, and one to the Washington Record, too. It's published to-night. Here it is." The admiral got his breath at last. " W h a t did Christine say to all this?" Aunt Celestia smiled. " Christiny hasn't cheeped. She doesn't hear nor see nor think. She's going with Lawrence. That's all she knows or cares. It's all I could do to haul her down to earth long enough to have her weddingdress fitted." She unfolded the newspaper. " It says t h a t ' the engagement was per fectly understood by the immediate fam ily.' (That's you and me, Josiah.) 'But this early marriage will be a surprise to many.' (That's you and me, too.) 'The young surgeon will be granted a month's leave, which will be spent at Mrs. Boardman's camp at Boars' Head.' No, he hasn't got that leave yet, Josiah. But you telegraph the department to-night, and they'll put it through. ' T h e cere mony will take place in the Italian garden of East Cliff, the north shore estate of

T h e Master Strategist the bride's grand-aunt, Mrs. Boardman. The Right Reverend William Carrington Soames, of Saint Stephen's, will officiate. The bride will be given away by her grand father, Admiral J. Wentworth Stafford. She will wear a gown of point d'Alencon, the gift of Mrs. Boardman. Preceding the ceremony the boy choir from Saint Ste phen's will sing. The guests include '" She laid down the paper. Perhaps she winced a little as she turned to'her nephew. But there was no anger in the admiral's face. Only a blank, blind, groping amaze ment. " B u t why did you do this? Tell me why." She glanced at the clock. "I'll tell you why when it's all over. Though I misdoubt you'll understand, even then. Now go put on your dressuniform. Too bad you and Lawrence got your noses so sun-peeled, but that can't be helped. Now—I'm hopin' you're go ing to be a good loser, Josiah?" Blanched, voiceless, stepping high like a sleep-walker, the admiral went to the door. " A n d — Come back, Josiah. I 'most forgot. The Postscript says that your gift to Christiny is a string of matched pearls. Here they are. I sent for them the day you went away." Obediently the admiral took the nar row white-velvet box that she pushed into his hand. " N o w hurry on your uniform. Then go to Christiny. Tell her you've brought her pearls. And that you want to clasp them on."

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lifted; their voices soared, passionless, piercing sweet. Then came the brides maids, a blossomy file. White as a white star in her clouding veil, Christine floated past those waiting groups and stood be side her man. Then up from the sea-wall, drifting silver, came a wraith of fog, like a strange and lovely guest. It wreathed the marble walls and columns in tapestry of gos samer. It witched the fountain to spray of pearl. Through its dissolving vistas the great lighted house seemed to waver and grow thin. Marble and turf were only mist and spume. And all those scores of faces, those solid, substantial, vital folk, seemed far, unreal, and all the world was some blown pageant on a bubble's rim. Y e t two there were on whom its magic laid no spell. Against that curtain of shimmer and gleam those two young faces shone out grave and clear. Keen, aglow, flaming as with the sovereign fire of life, stood Christine and her man. In all that masque of phantom they might have been the only living, breathing creatures. Strong and bold their voices rang out as they stood together and clasped their dar ing young hands upon their vows—those immortal promises, ancient, terrible, beau tiful, that bound them to each other, that made them one with the rest of life that suffers, rejoices, labors, gives.

The admiral went through it all like a man in a dream. He did not even flinch when he gave the child away. Always his eyes followed her with a still and tender awe; as if, in her new mysterious loveli ness, Christine was not Christine. As if It was as if the mounting tide of sum she walked before him, some dearer vision mer had stopped at its flood to mark the of lost delight. high enchantment of Christine's marriage The last guest had departed. The night. Topaz and fiery copper, chrysoprase and milky opal, the last sunset great house was sinking into its wonted embers still burned on the gray east. A quiet. Aunt Celestia lay among her cush young moon hung low in the sky. Along ions, her eyes fixed on the admiral's face. the shore the soft night wind went whis Her own face was a little worn. As the pering to the sea. Up through the shad irreverent grandson often said, Aunt Ce owy garden came the call of the violins, lestia was no quitter. But when you are rising, falling, like the pleading call of a eighty-seven years old, and half-paralyzed, and have just achieved a coup that has human voice to wind and sky. Under the lights of the pergola the out-manoeuvred the commander-in-chief guests waited, a stately company. A t of the North Atlantic Fleet, you will last, down the terraced stair came the lines have some warrant for fatigue. The admiral looked down at her. His of singing boys. Their sober child faces

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face was still flaccid with perplexity. Back he swung to his eternal question. " But, Aunt Celestia, why! Yes, I know. Lawrence is a good boy, an admirable fellow. And they have been comrades all their lives. In time, I suppose, I might have given way. But why couldn't you give me more time? Why couldn't you wait?" " Because I hadn't time to wait, Josiah. I'm gettin' along, you know. And I couldn't rest easy till I'd seen this thing through. Christiny didn't have time to wait, either. Christiny is twenty-two this minute. She's gettin' along, too. And she and Lawrence must have their youth while it lasts." " But how dared you? How could you be so sure? " " I dared because I was so sure. Be cause Christiny isn't just Christiny. Jo siah, can't you understand? Christiny and I—we're cut off the same piece. We're not the kind of women that just get married. Our man—he's our mate. He's the other half of us. We'll chance every thing. We'll go the whole road. We'll share whatever comes. All we ask is, the right to share." " B u t for Christine to give up all op portunity!" " Y o u mean give up Sissy Jones? M y stars, Josiah! Don't you know the flesh and blood that your own grandchild has sprung from?" She drew herself erect, her hands grip ping the chair-arms. Her eyes flashed. Her voice poured out, deep and sweet and stern. " D o n ' t you know that Christiny is the breathing image of your own great-grand mother Davenport? Ever hear how, back in 1740, when the Indians were so troublesome, she went with her husband and helped build the stockade? Then how she stood watch and watch, all that month of the uprising, though she wasn't but a slip of a girl, and her baby not two months old? Then think of grandmother's sister, Emily Preston. Her husband went up on the mountain one day to chop wood, and he didn't come home at dark, so she went in search. Along midnight she found him, lying in the snow, half-frozen, with a tree-trunk pinning him down. She went back and fetched a sled, an' dragged

it up the hills an' put him on it, an' dragged him all the way to the cabin. Then she started out long before daybreak to get the doctor. She got him, too, after she'd walked and run eight miles through night and snow, with the wolves howlin' all around her. And think of her daughter, Felicia Stafford. She and her husband went down to Kentucky only fifty years ago, and built their house on a ridge alongside the Mississippi, and along came the high water and swept out every house in the valley. Felicia's husband was tryin' to save his stock, an' the flood caught him and threw him against the bluff and hurt him bad. Felicia swam out and got him, somehow. Then she nursed him day and night till the water went down, so's she could get him to the city. And there the doctors told her that it was his spine, and that it would take a year to heal. It took three years. All that time Felicia ran that farm, and took care of her children—she had four, and the oldest one goin' on nine—and man aged to get to the city every month to see him. Though one time she had to sell her cameo breast-pin to pay her fare on the train. Don't talk to me, Josiah! Don't I know my own flesh? Ain't I sure?" " B u t I wanted Christine to make a successful marriage — to have the money and the time to develop herself—to es cape drudgery " " M o n e y ? Time? Cat's foot! It takes real livin' to develop folks. Give Chris tiny her life. Living won't spell drudg ery to Christine and Lawrence. It'll be just a grand big game. Just like it was for Warren and me, Josiah!" Her voice thrilled on a strong and pleading note. Her eyes clung burning on his own. " N o , Josiah. Think! Y o u couldn't bear to cheat Christiny out of what my life has given to me. Y o u couldn't stand by and see her lose—what Marianna knew! Oh, Josiah! Christiny was right. You may be all very wise. Y o u may know all about marriage, and all about success. But—oh, Josiah, when it comes to life, you—you've got another guess coming!" The admiral stared past her, silent. He did not seem to hear. His big, handsome, elderly figure sagged a little. Upon his hard, handsome face there came again that

T h e Man Behind the Bars curious inward shining. It was as if that little name, so long silenced, held a tender illumining, all its own. He turned and looked out toward the softly lighted garden, all silver shadow and misty glow, where Christine, fair star bride, had stood an hour ago. But the face that gleamed before his longing eyes was not the face of Christine. A t last he spoke, half to himself. " Christine was very beautiful to-night. Somehow—it's the first time I have ever noticed it—she looked a little as Marianna used to look. D o you remember Mari anna, Aunt Celestia? Though I suppose not. It's more than forty years " Aunt Celestia leaned forward in her chair. Her voice was very low. " Y e s , Josiah. I mind Marianna well. That one time you brought her to see me, the little, lovely, happy thing! And I mind how she'd look at you, and her eyes would sparkle, and her cheeks get pink; she was so proud of you, and of everything you did and every word you'd say. And I mind how glad she was to go to that lone some river-country with you, though it

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was yellow-fever year, and cruel heat, and she must live just like your laborers did, cooped up in a muddy little shack ashore. Y e t she was prouder than Punch, and hap py as a queen. Yes, Josiah. I remember." But the admiral had not heard one word. His fine old face was spent and gray. His breath came short with stab bing memories. For the old brave, loving heart was torn within him. " I f Christine—if I thought " Then he turned his face to that old waiting, patient face. And he spoke out like a wistful boy. " I t ' s been a long road, Aunt Celestia. No, I wouldn't want Christine to miss what Marianna and I knew." "Oh, Josiah!" Suddenly she urged towardhim. Bound prisoner that she was, it seemed as if the powerful mother-spirit of her would lift her worthless old body and carry it to him, to clasp him in her old powerful motherarms, infinitely tender, infinitely compas sionate. " O h , Josiah! I knew time'd come you'd see, dear. I knew you'd un derstand!"

BEHIND

THE

BARS

By Winifred Louise Taylor SECOND

I U R I N G the . last twentyfive years there has been a general tendency to draw sharp, hard-and-fast divi ding lines between the "cor rigible" and the "incorri gible '' criminal. It has been assumed that a man only once convicted of a crime may yet be amenable to reform, but that a sec ond or third conviction—convictions, not necessarily crimes—is proof that a man is "incorrigible"; that the criminal dye is set and the man should therefore be permanently removed from society. This

PAPER*

really does appear a most sensible arrange ment as we look down upon the upper side of the proposition; to those who look up to it from below the appearance is alto gether different. A distinguished professor in a law school has said: " I f any person shall be a third time convicted of any crime, no matter of what nature, he should be imprisoned at hard labor for life." A t a National Prison Congress, in 1888, another eminent professor thus indorsed this sentiment: " I believe there is but one cure for this great and growing evil, and this is the

• I n reply to those w h o - m a y charge me with extravagant optimism in regard to convicts, or may think that to me every goose is a swan I wish to say that I have written only of the men—among hundreds of convicts—who have most interested me ; men whom I have known thoroughly and who never attempted to deceive me. Every writer's vision of life and of humanity is inevitably colored by his own personality, and in these articles I have pictured these men as I saw them ; but I have also endeavored, in using so much from their letters, to leave the reader free to form his own opinion. Doubtless the key to my own position is the fact that I always studied these prisoners as men; and I tried not to obscure my vision by looking at them through their crimes.

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imprisonment for life of the criminal once pronounced 'incorrigible.'" Later the governor of my own State told me that he would consider no petition for shorten ing the sentence of an "habitual crim inal. " Any leniency of attitude was stig matized as " rose-water sentiment." And the heart of the community hardeneditself against any plea for the twice-convicted man. What fate he was consigned to was not their affair so long as he was safely locked up. In our eagerness for self-protection at any cost we lose sight of the fact that the criminal problem is one of conditions quite as much as of "cases." In our large cities, the great reservoirs of crime, we are but reaping the harvest of cen turies of evil in older civilizations. So far we have been dealing with effects more than with causes. Indeed our deal ings with law-breakers, from police court to penitentiary, have served to increase rather than to diminish the causes of crime. True enough it is that thousands of our fellow men have found life one great quicksand of criminal and prison experi ence in which cause and effect became in time inextricably tangled. I am free to admit that when I glance over the newspaper reports of brutal out rages and horrible crimes my sympathy swings over wholly to the injured party; I, too, feel as if no measures could be too severe for the perpetrator of the crime. That there are human monsters whose confinement is demanded by public safety I do not question. But modern scien tific study is leading us to the conclusion that back of abnormal crimes are abnor mal physiological conditions, or abnor mal race tendencies. And the "habitu al criminal" is not so designated because of the nature of his crimes, but because of the number of his infractions of the law. I might have concurred with the opin ions of the learned professors were it not that just when legislation in my own State was giving no quarter to second and third offenders I was being led into the midst of this submerged tenth of our prison population, and my loyalty to their cause has been unswerving ever since. " H a v e any of your 'habituals' perma nently reformed?" I am asked. They certainly have, more of them than

even my optimism expected; and under circumstances when I have been amazed that their moral determination did not break. In my preconceived opinion, the most hopeless case I ever assisted sur prised me by settling down, under fa vorable environment, into an honest, self-supporting citizen; and we may rest assured that he is guarding his boys from all knowledge of criminal life. After I came to understand how all the odds were against the penniless one, scarred and crippled by repeated crimes and punishments, it was not his past nor his future that interested me so deeply as what was left of the man. I suppose I was always in search of that something which we call the soul. And I sometimes found it where I least looked for it: among the very dregs of convict life. John Bryan stands out in clear relief in this connection. How well I remember my first meeting with this man, who was then more than forty years old, in broken health, serving a twenty-year sentence which he could not possibly survive. He had no family, received no letters, was utterly an outcast. Crime had been his "profession." * His face was not brutal, but it was hard, guarded in expression, and seamed with lines. The facts of his existence he accepted apparently without remorse, certainly without hope. This was life as he had made it, yes—but also as he had found it. His friends had been men of his own kind, and, judged by standards of his own, he had respected them, trusted them, and been loyal to them. I knew this well, for I sought his acquaintance hoping to obtain informa tion supposed to be the missing link in a chain of evidence upon which the fate of another man depended. I assured Bryan that I would absolutely guard the safety of the man whose address I wanted, but Bryan was uncompromising in his refusal to give it to me, saying only, "Jenkins is a friend of mine. Y o u can't induce me to give him away. Y o u may be sincere enough in your promises, but it's too risky. I don't know you; but if I did you couldn't get this information out of m e . " Know ing that "honor among thieves" is no fiction I respected his attitude. * I seldom heard the terms " h a b i t u a l " or "incorrigible" used by men of his class; but the " professionals" seemed to have a certain standing with each other.

T h e Man Behind the Bars However something in the man inter ested me; and moved to break in upon the loneliness and desolation of his life I offered to send him magazines and to answer any letters he might write me. Doubtless he suspected some ulterior mo tive on my part, for in the few letters that we exchanged I made little headway in acquaintance nor was a second interview more satisfactory. Bryan was courteous —my prisoners were always courteous to me—but it was evident that I stood for nothing in his world. One day he wrote me that he did not care to continue our correspondence, and did not desire an other interview. Regretting only that I had failed to touch a responsive chord in his nature I did not pursue the acquaint ance further. Some time afterward, when in the prison hospital, I noticed the name "John Bryan" over the door of one of the cells. Before I had time to think John Bryan stood in the door with outstretched hand and a smile of warmest welcome, saying: " I am so glad to see you. D o come in and have a visit with m e . " " B u t I thought you wanted never to see me again," I answered. " I t wasn't you I wanted to shut out. It was the thought of the whole dreadful outside world that lets us suffer so in here, and you were a part of that world." In a flash I understood the depth of meaning in his words, and during the next hour, in this our last meeting, the seed of our friendship grew and blossomed like the plants of the orient under the hand of the magician. It evidently had not dawned on him before that I, too, knew his world, that I could understand his feeling about it. For two years he had been an invalid, and his world had now narrowed to the "idle room," the hospital yard, and the hospital; his associates incapacitated, sick, or dying convicts; his only occupa tion waiting for death. But he was giv en ample opportunity to study the char acter and the fate of these sick and dying comrades. He made no allusion to his own fate, but told me how day after day his heart had been wrung with pity, with the agony of compassion, for these others. He knew of instances where innocent men were imprisoned on outrageously se

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vere and unjust sentences; of men whose health was ruined and whose lives were blighted at the hands of the State for some trifling violation of the law; of cases where the sin of the culprit was white in com parison with the sin of the State in evils in flicted in the name of justice. He counted it a lighter sin to rob a man of a watch than to rob a man of his manhood or his health. It was indeed in bitterness of spirit that he regarded the courts and the churches which stood for justice and re ligion, yet allowed these wrongs to multi ply. His point of view of the prison prob lem was quite the opposite of theirs. Now, as I could have matched his score with cases of injustice, as my heart, too, had been wrung with pity, when he real ized that I believed him and felt with him, the last barrier between us was melted. There were at that time few persons in my world who felt as I did on the prison question, but in this heart suddenly opened to me I found many of my own thoughts and feelings reflected, and we stood as friends on the common ground of sympathy for suffering humanity. Another surprise was awaiting me when I changed the subject by asking Bryan what he was reading. It seemed that his starving heart had been seeking sympathy and companionship in books. He had turned first to the Greek philosophers, and in their philosophy and stoicism he seemed to have found some strength for endurance; but it was in the great relig ious teachers, those lovers of the poor, those pitiers of the oppressed, Jesus Christ and Buddha, that he had found what he was really seeking. He had been reading Renan's "Jesus," also Farrar's "Life of Christ," as well as the New Testament. "Buddha was great and good, and so were some of the other religious teachers," he said; " b u t Jesus Christ is better than all the rest." And with that Friend of the friendless I left him. Strange indeed it seemed how the criminal life appeared to have fallen from him as a garment, and yet in our prison administration this man stood as the very type of "the incorrigible." What his course of action would have been had Bryan been given his freedom I should not care to predict. Physically he was absolutely incapable of supporting him-

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self honestly; and he might have agreed with another who said to me, " A n y man of self-respect would rather steal than b e g . " There are those to whom no bread is quite so bitter as the bread of charity. But I am certain that the John Bryan who revealed himself to me in that last interview was the real man, the man who was going forward, apparently without fear, to meet the judgment of his Maker. A noted preacher once said to me, " O h , give up this prison business. It's too hard on you, too wearing and depressing." And I replied, " N o t all the preachers in the land could teach me spiritually what these convicts are teaching me, or give me such faith in the ultimate destiny of the human soul." Perhaps my experi ence has been exceptional, but it was the older criminals, the men who had sowed their wild oats and come to their senses who most deepened my faith in human nature. I am glad to quote in this connection the words of an experienced warden of a large Eastern penitentiary, who says: " I have yet to find a case where I believe that crime has been taught by older criminals to younger ones. I believe, on the contrary, that the usual advice of the old criminal to the boys is, ' See what crime has brought me to, and when you get out of here behave yourselves.'" M y whole study of "old-timers" veri fies this statement; moreover, I am in clined to believe that in very many in stances the criminal impulses exhaust themselves shortly after the period of adolescence, when the fever of antago nism to all restraint has run its course, so to say; and I believe the time is coming when this branch of the subject will be scientifically studied. It is greatly to be regretted that the juvenile court, now so efficient in rescu ing the young offender from the criminal ranks, had not begun its work before the present severe discrimination, before the second or third offence had blotted hope from the future of so many of the younger men in our penitentiaries; for the inde-» terminate sentence under the board of pardons has done little to mitigate the fate of those whose criminal records show previous convictions. Hitherto we have been dealing with

crimes. It is now time to begin dealing with men.* An habitual criminal of the pronounced type was my friend Dick Mallory. I have no remembrance of our first meeting, but he must have been thirty years old at the time, was in the penitentiary for the third time, and serving a fourteenyear sentence. Early in our acquaintance I asked him to write for me a detailed ac count of his childhood and boyhood, the environment and influences which had made him what he was, and also his im pression of the various reformatories and minor penal institutions of which he had been an inmate. This he was allowed to do by special permission, and the warden of the penitentiary gave his indorsement as to the general reliability of his state ments. The following brief sketch of his youth is summarized from his own accounts. One cannot hold Dick Mallory as a victim of social conditions, neither was he of criminal parentage. One of his grandfathers was a farmer, the other a mechanic. His father was a workingman, his mother a big-hearted woman, thoroughly kindly and to the last de voted to her son. There must have been some constitu ional lack of moral fibre in Dick, who was the same wayward, un manageable boy known to heart-broken mothers in all classes of life. Impulsive, generous, with an overflowing sociability of disposition, he won his way with con victs and guards in the different penal in stitutions included in his varied experi ence. I hate to put it into words, but Dick was undeniably a thief; and his career as a thief began very early. When seven years of age he was sent to a parish school and there, he tells me, " A tough set of boys they were, including myself. There I received my first lessons in steal ing. We would go through all the alley ways on our way to and from school, and break into sheds and steal anything we could sell for a few cents, using the money to get into cheap theatres." This early lawlessness led to more seri ous misdemeanors until the boy at thir* For full discussion of this subject the reader is referred to " T h e Individualization of Punishment." by M . Raymond Salielles, a most valuable contribution to the study of penol ogy. Sir James Barr, also, in " T h e Aim and Scope of Eu genics," demands the recognition of the individual in the criminal.

T h e Man Behind the Bars teen was sent to the reform school. This reform-school experience—in the late seventies—afforded the best possible cul ture for all the evil in his nature. This reform school was openly designated a "hotbed of crime" for the State. Inevi tably Dick left it a worse boy than at his entrance. Another delinquency soon followed, for which he was sent to jail for a month, the mother hoping that this would "teach him a lesson." " I t did. But, oh! what a lesson. Oh! but it was a hard place for a boy! There were from three to seven in each cell, some of them boys younger than I, some hardened criminals. We were herded together in idleness, learning only lessons in crime. In less than six months I was there a sec ond time. Then mother moved into an other neighborhood, but alas for the change! . . . T h a t same locality has turned out more thieves than any other portion of Chicago, that sin-begrimed city. From the time I became acquaint ed in that neighborhood I was a confirmed thief and a constant object of suspicion to the police. "One evening I was arrested on general principles, taken into the police station, and paraded before the whole squad of the police, the captain saying, 'This is the notorious Dick Mallory. Take a good look at him, and bring him in night or day, wherever you may find h i m . ' " This completed his enmity to law and order. Soon after followed an experience in the house of correction, of which he says: "This was my first time there and a mis erable time it was. Sodom and Gomorrah in their palmiest days could not hold a candle to it. Y o u know that by this time I was no spring chicken, but the place actually made me sick; it was literally swarming with vermin, the men half starved and half clad." This workhouse experience was repeated several times, and was regarded afterward as the low est depth of moral degradation of his whole career. " I did not try to obtain work in these intervals of liberty because I was arrested every time I was met by a policeman who had seen me before." Thoroughly demoralized Dick Mal lory sought the saloons, at first for the sake of sociability, then for the stimulant

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which gave temporary zest to life, until the habit of drinking was confirmed and led to more serious crimes. Perhaps neither our modern juvenile courts nor our improved methods in re form school and house of correction would have materially altered the course of Dick Mallory's life, although a thorough course of manual training might have turned his destructive tendencies into constructive forces; and the right teaching might have instilled into him some principles of good citizenship. Be that as it may, the fact remained that before this boy had reached his majority his imprisonment had become a social necessity; he had become the very type against whom our most severe legislation has been directed. But this was not the Dick Mallory whom I came to know so well ten years later, and who was for two years or more my guide and director in some of the best work I ever accomplished for prisoners. Strange to say this man, utterly irre sponsible and lawless as he had hereto fore been, was a model prisoner. He fell into line at once, learned his trade on the shoe contract rapidly, became an expert workman, earning something like sixty dol lars a year by extra work. He was cheer ful, sensible, level-headed, and settled down to convict life with the determina tion to make the best of it, and the most of the opportunity to read and study evenings. The normal man within him came into expression. His comparison between the house of correction and the penitentiary was wholly in favor of the latter. He recognized the necessity of a strict discipline for men like himself; he appreciated the difficulties of the war den's position, and his criticisms of the in stitutions were confined mostly to the abuses inherent in the contract system. Never coming in contact with the sick or disabled, himself blessed with the ir repressible buoyancy of the sons of Erin, physically capable of doing more than all the work required of him, his point of view of convict life and prison administration was at that time altogether different from that of John Bryan. He plunged into correspondence with me with an ardor that never flagged, covering every inch of the writing-paper allotted him, treasur ing every line of my letters, and rereading

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them on the long Sunday afternoons in his cell. For years he had made the most of the prison libraries. His reading was mainly along scientific lines—Galton, Draper, and Herbert Spencer he treasured especially. His favorite novel was Mrs. Linton's " Joshua Davidson," a striking modern paraphrase of the life of Jesus. His good nature won him many small fa vors and privileges from the prison guards, and the time that I knew him as a pris oner was unquestionably the happiest period of his life. We always had some young prisoner on hand whom we were trying to rescue from criminal life. It was usually a cell mate of Dick's with whom he had become thoroughly acquainted. And on the out side was Dick's mother always ready to help her boy set some other mother's boy on his feet. Our first mutual experiment along this line was in the beginning some what discouraging. The following extract from one of Dick's letters speaks for itself, not only of our protege, Harry, but of Dick's attitude in this and similar cases: " M y brother wrote me that Harry had burnt his foot and was unable to work for a month, during which time a friend of mine paid his board. On recovering he went back to work for a few days, drew his pay, and left the city, leaving my friend out of pocket. Now, I would like to make this loss good, because I feel responsible for Harry. I have never lost confidence in him, and what makes me feel worst of all is, that I am unable to let him know that I am not angry with him. I would give twenty dollars this minute if I knew where a letter would reach him. " I have never directly tried to bring any man down to my own level, and if I never succeed in elevating myself much above my present level I would like to be the means of elevating others." How ever, Harry did not prove altogether a lost venture,and Dick was delighted to receive better news of him later. We had better luck next time when Ned Triscom, a young cellmate of Dick's, was released. Dick had planned for this boy's future for weeks, asking my assistance in securing a situation and arranging for an evening school—the bills guaranteed by Dick. Our plans carried even better than we hoped. Ned proved really the right

sort, and when I afterward met him in Chicago my impressions more than con firmed Dick's favorable report. But Ned was Dick's find, and Dick must give his own report. " I want to thank you for what you have done for my friend Ned. He has written me every week since he left, and it does me good to know that he is on the high road to success. As soon as you begin to receive news from your friends who have met him you will hear things that will make your heart glad. He is en thusiastic in his praise of Miss Jane Addams, has spent some evenings at the Hull House, and goes often to see my mother. He is doing remarkably well with his work and earned twenty-four dollars last week. He has no relative nearer than an aunt, whom he will visit in his vacation. I never asked him anything about his past, and he never told me any thing. I simply judged of him by what I saw of him. I always thought him out of place here, and now I wonder how he ever happened to get here." I liked Dick for never having asked Ned anything about his past. Now, through Dick's interest in the boy, Ned was placed at once in healthy moral environment in Chicago, and he was really a very interesting and promising fellow. He kept in correspondence with me as long as I answered his letters, and I had no reason to think that he ever again transgressed the law. . . . Mrs. Mallory was as much interested in Dick's phil anthropic experiments as I was, and several men fresh from the penitentiary spent the first few days of freedom in the sunshine of her warm welcome and under the shelter of her hospitable roof. Thus Dick, his mother, and I became a sort of first aid to the ex-convict society. On one of my visits to him Dick greeted me with the remark: "There are two Polish boys here that you must see; and you must do some thing for them." " N o t another prisoner will I get ac quainted with, Dick. I've more men on my list now than I can do justice to. I haven't time for another one," was my decided reply. " I t makes no difference whether you have time or not. These boys ought to

T h e Man Behind the Bars be out of here and there's nobody to get them out but y o u . " I saw instantly that not only was the fate of the Polish boys involved, but my standing in the opinion of Dick; for be tween us two was the unspoken under standing that we could count on each other, and Dick knew perfectly well that I could not fail him. Nothing in all my prison experience so warms my heart as the thought of our Polish boys. Neither of them were twenty years of age. They were working boys of good general char acter, and yet they were serving a fifteenyear sentence imposed because of some technicality of an ill-framed law. M y interview with the first one was very satisfactory. I found him frank and intelligent and ready to give me every point in his case. B u t with the second one it was different. He listened in si lence to all my questions, refusing any re ply. A t last I said, " Y o u must answer my questions or I shall not be able to do anything for y o u . " Then he turned his great black velvet eyes upon me and Said only, " Y o u mean to do me some harm?" What a comment on the boy's experi ence in Chicago courts! He simply could not conceive of a stranger seeking him with any but a harmful motive. And we made no further progress that time, but when I came again there was welcome in the black velvet eyes, and with the greet ing, " I know now that you are my friend," he gave me his statement and answered all my questions. Now it seemed impossible that such a severe sentence could have been passed on those boys without some just cause. But I had faith in Dick Mallory's judgment of them, and my own impressions were altogether favorable; furthermore, my good friend, the warden, was convinced that grave injustice had been done. It was two years before I had disen tangled all the threads and marshalled all my evidence and laid the case before the governor. The governor looked the papers over carefully and then said: " I f I did all my work as thoroughly as this has been done I should not be criti cised as I am now. What would you like me to do for these b o y s ? " Making one bold dash for what I wanted, I answered: " I should like you to 1

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give me two pardons that I can take to the boys to-morrow." The governor rang for his secretary, to whom he said: " M a k e out two par dons for these Polish b o y s . " And ten minutes later" with the two pardons in my hand, I left the governor's office. And so it came to pass that I was indebted to Dick Mallory for one of the very happiest hours of my life. When I reached the prison next day the good news had preceded me. One of the officers met me at the door and clasped both my hands in welcome, saying: "There isn't an officer or a convict in this prison who will not rejoice in the free dom of those boys, and every convict will know of i t . " As for the Polish boys themselves, the blond, a dear boy, was expecting good news; but the black velvet eyes of the dark one were bewildered by the unbe lievable good fortune. I stood at the door and shook hands with them as they entered into freedom, and afterward re ceived letters from both giving the de tails of their home-coming. And so the purpose of Mallory was accomplished. These are but few of the many who owed a debt of gratitude to this man. Only last year a man now dying in Eng land, in one of his letters to me referred gratefully to assistance given him by Mal lory on his release from prison many years ago. Mallory's letters are all the record of a helping hand. Through them all runs the silver thread of human kindness, the traces of benefits conferred and efforts made on behalf of others. And what of Dick Mallory's own life after his release from prison? He had always lacked faith in himself and in his future, and now the current of existence seemed set against him. He was thirtytwo years old and more than half his life had been spent in confinement, under re straint. In his ambition to earn money for himself while working on prison con tracts, he had drawn too heavily on both physical and nervous resources. In his own words—"I did not realize at all the physical condition I was in. If I could only have gone to some place where I could have recuperated under medical attention. But no! I only wanted to get to work—all I knew was work."

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The hard times of '93 came on, a man had to take what work he could get, and Mallory could not do the work that came in his way. His mother died and the home was broken up. He again resorted to the sociability of the saloon, and with the renewal of old associations and under the influences of stimulants, the reckless lawlessness of his boyhood again broke out into some action that resulted in a term in another prison. The man was utterly crushed. His old criminal record was brought to light and he found himself ensnared in the toils of his past. He was bitterly humiliated; he was in no position to earn a penny and no channel for the generous impulses still strong within him was now open. The old buoyancy of his nature still flickered occasionally from the dying embers, but gradually darkened into a dull despair as far as his own life was concerned. But his interest in others survived, and the only favors he ever asked of me were on behalf of "the b o y s " whom he could no longer help. He still wrote me freely and his letters tell their own story: " A t one time in our friendship I really believed that everything was possible in my future. I never meant to deceive you. And when I realized my broken promises my heart broke too. I have never been the same man since and can never be again. I cannot help looking on the dark side, for life has been so hard for me. A h ! it is a hard place when you reach the stage where the future seems so hopeless as it does to me." And hopeless it truly was. Imprison ment and dissipation had done their work, and his death came shortly after his release from this prison. Since his life had proved a losing game it was far bet ter that it should end. But was not Robert Louis Stevenson right in his be lief that all our moral failures do not les sen the value of our good qualities and our good deeds? The good that Mallory did was positive and enduring; and surely his name should be written among those who loved their fellow men. T o me the most cruel stroke in the fate of Dick Mallory was this:—that in the minds of many his history may seem to justify the severity of legislation against habitual criminals. With all his efforts

to save others, himself he could not save; and knowing as well as I do the injus tice resulting from life-sentences for "habituals," the sum of his life counted against clemency for this class. However, the net cast over what the law classes as habitual criminals draws into its meshes all kinds of human nature, which are handled without discrimination, simply as " cases." Essentially different from Dick Mal lory, in the whole make-up of his nature, was Alfred Allen. His story is told at length, because the real test of what is in the man is not what he is under the re straints of prison, but how he meets the pressure and the vicissitudes of life after ward. In one of my interviews with a young confidence man, who did not hesitate to state that he had always been studying how to sell the imitation for the genuine, to get something for nothing, my atten tion was diverted by his suddenly branch ing off into a description of his cellmate. "Alfred is the queerest sort of a chap," the man began—"he's a professional bur glar, and the most innocent fellow I ever knew; always reading history and politi cal economy, and just wild to get into the library to work. He hasn't a relative that he knows, and never has a visit nor a letter, and I wish you'd ask to see him." On this introduction I promised to in terview Alfred Allen the next evening. The warden allowed me the privilege of evening interviews with prisoners, the time limited only by the hour when every man must be in his cell for the night. It was an unprecedented event for Al fred to be called out to see a visitor, and he greeted me with a broad smile and two outstretched hands. With that first hand-clasp we were friends, for the door of that starved and eager heart was thrown generously open and all his soul was in his clear gray eyes. I understood instantly what the other man meant by calling Al fred "innocent," for a more direct and guileless nature I have never known. The boy, for he was not yet twenty-one, had so many things to say. The flood gates were open at last. I remember his suddenly pausing, then exclaiming," Why, how strange this is! Ten minutes ago

T h e Man Behind the Bars I'd never seen you; and now I feel as if I'd known you all my life." In reply to my inquiries he rapidly sketched the main events in his history. Of Welsh parentage, he hadlearnedtoread before he was five years old, when his mother died. While yet a child he lost his father, and when ten years old, a homeless waif, morally and physically starving, in the struggle for existence he was a bootblack, newsboy, and sometimes thief. " T o get something to eat, clothes to cover me, and a place to sleep was my only thought; these things I must have. Often in the day I looked for a place where the sun had warmed the sidewalks beside barrels, and I'd go there to sleep at night." A t last, when about thirteen years old, he found a friendly, helping hand. A man whose boots he had blacked several times, who doubtless sized up Alfred as to ability, took the boy to his house, fed him well, and clothed him comfortably. Very cautiously did the older man, who must have felt Alfred's intrinsic honesty, unfold to the boy the secret of his calling and the source from which he garnered the money spent for the comfort of the street waif. And Alfred had small scruple in consenting to aid his protector by wrig gling his supple young body through small apertures into buildings which he had no right to enter. And so he was drifted into the lucrative business of store bur glary.* After the strain and stress and desperate scramble for existence of the lonely child, one can imagine how easily he embraced this new vocation. It was a kind of life, too, which had its fascina tion for his adventurous spirit; it even enabled him to indulge in what was to him the greatest of luxuries, the luxury of giving. His own hardships had made him keenly sensitive to the suffering of others. But Alfred was not of the stuff from which successful criminals are made, for at eighteen he was in prison for the second time and was classed with the in corrigible. It was during this last imprisonment that thought and study had developed his dominant trait of generosity into a broader altruism. He now realized that he could serve humanity better than by * Alfred never entered private houses. VOL.

LIV.—53

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stealing money to give away. He was studying the conditions of the working and of the criminal classes, the needs of the side of society from which he was an outgrowth. The starting-point of this change was an Englishman's report of a visit to this country, as " A place where each lived for the good of all"(?). " When I read that," said Alfred, " I stopped and asked myself, 'Have I been living for the good of all?' And I saw how I had been an enemy to society, and that I must start again in the opposite direction." It was not the cruelty of social conditions which he accused for his past. His good Welsh conscience came bravely forward and convicted him of his own share in social wrong-doing. " N o w that I'm go ing to be a good man," Alfred continued, " I suppose I must be a Christian"—re versing the usual order of "conversion"—• "and so I've been studying religion also lately—I've been hard at work trying to understand the Trinity." Alfred did not undertake things by halves. I advised him not to bother with theol ogy, but to content himself with the clear and simple working principles of Chris tianity, which would really count for something in his future battle with life. When we touched upon books I was surprised to find this boy perfectly at home with his Thackeray and his Scott; and far more deeply read in history and political economy than I. He said that he had always read, as a newsboy at news stands, at mission reading-rooms, wher ever he could lay his hands on a book. He talked fluently, picturesquely, with absolute freedom from self-consciousness. In Alfred's physiognomy—his photo graph lies before me—there was no trace of the so-called criminal type; his face was distinctively that of the student, the thinker, the enthusiast. His fate seemed such a cruel waste of a piece of humanity of line fibre, with a brain that would have made a brilliant record in any university. But the moral and physical deprivations from which his boyhood suffered had wrought havoc with his health and under mined his constitution. This November interview resulted im mediately in a correspondence, limited on Alfred's side to the rule allowing con victs to write but one letter once a month.


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On my part the letters were more fre quent and magazines for the Sundays were regularly sent. Alfred was a novice in correspondence, probably not having written fifty letters in his life. I was surprised at the high average of his spell ing and the uniform excellence of his handwriting. In order to make the most of the allotted one leaf of foolscap paper he left no margins, and soon evolved a small upright writing clear and almost as fine as magazine type. In using Alfred's letters I wish I might impart to others the power to read be tween the lines that was given me through my acquaintance with the writer. I could hear the ring in his voice and often divine the thought greater than the word. But in letting him speak for himself he will at least have the advantage of coming directly in contact with the mind of the reader. The first extracts are taken from one of his earliest letters. "MY

DEAR FRIEND:

"On coming back to my cell the day after Christmas, I saw a letter, a maga zine, and a book lying on my bed. I knew from the handwriting that they came from you. After looking at my present and reading the sunshiny letter, I tried to eat my dinner. But there was a lump in my throat that would not let me eat, and before I knew what was up I was crying over mydearfriend'sremembrance. I was once at a mission Christmas tree, where I received a box of candy. But yours was my first individual gift. It is said that the three most beautiful words in the English language are mother, home, and heaven. I have never known any of them. M y first remembrance is of being in a room with the dead body of my mother. All my life it seems as if every body I knew belonged to some one; they had mother,brother, sister, some one. But I belonged to no one, and I never could repress the longing in my heart to belong to somebody. I have my God, but a human heart cannot help longing for human as well as divine sympathy." In a similar vein in another letter he writes: " I ' v e sometimes wondered if I should have been a different boy if circumstances

in my childhood had been better. I have seen little but misery in life. In prison and out it has been my fate to belong to the class that gets pushed to the wall. I have walked the streets of Chicago to keep myself from freezing to death. I have slept on the ground with the rain pouring down upon me. For two years I did not know what bed was, while more than once I have only broken the fast of two or three days through the kind ness of a gambler or a thief. This was before I had taken to criminal life as a business. . . . Still, when I think it over, I don't see how I could have kept in that criminal life. I remember the man who taught me burglary as a fine art, told me I would never make a good burglar be cause I was too quick to feel for others." Only once again did Alfred refer to the bitter experiences of his childhood, and that was in a conversation. He had many other things to write about, and his mind was filled with the present and the future. Four years of evenings in a cell in a pris on with a good library give one a chance to read and think, although an ill-lighted, non-ventilated four-by-seven cell, after a day of exhausting work, is not conducive to intellectual activity. The godsend this prison library was to Alfred is evident through his letters. " A l l my life," he writes, " I have had a burning desire to study and educate my self, and I do not believe that a day has passed when I have not gone a little higher. Some time ago I determined to read a chapter in the New Testament every night, though I expected it would be tedi ous. But, behold! the first thing I knew I was so interested that I was reading four or five chapters every night. The chap lain gave me a splendid speller, and I'm going to study hard until I know every word in i t . " Proof that Alfred was a genuine booklover runs through many of his letters. He tells me: " M u c h as I hate this place, if I could be transferred to the library from the shop I should be the happiest boy in the State. I'd be willing to stay an additional year in the prison. Twice when they needed an extra man in the library they sent me. It was a joy just to handle the books and to read their titles, and I felt as if they knew that


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I loved them. . . . Thank you for the glad if any one does wrong to me, be SCRIBNER M A G A Z I N E . But the leaves cause I feel that it helps balance my ac were uncut. I want all the- help and count for the wrongs I have done others." friendship you can spare me. I am glad Shall we never escape from that terrible to have any magazines you are through idea of the moral necessity of expiation, with. But you must not buy new ones even at the cost of another? just for me. The Eclectic and Harper's Nevertheless Alfred feels the hardships were most welcome. ' Man versus the he endures and knows how to present State' was a splendid article; also 'Edu them. And he is not "speaking for the cation as a Factor in Prison Reform,' gallery," but to his one friend, when he and Professor Ely on the railroad problem. writes: The magazines you send will do yeoman " T r y to imagine yourself working all service; they are passed on to every man day on a stool, not allowed to stand even my cellmate or I k n o w . " * when your work can be better done that Alfred was devoted to the writings of way. If you hear a noise you must not John Draper, and devoured everything look up. Y o u are within two feet of a within his reach on sociology, especially companion, but you must not speak. everything relating to the labor prob Y o u sit on your stool all day long and lems. He had theories of his own on work. Nothing but work. Outside my many lines of public welfare, but no taint mind was a pleasure to me; in here it is a of anarchy or class hatred distorts his torture. It seems as if the minutes were ideals of justice for all. He always ad hours, the hours days, the days centuries. vocates constructive rather than de A man in prison is supposed to be a ma structive measures. chine. So long as he does ten hours' work Occasionally Alfred refers to the poets. a day, don't smile, don't talk, don't look He enjoys Oliver Wendell Holmes, and up from his work, does work enough to Lowell is an especial favorite; while de suit the contractors, and does it well, and lighting in the Biglow Papers, he quotes obeys the long number of unwritten with appreciation from Lowell's more rules he is all right. The trouble with serious poetry. The companionship of the convicts is that they can't get it Thackeray, Dickens, and Scott brightened out of their heads that they are human and mellowed many dark, hard hours for beings and not machines. The present Alfred. " Sir Walter Scott's novels broke system may be good statesmanship. It my taste for trashy stuff," he writes. is bad Christianity. But I doubt if it is Naturally Victor Hugo's'' Les Miserables'' good statesmanship to maintain a system absorbed and thrilled him. " Shall I ever that makes so many men kill themselves, forget Jean Valjean, the galley slave, or Co- go crazy, or if they do get out of the shad sette? While reading the story I thought ow alive, go out hating the State and their such a character as the Bishop impossible. fellow men. As a convict said to me, I was mistaken." Of Charles Reade he 'It's funny that in this age of enlighten says: " One cannot help loving Reade. He ment they have not found out that to has such a dashing, rollicking style. And brutalize a man will never reform him. then he hardly ever wrote except to de I have not been led to reform by prison nounce some wrong or sham." Even in life. It has made me more bitter at times fiction his preference follows the trend of than I thought I ever could be. One his burning love and pity for the desolate cannot live in a prison without seeing and and oppressed. How he would have wor hearing things to make one's blood shipped Tolstoi! boil. "Times come to me here when it Complaint or criticism of the hardships of convict life forms small part of the seems as if I could not stand the strain thirty letters written me b y Alfred while any longer. Then again, even in this in prison. He takes this stand: " I ought horrid old shop I have some very happy not to complain, because I brought this times, thinking of your friendship and punishment upon myself. I am almost building castles in the air. M y favorite * Mrs. Burnett's charming little story, " Editha's Burglar," air castle is built on the hope that when went the rounds among the burglars in the prison till it was my time is out I can get into a printingworn to shreds.

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office, and in time work up to be an editor, and perhaps do a little something to help the poor and to aid the cause of progress. Shall I succeed in my dream? D o we ever realize our ideals? " ' I wonder if ever a sculptor wrought Till the cold stone warmed to his ardent heart; Or if ever a painter with light and shade T h e dream of his inmost heart portrayed.'

" I did have doubts as to whether spring was really here till the violets came in your letter. Now I am no longer an unbeliever. I am afraid that I love all beautiful things too much for my own comfort. If a convict cares for beauty that sensitiveness can only give him pain while in prison.* I love music, and at times I have feelings that it seems to me can only be expressed through music; and I hope I shall be able to take piano lessons sometime." I discovered later that there was a strain of the old Welsh minstrel in Al fred's blood; but small prospect there was at that time of his ever realizing the hope of studying music; for all this while the boy was steadily breaking down under the strain of convict life, the " noth ing but w o r k " on a stool for ten hours a day on the shoe contract. Physical exhaustion was evident in the handwri ting of the shorter letters, in which he tells me of nature's revolt against the prison diet, and how night after night he "dreams of things to eat." " I sometimes believe I am really starving to death," he writes. But the trouble was not so much the prison food as that the boy was ill. I went to see him at about this time and was startled by the gaunt and fam ished face, the appeal of the hungry eyes that looked into mine. I felt as if starva tion had thrust its fangs into my own body, and all through the night, whether dreaming or awake, that horror held me. Fortunately: for well I knew there would be no rest for me until forces were set in motion to bring about a change for the better in Alfred. In the general routine of prison life, if the prison doctor pronounces a con vict able to work the convict must either work or be punished until he consents to * " T o be contented here the soul in a man must die. He must become a stone i m a g e . " — H I R A M JOHNSON, in the first of this series.

work; or . . . ? In the case of Alfred, or in any case, I should not presume to as sign individual responsibility; but as soon as the case was laid before the warden, Alfred was given change of work and put on special diet, with most favorable re sults as to health. Alfred's imprisonment lasted about two years after I first met him, this break in health occurring in the second year. As the day of release drew near his hopes flamed high, breaking into words in his last letter. " N e x t month I shall be a free man! Think of it! A free man. Free to do everything that is right, free to walk where I please on God's green earth, free to breathe the pure air, and to help the cause of social progress instead of retard ing it as I have done." Now I had in Chicago a heaven-sent friend whose heart and hand were always open to the needs of my prisoners; in deed, to the needs of all humanity. This friend was a Welsh preacher. He called upon me in Chicago one November afternoon when I had just returned from a visit to the penitentiary. I was tin gling with interest in the Welsh prisoner, whom I had met for the first time the evening before. Sure of my listener's sympathy, I gave myself free rein in re lating the impression that Alfred made upon me. I felt as if I had clasped the hand of Providence itself—and had I not?—when my friend said: " Y o u r Welsh boy is a fellow country man of mine. If you will send him to me when released I think I can open a way for him." This prospect of a good start in freedom was invaluable to Alfred, giving courage for endurance and a moral incentive for the rest of his prison term. Every man when released from prison in my State is given a return ticket to the place from which he was sent, ten dollars in cash, and a suit of clothing. These suits are convict made; and while not distinctive to the ordinary observer, they are instantly recognizable to the police all over the State. Half-worn suits I had no difficulty in obtaining through my own circle of friends. So when Al fred's day of freedom came a good outfit of business clothing was awaiting him,

The Man Behind the Bars and before evening no outward trace of his convict experience remained. According to previous arrangement A l fred went directly to the Welsh preacher. This minister was more than true to his promise; for he entertained the boy at his own home over night, then sent him up to a small school settlement in an ad joining State, where employment and a home for the winter had been secured, the employer knowing Alfred's story. And there for the first time in his life Alfred had some of the right good times that seem the natural birthright of youth in America. Here is his own account: " I had a splendid time Thanksgiving. All the valley assembled in the little chapel, every one bringing baskets of things to eat. There were chickens, geese, and the never-forgotten turkey, pies of every variety of good things known to mortal man. In the evening we boys and girls filled two sleighs full of ourselves and went for a sleigh-ride. Y o u could have heard our laughing and singing two miles off. We came back to the schoolhouse, where apples, nuts, and candy were passed round, and bedtime that night was twelve o'clock." It was not the good times that counted so much to Alfred as the chance for educa tion. He began school at once, and out side of school hours he worked hard, not only for his board, but picking up odd jobs in the neighborhood, by which he could earn money for personal expenses. He carried in his vest-pocket lists of words to be memorized while working, and still wished "that one did not have to sleep, but could study all night." The moral influences were all healthful as could be. The people among whom he lived were industrious, intelligent, and high-minded. Among his studies that winter was a course in Shakespeare, and the whole mental atmosphere was most stimulating. W ithin a few months a chance to work in a printing-office was eagerly accepted, and it really seemed as if some of his dreams might come true. But while the waves on the surface of life were sparkling, be neath was the perilous undertow of disease. Symptoms of tuberculosis appeared, work in the printing-office had to be abandoned after a few weeks, and Alfred's doctor ad vised him to work his way toward the 7

575

South before cold weather set in, as an other severe northern winter would prob ably be fatal. After consultation with his friends this course was decided upon; and confident in the faith that he could surely find transient work with farmers along the line he fared forth toward the South, little dreaming of the test of moral fibre and good resolutions that lay before him. The child had sought refuge from destitution in criminal life, from which his soul had early revolted; but the man was now to encounter the desperate struggle of manhood for a foothold in honest living. For the first month all went fairly well, then began hard luck both in small towns and the farming country. " T h e farmers have suffered two bad seasons; there seems to be no money, and there's hardly a farm unmortgaged," he wrote me, and then, "When I had used the last penny of my earnings I went without food for one day, when hunger getting the best of me I sold some of my things. After that I got a week's work and was two dollars ahead. I aimed for St. Louis, one hundred miles away, and walked the whole distance. What a walk it was! I never passed a town with out trying for work. The poverty through there is amazing. I stuck to my deter mination not to beg. I must confess that I never had greater temptation to go back to my old life, and I think if I can conquer temptation as I did that day when I was so hungry I need have no fears for the future. " I reached St. Louis with five cents in my pocket. For three days I walked the streets of the city trying to get work, but without success. I scanned the papers for advertisements of men wanted, but for every place there were countless ap plicants. M y heart hurt me as I walked the streets to see men and women suffer ing for the bare necessaries of existence. The third night I slept on the stone steps of a Baptist church. Then I answered an advertisement for an extra gang of men to be shipped out to work on railroadconstruction somewhere in Arkansas. A curious crew it was all through; half the men were tramps who had no intention of working, several were well-dressed men who could find nothing else to do, some

576


were railroad men who had worked at nothing else. When one of the brakesmen found where we were bound for he said, ' T h a t place! You'll all be in the hos pital or dead in two months.' " T h e second evening we stopped at the little town where we now are. The work is terrible, owing to the swamps and heat. Out of the twenty-five who started only eight are left. Yesterday I fainted, over come by the heat, but if it kills me I shall stick to the work until I find something better." The work did not kill Alfred, but ma larial fever soon turned the workmen's quarters into a sort of camp hospital, where Alfred, while unable to work, de veloped a talent for nursing those who were helpless. His letters at this time were filled with accounts of sickness and the needs of the sick. He had never asked me for money—it seemed to be al most a point of honor among my prison friends not to ask me for money—but "if you could send me something to get lemons for some of the boys who haven't a cent" was his one appeal; to which I gladly responded. Better days were on the way, however. Cooler weather was at hand, and during the winter Alfred found regular employ ment in a lumber mill, interrupted occa sionally by brief illnesses. On the whole, the next year was one of prosperity. Life had resolved itself into the simple problem of personal independence, and with a right good will Alfred took hold of the proposition, determined to make himself valuable to his employer. That he accomplished this I have evidence in a note of unqualified recommendation from his employer. When the family with whom he had boarded for a year were about to leave town he was offered the chance to buy their small cottage for two hundred and fifty dollars on monthly payments; and by securing a man and his wife as tenants he was able to do this. " A t last I am in my own house," he writes me. " I went out on the piazza to-day and looked over the valley with a feeling of pride that I was under my own roof. I have reserved the pleasant front room for myself, and I have spent three evenings putting up shelves and ornament

ing them, and trying to make the room look pretty. I shall get some nice mould ings down at the mill to make frames for the pictures you sent me. And I'm go ing to have a little garden and raise some vegetables." But the agreeable sense of ownership of a home and pleasure in the formation of social relations was invaded b y haunting memories of the past. The brighter pos sibilities opened to his fancy seemed but to emphasize his sense of isolation. Out ward conditions could not alter his own personality or obliterate his experiences. It was a dark hour in which he wrote: " H o w wretched it all is, this tangled web of my life, with its suffering, its sin, and its retribution. It is with me still. I can see myself now standing inside the door of my prison cell, looking up to the little loop-hole of a window across the corridor, trying to catch a glimpse of the blue heav ens or of a star, longing for pure air and sunshine, longing for freedom. . . . " Strong as is my love for woman, much as I long for some one to share my life, I don't see how I can ever ask any woman to take into her life half of that blackened and crime-stained page of my past. I must try to find happiness in helping others." But nature was too much for Alfred. Not many months later he tells me that he is going to be married and that his sweetheart, a young widow, "is kind and motherly. When I told her all of my past she said: ' A n d so you were afraid I would think the less of you? Not a bit. It only hurts me to think of all you have been through.'" The happy letters following this mar riage give evidence that the tie of affec tion was strong between the two. Here we have a glimpse of the early married days: " I have been making new steps to our house, putting fancy wood-work on the porch, and preparing to paint both the inside and the outside of the house next month." (Alfred was night watch at the lumber mill.) " It is four o'clock in the afternoon; I am writing by an open window where I can look out and see my wife's flowers in the garden. I can look across the valley to the ridge of trees be yond, while the breeze comes in bring ing the scent of the pines. Out in the

T h e Man Behind the Bars kitchen I can hear my wife singing as she makes some cake for our supper. But my old ambition to own a printingoffice has not left me. I am still looking forward to that." Just here I should like to say: " A n d they lived happy ever after." But life is not a fairy-story; to many it seems but a crucible through which the soul is passed. But the vicissitudes that fol lowed in Alfred's few remaining years were those of the common lot. In al most every letter there were indications of failing health, causing frequent loss of time in work. Three years after his marriage, in the joy of fatherhood, Alfred writes me of the baby, of his cunning ways and general dearness; and of what he did when arrayed in some little things I had sent him. Then, when the child was a year old, came an anxious letter telling of baby Alfred's illness, and then: " M Y DEAR FRIEND:

" M y baby is dead.

He died last night. "ALFRED."

This tearing of the heart-strings was a new kind of suffering,more acute than any caused by personal hardship. Wrapped in grief he writes me: " T o think of those words, ' M y baby's grave.' I knew I loved him dearly, but how dearly I did not know until he was taken away. It isn't the same world since he died. Poor little dear! The day after he was taken sick he looked up in my face and crowed to me and clapped his little hands and called me ' D a - d a ' for the last time. Oh, my God! how it hurts me. It seems at times as though my heart must break. . . .

577

"Since the baby died night-watching at the lumber mill has become torture to me. In the long hours of the night my baby's face comes before me with such vividness that it is anguish to think of it." The end of it all was not far off; from the long illness that followed Alfred did not recover, though working when able to stand; the wife, too, had an illness, and the need of earnings was imperative. Alfred writes despairingly of his unful filled dreams, and adds: " I seem to have succeeded only in reforming myself," but even in the last pencilled scrawl he still clings to the hope of being able to work again. I can think of Alfred only as a good sol dier through the battle of life. As a child, fighting desperately for mere existence, defeated morally for a brief period by defective social conditions; later deple ted physically through the inhumanity of the prison contract system; then drawing one long breath of happiness and freedom through the kindness of the Welsh preach er; but only to plunge into battle with adverse economic conditions; and all this time striving constantly against the most relentless of foes, the disease which final ly overcame him. His was indeed a val iant spirit. Of those who may study this picture of Alfred's life, will it be the "habitual criminals" who will claim the likeness as their own, or will the home-making, tender-hearted men and women feel the thrill of kinship? Truly, Alfred was one with all loving hearts who are striving upward, whether in prison or in palace.

IN

A

MONASTERY

GARDEN

By Marjorie L. C. Pickthall ILLUSTRATIONS

BY

SYDNEY

ADAMSON

O V E R the long salt ridges And the gold sea-poppies between, They builded them wild-brier hedges, A church and a cloistered green; And when they were done with their praises And the tides on the Fore beat slow, Under the white cliff-daisies They laid them down in a row. Porphyry, Paul, and Peter, Jasper, and Joachim,— Was the psaltery music sweeter Than the throat of the thrush to him? Tired of their drones and their dirges, Where the young cliff-rabbits play, Wet with the salt of the surges, They laid them down for a day. One may not call to the other There on the rim of the deep. Only the youngest brother Lies and smiles in his sleep. When the wild swan's shadow passes, When the ripe fruit falls to the sod, When the faint moth flies in the grasses, He dreams in the hands of God. Here for his hopes there follow The violets one by one. The dove is here and the swallow, And the young leaf seeking the sun. And here, when the last sail darkens And the last lone path is trod, Under the rose he hearkens And smiles in the eyes of God.

578

Drawn by Sydney A damson. W a s the psaltery music sweeter than the throat of the thrush to him? VOL. L I V . -

579

THE

THE L I F E - H I S T O R Y O F AFRICAN RHINOCEROS AND HIPPOPOTAMUS BY

THEODORE

I L L U S T R A T I O N S FROM PHOTOGRAPHS, A N D

THE HOOK-LIPPED RHINOCEROS IE black, or common African rhinoceros was fairly plentiful in most parts of East Africa which we visited; there were stretches of territory,however, in which we found none, as for instance on the Uasin Gishu. W h y the species was absent from these places I can not say, for elsewhere we came across them in all kinds of country. They were found in the dense, rather cold forests of Mount Kenia; they were found in the forest country near Kijabe; they were common in the thick thorn scrub and dry bush jungle in many places; and in the Sotik and along the Guaso Nyiro of the north, as well as here and there elsewhere, they were to be seen every day as we journeyed and hunted across the bare, open plains. "Plentiful," is, of course, a relative term; there were thousands of zebra, hartebeest, gazelle, and other buck for every one or two rhinos; I doubt whether we saw more than two or three hundred black rhinos all told, and I do not remember seeing more than half a dozen or so on any one day. Probably they were most abundant in the brush and forest on the lower slopes of the northern base of Kenia, where, however, they were hard to see. They prefer dry country, although they need to drink freely every twenty-four hours. Apparently the cow does not permit her old calf to stay with her after the new calf is born. I never saw a cow with two calves of different ages (or, for the matter of that, of the same age); yet many times I saw a cow followed by a half-grown, or more than half-grown, beast that must have been several years old. Generally 580

ROOSEVELT

FROM DRAWINGS

BY P H I L I P

R.

GOODWIN

we found the bulls solitary, and the cows either solitary or followed by their calves. Occasionally we found a bull and cow, or a bull, cow, and calf, together. There is no regular breeding-time; the calf may be produced at any season. It follows its mother within a very few days, or even hours, of its birth,and is jealously guarded by the mother. When very young any one of the bigger beasts of prey will pounce on it, and instances have been known of a party of lions killing even a three-partsgrown animal. The adult fears no beast of the land, not even the lion, although it will usually move out of the elephant's way. Y e t the crocodile, or perhaps a party of crocodiles, may pull a rhino under water and drown it. Mr. Fleischmann, of Cincinnati, not merely witnessed but photographed such an incident, in the Tana River, where the rhinoceros was seized by the hind leg as it stood in the water, could not reach the bank, and after a prolonged struggle was finally pulled beneath the surface. Such an occurrence must be wholly exceptional; for the rhinoceros shows no hesitation in approaching deep water, not merely drinking but bathing in it. The animals are fond of wallowing in mud-holes, and also at times in dusty places. In one place I found a cow rhino which had evidently been living for many weeks in the river-bottom of the Athi. There was plenty of food in the brush jungle which filled the spaces between the trees, and which afforded thick cover; .there was abundant water in pools near by; and evidently the rhino had kept close to the immediate neighborhood. This rhino spent its time in the immediate vicinity of its drinking-place, and during most of the day lay up in the dense shade

Drawn by Philip R. Goodwin.

T h e porter who was tossed and gored in the thigh b y the charging rhinoceros.

The

African Rhinoceros and Hippopotamus

of the green river-bottom jungle, appar ently feeding at night and in the early morning and late evening. In other lo calities the animals differed in their habits. On the Guaso Nyiro I found the rhinos drinking once every twenty-four hours, at night, and then travelling back at a good

From a photograph

by Col. Max C.

583

high with woody stems; I do not believe that they were really grazing, but to gether with the shrub stems they cropped and swallowed the tough, jointed grass. They also ate aloes and a kind of prickly euphorbia with a blistering juice; it is hard to understand how even their palates

FUischmann.

Rhino being pulled under water b y crocodiles in the T a n a River.

gait in a fairly direct course for eight or ten miles into the wastes of leafless thorn scrub, upon which they fed and in which they passed their noonday hours of rest. In the Sotik the rhinos spent their whole time in the bare, open plains, drinking at one or another of the widely scattered, rapidly drying little pools. T h e y usually drank at dusk, that is about nightfall, and again about sunrise. Sometimes during the noon hours they lay out in the open, without a particle of cover; sometimes they lay under an acacia, or wild olive, or candalabra euphorbia. T h e y sometimes stood while resting, but usually lay down, either on their sides or in a kneeling posi tion. They not only browsed on the thorny, partially leaved twigs—the black rhino is a browser, whereas the white rhino is exclusively a grazer—but also fed greedily in the bare plains on the lowgrowing shrubby plants but a few inches

could stand the thorns and the acrid sap. I saw them feed at noon; once I stum bled on one feeding by moonlight; but their favorite feeding-times were in the morning and afternoon. Like other game, rhinos are assailed by various insect pests. Biting flies annoy them much; even when resting, their ears are usually in motion to drive away their winged assailants. The ticks swarm on them, loathsome creatures, swollen with blood, which might be so crowded under the armpits, in the groin, and" in the soft parts generally that they looked like mus sels on an old dock. I do not quite under stand why the tick birds fail to keep down these ticks. These tick birds, rather handsome, noisy creatures, are in most places the well-nigh invariable attendants of rhino when the latter dwell on the plains or in fairly open bush. T h e y clam ber all over their huge hosts, like nut-

Reproduced

by permission

of New York Zoological

Society. Black rhinoceros.

Captured in Mwanza, German East Africa.

hatches round a tree-trunk, and usually go in flocks. So invariably are they attend ants upon the big game that if we heard them chattering as we threaded our way among bushes we were always at once on the alert to see a rhino. Sometimes they are wary, and chatter and fly off on seeing the hunter; at other times they pay but little heed; and the rhino may or may not have its suspicions aroused when they fly away. If a party is seen on the wing, b y watching their flight until they light it may be possible to discover the rhino. The hook-lipped rhino is dull of wit and eyesight. Its sense of smell is good, and so is its hearing. B u t its vision is as tonishingly bad. I doubt if it sees better than a very near-sighted man. Again and again I have walked up to one, on an absolutely bare and level plain, to within a hundred yards without its paying the least heed. I wore dull-colored clothes, of course, and made no abrupt motions; but it was unnecessary to take advantage of cover until I was well within a hundred yards. In thick brush it is often difficult to approach, for all bush-dwellers are harder to approach than plains-dwellers, as they can not be seen until within a dis tance so short that both their hearing and their smell have in all probability given them warning. B u t in all places—bush, 584

In the New York Zoological Garden.

forest, and open plain—it is the easiest to approach of all the creatures that dwell in that particular habitat, because of the dulness of its brain-matter and the poor ness of its vision. It is the most stupid of the very big creatures. It seems to have a marvellous memory for local geog raphy, as is shown b y the way it will trav erse many miles of country to some re mote water-hole in the middle of a vast and monotonous plain; and it has the pa tience to stand motionless for many min utes listening for anything suspicious. But these seem to be well-nigh its only lines of mental effort. Its life is passed in feeding, travelling to and from water, sleeping, and when awake and at leisure either fidgeting or much more often stand ing motionless to rest. There is occa sional love-making; and the exhibition of occasional fits of truculence and petulance or of muddled curiosity. When one rhino comes within ken of another the meeting always betrays bewilderment and incipient defiance on the part of both. Apparently the first suggestion that another rhinoce ros is in the neighborhood always arouses suspicion and potential resentment in the bosom of the rhinoceros to which the sug gestion comes. Usually the rhino which has heard, smelt, or dimly seen another trots toward it quickly and then stands

' 1

White rhinoceros. Shot by Mr. Roosevelt, Rhino Camp, Lado Enclave.

In the United States National Museum group.

motionless for some minutes close to it, in the effort to decide whether to adopt an attitude of indifference or hostility—in difference almost always carrying the day. They are silent beasts, but very rarely ut ter a kind of squeal or squeak apparently when courting. T h e y utter a shrill and long-drawn steam-whistle scream when dying; and they make a succession of puffs or snorts while charging or even when only startled. The recognized presence of men rouses in the rhinoceros several emotions, which, in the order of their intensity, I should put as bewilderment, fear, dull curiosity, and truculence. If the men are merely seen, usually the only emotions aroused are be wilderment and curiosity; if smelt, fear is the usual result; but in a certain number of cases even the sight or the smell of men arouses senseless rage. Some rhinos are always cross and evil-tempered; but many others, which are normally goodnatured, now and then have fits of ber serker fury. Anything conspicuous which arouses their interest may also arouse their hostility. White has an evil attraction for them. M y friends the McMillans, while travelling through a rhino country, found that the two white horses of their cavalcade were so frequently charged that they finally painted them khaki-color. I

Mounted by J. L. Clark.

have never seen them charge other game, and gazelles and hartebeests feed in their immediate neighborhood with indiffer ence; yet I have been informed by trust worthy eye-witnesses of one rhinoceros charging a herd of zebra, and another some buffalo. The rhinoceros usually gets out of the way of the elephant. It will, unquestionably, on occasions charge men and domestic animals entirely unprovoked. Twice I have known of one charging an oxen-wagon; in one case an ox was killed, in the other the rhino got entangled in the yokes and trek-tow, and the driver, an Africander, lashed it lustily with his great whip, until it broke loose and ran off, leaving the ox-span tumbled in wild con fusion. The year before I was at Neri one killed a white man, a surveyor, near that station, charging him without any provocation at all. A t that time all the rhinos in that immediate neighborhood seemed to suffer from a fit of bad temper; they kept charging any one they met, and killed several natives; at last the district commissioner undertook a crusade against them and killed fifteen, evidently inclu ding the various vicious ones, for from that time all attacks on human beings ceased. Rhinos frequently attack the long lines of porters on a safari, if they pass to wind ward of it. Probably this is not, as a rule, 5»S

586

The African Rhinoceros and Hippopotamus

done from ferocity, but from angry be I was engaged in frightening away the wilderment, the rhino finding the scent of rhino; and this time the brute came for man in his nostrils whichever way he goes, them, and tossed one, goring him in the and finally thinking he is surrounded and thigh, and then galloped on without turn charging the line. Usually he merely runs ing. Whenever they got m y wind they through the line, tossing any porter who always ran, except on one occasion when happens to be in his way; but he may a cow rhino advanced on me, unprovoked, from thick brush, toss grow i r r i t a t e d and ing and twisting her turn and hunt down head. I am not sure a p o r t e r . One man t h a t she m e a n t to was thus killed while charge; but when she we were in A f r i c a . got within forty yards Von Hohnel, the com I grew unpleasantly panion of Teleki and uncertain as to her in Chandler on their ex tentions and shot her. plorations, was on one Stewart Edward White occasion thus hunted states that on one oc down and very badly casion, near the Tana wounded by a cow rhi River, he struck a lo no which had charged cality where rhinoce through the safari and ros a f t e r rhinoceros had then returned on charged quite unpro her footsteps. Mr. voked, and he had to Hurlburt, the head of shoot half a dozen. I the American mission have known a rhino at Kijabe, had been charge through a camp wantonly charged by at night and cause a rhino which killed Reproduced by permission of New York Zoological Society wild panic; they not his mule. Nile white rhinoceros. infrequently c h a r g e Shot by Mr. Roosevelt at Lado Enclave. Donated to A dozen times we National Collection, Heads and Horns. hunters or travellers came a c r o s s rhinos after dark. while we were on saf Personally, I consider the rhinoceros the ari, or while we were on the trail of game. least dangerous of all really dangerous In such cases I kept watch over the rhino, rifle cocked, while the safari, or, if we were game, although many good hunters hold hunting, the trackers, marched so as to the contrary view. T h e first one I ever keep to leeward. Once or twice the rhino saw, a bull, charged savagely when mor never noticed us. On the other occasions tally wounded at a distance of a little over the beast saw us, but dimly, and evi thirty yards, and was killed just thirteen dently could not make out what we were. yards from me. B u t I was never really It would gaze toward us, head and tail up charged again. I hit and knocked over and ears forward, and make little runs to one animal which we had stalked as it and fro, perhaps even advancing a few was galloping toward us at a distance yards; but in no case did the beast actually of seventy or eighty yards, but I think charge. In one instance, however, it did that this rhino was curious rather than charge and toss a man, a few minutes after enraged, and would not have charged I had left it. This was a rhino we had home. Kermit was charged by one which come across while we were trailing a buffalo he had mortally wounded, but it turned herd. Cuninghame did not wish to leave upon receiving another and much slighter the trail, so I went toward the rhino, and wound. T w o or three of my American by waving my hat and shouting—not too friends who have hunted in East Africa loud, for fear of scaring the buffalo—I have had narrow escapes from rhinos finally made it move off a couple of hun which charged after being wounded, or dred yards; and we went on unmolested. when the effort was made to photograph But a quarter of an hour afterward three them. Unquestionably, compared to his of the porters returned to look for a knife mild and placid square-mouthed kins which one of them had dropped while man, the hook-lipped rhino is a fidgety,

From a photograph,

copyright

by Kermit

Roosevelt.

White rhino photographed within a distance of twenty yards at Lado Enclave.

restless, irritable, and at times dangerous creature. Y e t the rhino's occasional truculence is more than offset by his stupidity and dull eyesight, so far as the actual contest with the hunter is concerned. As far as I know, but one white man has ever been killed while hunting rhino in East Africa (the English official already mentioned was not hunting the beast which killed him). This was a German, Doctor Kolb, who killed scores of rhino, and was finally mortally hurt by a cow which, upon being wounded, charged him and thrust her horn through his stomach. A n English official was also crippled for life by a rhino he had wounded. In dense bush a rhino is undoubtedly a dangerous antagonist at times, as well as being difficult to approach. On the open plains I found them easy to approach and easy to kill, and only occasionally dangerous; they were slow to detect me, and then spent some moments deliberating before concluding either to make off or to charge. But though less dangerous than other dangerous game when hunted, the rhinoceros is more prone than any other beast to act aggressively when entirely unprovoked. The very

stupidity and dulness of sense which tend to render his truculence of little danger to the hunter, immensely add to the menace which that truculence contains for the non-hunter, the wayfarer, who stumbles across him. He fails to make out the man until close by, and then waits, stupid and curious, until he suddenly thinks himself menaced, or is excited to rage by seeing the stranger near at hand, and f orthwith charges. There are some rhinos who charge from sheer wickedness; but I am convinced that stupidity and curiosity are chiefly responsible for the conduct of the average rhino which makes people think that it is about to charge them. When it does charge, however, it shows astonishing speed and agility for such an apparently unwieldy animal, whipping round in its tracks like a polo pony, and galloping at a pace that forces a horse to stretch himself. If it loses sight of the man, it will sometimes quarter for him like a pointer dog, swinging its large head near the earth and snuffing for his tracks, The'Ndorobo told me that they found the rhino more dangerous to assail than the buffalo, because it often had to be attacked where there were no trees. 587

588

T h e African Rhinoceros and Hippopotamus

The rhinoceros, unlike the elephant and buffalo, does not haunt the neighbor hood of the negro villages, to make raids on the fields and gardens. It is a beast of the lonely wastes. Even in the dry des ert it is at home if there is an occasional pool of water; and it is only at these desert drinking-pools, when driven thither by thirst, that the solitude-loving beasts are found in any number. A score or over may congregate at night round such a pool, to which each has trodden his path through a dozen miles of barren wilder ness; and then they may fight, for the water. If two or three rhinoceros—a cow and a calf, or a bull and a cow, perhaps with a calf—come to such a pool together they do not loiter in the neighborhood. But I have seen a single rhino remain by such a pool motionless for an hour, until another appeared, when the two beasts approached each other, as if for company. It seemed as if they had each known that the other would come there about that time, and had reckoned on the meeting. I have seen the same thing with other game, where one individual waited with evident expectancy, as if at a rendezvous, until another of the same species ap peared. But of course it is possible that in these cases the waiting animal's keen senses made it aware that the other was somewhere in the neighborhood long be fore the onlooker could discern the faint est hint of its presence. THE

SQUARE-MOUTHED

RHINOCEROS

It has been said by first-rate observers that the square-mouthed rhinoceros is of exactly the same color as the hook-lipped rhinoceros. This did not seem to us to be the case when we saw the square-mouthed rhinos living; they seemed to be of a per ceptibly lighter gray, which in some lights seemed very light indeed, although in some lights as dark as the ordinary rhino. A comparison of the skins shows that there is a very real difference of color, the hooklipped rhino being of such a dark gray that it can legitimately be called black, while the square-mouthed species is of a smoky gray, a gray which can readily look whi tish in certain lights. The ordinary name is b y no means so much of a misnomer as I had supposed. The square-mouthed animal is totally unlike the hook-lipped

one, so much so that it probably ought to go in a different genus; the two are almost as distinct as the moose and the wapiti. According to our observations the square-mouthed rhino averaged con siderably larger than the hook-lipped; but there was overlapping between the smaller individuals of the first and the exception ally big ones of the second; and the same was true of the horns, which averaged longer in the square-mouth. African big-game animals offer many puzzling examples of discontinuous dis tribution, and none more so than the square-mouthed rhinoceros. It was first known from the region between the Orange and the Zambezi, where it abounded, but was practically exterminated in the late eighties, so that now only a few indi viduals are left in a game reserve. North of the Zambezi it is not found until the great Nyanza Lakes are past—and until Major Gibbons discovered it on the left bank of the upper White Nile it was be lieved to be confined to South Africa. Examination of the series of specimens we brought home shows that there is only the smallest distinction, barely of subspecific value, between these two widely separated groups of white rhinos. According to what Mr. Selous writes, it appears prob able that all the rhinos west of the Nile belong to the square-mouthed species, which is never found east of the river, in the domain of the hook-lipped species. I t is an added singularity in the distribu tion of these African rhinos, that in South Africa they should have abounded in the same localities, while in the north their ranges are sharply divided by the upper White Nile. Our observations of the square-mouthed rhino were made during the three or four weeks we spent at and near our camp in the Lado, about midway between Lake Albert Nyanza and Nimule. All told we must have seen about fifty individuals. Of course, we molested none after obtain ing the full series needed for the collec tion; the extreme rarity of the species in collections rendered it of much impor tance that the series should be full. We found them rather more gregarious than the common kind. Once we found four, and once five, together; in the former case they were lying down, so that it was not a mere fortuitous gathering to graze.

589

Drawn by Philip R. Goodwin.

A Nile group.

Square-mouthed rhinoceros, elephant, hippopotamus, kob, waterbuck, and hartebeest

The African Rhinoceros and Hippopotamus Ordinarily they were found singly, or a cow and calf—often two or three years old —together; or a bull might be with the cow and calf. T h e y are purely grazers, grassfeeders, and live only where there are great plains covered with the dry African pasturage; but these plains are generally

591

in this position. About mid-afternoon they rose from sleep and began to feed, making their way toward the water after nightfall. They fed a good deal during the night also. They frequently rubbed their noses and horns against the big anthills, for what purpose I can not say. In

Female hippopotamus, four years old, Victoria N y a n z a . In the National Zoological Park, Washington, D. C.

dotted with clumps of bushes, and with a scattered growth of scantily leaved thorntrees, acacias. The country is crossed here and there b y broad, smooth, welltrodden trails, made by the elephants with some help from the rhinos, and often trav elled by other game. We found the rhinos going to water, either at the Nile or some pond, during the night. T h e y would then feed slowly back into the dry wastes, their spoor through the tall grass or over the burnt places being readily followed by ex pert trackers. About ten o'clock they lay down under some tree; occasionally stand ing motionless in the half shade for an hour at a time. Usually we found them lying on their sides, but sometimes kneel ing. When roused they sometimes jumped at once to their feet, and sometimes sat up on their haunches like a dog; once Kermit saw one, that had been walking to and fro trying to make out what he was, sit down

walking they held their heads very low, the huge, square muzzles almost sweeping the ground. They trotted and if alarmed galloped at some speed. They were slow, dull, stupid beasts, rather mild-tempered. Once a badly wounded one made an attempt to charge Kermit, and on another occasion, after he had spent some time taking photographs of a cow and calf, he got so close that the cow finally charged, coming on at a fair pace with the big, loose lips shaking from side to side. A big calf, over halfgrown, also charged him, and he had to turn it b y a shot in one cheek. None of the others of our party were charged, al though we frequently watched the huge beasts close up and then withdrew while they trotted to and fro. They were not as nervous and irritable as the black rhi nos, and their eyes were even duller. Once, having spent some time watching a cow

592

T h e African Rhinoceros and Hippopotamus

and her big calf feeding, as I stood by a tree thirty yards off, they finally sus pected my presence and stopped to look at me. I withdrew for forty yards or so, not wishing to have them charge and force me to shoot in self-defence. Then I found the skull of one of their dead kinsfolk; one of the party stopped to pick it up and give it to one of the porters. We were talking and laughing; and all the time the two rhinos, their ears cocked forward, looked toward us with solemn bewilderment. So off we strode, and left them still standing, foolish and puzzled, among the sparse and withered trees in the dry landscape. If they got our wind the rhinos usually made off at once; but if they merely saw us they would stare at us and move to and fro, their ears up and perhaps their tails cocked, with dull curiosity. We fre quently found cow herons with them and once a party of black-legged egrets. The herons perched on their heads and backs with entire indifference, and the result was that the rhinos generally looked as if they had been splashed with whitewash. Once, while walking through rather tall grass, I saw some white objects moving rapidly off in single file through the grasstops; and it took a second glance before I realized that they were white herons perched on the back of a rhino bull. I have neve'r known of a white rhino at tacking man or beast in wantonness; but one of the few white rhinos on the South African game reserve, a bull, was charged and killed, b y a stab behind the shoulder, by a solitary bull elephant, a big tusker, which was also on the reserve. The white rhino has been termed a slow breeder. Of course, such a huge animal can not breed like a guinea-pig. But our experience goes to show that it is, for its size, really a rather rapid breeder, that the cows breed before they are fully adult, and that they breed again before the calf they already have has left them. T w o of the cows which we found accompanied by calves had not yet shed all their milk teeth; and one cow, accompanied by a good-sized calf, was nearly on the point of giving birth to another.

the most formidable foe of all big crea tures. In consequence, it is found in some land-locked waters, like Lake Naivasha, to which it can only have pene trated by extensive journeys across coun try containing no streams in which it could swim or hide itself. Where human beings are rare and relatively inoffensive, it is often found in streams so small that it seems extraordinary that so bulky a crea ture can dwell in them without being al ways in evidence; but in such streams it always finds some pool or quiet reach with a fringe of reeds or bush that offers it a chance to hide during the daytime. Where much molested it becomes excess ively shy, and during daylight often lies for hours with only its nostrils above wa ter, in the shelter of some tuft of watergrass or the like; and under such circum stances it is astonishingly hard to make out. But on the Nile, among the chan nels and shallows of the vast beds of pa pyrus, I frequently saw small herds or family parties of the obese, unwieldly creatures sunning themselves even at noon, half out of water, or out on the shore, with their heads resting on the mud or on one another's bodies. Biting flies hov er over them and, instead of the ticks which infest the elephant and rhino, the hippos are hosts of small leeches which are often found in swarms fixed to the more tender parts. Not only have I seen herons and plover walking about and over them., but also birds that looked like tick birds.

We frequently found single hippo dwell ing in tiny pools, usually surrounded by marsh, miles away from the nearest lake or river, and sometimes so high among the hills that the animals must have done some real climbing to get to them. On one occasion while on the Uasin Gishu we were camped b y a reed-covered marsh with very little open water in it; we had no idea there was a hippo anywhere near; but when some of the men went to get water, after nightfall, they were threat ened and thoroughly frightened by a hippo, and when we white men turned out to see what had happened we could hear the hippo in the darkness snorting and gam THE HIPPOPOTAMUS bolling heavily about us, as we walked The hippo often wanders far overland through the wet meadow of short grass. at night, and doubtless thus wandered by A t night they were always very bold, and day in the past ages before man became on their rambles came close to camp; or, if

593

/•rom a photograph

by Carl E.

Akcley. Hippopotami in the T a n a River, near Fort Hall, B. E. A.

594

The African Rhinoceros and

we were in boats, they would snort and plunge as they examined us with fearless curiosity close alongside. On the Nile there were masses of a little surface float ing plant which we called water-cabbage, Pistia stratoides. Evidently when the hippos went ashore for a nocturnal walk they carried these plants with them, sup posedly on their backs; for in the morn ing we would sometimes find them dry ing in the hot sun miles inland. In spite of their clumsy build, hippos trot and gal lop fast. Their feet are kept far apart by the wide body and make paths with a ridge down the middle, so as to be recognizable at once. T h e y swim well, but go at their greatest speed when they can gallop along the bottom in shallow water. They can stay under water a long time, and when they come to the surface they may send little jets of spray from their nostrils. I was puzzled by the noises they made. Occasionally at night I heard them roar, in a way that I thought must be done with the open mouth; but the ordinary sound was more like the exhaust of a steam-engine and I think it was made through the nostrils. A t night they made all kinds of noises while in the water, and when on the bank, but I never heard them utter a sound when far in land on their rambles. In the daytime I once heard one uttering a series of medi tative bubbling squeaks from its secure fastness behind the green wall of plumed papyrus. The cow is devoted to the calf. When young it stands on her back as she swims. I do not understand the unconcern with which the hippos and crocodiles get on; for some of the latter are certainly large enough and greedy enough to kill a partgrown hippo. Probably the crocodiles dread the vengeance of the truculent old bulls and cows. They feast greedily on a hippo carcass; but so they will on the car cass of one of their own number. T h e hippo bulls fight savagely among them selves, and at times a ruthless old bully will maul other members of the herd. A t Lake Naivasha a young bull which had been thus maltreated, and was badly scarred, must have gone slightly crazy in consequence, for he came on shore and at tacked the cattle, and had to be slain. Where unmolested hippos become very

Hippopotamus

insolent and not only ravage the gardens and fields but attack any one who inter feres with them; and in places they attack and upset canoes, sometimes quite wan tonly, sometimes because the assailant has been wounded or is a cow with a calf. After the canoe is upset they may wreck it with their huge jaws, and they may or may not assail the swimmers; in one case, in the Lado, an old native was al most bitten in two by a savage bull after his canoe was upset, and I was informed by entirely trustworthy people that in swimming cattle across a river savage hippos had been known to assail and kill them, wholly without provocation. After we left Africa an English official we had met was upset in a canoe by a hippo and then carried off by a crocodile. Usually there is no sport in hippo-shoot ing; it needs nothing but good marks manship, and, as the brain is the tar get, accuracy and penetration are the only qualities demanded in the rifle. Ordi narily, from the circumstances of the case, there is not the slightest danger in hip po-shooting; yet I was once resolutely charged by a hippo which I shot in shal low water; with jaws open it came straight for the boat, which was between it and deep water. A wounded hippo will some times attack the boat of its assailant; and in rare cases an unusually truculent ani mal will charge out of the water and try to reach the hunter on land. Hippos feed on land at night, as a rule, although I once saw two tearing up and eating water-lilies, or some plants that were among water-lilies, in the late after noon. Naturally they find corn, beans, melons, and other garden products par ticularly attractive, and if they are plenti ful will destroy the crops of all villages which lie along the water-front. Once, on the Nile, while Loring and I were watching a monitor stealing croco dile's eggs we noticed a hippo in mid stream. Although it was in the forenoon, when most hippos were resting, it appeared above water at about two and a half min ute intervals, in the same place, breathed, and sank. This continued for an hour. The current was too rapid for him to rest; and it hardly seemed that he could be feeding on anything. I do not know what he was doing.

THE DARK

FLOWER

(THE LOVE LIFE OF A MAN)

PART

BY

III—AUTUMN—(CONCLUDED)

JOHN

GALSWORTHY

XII ^jJO deceive undoubtedly re quires a course of training. And, unversed in this art, Lennan was fast finding it intolerable to scheme and watch himself, and mislead one who had looked up to him ever since they were children. Y e t , all the time, he had a feeling that, since he alone knew all the circumstances of his case, he alone was entitled to blame or to excuse him self. The glib judgments that moralists would pass upon his conduct could be nothing but the imbecilities of the smug and pharisaic; of those not under this drugging spell, of such as had not blood enough perhaps ever to fall beneath it! The day after the ride Nell had not come, and he had no word from her. Was she, then, hurt after all? She had lain back very inertly in that chair! And Syl via never asked if he knew how the girl was after her fall, nor offered to send round to inquire. Did she not wish to speak of her, or had she simply—not be lieved? When there was so much he could not talk of, it seemed hard that just what happened to be true should be distrusted. She had not yet, indeed, by a single word suggested that she felt he was deceiving her, but at heart he knew that she was not deceived. . . . Those feelers of a woman who loves, can anything check their deli cate apprehension? . . . Toward evening the longing to see the girl—the sensation that she was calling him to come to her—became almost in supportable; yet, whatever excuse he gave, he felt that Sylvia would know where he was going. He sat on one side of the fire, she on the other, and they both read books; the only strange thing about their reading was that neither of them VOL.

LIV.—55

ever turned a leaf. It was Don Quixote he read, the page which had these words: " L e t Altisidora weep or sing, still I am Dulcinea's, and hers alone, dead or alive, dutiful and unchanged, in spite of all the necromantic powers in the world." And so the evening passed. When she went up to bed, he was very near to stealing out, driving up to the Dromores' door, and in quiring of the confidential man; but the thought of the confounded fellow's eyes was too much for him, and he held out. He took up Sylvia's book, D e Maupas sant's ' Fort comme la mort'—open at the page where the poor woman finds that her lover has passed away from her to her own daughter. And, as he read, the tears rolled down his cheeks. Sylvia! Sylvia! Were not his old favorite words from that old favorite book still true? "Dulcinea del Toboso is the most beautiful woman in the world, and I the most unfortunate knight upon the earth. It were unjust that such perfection should suffer through my weakness. No, pierce my body with your lance, knight, and let my life expire with my honor." . . . Why could he not wrench this feeling from his heart, banish this girl from his eyes? Why could he not be wholly true to her who was and always had been wholly true to him? Horrible—• this will-less, nerveless feeling, this pa ralysis, as if he were a puppet moved by a cruel hand. And, as once before, it seemed to him that the girl was sitting there in Sylvia's chair in her dark-red frock, with her eyes fixed on him. Uncan nily vivid—that impression! A man could not go on long with his head in Chancery like this—he would go crazed! It was growing dusk on Saturday after noon when he gave up that intolerable waiting and opened the studio door to go to Nell. It was now just two days since he had seen or heard of her. She had 595

596

The

Dark Flower

spoken of a dance for that very night—of his going to it.- She must be ill! B u t he had not gone six steps when he saw her coming. She had on a gray furry scarf hiding her mouth, making her look much older. The moment the door was shut she threw it off, went to the hearth, drew up a little stool, and, holding her hands out to the fire, said: " H a v e you thought about me? Have you thought enough n o w ? " And he answered: " Y e s , I've thought, but I'm no nearer." " W h y ? Nobody need ever know you love me. And if they did, I wouldn't care." Simple! So simple! Glorious, egoistic youth! He could not speak of Sylvia to this child—speak of his married life, hitherto so dignified. It was impossible. Then he heard her say: " It can't be wrong to love you; I don't care if it is wrong"; and saw her lips quiv ering, and her eyes suddenly piteous and scared, as if for the first time she doubted of the issue. Here was fresh torment! T o watch an unhappy child! And what was the use of even trying to make clear to her—on the very threshold of life—the hopeless maze that he was wandering in! What hope of making her understand the marsh of mud and tangled weeds he must drag through to reach her. "Nobody need know"—so simple! What of his heart, and his wife's heart! And pointing to his new work—the first man bewitched by the first nymph—he said: " D o you see this, Nell? T h a t nymph is you; and this thing is me." She got up and came to look at it. And while she looked he greedily drank her in. What a strange mixture of innocence and sor cery! What a wonderful young creature to bring to full knowledge of life within his arms! And he said: " Y o u had better understand what you are to me—all that I shall never know again; there it is in that nymph's face—oh, no! not your face. And there am I, struggling through slime to reach you—not my face, of course!" She said: "Poor face!" then covered her own. Was she going to cry, and tor ture him still more? But, instead, she only murmured, " Y o u have reached m e ! "

swayed toward him, and put her lips to his. He gave way then. From that too stormy kiss of his she drew back for a second; then, as if afraid of her own recoil, snuggled close again. But the instinctive shrinking of innocence had been enough for Lennan—he dropped his arms and said: " Y o u must go, child." Without a word she picked up her fur, put it on, and stood waiting for him to speak. Then, since he did not, she held out something white. It was the card for the dance. " Y o u ' r e coming, aren't y o u ? " And he nodded. Her eyes and lips smiled at him; she opened the door, and, still with that slow, happy smile, went out. . . . Yes, he would be coming; wherever she was, whenever she wanted him! . . . With his blood on fire, heedless of every thing but to rush after his happiness, Lennan spent those hours before the dance. He had told Sylvia that he would have to dine at his club—a small coterie of artists who had a set of rooms in Chelsea. He had taken this precaution, feeling that he could not sit through dinner opposite her and then go out to that dance—and Nell! He had spoken of a guest at the club, that he might dress—another lie, but what did it matter? He was lying all the time, if not in words, in action—must lie, indeed, to save her suffering! He stopped at the Frenchwoman's flower-shop. "Que desirez-vous, monsieur? Des mil lets rouges—fen ai de bien beaux, ce soir." Des ceillets rouges? Y e s , those to night! T o this address. N o green with them; no card! How strange the feeling—with the die once cast for love—of rushing, of watch ing his own self being left behind! In the Brompton Road, outside a little restaurant, a thin musician was playing on a violin. A h ! and he knew this place; he would go in there, not to the club— and the fiddler should have all he had to spare for playing those tunes of love. He turned in. He had not been there since the day before that night on the river, twenty years ago. Never since; and yet it was not changed. T h e same tarnished

Autumn gilt and smell of cooking; the same mac aroni in the same tomato sauce, the same Chianti, the same staring light-blue walls wreathed with pink flowers. Only the waiter different—hollow-cheeked, patient, dark of eye. He, too, should be well tipped! And that poor, over-hatted lady, eating her frugal meal—for her, at all events, a look of kindness. For all des perate creatures one must feel, this des perate night! And suddenly he thought of Oliver. Another desperate one! What should he say to Oliver at this dance—he, aged forty-seven, coming there without his wife! Some imbecility such [as, 'Watching the human form divine in motion,' ' Catching sidelights on Nell for the statuette'—some cant; it did not matter! The wine was drawn, and one must drink! It was still early when he left the res taurant—a dry night, very calm, not cold. When had he danced last? With Olive Cramier, before he knew he loved her. Well, that memory could not be broken, for he would not dance to-night! Just watch, sit with the girl a few minutes, feel her hand cling to his, see her eyes turned back to him; and—come away! And then—the future! A h ! What of the fu ture? The leaf of a plane-tree, flutter ing down, caught on his sleeve. Autumn would soon be gone, and after Autumn— only Winter! B u t she would have done with him long before he came to Winter. Nature would see to it that Y o u t h called to her, carried her away from him. Na ture in her courses! But just to cheat Nature for a little while! T o cheat Na ture—what greater fortune! Here was the place, with red-striped awning, carriages driving away, loiterers watching. He turned in with a beating heart. Was he before her? How would she come to this first dance? With Oliver alone? Or had some chaperon been found? T o have come because she—this child so lovely, born' outside'—might have need of chaperonage, would have been some comfort to dignity so wistful and so lost as his. Alas! he knew he was only there because he could not keep away. Already they were dancing in the hall upstairs; but not she, yet. He stood leaning against the wall, where she must pass. Lonely and out of place he felt; as

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if every one must know why he was there. People stared, and he heard a girl say: " W h o ' s that against the wall with the hair and dark moustache?'' and her part ner murmuring his answer, and her voice again: " Yes, he looks as if he were seeing sand and lions." For whom did they take him? Thank Heaven! They were all the usual sort. There would be no one that he knew. Suppose Johnny Dromore him self came with Nell! He was to have been back on Saturday! What could he say, then? How meet those doubting, know ing eyes, goggling with the fixed philos ophy that a man has but one use for woman? God! and it would be true! For a moment he was on the point of get ting his coat and hat, and sneaking away. It would mean not seeing her till Mon day; and at that thought he stood his ground. But after to-night there must be no more such risks—their meetings must be wisely planned, must sink underground. And then he saw her at the foot of the stairs, in a dress of a shell-pink color, with one of his flowers in her light brown hair and the other tied to the handle of a tiny fan. How self-possessed she looked, as if this were indeed her native element —her neck and arms bare, her cheeks a deep soft pink, her eyes quickly turning here and there. She began mounting the stairs, and saw him. Was ever anything so lovely as she looked that moment! Behind her he marked Oliver, and a tall girl with red hair, and another young man; and he moved deliberately to the top of the stairs on the wall side, so that from behind they should not see her face when she greeted him. She put the little fan with the flowers to her lips; and, hold ing out her hand, said, quick and low: " T h e fourth, it's a polka; we'll sit out, won't we? " Then swaying a little, so that her hair and the flower in it almost touched his face, she passed, and there in her stead stood Oliver. Lennan had expected one of his old in solent looks, but the young man's face was eager and quite friendly. " I t was awfully good of you to come, Mr. Lennan. Is Mrs. Lennan " And Lennan murmured: " S h e couldn't; she's not quite—" and could have sunk into the shining floor.

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Y o u t h with its touching confidence, its eager faith! This was the way he was fulfilling his trusteeship toward Y o u t h ! When they had passed into the ball room he went back to his position against the wall. They were dancing Number Three; his time of waiting, then, was drawing to a close. From where he stood he could not see the dancers—no need to watch her go round in some one else's arms. Not a true waltz—some French or Span ish pavement song played in waltz time; bizarre, pathetic, chasing its own happi ness. That chase for happiness! Had Life, with all its prizes and its possibilities, anything that quite satisfied—save just the fleeting moments of passion? Any thing else quite poignant enough to be called pure happiness! And was not that justification for all his conduct, all his feelings? The waltz was over. He could see her now on a rout seat against the wall with the other young man, turning her eyes constantly as if to make sure that he was still standing there. What subtle fuel was always being added to the fire by that flattery of her inexplicable adoration—of those eyes that dragged him to her, yet humbly followed him, too! Five times while she sat there he saw the red-haired girl or Oliver bring men up; saw youths cast longing glances; saw girls watching her with cold, defensive appraisement, or with a touching, frank delight. From the moment that she came in, there had been, in her father's phrase, 'only one in it.' And she could pass all this by, and still want him. Incredible! A t the first notes of the polka he went up to her. It was she who found their place of refuge—an alcove behind some palms. Sitting there, he realized as never be fore, that there was no spiritual commun ion between him and this child. She could tell him her troubles or her joys, he could soothe or sympathize; but never would the gap between their natures and their ages be crossed. His happiness was only in the sight and touch of her. That, God knew, was happiness enough—a fe verish, craving joy, which, like an over tired man's thirst, grew with the drink on which it tried to slake itself. Sitting

there, in the scent of those flowers and of some sweet essence in her hair, with her fingers touching his, and her eyes seeking his, he tried loyally not to think of him self, to grasp her sensations at this, her first dance, and just help her to enjoy ment. But he could not—paralyzed, made drunk by that insensate longing to take her in his arms, and crush her to him as he had those few hours back. He could see her expanding like a flower, in all the light and motion, and intoxicating admiration round her. What business had he in her life with his dark hunger after secret hours; he—a coin worn thin already—a destroyer of the freshness and the glamour of her youth and beauty! Putting the flowers to his face, she said: " D i d you give me these because of the one I gave y o u ? " "Yes." " W h a t did you do with t h a t ? " " B u r n t it." " O h ! but w h y ? " " Because you are a witch—and witches must be burnt with all their flowers." " A r e you going to burn m e ? " He put his hand on her cool arm. "Feel! The flames are lighted!" " Y o u may! I don't care!" " A h ! Nell—why? What is it? How is it you can love m e ? " She took his hand, and laid her cheek against it; yet, to the music which had begun again, the tip of her shoe was al ready beating time. T h a t was reality, the real truth of things! And he said: " Y o u ought to be dancing, child." " O h , no! only it's a pity you don't want to." How many things that he would not want! And he said: "Nell, do you understand that it must all be secret—underground?" She put the flowers to his lips, to stop his words. " Y o u ' r e not to think; never! When can I come?" " Not to-morrow. I must find the best way. Nobody must know, Nell—for your sake—for hers—nobody!'' His voice was trembling. Nodding, she repeated softly: "Nobody." And her face was mystery itself, listen ing—looking! But now she must dance, and he must

Autumn go! It was not safe to stay. And here was Oliver coming for her! Very composedly she rose and said: " I t was awfully good of you to come. Good-night!" B u t as, on Oliver's arm, she left their little refuge, she looked back. He lingered—to watch her through this one dance. How they made all the other couples sink into insignificance, with that something in them both that was better than mere good looks—that something not outre or eccentric, but poignant, way ward ! They went well together, those two Dromores—his dark head and her fair head; his clear brown, daring eyes, and her gray, languorous, mesmeric eyes. A h ! Master Oliver was happy now, with her so close to him! It was not jealousy that Lennan felt. Not quite—one did not feel jealous of the young; something very deep —pride, sense of proportion, who knew what—prevented that. Besides, one did not feel exactly jealous of those one robbed. And happy she looked, too, as if her soul were dancing, vibrating with music and the scent of flowers. He waited for her to come round once more, to get for a last time that flying glance turned back; then found his coat and hat, and went. XIII OUTSIDE, he walked a few steps, then stood looking back at the windows of the hall through some trees, the shadows of whose trunks, in the light of a street lamp, were spilled out along the ground like the splines of a fan. A church clock struck eleven. For hours yet she would be there, going round and round in the arms of Youth! T r y as he might he could never recapture for himself the look that Oliver's face had worn—the look that was the sign of so much more than he could ever give her. Why had she come into his life— to her undoing, and his own? And the bizarre thought came to him: " I f she were dead should I really care? Should I not be almost g l a d ? " If she were dead her witchery would be dead—and he could stand up straight again and look people in the face! What was this power that played with men, darted into them, twisted their hearts to rags? This power that had looked through her eyes when she put her fan, with those flowers, to her lips.

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The thrumming of the music ceased; he walked away. It must have been nearly twelve when he reached home. Now, once more, would begin the gruesome process of deception— flinching of soul and brazening of visage. It would be better when the whole thiev ish business was irretrievably begun and ordered in its secret courses! There was a light in the drawing-room, but perhaps it had been left for him! If only Sylvia might have gone to bed! Then he saw her sitting motionless on the hearth. He came to the fire and began his hate ful formula: " I ' m afraid you've been lonely. I had to stay rather late. A dull evening." And, since she did not move or answer, but just went on looking into the fire, he forced himself to go close, bend down to her, and touch her cheek; even to kneel beside her. She looked round then; her face was white and quiet enough, but her eyes were strangely eager, and with a piti ful little smile she broke out: " O h , Mark! What is it—what is it? Anything is better than this!" Perhaps it was the smile, perhaps her voice or eyes—but something gave way in Lennan. Secrecy, precaution went by the board; and, bowing his head against her breast, he poured it all out, while they clung clutched together on their knees be fore the fire, like two children. And while he was telling her, he thought: How won derful of her not to push me away—refuse to let me touch her! Only when he had finished did he realize that if she had done so it would have been far less piteous, far easier to bear, than her poor white face and her poor hands clutching him, and her words: " I never thought—you and I —oh! Mark—you and I—" The trust in their life together, in himself, that those words revealed! Y e t not greater than he had had—still had! She could not understand—he had known that she could never understand; it was why he had fought so for secrecy. She thought she had lost everything, and in his mind she had lost nothing. This passion, this craving for Youth and Life, this madness •—call it what she would—was all apart, could never touch and destroy his love and need of her. If she would only be-

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lieve that! Over and over he repeated it—over and over again perceived that she could not take it in. The only thing she saw was that his love had gone from her to another. And that was not true! Suddenly she broke out of his arms, pushed him from her, and cried: " T h a t girl—hateful, horrible, false!" Never had he seen her look like that, with flaming spots in her white cheeks, soft lips and chin distorted, blue eyes flaming, breast heaving as if each breath were drawn from lungs that received no air. And then, as quickly, the fire went out of her; she sank down on the sofa, covering her face with her arms, rocking to and fro. She did not cry, but a little moaning sound came from her now and then. And each one of those sounds was to Lennan like the cry of something he was murdering. A t last he went and sat down on the sofa by her and said: " S y l v i a ! Sylvia! Don't! oh! don't!" And she was silent, ceasing to rock herself; letting him smooth and stroke her. But her face she kept hidden, and only once she spoke, so low that he could hardly hear: " I can't—I won't keep you from her." And with the awful feeling that no words could reach or soothe the wound in that heart, he could only go on stroking and kissing her hands. It was atrocious—horrible—this that he had done! God knew that he had not sought it—the thing had come on him—even she in her misery could see that. Deep down beneath his grief and hatred of himself, he knew—what neither she nor any one else could know—that he could not have prevented this feeling, which went back to days before he ever saw the girl—that no man could have stopped that feeling. This craving and roving was as much part of himself as his eyes and hands, as overwhelming and natural a longing as his hunger for work, or his need of the peace that Sylvia gave and alone could give him. That was the tragedy—it was all sunk and rooted in the very nature of a man. Since the girl came into their lives he was no more un faithful to his wife in thought than he had been before. If only she could look into him, see him exactly as he was, as, with out part or lot in the process, he had been made—then she would understand, and

even might not suffer; but she could not, and he could never make it plain. Y e t solemnly, desperately, with a weary feel ing of the futility of words, he went on trying. It was all a thing outside him— could she not see? Only a craving, a chase after beauty and life, after his own youth! A t that word she looked at him: " A n d do you think I don't want my youth b a c k ? " He stopped, abashed. For a woman to feel that her beauty— the brightness of her hair and eyes, the grace and suppleness of her limbs—were slipping from her and from the man she loved! Was there anything more bitter? —or anything more sacred than that he should hot add to that bitterness, should not push her with suffering into old age, but help to keep the star of her faith in her charm intact! Man and woman—they both wanted youth again; she, that she might give it all to him; he, because it would help him toward something—ne'w! Just that dif ference! Was it strange that she would never grasp it, nor ever quite forgive ? He got up, and said: " C o m e , dear, let's try and sleep." He had not once said that he could give it up. The words would not pass his lips, though he knew she must be conscious that he had not said it, must be longing to hear it. All he had said was: " S o long as you want me, you shall never lose m e " . . . and, " I will never keep anything from you again." Up in their room she lay hour after hour in his arms, quite unresentful, but without life in her, and with eyes that, when his lips touched them, were always wet. What a maze was a man's heart, where in he must lose himself every minute! What involved and intricate turnings and turnings on itself; and fugitive replace ment of emotion by emotion! What strife between pities and passions; what longing for peace! . . . And in his feverish exhaustion, which was almost sleep, Lennan hardly knew whether it was the thrum of music or Sylvia's moaning that he heard; her body or Nell's within his arms. . . . But life had to be lived, a face preserved against the world, engagements kept. And

Autumn the n i g h t m a r e w e n t on for b o t h of t h e m , under the c a l m surface of an o r d i n a r y S u n d a y . T h e y were like p e o p l e w a l k i n g at the e d g e of a high cliff, n o t k n o w i n g from s t e p t o s t e p w h e t h e r t h e y w o u l d fall; or like s w i m m e r s s t r u g g l i n g for issue out of a d a r k w h i r l p o o l . In the afternoon t h e y w e n t t o g e t h e r t o a concert. I t w a s j u s t s o m e t h i n g to d o — something t h a t s a v e d t h e m for an h o u r or t w o from t h e p o s s i b i l i t y of s p e a k i n g on the one s u b j e c t left t o t h e m . T h e ship had gone d o w n , a n d t h e y w e r e c l u t c h i n g at a n y t h i n g t h a t for a m o m e n t w o u l d help to keep t h e m a b o v e w a t e r . In the e v e n i n g s o m e people c a m e t o supper—a w r i t e r a n d t w o painters, w i t h their w i v e s . A g r i m e v e n i n g — n e v e r m o r e so t h a n w h e n t h e c o n v e r s a t i o n t u r n e d on t h a t perennial t h e m e — t h e c o m p l e t e free dom requisite for artists. A l l t h e stale arguments were b r o u g h t forth, a n d h a d to be joined in w i t h u n m o v e d faces. A n d L e n n a n felt t h a t , for all this t a l k of free dom, his friends w o u l d c o n d e m n h i m if they k n e w — c o n d e m n , b e c a u s e it w a s n o t ' t h e t h i n g ' t o seduce y o u n g girls — as if forsooth, there w e r e freedom in d o i n g only w h a t p e o p l e t h o u g h t ' t h e t h i n g ' ! T h e i r c a n t a b o u t t h e free a r t i s t spirit ex periencing e v e r y t h i n g w o u l d w i t h e r t h e m o m e n t it c a m e u p a g a i n s t a c a n o n of ' g o o d form,' so t h a t in t r u t h i t w a s n o freer t h a n t h e b o u r g e o i s spirit, w i t h its c o n ventions, or t h e priest spirit, w i t h its cry of ' S i n ! ' N o , n o ! T o resist—if re sistance w e r e possible to this d r a g g i n g p o w e r — m a x i m s of ' g o o d f o r m , ' d o g m a s of religion a n d m o r a l i t y , w e r e no help—• nothing w a s a n y h e l p , b u t s o m e feeling stronger t h a n passion itself. Sylvia's face, forced t o smile! A h ! t h a t w a s a reason w h y t h e y s h o u l d c o n d e m n h i m ! None of their d o c t r i n e s a b o u t freedom could explain t h a t a w a y — t h e d e a t h in a man's soul w h e n he m a k e s a l o v i n g , faith ful creature suffer. B u t t h e y w e r e g o n e a t l a s t — w i t h their " T h a n k s so m u c h ! " a n d their " D e l i g h t ful e v e n i n g ! " A n d those t w o w e r e face to face for another n i g h t . H e k n e w t h a t it m u s t b e g i n all o v e r a g a i n —inevitable after t h e s t a b of t h a t w r e t c h e d argument p l u n g e d i n t o their h e a r t s a n d turned a n d t u r n e d all t h e e v e n i n g .

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" I won't, I mustn't keep y o u starved, a n d spoil y o u r w o r k . D o n ' t t h i n k of m e , M a r k ! I can b e a r i t ! " A n d then a b r e a k d o w n worse t h a n t h e n i g h t before. W h a t genius, w h a t sheer genius N a t u r e h a d for torturing her crea tures! If a n y one h a d told h i m , e v e n so little as a w e e k a g o t h a t he could h a v e caused such suffering t o S y l v i a — S y l v i a , w h o m as a child w i t h w i d e blue e y e s a n d a blue b o w on her flaxen h e a d he h a d g u a r d e d across fields full of i m a g i n a r y b u l l s ; S y l v i a , in w h o s e hair his star h a d c a u g h t ; S y l v i a , w h o d a y and night for fifteen y e a r s h a d been his d e v o t e d wife; w h o m he l o v e d a n d still a d m i r e d — he w o u l d h a v e g i v e n h i m the lie direct. I t w o u l d h a v e seemed incredible, m o n strous, silly. H a d all married m e n a n d w o m e n s u c h things to g o t h r o u g h ? W a s this b u t a v e r y usual crossing of the des ert? O r w a s it, once for all, s h i p w r e c k ; d e a t h — u n h o l y , violent d e a t h — i n a s t o r m of sand? A n o t h e r n i g h t of misery, a n d no a n s w e r t o t h a t question y e t . H e h a d told her t h a t he w o u l d n o t see N e l l again, w i t h o u t first letting her k n o w . So, w h e n m o r n i n g c a m e , he s i m p l y w r o t e the words: " D o n ' t come t o - d a y ! " — s h o w e d t h e m t o S y l v i a , a n d sent t h e m b y a s e r v a n t to D r o m o r e ' s . H a r d to describe the bitterness w i t h w h i c h he entered his studio. I n all this chaos, w h a t w o u l d b e c o m e of his w o r k ? C o u l d he e v e r h a v e p e a c e of m i n d for it again? T h o s e people last night h a d used t h e w o r d s 'inspiration of passion, of ex perience.' I n pleading w i t h her he h a d used the w o r d s himself. S h e — p o o r soul! h a d b u t repeated t h e m , t r y i n g t o endure t h e m , t o believe t h e m true. A n d were t h e y true? A g a i n no answer, or c e r t a i n l y none t h a t he could g i v e . T o h a v e h a d t h e w a t e r s b r o k e n u p ; to be p l u n g e d into e m o t i o n ; to feel d e s p e r a t e l y , i n s t e a d of s t a g n a t i n g — s o m e d a y he m i g h t be g r a t e f u l — w h o k n e w ? S o m e d a y there m i g h t b e fair c o u n t r y again b e y o n d this desert, where he could w o r k e v e n b e t t e r t h a n be fore. B u t j u s t n o w , as well e x p e c t c r e a t i v e w o r k from a c o n d e m n e d m a n ! Destruc tion if he g a v e N e l l u p , a n d w i t h her, once for all, t h a t r o v i n g , seeking instinct, w h i c h o u g h t , forsooth, to h a v e been satis fied, a n d w a s n o t ; d e a t h , if he did n o t

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g i v e her u p , b u t t o o k her, k n o w i n g t h a t in d o i n g so he w a s torturing a w o m a n — a w o m a n d e a r t o h i m ! T h a t w a s as far as he c o u l d see t o - d a y . W h a t he w o u l d see in t i m e t o c o m e G o d o n l y k n e w ! B u t ' F r e e d o m of t h e s p i r i t ! ' That was a p h r a s e of b i t t e r i r o n y indeed! A n d there, a m o n g s t his w o r k , like a m a n tied h a n d a n d foot, he w a s s w e p t b y such a feeling of e x a s p e r a t e d rage as he h a d n e v e r known! Women! These women! Only let h i m b e free of t h e m , a n d t h e passions a n d pities t h e y aroused, so t h a t his b r a i n and his h a n d s m i g h t l i v e a n d w o r k a g a i n . T h e y should n o t s t r a n g l e — t h e y should not destroy him! U n f o r t u n a t e l y , e v e n in his rage, h e k n e w t h a t flight from t h e m b o t h could n e v e r help h i m . O n e w a y or the other t h e thing would have to be fought through. If o n l y it h a d been a s t r a i g h t fight; a clear issue b e t w e e n passion a n d p i t y ! B u t b o t h he l o v e d , a n d b o t h he pitied. T h e r e w a s n o t h i n g straight a n d clear a b o u t all this; it w a s too d e e p l y rooted in full h u m a n n a t u r e . A n d the a p p a l l i n g sense of rushing ceaselessly from barrier to barrier b e g a n really to affect his h e a d . T r u e , he h a d n o w a n d then a lucid in t e r v a l of a few m i n u t e s , w h e n the ingen ious n a t u r e of his o w n t o r m e n t s s t r u c k h i m as s u p r e m e l y interesting a n d q u e e r ; b u t this w a s n o t precisely a relief, for it o n l y m e a n t , as in prolonged t o o t h a c h e , t h a t his p o w e r of feeling h a d for a m o m e n t ceased to w o r k . A p r e t t y little hell in deed! All d a y he h a d the p r e m o n i t i o n , a m o u n t ing to c e r t a i n t y , t h a t N e l l w o u l d t a k e a l a r m a t those three w o r d s he h a d sent her, and c o m e in spite of t h e m . A n d y e t , w h a t else could he h a v e w r i t t e n ? Nothing save what must have alarmed her more, or p l u n g e d h i m deeper. He h a d the feeling t h a t she c o u l d follow his m o o d s , t h a t her e y e s could see h i m e v e r y w h e r e , as a c a t ' s e y e s can see in d a r k n e s s . H e h a d h a d t h a t feeling, m o r e or less, e v e r since t h e last e v e n i n g of O c t o b e r , t h e e v e n i n g she c a m e b a c k from her s u m m e r , grown-up. H o w long a g o w a s t h a t ? O n l y six d a y s ? A h , y e s ! S h e w o u l d k n o w w h e n her spell w a s w e a k e n i n g , w h e n the current w a n t e d , as it w e r e , r e n e w i n g . A n d , sure e n o u g h , a b o u t six o ' c l o c k — d u s k a l r e a d y — w i t h o u t t h e least surprise,

Flower

w i t h o n l y a sort of e m p t y q u i v e r i n g , he h e a r d her k n o c k . A n d j u s t b e h i n d the closed door, as near as he c o u l d g e t to her, he stood, h o l d i n g his b r e a t h . H e had given his w o r d to S y l v i a — o f his o w n a c c o r d had g i v e n it. T h r o u g h t h e thin w o o d of the o l d door he c o u l d h e a r t h e faint shuffle of her feet on t h e p a v e m e n t , m o v e d a few inches this w a y a n d t h a t , as t h o u g h sup p l i c a t i n g t h e silence. H e c o u l d see, as it w e r e , her h e a d , b e n t a little forward to t h e b l a n k door, listening. T h r e e times she k n o c k e d ; a n d e a c h t i m e Lennan w r i t h e d . I t w a s so cruel! W i t h t h a t see ing sense of hers she m u s t k n o w he was t h e r e ; his v e r y silence w o u l d be telling her—for e v e n his silence h a d its voice, t h a t m u s t rise i n t o t h e air, its pitiful b r e a t h l e s s v o i c e . T h e n , quite distinctly, he h e a r d her sigh, a n d her footsteps move a w a y ; a n d c o v e r i n g his face w i t h his h a n d s he rushed t o a n d fro in t h e studio, like a m a d m a n . N o s o u n d of her a n y m o r e ! Gone! A n d , seizing his h a t , he ran out. Which way? A t r a n d o m he ran t o w a r d the square. T h e r e she w a s , o v e r b y the rail i n g s ; l a n g u i d l y , irresolutely m o v i n g to ward home. XIV N o w t h a t she w a s w i t h i n reach he w a v e r e d ; b u t surely he m i g h t see her out here in the s t r e e t — m u s t see her, to tell her w h a t h a d h a p p e n e d ! T h e n she turned a n d s a w h i m . I n the b i t i n g easterly wind her face l o o k e d small a n d pinched and c o l d ; b u t her e y e s o n l y the larger, the m o r e full of w i t c h e r y , as if beseeching him n o t t o be a n g r y , n o t t o send her a w a y . " I h a d to c o m e ; I g o t frightened. W h y did y o u w r i t e s u c h a t i n y little n o t e ? " H e tried to m a k e his v o i c e sound quiet and ordinary: " Y o u m u s t be b r a v e , N e l l . I h a v e had t o tell h e r . " She c l u t c h e d a t his a r m ; then drew her self u p , a n d said in her clear, clipped voice: " O h ! I suppose she h a t e s m e , then!" " S h e is t e r r i b l y u n h a p p y . " T h e y w a l k e d a m i n u t e t h a t m i g h t have been an h o u r w i t h o u t a w o r d ; n o t round the square, as he h a d w a l k e d w i t h Oliver, b u t a w a y from t h e house. A t last she

Autumn said in a h a l f - c h o k e d v o i c e : " I o n l y w a n t a little b i t of y o u . " A n d he a n s w e r e d : " T h e r e are no little bits, in l o v e — t h e r e is no s t a n d i n g s t i l l . " T h a t h a d b e e n the v e r y b u r d e n of S y l v i a ' s c r y , w h e n he himself h a d s a i d : ' S h e only has a little b i t of m e . ' T h e n he h a d refused t o b e l i e v e ; n o w he w a s r e p e a t i n g it! S u d d e n l y he felt her h a n d in his, t h e fingers lacing, t w i n i n g restlessly a m o n g s t his o w n ; a n d a g a i n t h e h a l f - c h o k e d v o i c e said: " Y o u will let m e see y o u s o m e t i m e s ! You must!" H a r d e s t of all t o s t a n d a g a i n s t w a s this pathetic, clinging, frightened child. A n d not k n o w i n g v e r y c l e a r l y w h a t he said, he murmured: " Y e s — y e s ; it'll b e all r i g h t . B e b r a v e — y o u m u s t be b r a v e , N e l l . I t ' l l all c o m e right." B u t she o n l y a n s w e r e d : " N o , n o ! I ' m n o t b r a v e . I shall do something." A n d her face l o o k e d j u s t as w h e n she had ridden a t t h a t g r a v e l p i t . L o v i n g , wild, undisciplined, w i t h o u t resource of any k i n d — w h a t m i g h t she n o t do? W h y could he not stir w i t h o u t b r i n g i n g disaster upon one of t h e m ? A n d b e t w e e n these two, suffering so b e c a u s e of h i m , he felt exactly as if he h a d lost his o w n exist ence. In q u e s t of his o w n h a p p i n e s s , he had come to this! S u d d e n l y she s a i d : " O l i v e r a s k e d m e a g a i n a t the d a n c e on S a t u r d a y . H e said y o u ' d told h i m t o be patient. D i d y o u ? " "Yes." "Why?" " I w a s sorry for h i m . " She let his h a n d g o . " P e r h a p s y o u w o u l d like me t o . " V e r y clearly he s a w t h o s e t w o g o i n g round and r o u n d o v e r t h e shining floor. " I t would be better, N e l l . " She m a d e a little s o u n d — o f anger or dismay. " Y o u d o n ' t really w a n t m e , t h e n ? " T h a t w a s his c h a n c e . B u t w i t h her arm t o u c h i n g his, her face so pale a n d des perate, a n d those m a d d e n i n g e y e s t u r n e d to him, he c o u l d n o t tell t h a t lie, a n d answered: " Y e s — I want you, God knows."

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A t t h a t a sigh of c o n t e n t escaped her, as if she were s a y i n g to herself: ' I f he w a n t s me he will not let m e g o . ' S t r a n g e little t r i b u t e to her faith in l o v e a n d her own youth! T h e y h a d c o m e s o m e h o w to Pall M a l l b y n o w . A n d scared to find himself t h u s d e e p in t h e h u n t i n g - g r o u n d of t h e D r o mores, L e n n a n t u r n e d h a s t i l y t o w a r d Saint J a m e s ' s P a r k , t h a t t h e y m i g h t cross it in the dark, round to P i c c a d i l l y . T o be t h u s slinking o u t of the w o r l d ' s sight w i t h t h e d a u g h t e r of his old r o o m m a t e — o f all m e n in t h e world t h e last, perhaps, t h a t he should do this t o ! A nice treacherous business! B u t t h e thing t h a t men called h o n o r — w h a t w a s it w h e n her e y e s were looking a t him, a n d her shoulder touching his? Since he h a d spoken those words, " Y e s , I w a n t y o u , " she h a d been silent—fearful, perhaps, to let other w o r d s destroy their comfort. B u t near the g a t e b y H y d e P a r k Corner, she p u t her h a n d again into his, and again her voice, so clear, said: " I don't w a n t to hurt anybody, but y o u will let me come s o m e t i m e s — y o u will let m e see y o u — y o u w o n ' t leave me all alone, t h i n k i n g t h a t I'll n e v e r see y o u again?" A n d once more, w i t h o u t k n o w i n g w h a t he answered, L e n n a n m u r m u r e d : " N o , no! I t ' l l be all right, dear—it'll all come right. I t m u s t — i t s h a l l . " A n d again her fingers t w i n e d a m o n g s t his, like a child's. H o w wonderfully she seemed to k n o w the e x a c t thing to s a y a n d do t o k e e p h i m helpless! A n d she w e n t o n : " I d i d n ' t t r y to l o v e y o u — i t isn't w r o n g to l o v e — i t w o u l d n ' t h u r t her. I o n l y w a n t a little of y o u r l o v e . " A l i t t l e — a l w a y s a little! B u t he w a s o n l y b e n t on comforting her now. T h e t h o u g h t of her going h o m e , and sitting lonely, frightened, and u n h a p p y all the e v e n i n g , w a s so dreadful. A n d , holding her fingers tight, he k e p t on m u r m u r i n g w o r d s of w o u l d - b e comfort. A n d t h e n he s a w t h a t t h e y were o u t of P i c c a d i l l y . H o w far dared he g o w i t h her a l o n g the railings before he said g o o d - b y ? A man was coming toward them, just w h e r e he h a d m e t D r o m o r e t h a t first fatal afternoon nine m o n t h s a g o ; a m a n w i t h a slight lurch in his w a l k , a tall shining h a t , a little on one side. B u t , t h a n k H e a v e n !

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it w a s n o t D r o m o r e — o n l y one s o m e w h a t like h i m , w h o in passing stared sphinx like a t N e l l . A n d L e n n a n s a i d : " Y o u must go home now, child; we m u s t n ' t be seen t o g e t h e r . " F o r a m o m e n t he t h o u g h t she w a s g o i n g t o b r e a k d o w n a n d refuse t o l e a v e h i m . T h e n she t h r e w u p her h e a d , a n d for a second s t o o d like t h a t q u i t e motionless. S t r i p p i n g off her g l o v e , she s u d d e n l y t h r u s t her w a r m , clinging h a n d into his cold one. H e r lips smiled faintly, tears s t o o d in her e y e s ; she d r e w her h a n d a w a y a n d p l u n g e d into t h e traffic. He s a w her t u r n t h e corner of her street a n d disappear. A n d w i t h the w a r m t h of t h a t passionate little h a n d still s t i n g i n g his p a l m , he t u r n e d a n d a l m o s t ran t o w a r d H y d e Park. T a k i n g no heed of direction, he l a u n c h e d himself i n t o its d a r k space, all deserted in t h a t cold, homeless w i n d . T h e east w i n d has little sound, n o m o o d s a n d fancies, n o scent, t r a v e l l i n g its remorseless r o a d a t e v e n g a i t . T h e trees t u r n s t e a d i l y a w a y from i t ; lights lose their l o o k of c o m f o r t , t h e s k y is b l a n k of emotion. T h i s d a r k firmament a n d t h a t keen, cold air suited one w h o h a d little need of aids t o e m o t i o n — o n e w h o h a d , indeed, b u t a single w i s h , t o g e t rid, if he o n l y could, of t h e terrible sensation in his h e a d — t h a t bruised, b a t t e r e d , imprisoned feel i n g a m a n has w h o p a c e s his cell, n e v e r , n e v e r to g e t o u t a t either end. W i t h o u t t h o u g h t or intention he d r o v e his legs a l o n g ; n o t running, b e c a u s e he k n e w t h a t he w o u l d h a v e to stop t h e sooner. W h a t m o r e c o m i c s p e c t a c l e for t h e g o o d citizen t h a n this m a r r i e d m a n of m i d d l e a g e , striding b y t h e h o u r t o g e t h e r o v e r those d r y , d a r k , e m p t y p a s t u r e s , a n d so h u n t e d b y passion a n d b y p i t y t h a t he k n e w n o t e v e n w h e t h e r he h a d d i n e d ! B u t n o g o o d citizen w a s a b r o a d of an a u t u m n n i g h t in a b i t t e r easterly w i n d . T h e trees w e r e t h e sole witnesses of this g r i m e x e r c i s e — t h e trees, resigning t o t h e cold b r e a t h of t h e w i n d their crinkled l e a v e s , t h a t k e p t flut t e r i n g p a s t h i m , j u s t a little l i g h t e r t h a n t h e d a r k n e s s . H e r e a n d there his feet rustled in t h e p a r c h e d drifts w a i t i n g t o serve the little bonfires, w h o s e s c e n t alone w a s in t h e air. A d e s p e r a t e w a l k , in this h e a r t of L o n d o n — r o u n d a n d round, u p and d o w n , h o u r after hour, k e e p i n g a l w a y s in t h e d a r k ; n o t a star in t h e s k y , n o t a

Flower

h u m a n b e i n g s p o k e n t o or e v e n clearly seen, n o t a b i r d or b e a s t ; j u s t t h e g l e a m of t h e l i g h t s far a w a y , a n d t h e hoarse m u t t e r of t h e traffic! A w a l k as lonely as t h e v o y a g e of t h e h u m a n soul is lonely from b i r t h t o d e a t h , w i t h n o l i g h t to guide it b u t t h e flickering g l o w f r o m its own frail spirit. . . . A n d , so tired t h a t h e c o u l d h a r d l y m o v e his legs, b u t free a t l a s t of t h a t awful feel i n g in his h e a d — f r e e for t h e first time for d a y s a n d d a y s — L e n n a n c a m e o u t of the p a r k a t t h e g a t e w h e r e he h a d gone in, a n d w a l k e d t o w a r d his h o m e , certain that t o - n i g h t one w a y or t h e o t h e r it w o u l d be decided XV T H I S , t h e n — t h i s l o n g t r o u b l e of b o d y a n d of s p i r i t — w a s w h a t he remembered, sitting in the a r m - c h a i r b e y o n d his bed r o o m fire, w a t c h i n g t h e g l o w , and Sylvia sleeping there e x h a u s t e d , w h i l e the dark plane-tree l e a v e s t a p - t a p p e d a t the win d o w in the a u t u m n w i n d ; w a t c h i n g with t h e u n c a n n y c e r t a i n t y t h a t he w o u l d not p a s s t h e limits of t h a t n i g h t w i t h o u t hav ing m a d e a t last a decision t h a t w o u l d not alter. F o r e v e n t h e e b b a n d flow of con flict w e a r s itself o u t ; e v e n indecision has t h a t m e a s u r e set t o its miserable powers of torture. A n y issue in t h e end is better t h a n the hell of indecision itself. Once or t w i c e in those l a s t d a y s e v e n d e a t h had s e e m e d t o h i m q u i t e t o l e r a b l e ; b u t , now t h a t his h e a d w a s clear a n d he h a d come t o g r i p s , d e a t h p a s s e d o u t of his mind like the s h a d o w t h a t it w a s . N o t h i n g so s i m p l e , e x t r a v a g a n t , a n d v a i n could serve h i m . O t h e r issues h a d r e a l i t y ; death— none. T o l e a v e S y l v i a , and t a k e the girl a w a y ; there w a s e v e n r e a l i t y in t h a t , but it h a d a l w a y s f a d e d as soon as it shaped itself; a n d n o w o n c e m o r e it faded. To p u t t h a t p u b l i c a n d terrible affront upon this t e n d e r c r e a t u r e w h o m he loved, do her to d e a t h , as it w e r e , before the world's e y e s — a n d then, e v e r remorseful, grow old while the girl w a s still y o u n g ? H e could n o t . If S y l v i a h a d n o t l o v e d h i m , y e s ; or e v e n if he h a d n o t l o v e d her; or if, again, t h o u g h l o v i n g h i m she h a d stood upon her rights, in a n y of those e v e n t s he might h a v e d o n e it. B u t to l e a v e this faithful wife w h o m he did l o v e , a n d w h o h a d said t o h i m so g e n e r o u s l y , " I will n o t hamper

Autumn y o u — g o t o h e r " — w o u l d b e a t r o c i t y too b l a c k . E v e r y m e m o r y from their b o y and-girl l o v e r i n g t o t h e d e s p e r a t e clinging of her a r m s these last t w o n i g h t s — m e m ory, w i t h its i n n u m e r a b l e t e n t a c l e s , t h e invincible s t r e n g t h of its c o u n t l e s s threads, b o u n d h i m to her t o o fast. W h a t t h e n ? M u s t it c o m e , after all, t o g i v i n g u p t h e girl? A n d s i t t i n g there, b y t h a t w a r m fire, he s h i v e r e d . H o w desolate, sacrile gious, wasteful t o t h r o w l o v e a w a y ; to t u r n from the m o s t p r e c i o u s of all g i f t s ; to d r o p and b r e a k t h a t v a s e ! T h e r e w a s n o t t o o m u c h l o v e in the w o r l d , nor too m u c h w a r m t h a n d b e a u t y — n o t for those, a n y way, whose sands were running out, whose blood w o u l d soon b e cold.

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one of those little soft, h u r r y i n g whispers t h a t u n h a p p y dreamers utter, the w o r d s all lost in [their wistful rush. A n d he t h o u g h t : I, w h o b e l i e v e in b r a v e r y a n d k i n d n e s s ; I, w h o h a t e c r u e l t y — i f I do this cruel thing, w h a t shall I h a v e t o live for; h o w shall I w o r k ; h o w bear m y s e l f ? If I d o it, I a m lost—an o u t c a s t from m y o w n f a i t h — a renegade from all t h a t I believe in. A n d , kneeling there close t o t h a t face so s a d a n d lonely, t h a t h e a r t so b e a t e n e v e n in its sleep, he k n e w t h a t he could n o t do i t — k n e w it w i t h sudden, u t t e r cer t a i n t y , a n d a sense of peace. O v e r — o v e r ! the long struggle, o v e r at last! F o r others it m i g h t be possible—for him, n o ! I n his passion for this girl w a s no n a t u r a l fitness, such as alone m a d e passion i n e v i t a b l e , o v e r w h e l m i n g , sacred—such as, once, h a d justified for h i m passion against the world. Y o u t h w i t h ' y o u t h ; summer to summer; falling leaf w i t h falling leaf! A n d behind h i m the fire flickered, a n d t h e plane-tree leaves tap-tapped. H e rose a n d crept a w a y . H e w e n t stealthily downstairs into t h e d r a w i n g r o o m , and t h r o u g h the w i n d o w a t the far end into t h e c o u r t - y a r d where he had sat t h a t d a y b y the h y d r a n g e a listening t o t h e piano-organ. V e r y d a r k a n d cold a n d eerie it w a s o u t there, and he hurried across t o his studio. T h e r e , too, it w a s cold and dark a n d eerie, w i t h its g h o s t l y plaster presences, stale scent of cigarettes, a n d j u s t one g l o w i n g ember of the fire he h a d left w h e n he rushed o u t after Nell—• those seven hours a g o . H e w e n t first to the b u r e a u , t u r n e d u p its l a m p , and, t a k i n g out some sheets of paper, m a r k e d on t h e m directions for his v a r i o u s w o r k s ; for t h e s t a t u e t t e of N e l l he n o t e d t h a t it should be t a k e n w i t h his compliments to M r . Dromore. H e wrote a letter t o his banker, directing m o n e y t o b e sent t o R o m e , a n d t o his solicitor, tell ing h i m t o let t h e house. He wrote q u i c k l y . If S y l v i a w o k e , a n d found h i m still a w a y , w h a t m i g h t she n o t t h i n k ? H e t o o k a last sheet t o w r i t e t o t h e girl herself—a deliberate lie. W h a t did it m a t t e r , if it helped her o v e r t h e first shock?

C o u l d S y l v i a n o t let h i m k e e p b o t h her love a n d t h e girl's? C o u l d she n o t b e a r that? She h a d said she c o u l d ; b u t her face, her e y e s , her v o i c e g a v e her t h e lie, so t h a t e v e r y t i m e he heard her his heart turned sick w i t h p i t y . O n c e , t o o , these words h a d e s c a p e d h e r : " H o w w o u l d y o u feel if I t o o k a y o u n g l o v e r , a n d e x p e c t e d t h a t w e c o u l d g o on as w e are? " A n d t h e next m i n u t e h a d g o n e b a c k to h e r : " N o , no; I w o n ' t b e a d r a g on y o u — I c a n b e a r it—I w i l l — I m u s t . " T h i s , then, w a s the real issue: C o u l d he a c c e p t from her s u c h a sacrifice; e x a c t a d a i l y m i s e r y ; see her droop a n d fade b e n e a t h it? C o u l d he bear his o w n h a p p i n e s s a t s u c h a cost? W o u l d it be h a p p i n e s s a t all? H e g o t u p from t h e chair a n d c r e p t t o w a r d her. She looked v e r y fragile sleeping there! T h e darkness b e l o w her closed e y e l i d s showed cruelly on t h a t too fair s k i n ; a n d in her flax-colored hair he s a w w h a t he had never n o t i c e d — a few s t r a n d s of w h i t e . Her softly o p e n e d lips, a l m o s t colorless, quivered w i t h her u n e v e n b r e a t h i n g . And now and a g a i n a little feverish shiver passed u p from her h e a r t . A l l soft a n d fragile. N o t m u c h life, n o t m u c h s t r e n g t h ; youth and beauty slipping! T o know that he w h o should b e her c h a m p i o n a g a i n s t age and t i m e w o u l d d a y b y d a y b e p l a c i n g one more m a r k u p o n her face, one m o r e sorrow in her h e a r t ! T h a t he should d o this—they b o t h g o i n g d o w n t h e y e a r s t o gether! W h i l e he s t o o d there, h o l d i n g his breath, b e n d i n g t o l o o k a t her, t h a t sharp swish of the plane-tree b r a n c h flung " D E A R N E L L , against a n d a g a i n s t t h e w i n d o w b y t h e " I w r i t e this h a s t i l y in t h e e a r l y hours, autumn w i n d s e e m e d filling t h e w h o l e t o s a y t h a t w e are called out t o I t a l y t o world. A n d s u d d e n l y her lips m o v e d — m y o n l y sister, w h o is v e r y ill. W e l e a v e

T h e Dark

606

b y t h e first m o r n i n g b o a t , and m a y b e a w a y some time. I will w r i t e a g a i n . D o n ' t fret, and G o d bless y o u . "M.

L."

H e could n o t see v e r y well as he w r o t e . P o o r l o v i n g , desperate c h i l d ! W e l l , she h a d y o u t h and strength, a n d w o u l d soon h a v e — O l i v e r ! A n d he t o o k y e t a n o t h e r sheet. "DEAR

OLIVER,

" M y wife a n d I are obliged t o g o p o s t haste t o I t a l y . I w a t c h e d y o u b o t h at t h e d a n c e the other n i g h t . B e v e r y g e n t l e with Nell; and—good luck to you. D o n ' t s a y again t h a t I told y o u t o be p a t i e n t , it is h a r d l y t h e w a y t o m a k e her l o v e y o u . "M.

LENNAN."

T h a t , t h e n , w a s a l l — y e s , all! He t u r n e d o u t t h e little l a m p , a n d g r o p e d t o w a r d t h e hearth. B u t one t h i n g l e f t — T o s a y g o o d - b y ! T o her, a n d Y o u t h , a n d P a s s i o n ! T o the o n l y s a l v e for t h e a c h i n g t h a t S p r i n g a n d Beauty b r i n g — t h e a c h i n g for t h e wild, t h e passionate, t h e n e w , t h a t n e v e r quite dies in a m a n ' s h e a r t . A h , w e l l ! sooner or later all m e n h a d t o s a y g o o d - b y t o it. A l l m e n — a l l men! H e c r o u c h e d d o w n before t h e h e a r t h . T h e r e w a s no w a r m t h in t h a t f a s t - b l a c k e n ing ember, b u t it still g l o w e d like a d a r k red flower. A n d while it lived he c r o u c h e d THE

Flower

there, as t h o u g h it w e r e t h a t t o w h i c h he w a s s a y i n g g o o d - b y . A n d beside him, a g h o s t a m o n g t h e g h o s t l y presences, the girl s e e m e d t o s t a n d ; a n d on t h e door he h e a r d her g h o s t l y k n o c k i n g . S l o w l y the g l o w b l a c k e n e d , till t h e last spark had faded o u t . T h e n , b y t h e faint g l i m m e r of the night, he f o u n d his w a y b a c k , softly as he had c o m e , t o his b e d r o o m . S y l v i a w a s still s l e e p i n g ; a n d , t o w a t c h for her t o w a k e , he sat d o w n again b y the fire, in silence o n l y stirred b y the frail t a p - t a p p i n g of t h o s e a u t u m n leaves and t h e little c a t c h in her b r e a t h i n g n o w and t h e n . I t w a s less t r o u b l e d t h a n when he h a d b e n t o v e r her before, as t h o u g h in her sleep she k n e w . H e m u s t n o t miss the m o m e n t of her w a k i n g , m u s t be beside her before she c a m e t o full consciousness, t o s a y : " T h e r e , t h e r e ! it's all o v e r ; we are g o i n g a w a y — a t once, a t o n c e . " T o be r e a d y t o offer t h a t q u i c k solace before she h a d t i m e t o p l u n g e b a c k i n t o her pitiful sorrow w a s a little island in this black sea of n i g h t , a single little refuge-point for his b e r e a v e d a n d n a k e d b e i n g . S o m e t h i n g to d o — s o m e t h i n g fixed a n d certain. A n d y e t a n o t h e r l o n g h o u r before her waking he sat f o r w a r d in t h e chair w i t h that q u a i n t eagerness, his e y e s fixed on her face, staring t h r o u g h it a t some vision, s o m e faint g l i m m e r i n g light—far out there b e y o n d — a s a t r a v e l l e r w a t c h e s a star. . . . END.

Drawn

by Howard

Giles.

T h e river itself . . . covered with craft: people sailing, punting, canoeing.—Page 619.

608

AN

ENGLISH WRITER'S NOTES ON E N G L A N D BY VERNON T H I N G S

OF

ILLUSTRATIONS

T H F

J g E ^ ^ S j Q i S F i E odd, dreamlike impres Hafww ' — ( ^ y days MSM Plcii * driving down i^Sa liK*)*! from A r o s to C h u r , travel^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ling through that h u m a n e Swiss country ?) of being so suddenly once more in the heart of things English; things, I mean, such as the C o n tinent does not k n o w ! It was characteristic of it all that the long motor run yesterday w a s through a country the precise position and name of which I did not k n o w — a v a g u e North Country, of green and sere hillsides, diapered with those walls of low black stones, treeless, house less, the black vegetation of ashes and syca mores huddled in the valley troughs, not a tree even b y the little black solitary cot tages, so few and far between; without farms or steadings; without anything tell ing of the relations of m a n and the earth. T h e North Country, a sort of typical, un r e a l i z e d North Country, averaged by the rushing of the motor, thirty-five miles an hour or so, d o w n and up again those long, straight hillsides; the noise of the engine mingling with that of the wind, our gale with the real one raging across the moors, the journey turned, for one's imagination, from a luxurious modern caprice into some sort of primeval flight on the wings of the blast through a v a g u e and empty country, a country of dreams. s

o n

o

w

a

s

n

o

n

t

s e

e n

P R E S E N T

BY H O W A R D

ON T H E Y O R K S H I R E MOORS

ari

LEE

GILES

nothing of the past save occasionally a ballad-like name—say Barnard Castle; the heaps of coal and cinders at the stations, the colliery shaft-machine (vaguely like gal lows) on a green hillside suggesting that the real inhabitants of this empty land are underground, like the monsters in Wells's Time-Machine. A n d then, what is so E n g lish, the arrival at P a r k gates, alighting at a melancholy huge stone house, then being shown pictures, given tea, being walked through sad, romantic parks by people whose names y o u have not heard any more than that of the place; and — talk — the unchanging talk—of cricket and grouse. T h i s place with the brown trickling moorstreams among the slabs of stone is the Meeting of the W a t e r s ; that, under the yews, the Ghosts W a l k ; that pseudo-roman tic cave, where Sir Walter sat; this house turns out to be R o k e b y ; — a keepsake E n g land in the midst of this grim, bare north of moors, inhabited, it would seem, only by miners and by the people w h o put on ball dresses (or nearly) for dinner. T h e s e moorland countries lack an ele ment of poetry for me, the element of—how call it ?—human rightness. O n e feels that they are made by the sweeping together of mankind, becoming thereby refuse, in the great towns. A n d my heart longs for those Swiss valleys where homesteads are scattered plentifully, and what to us means work, is wealth, and the chance of leisure to others. IN T H E TRAIN, NORTH

COUNTRY

T h e n the grim little towns of black stone, Between L e e d s and Skipton the fac that hateful black northern stone which fore stalls soot and rejects all vegetation, even tories, gaunt glazed cages, astride across as these great moorland skies seem black as the polluted streams; the black houses, in much with smoke as with storm; little tidy, broken-off streets, straggling up the green joyless towns, m a k i n g one think a l w a y s hills. T h e r e is something strange in all this what they must be in winter, towns with refuse of hurry and toil having been thrown VOL.

LIV.—56

609

610

An English Writer's Notes on England

d o w n b y historic chance just a m o n g these breathable token of that " prosperity," remote hillsides, these high-lying fields of " s u p r e m a c y , " w h i c h E n g l a n d is bidden to such immaculate green (even where the fight for; this and those untenanted grass h a y is ripe, the scythe reveals a fresh and slopes where y o u drive for miles without juicy stalk), in this country forever re- meeting a soul. newed by w i n d and rain, so empty and siO r is this self-satisfaction right ? A n d is lent, belonging so utterly to storm and sun- such hideous refuse of life and things the

A vague and empty country, a country of dreams . . . great moorland skies . . . black as much with smoke as storm.—Page 609.

set. T h e south of E n g l a n d (one feels it in L o n d o n suburbs) w o u l d yield, lend itself to this fouling; but the N o r t h is indifferent, inviolable. D r i v i n g out these evenings, I a m struck by the solemnity of these immense skies, whose c u m u l u s are b a n k e d up behind some high-lying groups of r o u g h stone cottages and byres, or c l u m p s of great windvexed, blackish sycamores. W h e n one sees a place like L e e d s , one feels the irony of this being the visible and

price at w h i c h certain spiritual qualities are bought ? I

N

T

H

E

GARDENS, MORETON MANOR-HOUSE After north w i n d this morning it is getting w a r m , with gleams of sun among moving clouds. Seated with my back against the green terrace slope above the moat, near one of the two pagodaish summerhouses w h i c h h a d remained in my memory; a wagtail hopping on the m o w n lawn; a

An English Writer's Notes on England little heap, almost like potpourri, of cut green fromlawn-mower,decapitateddaisies, and lime blossoms, at m y elbow. T h e r e is a scent also as of potpourri in these kind of places: of w a r m cedar, roses, y e w , and I know not w h a t moisture of shrubberies, which is characteristic of E n g l a n d and quite unlike the scent of other countries, the scent of vine and wheat of Italy, or of hay as I met it—smell of pastoral G e r m a n y and S w i t z e r l a n d —the other day, a m o n g the cot tages of that little Schwarzwald valley. That p o t p o u r r i scent caught me yester day a f t e r n o o n , when I first came down into the P a r k after u n p a c k i n g my t h i n g s ; that scent deeply min gled, discreet, O l d World, oddly arti ficial, which I had forgotten, told me, with the coo of the wood-pigeons, that this was E n g land again.

(.11

hurrying in cabs, the smug men with pol ished hats and flying frock-coats; the downat-heel, thin, or grossly overgrown " p o o r people " in second-hand or imitated clothes; the greasy loafers round the pubs every few yards;—all this which means stupid hurry and graspingness and stupid acquiescence with bad things, this acceptance of all spoil ing, soiling, wasting, destroying processes so long as they accompany some immediate p r o f i t o r indul gence. A n d I feel that the possession of this other side, this empty, sweet c o u n t r y , these s w e p t and gar nished houses and parks smelling of potpourri, is what r e c o n c i l e s , in a way hardens, the people of England to the horror and d i s g r a c e of L o n don. IN

TOWN

T h e first dav in London p a r t i c u l a r l y , going to Piccadilly on top One side of E n g of a 'bus, I had In the train, North Country land. E n g l a n d of an impression of long-preserved draggle-tailed or and carefully renewed traditions (these bedizened people, of sordid or ridiculous x\mericans sucked into it), of immense afflu architecture, of crowded tawdry shops, of ence and leisure and elbow-room, swept and the lack particularly of everything spacious, garnished decorum; the other half of E n g gay, or monumental, which made me won land had stirred up in me puddles and poi der how I could come a w a y last year with sons of stored-up hatred already during the notion of the English people—or at least the drive from C h a r i n g Cross to Chelsea, a upper class—as leading aesthetic lives. T h a t impression was got, of course, from week ago. T h e half I never grow accus tomed to, each impression as the years pass the country, or from places like Oxford, and adding to the previous in merely m a k i n g from the contrast between foreign slatterme understand w h y , and how rightly, I liness and a certain swept and garnished quality in English domestic arrangements. suffer from these things and hate them. More and more I hate them, hate L o n T h e contradiction is explained by some don: the foul atmosphere, fouling wherever thing more than the mere law of contraries it enters and depositing its grime and grits or of contrariness, which doubtless m a k e s on windows and doors, on everything touch certain folk value daintiness, dignity, and ing the outer w o r l d ; the polluted r o a d w a y s , similar qualities in proportion as they are moist and greasy even in dry weather, and made difficult by a damp climate, a dirty black curbs; the philistine monotony of kind of fuel, and, say, drunken habits and mean, well-to-do houses and blank unpic- overcrowding. It can be better explained by turesque squalor of m e w s and slums be that polarity observable in all human con hind; the bedizened and feathered ladies cerns, the automatic tendency, I mean, for

612

An English Writer's Notes on England

selection to produce opposite types, inte few old houses with projecting w i n d o w s like gration and elimination including in one O x f o r d . Further, a small Wrennish house synthesis all that has been rejected in an with fronton and two little stone ships. other; so that a minority will often repre T u r n aside into some b l a c k streets, abso sent that which the majority rejects or can lutely e m p t y — s m a l l villaish houses with or not attain to. T h i s impression of L o n d o n namental porches. N o . 6 4 , M i s s Evans. M i s s E . is her pro brings home to me, fessional name, she moreover, that people is the wife of an en have but a limited gine-driver or stoker a m o u n t of energy, c a l l e d F i n c h ; but efficacy, nay, p r e f she is " t h e B o w So e r e n c e ; and that, prano,' ' sings at wed having expended it, dings, etc. R . knew e v e r y t h i n g is en her w h e n she had a dured through sheer singing class at the weakness and lack of People's Palace. time. She is out. W e are Certainly L o n d o n admitted by mother. r e p r e s e n t s every She is c l e a n i n g — thing most obviously washing, but ushers odious to those very us with perfect grace upper middle classes and ease into the par w h o inhabit it: they lor. H a d washed six have their w a y in the pairs of c u r t a i n s . country, inside their She talks with evi h o u s e s , in foreign dently no inkling oj travel. A n d L o n d o n difference of station seems to be like those and m o d e of l i f e . irreducible rubbishTells us, just as one heaps which dodge b o u r g e o i s e would us in life, increasing another, the disagree in proportion as w e ables of house-paint tidy up, and accepted ers, her ailments (at possibly by our souls great l e n g t h ) , and in proportion to their the delights of C I ac very h a t e f u l n e s s . ton-on-Sea—"Ah, T h e English people that is a place you one k n o w s evidently would like, L a d y B . " expect, hope, nothing Discusses portrait of from the outward as her late husband and pects of L o n d o n . It c h a r a c t e r of her England of long preserved and carefully renewed is London; and that traditions. Moreton Manor-House. grandson who comes a c c o u n t s for every in, a chubby, nice, h o r r o r and e v e r y blank, sensitiveness having been put to kind little boy, perfectly at his ease. Never my lady's; not the smallest attitude of def sleep, effort diverted in the face of it. erence or inequality, my friend, but very IN T H E EAST END simple cordiality. Presses R . to return when her daughter is in, another day, R. takes me to call on two friends of hers in Whitechapel. M i l e s and miles ap when she shall find all quite nice, and parently of road (misnamed M i l e E n d ) , such nice tea. T h e n shows us ornaments of wide, not too squalid. I notice a m o n g other room. It is crammed with ornaments; inbarrows or booths one selling Spanish or Portuguese grapes, white, over-ripe, dry, like Italian X m a s ones. In earlier part of road, nearer A l d g a t e and City there are a

deed, the poor need weeding of possessions as m u c h as the rich: a set of hock glasses, greenish red, decanters and tumblers on sideboard, m a n y oleographs, a cat and

T o Piccadilly on the top of a 'bus.

kitten, life-size {en ronde bosse), of gray cloth on a deck chair, etc., etc. Sideboard and picture frame carved black and yellow. Miss E . told R . she " d i d so like black and hamber"; these were m a d e by deceased father of M i s s E . H i s masterpiece on a table—a village m a d e of colored plaster figures and trees, public-house in the mid dle, etc., etc. Altogether an artistic family, Skimpoles of her neighborhood (daughter colored a plaster of L e o n a r d o ' s " L a s t Sup per," and is the Bow Soprano), and the house has traces of m u c h more genius than dusting.- T h e n c e w e went to something Grove ( G r o v e ! ! off the M i l e E n d R o a d ) to have tea w i t h another of R . ' s musical friends, wife of Singapore skipper. Q u i t e different. M a i d most flustered; parlor (full of boats, painted and carved p a g o d a s , shells,

etc.) in high gala; tea-table with immense spread—two cakes, silver biscuit-box and bread-basket, jam, sunflowers, and shrimps. O u r hostess suddenly seemed to have mis givings when she arrived about this part of the entertainment, and timidly stammered, " I dare say y o u don't care for these sort of things, L a d y B . " " O h , y e s , " interrupts R . briskly, but relieved at not having to eat them, " I love t h e m ! " but our hostess hur riedly puts them a w a y on a sideboard. A nicely dressed young w o m a n , a friend (one of R . ' s dressmakers' chorus) received us, and said M r s . Morris was still dressing. She took a longtime. Decidedly genteel and ill at ease ( " L a d y B . " in at e v e r y w o r d ) , but not un pleasantly so, and understanding that it was good breeding to be simple and easy. A n other thing she and her friend had twigged 613

614

A n English Writer's Notes on England

(I presume) in their intercourse with R., was speaking of M i s s E v a n s as an equal; now the gulf must be incalculable. Evidently good musicians; read easily, and have done Israel in Egypt and Messiah at P a l ace. M u s i c is evidently the civilizing influence here. A parrot imitating tipsy sailor, and t w o canaries. P i a n o here and at M i s s E v a n s . Return ing (after a rainy morning and gusts of rain), m a g n i f i c e n t winter sunset turning houses (all glass and varnished signs, etc.) and wide wet trottoir of M i l e E n d R o a d into red gold -—gold sky behind high houses and c h u r c h e s of the c i t y . Magnificent on B l a c k f r i a r s e m b a n k m e n t ; wintry river in great curdles of leaden silver with b a r g e s black. M i s t y g r a y towers and W a t e r l o o In the Bridge, and winter rose-cop per sky with reflections in water. H o w grand this part of L o n d o n is!

so m u c h that is beautiful in E n g l a n d , put ting it to decent, prosaic uses. A b r o a d , this palace w o u l d have stood vacant, been allowed to crumble, become a tragic hulk plastered all over, with per haps a sordid barracks or office in one corner. Here its his toric splendors are cut up for the housing of old ladies! It is amusing, in a w a y charm ing, and a l w a y s funny, to see the little c h e a p modern M a p l e and L i b e r t y things through the w i n d o w s , and the parlor maids, in their lilac cottons. HOUSEBOATS

T h e row of houseboats, each with its flowers, awning, flotil la of skiffs; the quantities of well-groomed boats for hire among the willows all along City these b a n k s ; this impression comes on the top of that of the half-hour, the other day, c o m i n g into L o n d o n in a sickly fog, of the horrible miles of Bermondsey and AT HAMPTON COURT L a m b e t h along the lines, the ruthless heaps of rub I have o f t e n remarked bish, the hurry and grime of in E n g l a n d a spirit I can the two stations at Waterloo. only call the reverse of the T h e houseboats, etc., are monumental, the one which the elaborate flower of that m a k e s the British M u s e u m ugly plant called civiliza look like a drawing-school tion. T h e y stand for the or an office with its waitingc o m f o r t , the luxury, the rooms, instead of a palace. high standard, of England; Here, even in this palace of w h i c h , even in its l o w e r H a m p t o n Court, there is the walks of life, offers similar s a m e : there is, alongside of prizes, s i m i l a r complica the daintiness and magnif tions, luxuries u n k n o w n icence, the profuse expend abroad. O n e says to one iture, e. g., on flowers and self, " H o w these p e o p l e garden-keeping, a f u n n y In the East End of London k n o w how to live! how they practical (I c a n not call it exploit l i f e ! " A n d one re shabbiness, for all is in excel lent order), but initial meanness. T h e pas members all the fine phrases, in that Italian sages—even the yard cloisters of the W i l book I a m reading, about man's power to Certainly in the south, liam and M a r y P a l a c e , are mean. D a r k sfruttare la natura. places suggestive, with their dull-gray stone in the old, stagnant civilizations, there is no w o r k , of railway stations; the inner stair such power of exploitation! B u t then, is it case and corridors are bare, graceless, dull; worth while toiling and moiling, say, in an none of that magnificence or grace which, office (nothing worse!) in the City, with a on the Continent, w e see constantly among yellow fog in July for all outlook, in order to spend one's evening lounging among the decay and filth. It is this practical spirit w h i c h has saved willows on this beautiful river ? Is it worth

A n English Writer's Notes on England while producing so m u c h , if so m u c h nat ural beauty, time, sensitiveness, etc., are des troyed in the production ? Quantities and quantities of goods, material and spiritual, with quantities and quantities of material and spiritual refuse alongside ? T h e law of

galleries, society, etc., etc.—are really the compensation for all you lose by living in them; but you end by living for the c o m pensations and becoming unable to enjoy those other things for whose loss they com pensate. Sfruttamento delta Vita—Exploi-

Blackfriars embankment; wintry river in great curdles >{ leaden silver with barges black. of London i: !—Page 614.

energy, the power of exploitation; . . . for mulas of civilization as given by this Italian admirer of English'life. B u t is energy ap plicable only to material things? Is ex ploitation merely the mechanical extracting of minerals and chemicals, of food stuffs and clothing stuffs, of powers of pushing and pulling, out of what we call N a t u r e ? Is this the only w a y — t h e real w a y — o f using the world's resources and our o w n ? Say the m a n w h o toils eight hours in an office, in order to spend (when already successful, i. e., well on in life) four more hours on the houseboat. M i g h t it not have been better if not only his reward had cost less, but his w o r k also ? A thought a l w a y s recurs to me in connection with great cities: the so-called resources thereof—theatres,

615

How grand this part

tation of L i f e ! B u t are you not tram pling life's most obvious resources in your scramble for new and hidden ones? A r e y o u not packing your fruit into boxes, send ing it off, and receiving instead, plus saw dust and fish-glue, other fruit, stale and tarnished, from foreign parts, instead of eating your own, fresh off the trees in your garden ? A l l this hurrying and scurrying, p a c k i n g and unpacking, filling up with and empty ing out of sawdust and shavings and waste paper, is life; and where you have not got it, there is little or none. I admit it. T h e r e is more keenness of life, more enjoyment most likely, in this E n g l a n d of Bermondsey and foggy City and excursion trains and houseboats than in Italy, the h u m a n ener-

Hampton Court.

T h e East Walk.

It is this p r a c t i c a l spirit w h i c h h a s s a v e d so m u c h that is b e a u t i f u l in E n g l a n d . — P a g e 614.

gies are full-cock, and probably the h u m a n quite right: these flush streams, spilt on the power of feeling. B u t is it not a pity that green flat m e a d o w s , winding between the willows which look in h u m a n sensitiveness, some places like park energy for apprecia trees, and b e t w e e n tion and enjoyment, the losestrife and wil should require to be low herb which look got up, like the power like garden-borders— of some b a d l y con these rivers are the structed machine, b y life of England. T h e pure waste of move life of the landscape, ment ? A n d does not its point of vividness this peculiarity of our and grace, its possibil civilization show that ity of "performance," the inner m a n is un of answering to the commonly little civi time of d a y and kind lized ? Resources! B u t of w e a t h e r ; and w h y h a v e we, w h o the life, imaginative find so m a n y in min and aesthetic, I should erals and vegetables, think, also, of the peo found so few in our ple. selves ? It strikes me t h a t R I C H F O L K ON T H E t h e E n g l i s h upper RIVER classes take their po etry, their aestheticism, Y e s t e r d a y evening, in their field-sports, and m o s t of to-day hunting, cricket, and on t h e r i v e r . T h i s c e r t a i n l y the river. afternoon at the gayT h a t is perhaps why looking, but so quiet, they don't want much r e g a t t a at Shepperart or literature: a life ton. T h i s m o r n i n g of impressions more high u p on this wind or less b e a u t i f u l , of ing stream. J. S. S. is Feeding water- fowl, Hampton Court 616

A n English Writer's Notes on England rhythmic movement, lazily contemplative or bracingly rapid. It w a s latish when w e returned last night. T h e willows were re flected so vividly that for a moment I be lieved in the short sedge growing below them. C o w s came to drink; and horses scampered on the banks. Silence. N o t merely the silence of the northern night, but

617

All this goes with our strenuous civiliza tion. It means not the aristocratic spirit, but the spirit of get and hold; our English energetic appreciation of material advan tages and tenacious, though not necessarily rapacious, belief in private property. I think I can admit the usefulness of this spirit in the past and even its respectability

Upper reaches of the Thames near Abingdon. The only sound that of the oars, coming as a disturbance.

silence of the water; the only sound that of the oars, coming as a disturbance. The nymphs of these flush English rivers are dumb. T h e y have no talk and no laughter and no song. A train de vie like this, w h i c h is, I fancy, on the whole, modest of its kind, is an ugly thing! A house as large as a Swiss hotel to hold one family and its guests, servants to match; and clothes which c a n not be folded, let alone put on properly, save b y a skilful professional priestess of one's body and wardrobe. I feel c h o k i n g till I get outside the P a r k gates, on to the roads, a m o n g the moors; and if it could be cleaned out and made water-tight, w o u l d feel more dignity in one of the laborer's cottages of the es tate. T h i s fact, in a degree, explains L o n don, its horrid little flats, its omnibuses crammed with people w h o c a n not live in the country because the country is a place de luxe.

in the present, but I confess it stifles me. Y e t I admit that in the seemingly less egois tic civilizations (or barbarisms) of other countries, where no one sits squarely down and says, " T h i s is mine and not y o u r s , " there is infinitely more small meanness, haggling, pilfering alongside of a certain rare unworldliness. POOR POLK

BY THE

RIVER

T h e y are cutting down some of the elms which the drought has killed, in front of H a m House. A crowd of villagers are there for small branches and fagot-wood. W h a t an assemblage of fat, sluttish w o m e n in sailor hats and battered-down-at-heel children in slatternly inappropriate clothes, tending squealing babies and trundling the wood not on barrows, but on every kind of broken-down perambulator, b a b y scream ing; the offscourings of a L o n d o n slum in

Workingmen's Club.

this aristocratic, romantic country! T h i s is the fearful, disgraceful side of E n g l a n d . SUNDAY

B Y THE RIVER

Before penetrating any deeper into this sunny, slatternly, democratic continent, let 618

me put d o w n , if I can, that last-Sunday impression of E n g l a n d , E n g l a n d ' s dainty, well-to-do-ness, w a l k e d from Teddington L o c k to H a m House—after rain and cold, a perfectly sunny morning, but veiled in mist: E v e r y t h i n g limited, closed in, made

An English Writer's Notes, on England

619

private b y that pale atmosphere, the trees, caught up, diffused in yellow vagueness, b y the next field already a mere outline; things the foggy air—the drags and omnibuses, unveiling only in small portions under your the hurrying crowds. feet, close to your eyes; the beautiful red T h e n , among the big green plane-trees of dening hedgerows, the splendid lawns and the O l d World squares of Bloomsbury, the tidy houses of T w i c k e n old h o u s e s — i m m e n s e ham, the great old silver and r a m b l i n g (with a groves of willows on the ghost on the back stairs!) islands, the losestrife and —evidently once of some willow herb along the w a person of quality of the ter, with the skiff moored time of Q u e e n A n n e , and the fisherman seated from w h o m the square among it. T h e n the river takes its n a m e ; filled with itself—its shorter reaches pictures and photographs (only a brilliant mirror and blackboards, and on among mist r e m a i n i n g this evening with an a u after a hundred yards) dience of shabby people covered with craft: peo with rumpled, pathetic, ple sailing, punting, c a eager f a c e s ; bent on a noeing. People doubtless future which, alas, will (at this season) only of never be open to them. I the s u p e r i o r c o u n t e r feel in England, these are j u m p i n g sort, but with the people I would live that i m p e c c a b l e look with; t h e s e and those which democratic E n g few, as much out of the land, when at its g a m e s running as they, as far (vide the village cricket from all successful com ground), somehow bor petition, w h o belong to rows from Eton. A n d the Past, and know noth Bloomsbury. then, as usual, opposite ing of the sordidness of I f e e l in E n g l a n d , these are the p e o p l e I w o u l d live with. T w i c k e n h a m Ferry, I the p r e s e n t : privileged turned up under the lime persons, w h o m privilege avenues of H a m H o u s e ; its flower-garden has withdrawn from the race of life, and vivid in the pale a i r - its r a g g e d pines w h o have lived as independent, and in a clearly and beautifully defined on the white w a y as genuinely and humbly as these. sunny sky. THE A

CLUB

IN

BLOOMSBURY

I am so glad that dear M i s s F . , on that one available evening in L o n d o n , should have taken m e (for her lecture at her working men and w o m e n ' s college) to Bloomsbury and to the things I once be lieved in and cared for: the drive through the brilliant slummy streets near Euston and T o t t e n h a m C o u r t R o a d , the flare of overloaded barrows, public-houses, and crammed shops, overflowing on to the curb —all multiplied b y the wet pavement, and

STATION

L a s t English impression: the drive to Liverpool Street Station; the magnificence of shops and lights caught up by misty, dirty, wet pavements; the endlessness there of—and the crowds of people streaming along. T h e colossal shed of the station w a s filled with the smoke of trains, the blue mist of electric lights, unlimited, with out horizon. L a r g e enough to hold, y o u would think, pieces of the foreign world, as well as the trains and ships going to and fro.

Drawn

by Harry

Townsend. In the Old Pasture.

620

in tHe Old. Pasture Harriet Prescott Spofford ' L D lilacs dying together, sweetening the purple air, W i l d i n g in w i n d and weather of half a hundred years, A rose whose blooms h a v e sadly forgotten they once were fair, W h i l e a bird-song gushing gladly is the only sound one hears. T h e weed grows rank in the hollow,—ah, m a n y a bitter leaf! T h e seasons follow and follow with idle suns and snows; A n d the lonely place is haunted by shades of an ancient grief, A n d something of sorrow is chanted on every breeze that blows. Here on the stone slow sinking in tangles of eager grass H u s b a n d and wife, to m y thinking, sat sending their dreams afar, O r folded close in the gloaming, it m a y be, lover and lass M a d e them an end of roaming, and kissed 'neath the evening star. Here tremors of love and longing, and the laughter close on tears, Sweet hopes and strange ones thronging, and the sacrament of birth, Here children with one another played, guarded by tender fears, T o her b a b y sang the mother the sweetest songs of earth. A doorstone long forsaken, a lilac thicket, a flower, A n d the d e w y d a w n s that w a k e n in the blue and boundless dome, A n d the m i g h t y stars dark wheeling with wide indifferent power, A n d a tristful wanderer feeling the life and lapse of home.

62

T H E CUSTOM OF T H E COUNTRY BY

EDITH WHARTON BOOK V— Concluded)

XL F T E R the Princess E s t r a dina's d e p a r t u r e , the d a y s a t Saint D e s e r t succeeded each other indistinguishab l y ; a n d more and more, as t h e y passed, U n d i n e felt herself d r a w n into the slow strong c u r r e n t a l r e a d y fed b y so m a n y t r i b u t a r y lives. S o m e spell she could n o t h a v e n a m e d seemed t o e m a n a t e from the old house w h i c h h a d so long been the custodian of a n u n b r o k e n t r a d i t i o n : things h a d h a p pened there in the s a m e w a y for so m a n y generations t h a t to t r y to alter t h e m seemed as v a i n as to c o n t e n d w i t h t h e elements. W i n t e r c a m e a n d w e n t , a n d once more t h e calendar m a r k e d the first d a y s of spring; b u t t h o u g h the horse-chestnuts of t h e C h a m p s E l y s e e s were b u d d i n g snow still lingered in the grass drives of Saint D e s e r t and along the ridges of the hills b e y o n d the p a r k . S o m e t i m e s , as U n d i n e looked o u t of the w i n d o w s of the B o u c h e r gallery, she felt as if her eyes h a d n e v e r rested on a n y other scene. E v e n her oc casional brief trips to Paris left no lasting t r a c e : the life of the v i v i d streets faded to a s h a d o w as soon as the b l a c k and w h i t e horizon of Saint D e s e r t closed in on her again. T h o u g h the afternoons were still cold she h a d l a t e l y t a k e n to sitting in the gal lery. T h e smiling scenes on its walls a n d the tall screens w h i c h b r o k e its length m a d e it more h a b i t a b l e t h a n the d r a w i n g rooms b e y o n d ; b u t her chief reason for preferring it w a s the satisfaction she found in h a v i n g fires lit in b o t h the m o n u mental c h i m n e y s t h a t faced each other d o w n its long p e r s p e c t i v e . T h i s satisfac tion h a d its source in the old M a r q u i s e ' s d i s a p p r o v a l . N e v e r before in the h i s t o r y of Saint D e s e r t h a d the c o n s u m p t i o n of fire-wood exceeded a certain carefully622

c a l c u l a t e d m e a s u r e ; b u t since Undine h a d been in a u t h o r i t y this allowance had been doubled. If a n y one h a d told her, a y e a r earlier, t h a t one of the chief distrac tions of her n e w life w o u l d be to invent w a y s of a n n o y i n g her mother-in-law, she w o u l d h a v e l a u g h e d at the idea of wast ing her time on s u c h trifles. B u t she found herself w i t h a g r e a t deal of time to w a s t e , a n d w i t h a fierce desire to spend it in u p s e t t i n g the i m m e m o r i a l customs of Saint D e s e r t . H e r h u s b a n d h a d mas tered her in essentials, b u t she h a d discov ered i n n u m e r a b l e small w a y s of irritating a n d h u r t i n g h i m , a n d o n e — a n d not the least effectual—was t o do a n y t h i n g that w e n t counter to his m o t h e r ' s prejudices. I t w a s not t h a t he a l w a y s shared her views, or w a s a p a r t i c u l a r l y subservient son; b u t it seemed to be one of his fundamen tal principles t h a t a m a n should respect his m o t h e r ' s wishes, a n d see to it that his household respected t h e m . A l l French m e n of his class a p p e a r e d to share this v i e w , a n d to regard it as b e y o n d discus sion : it w a s based on s o m e t h i n g so much more i m m u t a b l e t h a n personal feeling t h a t one m i g h t e v e n h a t e one's mother a n d y e t insist t h a t her ideas as to the con • s u m p t i o n of fire-wood should be regarded. T h e old M a r q u i s e , during the cold w e a t h e r , a l w a y s sat in her b e d r o o m ; and there, b e t w e e n t h e tapestried four-poster a n d the fireplace, the f a m i l y grouped itself a r o u n d the ground-glass of her single carcel l a m p . I n the e v e n i n g , if there were vis itors, a fire w a s lit in the library; other wise t h e f a m i l y a g a i n sat a b o u t the Mar quise's l a m p till the f o o t m a n came in at ten w i t h tisane a n d biscuits de Reims; after w h i c h e v e r y one b a d e the dowager g o o d n i g h t a n d s c a t t e r e d d o w n the corri dors to chill distances m a r k e d b y tapers floating in cups of oil. Since U n d i n e ' s c o m i n g the library fire h a d n e v e r been a l l o w e d to g o o u t ; and of late, after e x p e r i m e n t i n g w i t h the two

T h e Custom of the Country

623

d r a w i n g - r o o m s a n d t h e so-called " s t u d y " A s M a d a m e de T r e z a c h a d predicted, where R a y m o n d k e p t his g u n s a n d s a w R a y m o n d ' s v i g i l a n c e g r a d u a l l y relaxed, the bailiff, she h a d selected the gallery as and during their excursions to the capi the m o s t suitable p l a c e for the n e w a n d tal U n d i n e c a m e a n d w e n t as she pleased. unfamiliar c e r e m o n y of afternoon tea. B u t their visits were too short to p e r m i t Afternoon refreshments h a d n e v e r before of her falling in w i t h the social p a c e , a n d been s e r v e d a t S a i n t D e s e r t e x c e p t w h e n w h e n she s h o w e d herself a m o n g her c o m p a n y w a s e x p e c t e d ; w h e n t h e y h a d friends she felt countrified a n d out-ofi n v a r i a b l y consisted in a d e c a n t e r of s w e e t place, as if e v e n her clothes h a d c o m e port a n d a p l a t e of small d r y c a k e s — t h e from Saint D e s e r t . N e v e r t h e l e s s her kind t h a t k e p t . T h a t the c o m p l i c a t e d dresses were more t h a n ever her chief pre rites of the tea-urn, w i t h its offering-up of o c c u p a t i o n : in Paris she spent hours at the perishable delicacies, should b e e n a c t e d dress-maker's, and in the c o u n t r y the ar for the sole e n j o y m e n t of the f a m i l y , w a s rival of a b o x of n e w g o w n s w a s the chief a thing so u n h e a r d of t h a t for a while U n e v e n t of the v a c a n t d a y s . B u t there was dine found sufficient a m u s e m e n t in elab more bitterness t h a n j o y in the u n p a c k orating t h e ceremonial, a n d in m a k i n g the ing, and the dresses h u n g in her w a r d r o b e ancestral p l a t e g r o a n under more v a r i e d like so m a n y unfulfilled promises of pleas v i a n d s ; a n d w h e n this palled she d e v i s e d ure, reminding her of the d a y s at the Sten the plan of performing the office in t h e torian when she h a d r e v i e w e d other finery gallery and l i g h t i n g sacrificial fires in b o t h w i t h the same cheated eyes. In spite of chimneys. this, she multiplied her orders, writing She h a d said to R a y m o n d , at first: u p to the dress-makers for patterns, and " I t ' s ridiculous t h a t y o u r m o t h e r should to the milliners for boxes of hats w h i c h she sit in her b e d r o o m all d a y . She s a y s she tried on, and k e p t for d a y s , w i t h o u t being does it to s a v e fires; b u t if w e h a v e a fire able to m a k e a choice. N o w a n d then she downstairs w h y c a n ' t she let hers g o out, even sent her m a i d u p to Paris to bring and come d o w n ? I d o n ' t see w h y I b a c k g r e a t assortments of veils, gloves, should spend m y life in y o u r m o t h e r ' s flowers a n d laces; a n d after periods of painful indecision she ended b y keeping bedroom." R a y m o n d m a d e no answer, a n d the the greater number, lest those she sent M a r q u i s e did, in fact, let her fire g o out. b a c k should turn out to be the ones t h a t B u t she did n o t c o m e d o w n — s h e s i m p l y were worn in Paris. She k n e w she w a s spending too m u c h m o n e y , and she had continued to sit upstairs w i t h o u t a fire. A t first this also a m u s e d U n d i n e ; then lost her y o u t h f u l faith in providential the tacit criticism i m p l i e d b e g a n to irri solutions; b u t she h a d a l w a y s h a d the tate her. She h o p e d R a y m o n d w o u l d h a b i t of going out to b u y something w h e n speak of his m o t h e r ' s a t t i t u d e : she h a d her she was bored, and n e v e r had she been answer r e a d y if he d i d ! B u t he m a d e n o in greater need of such solace. T h e dulness of her life seemed to h a v e comment, he t o o k n o n o t i c e ; her impulses of retaliation s p e n t t h e m s e l v e s against passed into her b l o o d : her complexion the blank surface of his indifference. H e w a s less a n i m a t e d , her hair less shining. was as a m i a b l e , as considerate as e v e r ; T h e change in her looks a l a r m e d her, and as ready, w i t h i n reason, t o a c c e d e to her she scanned the fashion-papers for n e w wishes a n d g r a t i f y her w h i m s . O n c e or scents and powders, a n d e x p e r i m e n t e d in twice, w h e n she s u g g e s t e d running u p to facial b a n d a g i n g , electric m a s s a g e a n d Paris to t a k e P a u l to t h e dentist, or to other processes of r e n o v a t i o n . O d d ata look for a s e r v a n t , he agreed to the ne v i s m s w o k e in her, and she b e g a n to pore cessity and w e n t u p w i t h her. B u t in o v e r p a t e n t medicine a d v e r t i s e m e n t s , t o stead of g o i n g to an hotel t h e y w e n t to send s t a m p e d envelopes to b e a u t y doc their a p a r t m e n t , w h e r e c a r p e t s w e r e u p tors and professors of p h y s i c a l d e v e l o p and curtains d o w n , a n d a c a r e - t a k e r pre m e n t , a n d to brood on the a d v a n t a g e of pared p r i m i t i v e food a t uncertain h o u r s ; consulting faith-healers, mind-readers a n d and U n d i n e ' s first g l i m p s e of H u b e r t ' s their kindred adepts. She e v e n w r o t e t o illuminated w i n d o w s deepened her ran her m o t h e r for the receipts of some of her grandfather's forgotten nostrums, a n d cour a n d her sense of helplessness.

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The Custom of the Country

m o d i n e d her d a i l y life, a n d her hours of sleeping, e a t i n g a n d exercise, in accord a n c e w i t h e a c h n e w experiment. H e r constitutional restlessness lapsed i n t o an a p a t h y like M r s . S p r a g g ' s , and the least d e m a n d on her a c t i v i t y irritated her. B u t she w a s beset b y endless a n n o y a n c e s : b i c k e r i n g s w i t h discontented maids, t h e difficulty of finding a t u t o r for P a u l , a n d the p r o b l e m of k e e p i n g h i m a m u s e d a n d o c c u p i e d w i t h o u t h a v i n g h i m too m u c h on her hands. A g r e a t liking h a d sprung u p b e t w e e n R a y m o n d a n d the little b o y , a n d during the s u m m e r P a u l w a s perpet u a l l y a t his step-father's side in the stables a n d the p a r k . B u t w i t h the c o m i n g of w i n t e r R a y m o n d w a s oftener a w a y , a n d P a u l d e v e l o p e d a persistent cold t h a t k e p t h i m frequently indoors. T h e con finement m a d e h i m fretful a n d e x a c t i n g , and the old M a r q u i s e ascribed the c h a n g e in his b e h a v i o u r to t h e deplorable influ ence of his tutor, a " l a i c " r e c o m m e n d e d b y one of R a y m o n d ' s old professors. R a y m o n d himself w o u l d h a v e preferred an a b b e : it w a s in the tradition of the house, a n d t h o u g h P a u l w a s not of the house it seemed fitting t h a t he should con form to its w a y s . M o r e o v e r , w h e n t h e married sisters c a m e to s t a y t h e y o b j e c t e d to h a v i n g their children exposed to the t u t o r ' s influence, a n d e v e n implied t h a t P a u l ' s society m i g h t b e c o n t a m i n a t i n g . B u t U n d i n e , t h o u g h she h a d so r e a d i l y e m b r a c e d her h u s b a n d ' s faith, s t u b b o r n l y resisted the suggestion t h a t she should h a n d o v e r her son to the C h u r c h . T h e t u t o r therefore r e m a i n e d ; b u t the fric tion caused b y his presence w a s so irrita ting to U n d i n e t h a t she b e g a n t o consider the a l t e r n a t i v e of sending P a u l to school. H e w a s still small a n d tender for the ex p e r i m e n t ; b u t she p e r s u a d e d herself t h a t w h a t he needed w a s " h a r d e n i n g , " a n d h a v i n g heard of a school w h e r e fashion able infancy w a s s u b j e c t e d to this process, she entered into correspondence w i t h the master. H i s first letter c o n v i n c e d her t h a t his e s t a b l i s h m e n t w a s j u s t the place for P a u l ; b u t the second contained the price-list, a n d after c o m p a r i n g it w i t h the t u t o r ' s k e e p a n d salary she w r o t e to s a y t h a t she feared her little b o y w a s too y o u n g to be sent a w a y from h o m e . H e r h u s b a n d , for some time p a s t , h a d ceased t o m a k e a n y c o m m e n t on her ex

penditure. She k n e w he t h o u g h t her too e x t r a v a g a n t , a n d felt sure he w a s mi n u t e l y a w a r e of w h a t she s p e n t ; for Saint D e s e r t p r o j e c t e d on e c o n o m i c details a light as different as m i g h t be from the haze t h a t v e i l e d t h e m in W e s t E n d A v e n u e . She therefore c o n c l u d e d t h a t R a y m o n d ' s silence w a s intentional, a n d ascribed it t o his h a v i n g s h o r t c o m i n g s of his o w n to conceal. T h e Princess E s t r a d i n a ' s pleas a n t r y h a d r e a c h e d its m a r k . U n d i n e did n o t believe t h a t her h u s b a n d w a s seriously in l o v e w i t h a n o t h e r w o m a n — s h e could n o t c o n c e i v e t h a t a n y one c o u l d tire of her of w h o m she h a d n o t first t i r e d — b u t she w a s h u m i l i a t e d b y his indifference, and it w a s easier to ascribe it to the arts of a rival t h a n to a n y deficiency in herself. It e x a s p e r a t e d her to t h i n k t h a t he might h a v e consolations for the o u t w a r d mo n o t o n y of his life, a n d she resolved that w h e n t h e y r e t u r n e d to P a r i s he should see t h a t she w a s n o t w i t h o u t similar opportu nities. M a r c h , m e a n w h i l e , w a s v e r g i n g on A p r i l , a n d still he did n o t s p e a k of leaving. U n d i n e h a d learned t h a t he expected to h a v e such decisions left to h i m , and she hid her i m p a t i e n c e lest her showing it should incline h i m to d e l a y . B u t one d a y , as she sat a t tea in the gallery, he c a m e in in his riding-clothes and said: " I ' v e been o v e r to the o t h e r side of the m o u n t a i n . T h e F e b r u a r y rains have w e a k e n e d the d a m of the A l e t t e , and the v i n e y a r d s will be in d a n g e r if w e don't re build at once." She suppressed a y a w n , t h i n k i n g , as she did so, h o w dull he a l w a y s looked when he t a l k e d of agriculture. I t m a d e him seem y e a r s older, a n d she reflected w i t h a shiver t h a t listening t o h i m p r o b a b l y g a v e her the s a m e look. H e w e n t on, as she h a n d e d h i m his tea: " I ' m sorry it should h a p p e n just now. I ' m afraid I shall h a v e t o ask y o u to give u p y o u r spring in P a r i s . " " O h , n o — n o ! " she b r o k e out. A t h r o n g of half-subdued g r i e v a n c e s choked in her: she w a n t e d to b u r s t into sobs like a child. " I k n o w it's a d i s a p p o i n t m e n t . But our expenses h a v e been u n u s u a l l y heavy this y e a r . " " I t seems to m e t h e y a l w a y s are. I d o n ' t see w h y w e s h o u l d g i v e up Paris

T h e Custom of the Country because y o u ' v e g o t t o m a k e repairs to a d a m . I s n ' t H u b e r t e v e r g o i n g to p a y back t h a t m o n e y ? " H e l o o k e d a t her w i t h a m i l d surprise. " B u t surely y o u u n d e r s t o o d at the t i m e that it w o n ' t b e possible till his wife in herits?" " T i l l G e n e r a l A r l i n g t o n dies, y o u mean? H e d o e s n ' t l o o k m u c h older t h a n you!" " Y o u m a y remember that I showed you H u b e r t ' s n o t e . H e has p a i d the interest quite r e g u l a r l y . " " T h a t ' s k i n d of h i m ! " She s t o o d u p , flaming w i t h rebellion. ' ' Y o u c a n do as y o u please; b u t I m e a n t o g o t o P a r i s . " " M y m o t h e r is n o t g o i n g . I d i d n ' t in tend to open our a p a r t m e n t . " " I understand. B u t I shall open i t — that's a l l ! " H e h a d risen t o o , a n d she s a w his face whiten. " I prefer t h a t y o u s h o u l d n ' t g o without m e . " " T h e n I shall g o a n d s t a y a t t h e N o u v e a u L u x e w i t h m y A m e r i c a n friends." "That never!" "Why not?" " I consider it u n s u i t a b l e . " " Y o u r considering it so d o e s n ' t p r o v e it." T h e y stood f a c i n g e a c h other, q u i v e r i n g with an e q u a l a n g e r ; t h e n he controlled himself and said in a m o r e c o n c i l i a t o r y tone: " Y o u n e v e r seem t o see t h a t there are necessities " " O h , neither do y o u — t h a t ' s the trouble. Y o u c a n ' t k e e p m e s h u t u p here all m y life, and interfere w i t h e v e r y t h i n g I w a n t to do, just b y s a y i n g it's u n s u i t a b l e . " : " I ' v e n e v e r interfered w i t h y o u r spend ing y o u r m o n e y as y o u p l e a s e . " It w a s her t u r n to stare, sincerely w o n dering. " M e r c y , I should h o p e not, w h e n y o u ' v e a l w a y s g r u d g e d m e e v e r y p e n n y of yours!" " Y o u k n o w it's n o t b e c a u s e I g r u d g e it. I w o u l d g l a d l y t a k e y o u to P a r i s if I had the m o n e y . " " Y o u c a n a l w a y s find t h e m o n e y to spend on this p l a c e . W h y d o n ' t y o u sell it if it's so fearfully e x p e n s i v e ? " " S e l l it? Sell S a i n t D e s e r t ? " T h e suggestion s e e m e d to strike h i m as something m o n s t r o u s l y , a l m o s t fiendishly significant: as if her r a n d o m w o r d h a d a t last t h r u s t i n t o his h a n d t h e clue t o their VOL.

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w h o l e u n h a p p y difference. W i t h o u t un d e r s t a n d i n g this, she guessed it from the c h a n g e in his f a c e : it w a s as if a d e a d l y s o l v e n t h a d s u d d e n l y d e c o m p o s e d its fa miliar lines. " W e l l , w h y not? " H i s horror spurred her on. " Y o u m i g h t sell some of the things in it a n y h o w . I n A m e r i c a w e ' r e n o t a s h a m e d to sell w h a t w e c a n ' t afford t o k e e p . " H e r e y e s fell on the storied h a n g ings a t his b a c k . " W h y , there's a fortune in this one r o o m : y o u could g e t a n y t h i n g y o u chose for those tapestries. A n d y o u s t a n d here a n d tell m e y o u ' r e a p a u p e r ! " H i s glance followed hers to the tapes tries, a n d then returned to her face. " A h , y o u d o n ' t u n d e r s t a n d , " he said. " I u n d e r s t a n d t h a t y o u care for all this old stuff more t h a n y o u do for m e , a n d t h a t y o u ' d r a t h e r see me u n h a p p y a n d miserable t h a n t o u c h one of y o u r great grandfather's a r m - c h a i r s . " T h e colour c a m e slowly b a c k to his face, b u t it hardened into lines she h a d n e v e r seen. H e l o o k e d at her as t h o u g h the p l a c e w h e r e she stood were e m p t y . " Y o u d o n ' t u n d e r s t a n d , " he said again. XLI T H E incident left U n d i n e w i t h the baffled feeling of n o t being able to c o u n t on a n y of her old w e a p o n s of aggression. I n all her struggles for a u t h o r i t y her sense of the rightfulness of her cause h a d been m e a s u r e d b y her p o w e r of m a k i n g people do as she pleased. R a y m o n d ' s firmness shook her faith in her o w n claims, and a blind desire to w o u n d a n d d e s t r o y re p l a c e d her usual business-like intentness on g a i n i n g her end. B u t her ironies were as ineffectual as her a r g u m e n t s , and his i m p e r v i o u s n e s s w a s t h e m o r e exaspera t i n g b e c a u s e she d i v i n e d t h a t some of the things she said w o u l d h a v e h u r t h i m if a n y one else h a d said t h e m : it w a s t h e fact of their c o m i n g from her t h a t m a d e t h e m i n n o c u o u s . E v e n w h e n , a t the close of their talk, she h a d b u r s t o u t : " I f y o u g r u d g e m e e v e r y t h i n g I care a b o u t w e ' d b e t t e r s e p a r a t e , " he h a d m e r e l y a n s w e r e d w i t h a s h r u g : " I t ' s one of the things w e d o n ' t d o — " a n d the a n s w e r h a d b e e n like the s l a m m i n g of an iron door in her face. A n i n t e r v a l of silent b r o o d i n g h a d re sulted in a reaction of rebellion. She

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d a r e d n o t c a r r y o u t her t h r e a t of j o i n i n g her c o m p a t r i o t s a t t h e N o u v e a u L u x e : she h a d too clear a m e m o r y of the results of her former r e v o l t . B u t neither c o u l d she s u b m i t t o her p r e s e n t fate w i t h o u t at t e m p t i n g to m a k e R a y m o n d u n d e r s t a n d his selfish folly. She h a d failed to p r o v e it b y a r g u m e n t , b u t she h a d an inherited faith in the v a l u e of p r a c t i c a l d e m o n s t r a tion. If he could be m a d e to see h o w easi ly he could g i v e her w h a t she w a n t e d per h a p s he m i g h t c o m e r o u n d t o her v i e w . W i t h this idea in m i n d , she h a d g o n e u p to P a r i s for t w e n t y - f o u r hours, on t h e p r e t e x t of finding a n e w nurse for P a u l ; a n d t h e steps then t a k e n h a d e n a b l e d her, o n t h e first o c c a s i o n , t o set her plan in m o t i o n . T h e occasion w a s furnished b y R a y m o n d ' s n e x t trip to B e a u n e . H e w e n t off e a r l y one m o r n i n g , l e a v i n g w o r d t h a t he s h o u l d n o t be b a c k till n i g h t ; a n d on t h e afternoon of the s a m e d a y she s t o o d a t her usual p o s t in the g a l l e r y , s c a n n i n g the long p e r s p e c t i v e of the p o p l a r a v e n u e . S h e h a d n o t s t o o d there long before a b l a c k speck a t the end of t h e a v e n u e ex panded into a motor that was presently t h r o b b i n g a t the entrance. Undine, at its a p p r o a c h , t u r n e d from t h e w i n d o w , a n d as she m o v e d d o w n the g a l l e r y her glance rested on the g r e a t tapestries, w i t h their ineffable m i n g l i n g s of blue a n d rose, as c o m p l a c e n t l y as t h o u g h t h e y h a d been mirrors reflecting her o w n i m a g e . She w a s still l o o k i n g a t t h e m w h e n the door o p e n e d a n d a s e r v a n t ushered in a small s w a r t h y m a n w h o , in spite of his con spicuously London-made clothes, had an o d d exotic air, as if he h a d w o r n rings in his ears or left a b a l e of spices a t the door. H e b o w e d to U n d i n e , c a s t a r a p i d e y e u p a n d d o w n the r o o m , a n d then, w i t h his b a c k to t h e w i n d o w s , s t o o d i n t e n s e l y c o n t e m p l a t i n g the w a l l t h a t faced t h e m . Undine's heart was beating excitedly. She k n e w t h e old M a r q u i s e w a s t a k i n g her afternoon n a p in her r o o m , y e t e a c h s o u n d in the silent house seemed t o b e t h a t of her heels on the stairs. " A h — " said the visitor. H e had begun to pace slowly down the g a l l e r y , k e e p i n g his face to the tapestries, like an a c t o r p l a y i n g to t h e f o o t l i g h t s . "Ah—" he said a g a i n . T o ease t h e tension of her n e r v e s U n dine b e g a n : " T h e y w e r e g i v e n b y L o u i s

t h e F i f t e e n t h to t h e M a r q u i s d e Chelles who " " T h e i r history has been published," t h e v i s i t o r briefly i n t e r p o s e d ; a n d she c o l o u r e d a t her b l u n d e r . T h e s w a r t h y s t r a n g e r , fitting a pair of eye-glasses to a nose t h a t w a s like an in s t r u m e n t of precision, h a d b e g u n a closer a n d m o r e d e t a i l e d i n s p e c t i o n of the tap estries. H e s e e m e d t o t a l l y unmindful of her presence, a n d his air of l o f t y indiffer ence w a s b e g i n n i n g t o m a k e her wish she h a d n o t sent for h i m . H i s m a n n e r in P a r i s h a d been so different! S u d d e n l y he t u r n e d a n d t o o k off the glasses, w h i c h s p r a n g b a c k i n t o a fold of his c l o t h i n g like r e t r a c t e d feelers. " Y e s . " H e s t o o d a n d l o o k e d at her w i t h o u t seeing her. " V e r y w e l l . I h a v e brought down a gentleman." " A gentleman ?" " T h e g r e a t e s t A m e r i c a n collector—he b u y s o n l y the best. H e will n o t be long in P a r i s , a n d it w a s his o n l y chance of coming d o w n . " U n d i n e d r e w herself u p . " I d o n ' t un d e r s t a n d — I n e v e r said t h e tapestries were for s a l e . " " P r e c i s e l y . B u t this g e n t l e m a n buys o n l y t h i n g s t h a t are n o t for s a l e . " I t s o u n d e d d a z z l i n g a n d she wavered. " I d o n ' t k n o w — y o u w e r e o n l y to put a price on t h e m " " L e t m e see h i m l o o k a t t h e m first; then I'll p u t a price on t h e m , " he chuckled; a n d w i t h o u t w a i t i n g for her answer he w e n t to the d o o r a n d o p e n e d it. T h e ges ture r e v e a l e d the f u r - c o a t e d b a c k of a gen t l e m a n w h o s t o o d a t t h e opposite end of t h e hall e x a m i n i n g the b u s t of a seven teenth century field-marshal. T h e dealer addressed the b a c k respect fully. " M r . Moffatt!" M o f f a t t , w h o a p p e a r e d t o be interested in t h e b u s t , g l a n c e d o v e r his shoulder w i t h o u t m o v i n g . " See here " H i s g l a n c e t o o k in U n d i n e , widened to a s t o n i s h m e n t a n d passed into apostrophe. " W e l l , if this a i n ' t t h e d a r n e d e s t — ! " He c a m e f o r w a r d a n d t o o k her b y b o t h hands. " W h y , w h a t on e a r t h are y o u doing down here?" She l a u g h e d a n d b l u s h e d , in a tremor at t h e o d d t u r n of t h e a d v e n t u r e . " I live here. D i d n ' t y o u k n o w ? " " N o t a w o r d — n e v e r t h o u g h t of asking

T h e Custom of the Country the p a r t y ' s n a m e . " H e t u r n e d j o v i a l l y to the b o w i n g dealer. " S a y — I told y o u those tapestries 'd h a v e t o b e o u t a n d outers t o m a k e u p for t h e t r i p ; b u t n o w I see I w a s m i s t a k e n . " Undine looked at him curiously. His physical a p p e a r a n c e w a s u n c h a n g e d : he was as c o m p a c t a n d r u d d y as ever, w i t h the same a s t u t e e y e s u n d e r the s a m e guile less b r o w ; b u t his self-confidence h a d be come less a g g r e s s i v e , a n d she h a d n e v e r seen him so g a l l a n t l y a t ease. " I didn't know y o u ' d become a great collector." " T h e g r e a t e s t ! D i d n ' t he tell y o u so? I thought that w a s w h y I was allowed to come." She hesitated. " O f course, y o u k n o w , the tapestries are n o t for sale " " T h a t so? I t h o u g h t t h a t w a s o n l y his dodge to g e t m e d o w n . W e l l , I ' m glad t h e y a i n ' t : it'll g i v e us m o r e time t o talk." W a t c h in h a n d , t h e dealer i n t e r v e n e d . "If, nevertheless, y o u w o u l d first t a k e a glance. O u r train " " I t ain't m i n e ! " M o f f a t t i n t e r r u p t e d ; " a t least not if there's a later o n e . " Undine's presence of m i n d h a d re turned. " O f course there i s , " she said gaily. She led t h e w a y b a c k i n t o t h e gallery, half h o p i n g t h e dealer w o u l d al lege a pressing reason for d e p a r t u r e . She was excited a n d a m u s e d a t M o f f a t t ' s un expected a p p e a r a n c e , b u t h u m i l i a t e d t h a t he should suspect her of b e i n g in financial straits. She n e v e r w a n t e d t o see M o f f a t t except w h e n she w a s h a p p y a n d t r i u m phant. T h e dealer h a d followed t h e o t h e r t w o into the gallery, a n d there w a s a m o m e n t ' s pause while t h e y all s t o o d silently before the tapestries. " B y George!" Moffatt finally b r o u g h t o u t . " T h e y ' r e historical, y o u k n o w : t h e K i n g g a v e t h e m to R a y m o n d ' s g r e a t great-grandfather. T h e other day when I was in P a r i s , " U n d i n e hurried on, " I asked M r . F l e i s c h h a u e r to c o m e d o w n some time a n d tell us w h a t t h e y ' r e w o r t h • . . and he seems to h a v e misunder stood . . . to h a v e t h o u g h t w e m e a n t to sell t h e m . " S h e a d d r e s s e d herself m o r e pointedly t o t h e dealer. " I ' m sorry y o u ' v e h a d t h e trip for n o t h i n g . " M r . F l e i s c h h a u e r inclined himself elo

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q u e n t l y . " I t is n o t n o t h i n g to h a v e seen such b e a u t y . " M o f f a t t g a v e h i m a h u m o r o u s look. " I ' d h a t e t o see M r . F l e i s c h h a u e r miss his train " " I shall not miss i t : I miss n o t h i n g , " said M r . Fleischhauer. H e b o w e d to U n dine a n d b a c k e d t o w a r d the door. " See h e r e , " M o f f a t t called to h i m as he r e a c h e d the threshold, " y o u let the m o t o r t a k e y o u to t h e station, a n d charge u p this trip to m e . " W h e n the door closed he t u r n e d to U n dine w i t h a l a u g h . " W e l l , this b e a t s the b a n d . I t h o u g h t of course y o u were liv i n g up in P a r i s . " A g a i n she felt a t w i n g e of embarrass m e n t . " O h , F r e n c h p e o p l e — I mean m y h u s b a n d ' s k i n d — a l w a y s spend a p a r t of the y e a r on their e s t a t e s . " " B u t not this p a r t , do t h e y ? W h y , e v e r y t h i n g ' s h u m m i n g u p there now. I w a s dining a t the N o u v e a u L u x e last n i g h t w i t h the Driscolls and Shallums a n d M r s . R o l l i v e r , and all y o u r old c r o w d were there w h o o p i n g things u p . " T h e Driscolls a n d S h a l l u m s and M r s . R o l l i v e r ! H o w carelessly he reeled off their n a m e s ! O n e could see from his tone t h a t he w a s one of t h e m and w a n t e d her t o k n o w it. A n d nothing could h a v e g i v e n her a completer sense of his a c h i e v e m e n t — o f the n u m b e r of millions he m u s t be worth. It must have come about very r e c e n t l y , y e t he w a s a l r e a d y at ease in his n e w honours—he h a d the m e t r o p o l i t a n tone. W h i l e she e x a m i n e d h i m w i t h these t h o u g h t s in her mind she w a s a w a r e of his g i v i n g her as close a scrutiny. " B u t I sup pose y o u ' v e g o t y o u r o w n c r o w d n o w , " he c o n t i n u e d ; " y o u a l w a y s were a l a p a h e a d of m e . " H e sent his glance d o w n the lordly length of the room. " I t ' s sorter funny t o see y o u in this k i n d of p l a c e ; b u t y o u look i t — y o u a l w a y s do look i t ! " She l a u g h e d . " So do y o u — I w a s j u s t t h i n k i n g i t ! " T h e i r e y e s m e t . " I sup pose y o u m u s t b e awfully r i c h . " H e l a u g h e d too, holding her eyes. " O h , o u t of s i g h t ! T h e C o n s o l i d a t i o n set m e on m y feet. I o w n p r e t t y near t h e w h o l e of A p e x . I c a m e d o w n t o b u y these t a p estries for m y p r i v a t e c a r . " T h e familiar a c c e n t of h y p e r b o l e exhil a r a t e d her. " I d o n ' t suppose I could s t o p y o u if y o u really w a n t e d t h e m ! "

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" N o b o d y c a n s t o p m e n o w if I w a n t anything." T h e y were looking at each other w i t h c h a l l e n g e a n d c o m p l i c i t y in their e y e s . H i s v o i c e , his l o o k , all the l o u d confident v i g o r o u s things he e m b o d i e d a n d ex pressed, set her b l o o d b e a t i n g w i t h curios ity. " I didn't know y o u and Rolliver w e r e friends," she said. " O h Jim—" his a c c e n t v e r g e d on t h e p r o t e c t i v e . " O l d J i m ' s all right. He's in C o n g r e s s n o w . I ' v e g o t to h a v e some b o d y u p in W a s h i n g t o n . " H e h a d t h r u s t his h a n d s in his p o c k e t s , a n d w i t h his h e a d t h r o w n b a c k a n d his lips s h a p e d t o t h e familiar noiseless whistle, w a s l o o k i n g s l o w l y a n d discerningly a b o u t him. P r e s e n t l y his e y e s r e v e r t e d to her face. " S o this is w h a t I h e l p e d y o u to g e t , " he said. " I ' v e a l w a y s m e a n t to run o v e r s o m e d a y a n d t a k e a look. W h a t is it t h e y call y o u — a M a r q u i s e ? " She p a l e d a little, a n d t h e n flushed again. " W h a t m a d e y o u do i t ? " she b r o k e out a b r u p t l y . " I ' v e often w o n dered." H e laughed. " W h a t — l e n d y o u a h a n d ? W h y , m y business instinct, I sup pose. I s a w y o u w e r e in a t i g h t p l a c e t h a t t i m e I r a n across y o u in P a r i s — a n d I h a d n ' t a n y g r u d g e against y o u . F a c t is, I ' v e n e v e r h a d the t i m e t o nurse old scores, a n d if y o u n e g l e c t ' e m t h e y die off like gold-fish." H e w a s still c o m p o sedly regarding her. " I t ' s f u n n y to t h i n k of y o u r h a v i n g settled d o w n to this k i n d of life; I h o p e y o u ' v e g o t w h a t y o u wanted. T h i s i s a g r e a t place y o u live i n . " " Y e s ; b u t I see a little too m u c h of it. W e live here m o s t of the y e a r . " She h a d m e a n t to g i v e h i m t h e illusion of suc cess, b u t s o m e u n d e r l y i n g c o m m u n i t y of instinct d r e w t h e confession from her lips. " T h a t so? W h y on e a r t h d o n ' t y o u c u t it a n d c o m e u p t o P a r i s ? " " O h , R a y m o n d ' s a b s o r b e d in t h e es tates—and we h a v e n ' t got the money. T h i s p l a c e eats it all u p . " " W e l l , t h a t sounds aristocratic; b u t a i n ' t it r a t h e r o u t of d a t e ? W h e n t h e swells are h a r d - u p n o w a d a y s t h e y gener ally chip off an h e i r l o o m . " H e w h e e l e d r o u n d a g a i n to the tapestries. "There are a g o o d m a n y P a r i s seasons h a n g i n g right here on this w a l l . " " Y e s — I k n o w . " S h e tried t o c h e c k

herself, t o s u m m o n u p a g l i t t e r i n g equivo c a t i o n ; b u t his face, his v o i c e , the very w o r d s he used, w e r e like so m a n y ham mer-strokes d e m o l i s h i n g t h e unrealities t h a t i m p r i s o n e d her. H e r e w a s some one w h o s p o k e her l a n g u a g e , w h o k n e w her m e a n i n g s , w h o u n d e r s t o o d instinctively all t h e d e e p - s e a t e d w a n t s for w h i c h her a c q u i r e d v o c a b u l a r y h a d no terms; and as she t a l k e d she o n c e m o r e seemed to herself intelligent, e l o q u e n t a n d interest ing. " O f course it's frightfully lonely down h e r e , " she b e g a n ; a n d t h r o u g h the open ing m a d e b y t h e a d m i s s i o n t h e whole flood of her g r i e v a n c e s p o u r e d forth. She tried t o let h i m see t h a t she h a d n o t sacrificed herself for n o t h i n g ; she t o u c h e d on the superiorities of her situation, she gilded the c i r c u m s t a n c e s of w h i c h she called her self t h e v i c t i m , a n d let titles, offices and a t t r i b u t e s shed their u t m o s t lustre on her t a l e ; b u t w h a t she h a d to b o a s t of seemed small a n d t i n k l i n g c o m p a r e d w i t h the evi dences of his p o w e r . " W e l l , it's a d o w n r i g h t shame you d o n ' t g o r o u n d m o r e , " he k e p t saying; a n d she felt a s h a m e d of her t a m e accept a n c e of her fate. W h e n she h a d told her s t o r y she asked for h i s ; a n d for t h e first t i m e she listened t o it w i t h interest. H e h a d w h a t he w a n t e d a t last. T h e A p e x Consolidation s c h e m e , after a l o n g i n t e r v a l of suspense, h a d o b t a i n e d its c h a r t e r a n d shot out h u g e ramifications. R o l l i v e r h a d "stood i n " w i t h h i m a t the critical m o m e n t , and b e t w e e n t h e m t h e y h a d " c h u c k e d o u t " old H a r m o n B . D r i s c o l l b a g a n d b a g g a g e , and g o t t h e w h o l e t o w n in their control. A b sorbed in his t h e m e , a n d forgetting her in a b i l i t y t o follow h i m , M o f f a t t launched o u t on an epic recital of p l o t a n d counter p l o t , a n d she h u n g , a n e w D e s d e m o n a , on his conflict w i t h t h e n e w anthropophagi. I t w a s of no c o n s e q u e n c e t h a t the details a n d the technicalities e s c a p e d her: she k n e w their m e a n i n g l e s s syllables stood for success, a n d w h a t t h a t m e a n t w a s as clear as d a y t o her. E v e r y W a l l Street term h a d its e q u i v a l e n t in t h e l a n g u a g e of Fifth A v e n u e , a n d w h i l e he t a l k e d of building u p r a i l w a y s she w a s b u i l d i n g u p palaces, a n d p i c t u r i n g all t h e m u l t i p l e lives he w o u l d lead in t h e m . T o h a v e things had a l w a y s s e e m e d t o her t h e first essential of

T h e Custom of the Country existence, a n d as she listened t o h i m t h e vision of the t h i n g s he c o u l d h a v e unrolled itself before her like t h e l o n g t r i u m p h of an A s i a t i c c o n q u e r o r . " A n d w h a t are y o u g o i n g t o do n e x t ? " she a s k e d , a l m o s t b r e a t h l e s s l y , w h e n he had ended. " O h , there's a l w a y s a lot t o do n e x t . Business n e v e r goes t o s l e e p . " " Y e s ; b u t I m e a n besides b u s i n e s s . " " W h y — e v e r y t h i n g I can, I guess." H e leaned b a c k in his c h a i r w i t h an a i r of placid p o w e r , as if he w e r e so sure of g e t ting w h a t he w a n t e d t h a t there w a s n o longer a n y use in h u r r y i n g , h u g e as his vistas h a d b e c o m e . She c o n t i n u e d to q u e s t i o n h i m , a n d he began to t a l k of his g r o w i n g passion for pictures and furniture, a n d of his desire to form a collection w h i c h should be a great r e p r e s e n t a t i v e a s s e m b l a g e of un matched specimens. A s he s p o k e she saw his expression c h a n g e , a n d his e y e s grow y o u n g e r , a l m o s t b o y i s h , w i t h a c o n centrated look in t h e m t h a t r e m i n d e d her of long-forgotten t h i n g s . " I m e a n to h a v e t h e best, y o u k n o w ; not just to g e t a h e a d of t h e other fellows, but because I k n o w it w h e n I see it. I guess t h a t ' s the o n l y g o o d r e a s o n , " he con cluded; and he a d d e d , l o o k i n g a t her w i t h a smile: " I t w a s w h a t y o u w e r e a l w a y s after, w a s n ' t it? " XLII UNDINE h a d g a i n e d her point, a n d the entresol of the H o t e l de C h e l l e s reopened its doors for t h e season. H u b e r t a n d his wife, in e x p e c t a t i o n of the birth of an heir, h a d w i t h d r a w n to the sumptuous c h a t e a u w h i c h G e n e r a l A r l i n g ton had hired for t h e m near C o m p i e g n e , and U n d i n e w a s a t least s p a r e d the sight of their b r i g h t w i n d o w s a n d a n i m a t e d stairway. B u t she h a d t o t a k e her share of the felicitations w h i c h the w h o l e farreaching circle of friends a n d relations dis tributed to e v e r y m e m b e r of H u b e r t ' s family on t h e a p p r o a c h of the h a p p y event. N o r w a s this t h e h a r d e s t of her trials. R a y m o n d h a d done w h a t she asked—he h a d s t o o d o u t a g a i n s t his mother's p r o t e s t s , set aside considera tions of p r u d e n c e , a n d c o n s e n t e d t o g o up to P a r i s for t w o m o n t h s ; b u t he h a d

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done so on the u n d e r s t a n d i n g t h a t during their s t a y t h e y should exercise the m o s t u n r e m i t t i n g e c o n o m y . A s dinner-giving p u t the h e a v i e s t strain on their b u d g e t , all h o s p i t a l i t y w a s s u s p e n d e d ; a n d w h e n U n d i n e a t t e m p t e d to i n v i t e a few friends informally she w a s w a r n e d t h a t she could n o t do so w i t h o u t causing the g r a v e s t of fense to the m a n y others g e n e a l o g i c a l l y entitled to the s a m e attention. R a y m o n d ' s insistence on this rule w a s s i m p l y p a r t of an elaborate a n d inveter ate s y s t e m of " r e l a t i o n s " (the w h o l e of F r e n c h social life seemed to d e p e n d on the e x a c t interpretation of t h a t w o r d ) , a n d U n d i n e felt the uselessness of struggling a g a i n s t such m y s t e r i o u s inhibitions. H e r e m i n d e d her, h o w e v e r , t h a t their inabil i t y t o receive w o u l d g i v e t h e m all the more o p p o r t u n i t y for going out, a n d he s h o w e d himself more socially disposed t h a n in the p a s t . B u t his concession did not result as she h a d hoped. T h e y were a s k e d o u t as m u c h as ever, b u t t h e y were a s k e d to big dinners, to impersonal crushes, to the k i n d of e n t e r t a i n m e n t it is a slight to be o m i t t e d from b u t no c o m p l i m e n t to b e included in. N o t h i n g could h a v e been m o r e galling to U n d i n e , and she frankly b e w a i l e d the fact to M a d a m e de T r e z a c . " O f course it's w h a t w a s sure to c o m e of being m e w e d u p for m o n t h s a n d m o n t h s in the c o u n t r y . W e ' r e out of e v e r y t h i n g , a n d the people w h o are h a v i n g a g o o d t i m e are s i m p l y too b u s y to r e m e m b e r us. W e ' r e o n l y a s k e d to the things t h a t are m a d e u p from v i s i t i n g - l i s t s . " M a d a m e de T r e z a c listened s y m p a t h e t ically, b u t did n o t suppress a c a n d i d an swer. " I t ' s n o t altogether t h a t , m y d e a r ; R a y m o n d ' s n o t a m a n his friends forget. I t ' s r a t h e r more, if y o u ' l l excuse m y s a y ing so, the f a c t of y o u r b e i n g — y o u per s o n a l l y — i n the w r o n g s e t . " " T h e w r o n g set? W h y , I ' m in his set — t h e one t h a t t h i n k s itself too g o o d for all the others. T h a t ' s w h a t y o u ' v e al w a y s told m e w h e n I ' v e said it b o r e d m e . " " W e l l , that's what I mean—" M a d a m e de T r e z a c took the p l u n g e . " I t ' s n o t a question of your b e i n g b o r e d . " U n d i n e coloured; b u t she could t a k e the h a r d e s t thrusts w h e r e her personal inter est w a s i n v o l v e d . " Y o u m e a n t h a t I'm the bore, then ? "

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" W e l l , y o u don't w o r k h a r d e n o u g h — y o u don't keep up. It's not that they don't admire y o u — y o u r looks, I mean; t h e y t h i n k y o u b e a u t i f u l ; t h e y ' r e de l i g h t e d t o b r i n g y o u o u t a t their b i g din ners, w i t h the S e v r e s a n d t h e p l a t e . B u t a w o m a n has g o t t o b e s o m e t h i n g m o r e than good-looking to h a v e a chance to be i n t i m a t e w i t h t h e m : she's got to k n o w w h a t ' s b e i n g said a b o u t t h i n g s . I w a t c h e d y o u the other n i g h t a t the D u c h e s s ' s , a n d half the time y o u h a d n ' t an idea w h a t t h e y were talking about. I haven't always, either; b u t then I h a v e t o p u t u p w i t h the big dinners." U n d i n e w i n c e d u n d e r the c r i t i c i s m ; b u t she h a d n e v e r l a c k e d insight i n t o t h e cause of her o w n failures, a n d she h a d al r e a d y h a d p r e m o n i t i o n s of w h a t M a d a m e de Trezac so b l u n t l y phrased. When R a y m o n d ceased t o b e interested in her c o n v e r s a t i o n she h a d c o n c l u d e d it w a s the w a y of h u s b a n d s ; b u t since then it h a d been s l o w l y d a w n i n g on her t h a t she pro d u c e d the s a m e effect on others. H e r en trances w e r e a l w a y s t r i u m p h s ; b u t t h e y h a d no sequel. A s soon as p e o p l e b e g a n t o t a l k t h e y ceased to see her. A n y sense of insufficiency e x a s p e r a t e d her, a n d she h a d v a g u e t h o u g h t s of c u l t i v a t i n g herself, a n d w e n t so far as t o spend a m o r n i n g in t h e L o u v r e and g o to one or t w o lectures b y a fashionable philosopher. B u t t h o u g h she returned from these expeditions c h a r g e d w i t h opinions, their expression did not excite the interest she h a d hoped. H e r v i e w s , if a b u n d a n t , were confused, a n d t h e m o r e she said the more n e b u l o u s t h e y s e e m e d to g r o w . She w a s disconcerted, m o r e o v e r , by finding t h a t e v e r y b o d y a p p e a r e d t o k n o w a b o u t the things she t h o u g h t she h a d discovered, a n d her c o m m e n t s clearly p r o d u c e d m o r e b e w i l d e r m e n t t h a n interest. R e m e m b e r i n g the a t t e n t i o n she h a d at t r a c t e d on her first a p p e a r a n c e in R a y m o n d ' s w o r l d she c o n c l u d e d t h a t she h a d " g o n e off" or g r o w n d o w d y , a n d instead of w a s t i n g more time in m u s e u m s a n d lec ture-halls she p r o l o n g e d her hours at the dress-maker's a n d g a v e u p the rest of the d a y to t h e scientific c u l t i v a t i o n of her beauty. " I suppose I ' v e t u r n e d i n t o a perfect frump d o w n there in t h a t w i l d e r n e s s , " she l a m e n t e d t o M a d a m e de T r e z a c , w h o re

plied i n e x o r a b l y : " O h , n o , y o u ' r e as h a n d s o m e as e v e r ; b u t p e o p l e here don't g o on l o o k i n g a t e a c h o t h e r forever as they d o in L o n d o n . " M e a n w h i l e financial cares b e c a m e more pressing. A d u n n i n g letter from one of her t r a d e s m e n fell i n t o R a y m o n d ' s hands, a n d t h e t a l k it led t o e n d e d in his making it clear t o her t h a t she m u s t settle her personal d e b t s w i t h o u t his aid. A l l the " s c e n e s " a b o u t m o n e y w h i c h had dis t u r b e d her p a s t h a d e n d e d in some mys terious solution of her difficulty. Dis a g r e e a b l e as t h e y w e r e , she h a d always, v u l g a r l y s p e a k i n g , f o u n d t h e y p a i d ; but n o w it w a s she w h o w a s e x p e c t e d to pay. R a y m o n d t o o k his s t a n d w i t h o u t illt e m p e r or a p o l o g y : h e s i m p l y argued from i n v e t e r a t e p r e c e d e n t . B u t it w a s impos sible for U n d i n e t o u n d e r s t a n d a social o r g a n i z a t i o n w h i c h did n o t regard the in d u l g i n g of w o m a n as its first purpose, or to b e l i e v e t h a t a n y one t a k i n g another view w a s n o t m o v e d b y a v a r i c e or m a l i c e ; and t h e discussion e n d e d in m u t u a l acrimony. T h e morning afterward, Raymond c a m e i n t o her r o o m w i t h a letter in his hand. " I s this y o u r d o i n g ? " he asked. His l o o k a n d v o i c e expressed something she h a d n e v e r k n o w n b e f o r e : the disciplined anger of a m a n t r a i n e d t o k e e p his emo tions in fixed channels, b u t k n o w i n g how to fill t h e m t o t h e b r i m . T h e l e t t e r w a s from M r . Fleischhauer, w h o b e g g e d t o t r a n s m i t to t h e Marquis de C h e l l e s an offer for his B o u c h e r tapes tries from a client p r e p a r e d to p a y the large s u m n a m e d on c o n d i t i o n t h a t it was a c c e p t e d before his a p p r o a c h i n g departure

for America. " W h a t does it m e a n ? " R a y m o n d con tinued, as she d i d n o t s p e a k . " H o w s h o u l d I k n o w ? I t ' s a lot of m o n e y , " she s t a m m e r e d , s h a k e n out of her self-possession. S h e h a d not ex p e c t e d so p r o m p t a sequel t o the dealer's visit, a n d she w a s v e x e d w i t h h i m for wri ting t o R a y m o n d w i t h o u t consulting her. B u t she r e c o g n i z e d M o f f a t t ' s high-handed way, a n d her fears f a d e d in the great blaze of the s u m he offered. H e r h u s b a n d w a s still l o o k i n g at her. " I t w a s F l e i s c h h a u e r w h o b r o u g h t a man d o w n to see t h e tapestries one d a y when I was a w a y at B e a u n e ? "

T h e Custom of the Country He had known, then—everything was known at Saint Desert! She w a v e r e d a m o m e n t a n d then g a v e him b a c k his l o o k . " Y e s — - i t w a s F l e i s c h h a u e r ; a n d I sent for h i m . " " Y o u sent for h i m ? " H e s p o k e in a v o i c e so v e i l e d a n d re pressed t h a t he s e e m e d t o b e consciously saving it for s o m e p r e m e d i t a t e d o u t b r e a k . Undine felt its m e n a c e , b u t t h e t h o u g h t of M o f f a t t sent a flame t h r o u g h her, a n d the w o r d s he w o u l d h a v e s p o k e n s e e m e d to fly to her lips. " W h y s h o u l d n ' t I ? S o m e t h i n g h a d to be done. W e c a n ' t g o on as w e are. I've tried m y b e s t to e c o n o m i z e — I ' v e s c r a p e d and scrimped, a n d g o n e w i t h o u t heaps of things I ' v e a l w a y s h a d . I ' v e m o p e d for months a n d m o n t h s a t S a i n t D e s e r t , a n d given u p sending P a u l to school b e c a u s e it w a s too e x p e n s i v e , a n d a s k i n g m y friends to dine b e c a u s e w e c o u l d n ' t afford it. A n d y o u e x p e c t m e t o g o on l i v i n g like this for t h e rest of m y life, w h e n all y o u ' v e g o t to do is t o h o l d o u t y o u r h a n d and h a v e t w o millions francs d r o p i n t o it!" H e r h u s b a n d s t o o d l o o k i n g a t her c o l d l y and curiously, as t h o u g h she w e r e s o m e alien apparition his e y e s h a d n e v e r before beheld. " A h , t h a t ' s y o u r a n s w e r — t h a t ' s all y o u feel w h e n y o u l a y h a n d s on t h i n g s t h a t are sacred to u s ! " H e s t o p p e d a m o m e n t , and then let his v o i c e b r e a k o u t w i t h the volume she h a d felt it t o b e g a t h e r i n g . " A n d y o u ' r e all a l i k e , " he e x c l a i m e d , " e v e r y one of y o u . Y o u c o m e a m o n g us from a c o u n t r y w e d o n ' t k n o w , a n d c a n ' t imagine, a c o u n t r y y o u care for so little that before y o u ' v e b e e n a d a y in ours y o u ' v e forgotten t h e v e r y h o u s e y o u w e r e born in—if it w a s n ' t t o r n d o w n before y o u knew it! Y o u c o m e a m o n g us s p e a k i n g our l a n g u a g e a n d n o t k n o w i n g w h a t w e mean; w a n t i n g t h e t h i n g s w e w a n t , a n d not k n o w i n g w h y w e w a n t t h e m ; a p i n g our w e a k n e s s e s , e x a g g e r a t i n g our follies, ignoring or ridiculing all w e c a r e about—• you come from h o t e l s as b i g as t o w n s , a n d from t o w n s as flimsy as p a p e r , w h e r e t h e streets h a v e n ' t h a d t i m e t o b e n a m e d , and the b u i l d i n g s are d e m o l i s h e d before they're d r y , a n d t h e p e o p l e are as p r o u d of c h a n g i n g as w e are of h o l d i n g t o w h a t

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w e h a v e — a n d w e ' r e fools e n o u g h to i m agine t h a t because y o u c o p y our w a y s a n d p i c k u p our slang y o u u n d e r s t a n d a n y t h i n g a b o u t the things t h a t m a k e life d e c e n t a n d h o n o u r a b l e for u s ! " H e s t o p p e d again, his w h i t e face a n d d r a w n nostrils g i v i n g h i m so m u c h t h e look of an e x t r e m e l y distinguished a c t o r in a fine p a r t t h a t , in spite of t h e v e h e mence of his emotion, his silence m i g h t h a v e been the deliberate pause for a replique. Undine kept him waiting long e n o u g h t o g i v e the effect of h a v i n g lost her c u e — t h e n she b r o u g h t o u t , w i t h a little soft stare of i n c r e d u l i t y : " D o y o u m e a n to s a y y o u ' r e going to refuse such an of fer?" " A h — ! " H e turned b a c k from the door, a n d p i c k i n g u p the letter t h a t l a y on t h e t a b l e b e t w e e n t h e m , tore it in pieces a n d tossed the pieces on the floor. " T h a t ' s h o w I refuse i t ! " T h e violence of his tone a n d gesture m a d e her feel as t h o u g h the fluttering strips were so m a n y lashes laid across her face, a n d a rage t h a t w a s half fear pos sessed her. " H o w dare y o u speak to m e like t h a t ? N o b o d y ' s ever dared to before. Is talk ing to a w o m a n in t h a t w a y one of the things y o u call decent and honourable? N o w t h a t I k n o w w h a t y o u feel a b o u t m e I d o n ' t w a n t to s t a y in y o u r house another day. A n d I don't mean to—I mean to w a l k o u t of it this v e r y h o u r ! " F o r a m o m e n t t h e y stood face to face, t h e d e p t h s of their m u t u a l incompre hension a t last b a r e d to e a c h other's a n g r y e y e s ; then R a y m o n d , his glance t r a v e l l i n g p a s t her, p o i n t e d to t h e frag m e n t s of p a p e r on the floor. " I f y o u ' r e c a p a b l e of t h a t y o u ' r e ca p a b l e of a n y t h i n g ! " he said as he w e n t o u t of the r o o m . XLIII S H E w a t c h e d him g o in a k i n d of stupour, k n o w i n g t h a t w h e n t h e y n e x t m e t he w o u l d be as courteous a n d self-pos sessed as if n o t h i n g h a d h a p p e n e d , but t h a t e v e r y t h i n g w o u l d nevertheless g o on in the s a m e w a y — i n his w a y — a n d t h a t there w a s no m o r e h o p e of s h a k i n g his resolve or altering his p o i n t of v i e w t h a n there w o u l d h a v e been of transporting the

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The Custom of the Country

d e e p - r o o t e d m a s o n r y of S a i n t D e s e r t b y m e a n s of the w h e e l e d supports on w h i c h A p e x a r c h i t e c t u r e performed its e a s y transits. O n e of her childish rages possessed her, s w e e p i n g a w a y e v e r y feeling s a v e t h e p r i m i t i v e impulse to h u r t a n d d e s t r o y ; b u t search as she w o u l d she c o u l d n o t find a c r a c k in t h e s t r o n g a r m o u r of her hus b a n d ' s h a b i t s a n d prejudices. F o r a long t i m e she c o n t i n u e d to sit w h e r e he h a d left her, staring a t the portraits on the walls as t h o u g h t h e y h a d joined h a n d s to imprison her. H i t h e r t o she h a d a l m o s t a l w a y s felt herself a m a t c h for c i r c u m s t a n c e s , b u t n o w t h e v e r y d e a d were l e a g u e d t o defeat her: people she h a d n e v e r seen and w h o s e n a m e s she c o u l d n ' t e v e n r e m e m b e r seemed t o be p l o t t i n g and c o n t r i v i n g against her u n d e r the e s c u t c h e o n e d g r a v e - s t o n e s of Saint D e s e r t . H e r e y e s t u r n e d to the old w a r m - t o n e d furniture b e n e a t h the pictures, a n d to her o w n idle i m a g e in the mirror a b o v e t h e m a n t e l p i e c e . E v e n in t h a t one small r o o m there were enough things of price to b u y a release from her m o s t pressing cares; a n d the g r e a t house, in w h i c h the r o o m w a s a mere cell, a n d the other g r e a t e r house in B u r g u n d y , held treasures to de plete e v e n such a purse as M o f f a t t ' s . She liked to see s u c h things a b o u t h e r — w i t h o u t a n y real sense of their m e a n i n g she felt t h e m to b e the a p p r o p r i a t e setting of a p r e t t y w o m a n , to e m b o d y s o m e t h i n g of t h e rareness a n d distinction she h a d al w a y s considered she possessed; and she reflected t h a t if she h a d still been M o f f a t t ' s wife he w o u l d h a v e g i v e n her j u s t such a setting, a n d the p o w e r to live in it as b e c a m e her. T h e t h o u g h t sent her m e m o r y flying b a c k to things she h a d t u r n e d it from for y e a r s . F o r the first t i m e since their faroff w e e k s t o g e t h e r she let herself relive t h e brief a d v e n t u r e . She h a d been d r a w n to E l m e r M o f f a t t from the first—from t h e d a y w h e n B e n F r u s k , I n d i a n a ' s brother, h a d b r o u g h t h i m t o a c h u r c h picnic a t M u l v e y ' s G r o v e , a n d he h a d t a k e n in s t a n t possession of U n d i n e , sitting in t h e b i g " s t a g e " beside her on t h e " r i d e " t o the g r o v e , s u p p l a n t i n g M i l l a r d B i n c h (to w h o m she w a s still, t h o u g h i n t e r m i t t e n t l y a n d i n c o m p l e t e l y , e n g a g e d ) , s w i n g i n g her b e t w e e n the trees, r o w i n g her on t h e l a k e ,

c a t c h i n g a n d k i s s i n g h e r in " f o r f e i t s , " a w a r d i n g her t h e first p r i z e in t h e B e a u t y S h o w he h i l a r i o u s l y o r g a n i z e d a n d gal l a n t l y carried o u t , a n d finally (no one k n e w how) contriving to borrow a buggy a n d a fast c o l t f r o m o l d M u l v e y , and dri v i n g off w i t h her a t a t w o - f o r t y g a i t while M i l l a r d a n d t h e others t o o k their dust in t h e c r a w l i n g s t a g e . N o one in A p e x k n e w w h e r e y o u n g Mof f a t t h a d c o m e from, a n d he offered no in formation on t h e s u b j e c t . H e s i m p l y ap p e a r e d one d a y b e h i n d t h e counter in L u c k a b a c k ' s D o l l a r Shoe-store, drifted t h e n c e t o t h e office of S e m p l e a n d Binch, the c o a l - m e r c h a n t s , r e a p p e a r e d as the s t e n o g r a p h e r of t h e P o l i c e C o u r t , and finally e d g e d his w a y i n t o t h e power house of t h e A p e x W a t e r - W o r k s . He b o a r d e d w i t h old M r s . F l y n n , d o w n in N o r t h F i f t h Street, on the edge of the red-light slum, he n e v e r w e n t to church or a t t e n d e d lectures, or s h o w e d a n y desire to i m p r o v e or refine himself; b u t he man a g e d t o g e t himself i n v i t e d to all the pic nics a n d l o d g e sociables, a n d a t a supper of the P h i U p s i l o n S o c i e t y , to w h i c h he h a d c o n t r i v e d to affiliate himself, he made the best s p e e c h t h a t h a d been heard there since y o u n g J i m R o l l i v e r ' s first flights. T h e brothers of U n d i n e ' s friends all pro n o u n c e d h i m " g r e a t , " t h o u g h he had fits of u n c o u t h n e s s t h a t m a d e the young w o m e n slower in a d m i t t i n g h i m to favour. B u t a t t h e M u l v e y ' s G r o v e picnic he sud d e n l y s e e m e d t o d o m i n a t e t h e m all, and U n d i n e , as she d r o v e a w a y w i t h him, t a s t e d the public t r i u m p h w h i c h was nec essary to her personal e n j o y m e n t . A f t e r t h a t he b e c a m e a leading figure in the y o u t h f u l w o r l d of A p e x , and no one w a s surprised w h e n t h e Sons of Jonadab, (the local T e m p e r a n c e S o c i e t y ) invited h i m t o deliver their F o u r t h of J u l y ora tion. T h e c e r e m o n y t o o k place, as usual, in the B a p t i s t c h u r c h , a n d U n d i n e , all in w h i t e , w i t h a red rose in her breast, sat j u s t b e n e a t h t h e p l a t f o r m , w i t h Indiana j e a l o u s l y g l a r i n g a t her from a less priv ileged seat, a n d p o o r M i l l a r d ' s long neck c r a n i n g o v e r t h e r o w of p r o m i n e n t citi zens b e h i n d t h e o r a t o r . E l m e r M o f f a t t h a d b e e n magnific nt, rolling o u t his a l t e r n a t i n g effects of hu m o u r a n d p a t h o s , stirring his audience by m o v i n g references t o t h e B l u e and the


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G r a y , c o n v u l s i n g t h e m b y a n e w version joined silence a n d E l m e r M o f f a t t g o t t o of W a s h i n g t o n a n d the C h e r r y T r e e (in his feet. w h i c h the infant P a t r i o t w a s d e p i c t e d as " S t e p o u t w h e r e the ladies c a n hear h a v i n g c u t d o w n t h e tree t o c h e c k t h e y o u better, M r . M o f f a t t ! " the minister deleterious s p r e a d of c h e r r y b o u n c e ) , d a z called. M o f f a t t did so, s t e a d y i n g h i m zling t h e m b y his erudite allusions a n d a p t self a g a i n s t the table a n d t w i s t i n g his q u o t a t i o n s (he confessed to U n d i n e t h a t h e a d a b o u t as if his collar h a d g r o w n too he h a d sat u p half the n i g h t o v e r B a r t - t i g h t . B u t if his bearing w a s v a c i l l a t i n g lett), a n d w i n d i n g u p w i t h a peroration his smile w a s unabashed, a n d there w a s n o t h a t drew tears from t h e G r a n d A r m y l a c k of confidence in the g l a n c e he t h r e w pensioners in the front r o w a n d c a u s e d a t U n d i n e S p r a g g as he b e g a n : " L a d i e s the minister's wife to s a y t h a t m a n y a a n d G e n t l e m e n , if there's one thing I like sermon from t h a t p l a t f o r m h a d been less b e t t e r t h a n another a b o u t g e t t i n g d r u n k uplifting. — a n d I like m o s t e v e r y t h i n g a b o u t it ex A n i c e - c r e a m s u p p e r a l w a y s followed c e p t t h e n e x t m o r n i n g — i t ' s the o p p o r t u the " exercises," a n d as repairs were being n i t y y o u ' v e g i v e n me of doing it right here, m a d e in t h e c h u r c h b a s e m e n t , w h i c h w a s in the presence of this S o c i e t y , w h i c h , as I the usual scene of t h e f e s t i v i t y , the m i n g a t h e r from its literature, k n o w s m o r e ister h a d offered t h e use of his house. T h e a b o u t the subject t h a n a n y b o d y else. L a long table r a n t h r o u g h t h e d o o r w a y be dies a n d G e n t l e m e n " — h e straightened tween parlour a n d s t u d y , a n d another himself, and the table-cloth slid t o w a r d was set in the p a s s a g e outside, w i t h one h i m — " e v e r since y o u honoured me w i t h end under the stairs. T h e stair-rail w a s an i n v i t a t i o n to address y o u from the t e m w r e a t h e d in fire-weed a n d e a r l y golden- perance platform I ' v e been assiduously rod, a n d T e m p e r a n c e t e x t s in smilax s t u d y i n g t h a t literature; and I ' v e g a t h decked the w alls. W h e n t h e first course ered from y o u r o w n e v i d e n c e — w h a t I ' d had been d e s p a t c h e d the y o u n g ladies, s t r o n g l y suspected before—that all y o u r g a l l a n t l y seconded b y the y o u n g e r of the c o n v e r t e d drunkards h a d a hell of a g o o d " S o n s , " h e l p e d t o ladle o u t a n d c a r r y t i m e before y o u g o t at 'em, and t h a t . . . in the ice-cream, w h i c h s t o o d in g r e a t a n d t h a t a g o o d m a n y of 'em h a v e gone pails on the larder floor, a n d to replenish on h a v i n g it since. . . " the j u g s of l e m o n a d e a n d coffee. Elmer A t this point he b r o k e off, s w e p t the au M o f f a t t w a s i n d e f a t i g a b l e in performing dience w i t h his confident smile, and then, these services, a n d w h e n the minister's collapsing, tried to sit d o w n on a chair wife pressed h i m t o sit d o w n a n d t a k e a t h a t d i d n ' t h a p p e n to be there, and dis mouthful himself he m o d e s t l y declined a p p e a r e d a m o n g his a g i t a t e d supporters. the p l a c e r e s e r v e d for h i m a m o n g the T h e r e w a s a night-mare m o m e n t during dignitaries of the e v e n i n g , a n d w i t h d r e w w h i c h U n d i n e , t h r o u g h the d o o r w a y , s a w w i t h a few chosen spirits t o t h e d i m B e n F r u s k a n d the others close a b o u t the table-end b e n e a t h the stairs. E x p l o s i o n s fallen orator to the crash of c r o c k e r y a n d of hilarity c a m e from this corner w i t h in t u m b l i n g chairs; then some one j u m p e d creasing f r e q u e n c y , a n d n o w a n d t h e n u p a n d shut the parlour door, and a longt u m u l t u o u s r a p p i n g s a n d h o w l s of " S o n g ! n e c k e d S u n d a y school teacher, w h o h a d Song [ / ' f o l l o w e d b y a d j u r a t i o n s to " C o u g h been n e r v o u s l y w a i t i n g his chance, a n d it u p " a n d " L e t her g o , " d r o w n e d t h e h a d a l m o s t g i v e n it up, rose from his feet conversational efforts a t the other t a b l e . a n d recited H i g h T i d e a t G e t t y s b u r g A t length t h e noise subsided, a n d the a m i d h y s t e r i c a l applause. T h e scandal w a s considerable, b u t M o f group w a s c e a s i n g to a t t r a c t a t t e n t i o n when, t o w a r d t h e e n d of the e v e n i n g , the fatt, t h o u g h he v a n i s h e d from the social upper table, d r o o p i n g u n d e r the l e n g t h y horizon, m a n a g e d to k e e p his p l a c e in the elucubrations of the m i n i s t e r a n d t h e p o w e r - h o u s e till he w e n t off for a w e e k President of t h e T e m p e r a n c e S o c i e t y , a n d t u r n e d u p again w i t h o u t being able to called on t h e o r a t o r of t h e d a y for a few g i v e a satisfactory reason for his a b s e n c e . remarks. T h e r e w a s an i n t e r v a l of scuf A f t e r t h a t he drifted from one j o b to an fling a n d l a u g h t e r b e n e a t h t h e stairs, other, n o w extolled for his " s m a r t n e s s " and then the m i n i s t e r ' s lifted h a n d en a n d business c a p a c i t y , n o w dismissed in r

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d i s g r a c e as an irresponsible loafer. His " W e l l , I suppose y o u k n o w I ' m down h e a d w a s a l w a y s full of i m m e n s e n e b u a n d o u t , " he b e g a n ; a n d she responded lous s c h e m e s for t h e e n l a r g e m e n t a n d de v i r t u o u s l y : " Y o u m u s t h a v e w a n t e d to v e l o p m e n t of a n y business he h a p p e n e d be, or y o u w o u l d n ' t h a v e b e h a v e d the w a y t o b e e m p l o y e d in. S o m e t i m e s his s u g y o u did last S u n d a y . " gestions interested his e m p l o y e r s , b u t " O h , s h u c k s ! " he sneered. " W h a t do proved unpractical and i n a p p l i c a b l e ; I care, in a one-horse p l a c e like this? If s o m e t i m e s he w o r e o u t their p a t i e n c e or it h a d n ' t been for y o u I ' d h a v e g o t a m o v e w a s t h o u g h t t o be a d a n g e r o u s d r e a m e r . on l o n g a g o . " W h e n e v e r he found there w a s n o h o p e of S h e did n o t r e m e m b e r a f t e r w a r d w h a t his ideas b e i n g a d o p t e d he lost interest in else he s a i d : she recalled o n l y the expres his w o r k , c a m e late a n d left e a r l y , or dis sion of a g r e a t s w e e p i n g scorn of A p e x , a p p e a r e d for t w o or three d a y s a t a t i m e i n t o w h i c h her o w n disdain of it w a s ab w i t h o u t t r o u b l i n g himself t o a c c o u n t for sorbed like a d r o p in the sea, a n d the af his a b s e n c e s . A t last e v e n those w h o h a d firmation of a soaring self-confidence that b e e n c y n i c a l e n o u g h to smile o v e r his dis s e e m e d t o lift her on w i n g s . A l l her own g r a c e a t t h e t e m p e r a n c e supper b e g a n t o a t t e m p t s t o g e t w h a t she w a n t e d had s p e a k of him as a hopeless failure, a n d he c o m e to n o t h i n g ; b u t she h a d a l w a y s lost t h e s u p p o r t of t h e feminine c o m m u a t t r i b u t e d her l a c k of success to the fact n i t y w h e n one S u n d a y m o r n i n g , j u s t as the t h a t she h a d h a d no one to second her. It B a p t i s t a n d M e t h o d i s t c h u r c h e s w e r e re w a s s t r a n g e t h a t E l m e r M o f f a t t , a shift leasing their c o n g r e g a t i o n s , he w a l k e d u p less o u t c a s t from e v e n t h e small world she E u b a w A v e n u e w i t h a y o u n g w o m a n less despised, should g i v e her, in the v e r y mo k n o w n to those sacred edifices t h a n to the m e n t of his d o w n f a l l , t h e sense of being saloons of N o r t h F i f t h Street. a b l e t o s u c c e e d w h e r e she h a d failed. It U n d i n e ' s e s t i m a t e of people h a d a l w a y s w a s a feeling she n e v e r h a d in his absence, b e e n b a s e d on their a p p a r e n t p o w e r of g e t b u t t h a t his nearness a l w a y s i n s t a n t l y re t i n g w h a t t h e y w a n t e d — p r o v i d e d it c a m e v i v e d ; a n d he s e e m e d nearer t o her now u n d e r t h e c a t e g o r y of things she under t h a n he h a d e v e r b e e n . T h e y wandered s t o o d w a n t i n g . Success w a s b e a u t y a n d on to the e d g e of t h e v a g u e p a r k , and sat r o m a n c e to her; y e t it w a s at the m o m e n t d o w n on a b e n c h b e h i n d the e m p t y band w h e n E l m e r M o f f a t t ' s failure w a s m o s t s t a n d . c o m p l e t e a n d flagrant t h a t she s u d d e n l y felt t h e e x t e n t of his p o w e r . A f t e r t h e E u b a w A v e n u e scandal he h a d been a s k e d n o t to r e t u r n to the s u r v e y o r ' s of fice t o w h i c h B e n F r u s k h a d m a n a g e d to g e t h i m a d m i t t e d ; a n d on the d a y of his dismissal he m e t U n d i n e in M a i n Street, a t the s h o p p i n g hour, a n d , sauntering u p cheerfully, i n v i t e d her to t a k e a w a l k w i t h h i m . She w a s a b o u t t o refuse w h e n she s a w M i l l a r d B i n c h ' s m o t h e r l o o k i n g a t her d i s a p p r o v i n g l y from the opposite streetcorner. " O h , well, I w i l l — " she said; a n d t h e y w a l k e d the length of M a i n Street and o u t to the i m m a t u r e p a r k in w h i c h it ended. S h e w a s in a m o o d of aimless d i s c o n t e n t a n d unrest, tired of her e n g a g e m e n t t o Millard Binch, disappointed with Mof f a t t , h a l f - a s h a m e d of b e i n g seen w i t h h i m , a n d y e t n o t sorry t o h a v e it k n o w n t h a t she w a s i n d e p e n d e n t e n o u g h t o choose her c o m p a n i o n s w i t h o u t r e g a r d t o t h e A p e x verdict.

" I w e n t w i t h t h a t girl on purpose, and y o u k n o w i t , " he b r o k e o u t a b r u p t l y . " I t m a k e s m e too d a m n e d sick to see Millard B i n c h g o i n g r o u n d l o o k i n g as if he'd pat ented y o u . " " Y o u ' v e g o t no r i g h t — " she inter r u p t e d ; a n d s u d d e n l y she w a s in his arms, a n d feeling t h a t n o one h a d e v e r kissed her before. . . T h e w e e k t h a t followed w a s a big bright b l u r — t h e w i l d e s t v i v i d e s t m o m e n t of her life. A n d it w a s o n l y eight d a y s later t h a t t h e y w e r e in the train together, A p e x a n d all her plans a n d promises be hind t h e m , a n d a b i g g e r a n d brighter blur a h e a d , i n t o w h i c h t h e y w e r e plunging a s t h e " L i m i t e d " p l u n g e d i n t o the sun set. . . U n d i n e s t o o d u p , l o o k i n g a b o u t her w i t h v a g u e e y e s , as if she h a d c o m e back from a long distance. E l m e r Moffatt w a s still in P a r i s — h e w a s in reach, within telephone-call. S h e s t o o d hesitating a

T h e Custom of the Country m o m e n t ; then she w e n t i n t o her dressingr o o m , a n d t u r n i n g o v e r t h e p a g e s of t h e telephone b o o k , l o o k e d o u t the n u m b e r of the N o u v e a u L u x e . . . XLIV U N D I N E h a d b e e n r i g h t in s u p p o s i n g t h a t her h u s b a n d w o u l d e x p e c t their life to go on as before. T h e r e w a s no appre ciable c h a n g e in t h e situation s a v e t h a t he w a s m o r e often absent—finding a b u n dant reasons, a g r i c u l t u r a l a n d political, for frequent trips t o S a i n t D e s e r t — a n d t h a t , w h e n he w a s in P a r i s , he no longer showed a n y c u r i o s i t y concerning her o c c u pations a n d e n g a g e m e n t s . T h e y l i v e d as m u c h a p a r t as if their c r a m p e d domicile had been a p a l a c e ; a n d w h e n Undine—• as she n o w f r e q u e n t l y did—joined t h e Shallums or R o l l i v e r s for a dinner a t t h e N o u v e a u L u x e , or a p a r t y a t a petit theatre, she w a s n o t p u t t o t h e trouble of prevaricating. H e r first i m p u l s e , after her scene w i t h R a y m o n d , h a d b e e n t o ring u p I n d i a n a R o l l i v e r a n d i n v i t e herself t o dine. It chanced t h a t I n d i a n a ( w h o w a s n o w in full social progress, a n d h a d " r u n o v e r " for a few w e e k s to g e t her dresses for N e w p o r t ) h a d o r g a n i z e d for the s a m e evening a s h o w y c o s m o p o l i t a n b a n q u e t in w h i c h she w a s e n c h a n t e d to include the M a r q u i s e de C h e l l e s ; a n d U n d i n e , as she had hoped, found E l m e r M o f f a t t of t h e p a r t y . W h e n she d r o v e u p to t h e N o u v e a u L u x e she h a d n o t fixed on a n y p l a n of a c t i o n ; b u t o n c e she h a d crossed its threshold her energies r e v i v e d like p l a n t s in w a t e r . A t last she w a s in her n a t i v e air again, a m o n g associations she shared and c o n v e n t i o n s she u n d e r s t o o d ; a n d all her self-confidence returned as t h e fa miliar accents u t t e r e d t h e a c c u s t o m e d things. S a v e for a n occasional p e r f u n c t o r y call, she h a d h i t h e r t o h a d no relations w i t h her c o m p a t r i o t s , a n d she n o t i c e d t h a t M r s . Jim D r i s c o l l a n d B e r t h a S h a l l u m r e c e i v e d her w i t h a t o u c h of c o n s t r a i n t ; b u t it v a n ished w h e n t h e y r e m a r k e d t h e long-es tablished i n t i m a c y of M o f f a t t ' s greeting. H e r seat w a s a t his side, a n d t h e old sense of t r i u m p h stirred in her as she b e c a m e aware of the i m p o r t a n c e his n o t i c e con ferred, n o t o n l y in t h e e y e s of her o w n

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p a r t y b u t of the surrounding diners. It was evident that Moffatt was a notable figure in all the worlds represented a b o u t t h e c r o w d e d tables, a n d U n d i n e o b s e r v e d t h a t m a n y people w h o seemed p e r s o n a l l y u n a c q u a i n t e d w i t h h i m w e r e recognizing a n d p o i n t i n g him o u t . She w a s conscious of receiving a considerable share of the at tention he a t t r a c t e d , a n d as the b r i g h t air of p u b l i c i t y once more e n v e l o p e d her she r e m e m b e r e d another e v e n i n g w h e n R a y m o n d de C h e l l e s ' first admiring g l a n c e h a d g i v e n her the s a m e sense of t r i u m p h . E v e n this inopportune m e m o r y did n o t trouble her. She almost found it in her heart to be grateful to R a y m o n d for g i v ing her the t o u c h of superiority her c o m patriots clearly felt in her. I t w a s n o t m e r e l y her title and her " s i t u a t i o n , " b u t the experiences she h a d gained t h r o u g h t h e m , t h a t g a v e her this a d v a n t a g e o v e r the rest of the loud v a g u e c o m p a n y . She h a d learned things t h e y did n o t g u e s s : shades of conduct, turns of speech, tricks of a t t i t u d e — a n d easy and free a n d envi able as she found t h e m , she w o u l d not for t h e world h a v e been b a c k a m o n g t h e m a t the cost of k n o w i n g no more t h a n t h e y knew. M o f f a t t m a d e no allusion to his visit to Saint D e s e r t ; b u t after dinner, w h e n the p a r t y h a d re-grouped itself a b o u t coffee a n d liqueurs on the terrace, he b e n t o v e r to ask confidentially: " W h a t ' s the n e w s about m y tapestries?" She replied in the same t o n e : " Y o u o u g h t n ' t to h a v e let Fleischhauer write t h a t letter. M y h u s b a n d ' s furious." H e seemed honestly surprised. "What a b o u t ? D i d n ' t I offer h i m e n o u g h ? " " H e ' s furious t h a t a n y one should offer a n y t h i n g . I t h o u g h t w h e n he found o u t w h a t t h e y were w o r t h he m i g h t be t e m p t e d ; b u t h e ' d rather see m e s t a r v e t h a n p a r t w i t h one of his grand-father's snuff boxes." " W e l l , he k n o w s n o w w h a t the tapes tries are w o r t h . I offered more t h a n Fleischhauer advised." " Y e s ; b u t y o u were in too m u c h of a hurry." " I ' v e got to be; I ' m going back next week." She felt her e y e s cloud w i t h disappoint ment. " O h , w h y do y o u ? I h o p e d y o u might stay on."

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T h e y l o o k e d a t e a c h other g r o p i n g l y a m o m e n t ; t h e n he d r o p p e d his v o i c e t o s a y : " I s h o u l d n ' t see a n y t h i n g of y o u if I did." " W h y not? W h y w o n ' t y o u come a n d see m e ? I ' v e a l w a y s w a n t e d to b e friends." H e c a m e the n e x t d a y a n d found t w o ladies w i t h her, w h o m she i n t r o d u c e d as her sisters-in-law. T h e ladies lingered on for a l o n g t i m e , sipping their tea stiffly a n d exchanging low-voiced remarks while Un dine t a l k e d w i t h M o f f a t t ; a n d w h e n t h e y left, w i t h small sidelong b o w s in his direc tion, U n d i n e t u r n e d to h i m t o s a y : " N o w y o u see h o w t h e y all w a t c h m e ! " She b e g a n t o g o into the details of her married life, d r a w i n g on the experiences of t h e first m o n t h s for instances t h a t scarce l y applied to her present s t a t e of e m a n cipation. She c o u l d thus, w i t h o u t a p preciable e x a g g e r a t i o n , p i c t u r e herself as e n t r a p p e d into a b o n d a g e h a r d l y c o n c e i v able to M o f f a t t , a n d she s a w h i m redden w i t h e x c i t e m e n t as he listened. "It's darned l o w — i t ' s darned l o w — " he b r o k e in a t i n t e r v a l s . " O f course I g o r o u n d m o r e n o w , " she concluded. " I ' v e m a d e u p m y m i n d t o see m y friends—I d o n ' t care w h a t he s a y s . " " W h a t can he s a y ? " " O h , he despises A m e r i c a n s — t h e y all do." " W e l l , I guess w e c a n still sit u p a n d take nourishment." T h e y l a u g h e d and slipped b a c k to t a l k ing of earlier things. She u r g e d h i m t o p u t off his sailing—there were so m a n y things t h e y m i g h t do t o g e t h e r : sight-see ing a n d e x c u r s i o n s — a n d she c o u l d per h a p s show h i m some of the p r i v a t e collec tions he h a d n ' t seen, the ones it w a s h a r d to g e t a d m i t t e d to. T h i s i n s t a n t l y roused his a t t e n t i o n , a n d after n a m i n g one or t w o collections he h a d a l r e a d y seen she hit on one he h a d found inaccessible a n d w a s p a r t i c u l a r l y anxious to visit. " T h e r e ' s an I n g r e s there t h a t ' s one of the things I c a m e o v e r to h a v e a look at, b u t I w a s t o l d there w a s n o use t r y i n g . " " O h , I c a n easily m a n a g e i t : the D u k e ' s R a y m o n d ' s u n c l e . " I t g a v e her a p e c u l iar satisfaction to s a y i t : she felt as t h o u g h she were t a k i n g a surreptitious re v e n g e on her h u s b a n d . " B u t he's d o w n in the c o u n t r y this w e e k , " she c o n t i n u e d ,

" a n d n o o n e — n o t e v e n t h e f a m i l y — i s al l o w e d to see the p i c t u r e s w h e n he's a w a y . Of course his I n g r e s are t h e finest in France." She ran it off g l i b l y , t h o u g h a y e a r ago she h a d n e v e r h e a r d of t h e painter, and did n o t , e v e n n o w , r e m e m b e r w h e t h e r he w a s an O l d M a s t e r or one of t h e v e r y new ones w h o s e n a m e s one h a d n ' t h a d time to learn. M o f f a t t p u t off sailing, s a w the D u k e ' s I n g r e s u n d e r her g u i d a n c e , a n d a c c o m p a n i e d her to v a r i o u s o t h e r p r i v a t e col lections to w h i c h s t r a n g e r s were n o t easily admitted. She h a d l i v e d in a l m o s t total i g n o r a n c e of t h e o p p o r t u n i t i e s surround ing her, b u t n o w t h a t she c o u l d use t h e m t o a d v a n t a g e she s h o w e d a surprising q u i c k n e s s in p i c k i n g u p " t i p s " , ferreting o u t rare things a n d g e t t i n g a sight of j e a l o u s l y h i d d e n treasures. She e v e n ac quired as m u c h of the j a r g o n as a p r e t t y w o m a n needs t o p r o d u c e the impression of b e i n g w e l l - i n f o r m e d ; a n d M o f f a t t ' s sailing w a s m o r e t h a n o n c e p o s t p o n e d . T h e y s a w e a c h other a l m o s t d a i l y , for she c o n t i n u e d to c o m e a n d g o as she ple-ased, a n d R a y m o n d g a v e n o sign of surprise or d i s a p p r o v a l . W h e n t h e y were a s k e d to f a m i l y dinners she u s u a l l y ex cused herself a t t h e last m o m e n t on the p l e a of indisposition a n d , calling u p In d i a n a or B e r t h a S h a l l u m , i m p r o v i s e d a lit tle p a r t y at t h e N o u v e a u L u x e ; a n d on other occasions she a c c e p t e d such invita tions as she chose, w i t h o u t m e n t i o n i n g to her h u s b a n d w h e r e she w a s g o i n g . I n this w o r l d of l a v i s h pleasures she lost w h a t little p r u d e n c e t h e discipline of S a i n t D e s e r t h a d i n c u l c a t e d . She could n e v e r b e w i t h p e o p l e w h o h a d all the things she e n v i e d w i t h o u t b e i n g h y p n o t i z e d i n t o t h e belief t h a t she h a d only to p u t her h a n d o u t t o o b t a i n t h e m . A l l the u n a s s u a g e d r a n c o u r s a n d hungers of her e a r l y d a y s in W e s t E n d A v e n u e came b a c k w i t h increased a c u i t y . She k n e w her w a n t s so m u c h b e t t e r n o w , a n d w a s so m u c h m o r e w o r t h y of the things she wanted! She w a s no longer sustained b y the hope t h a t her father m i g h t m a k e another hit in W a l l Street. H i s wife's letters g a v e the impression t h a t the d a y s of big strokes w e r e o v e r for M r . S p r a g g , t h a t he had g o n e d o w n in t h e conflict w i t h forces be-

T h e Custom of the Country y o n d his m e a s u r e . P e r h a p s if he h a d re m a i n e d in A p e x t h e tide of its n e w pros p e r i t y m i g h t h a v e carried h i m to w e a l t h ; b u t N e w Y o r k ' s m i g h t y w a v e s of success h a d s u b m e r g e d i n s t e a d of floating h i m , and R o l l i v e r ' s old e n m i t y w a s a h a n d per p e t u a l l y s t r e t c h e d o u t t o strike h i m lower. A t most, M r . Spragg's tenacity would keep him a t t h e l e v e l he n o w held, a n d , t h o u g h it w a s clear t h a t he a n d his wife h a d still further simplified their w a y of l i v i n g , U n dine u n d e r s t o o d t h a t their self-denial w o u l d n o t increase her o p p o r t u n i t i e s . She felt n o c o m p u n c t i o n in c o n t i n u i n g to accept an u n d i m i n i s h e d a l l o w a n c e from her father: it w a s t h e n a t u r a l a n d heredi t a r y h a b i t of the p a r e n t a n i m a l to despoil himself for his p r o g e n y . B u t this con viction did n o t seem t o her i n c o m p a t i b l e w i t h a s e n t i m e n t a l p i t y for her parents. Aside from all i n t e r e s t e d m o t i v e s , she wished for their o w n s a k e s t h a t t h e y were better off. T h e i r personal r e q u i r e m e n t s were p a t h e t i c a l l y limited, b u t r e n e w e d prosperity w o u l d a t least h a v e p r o c u r e d them the happiness of g i v i n g her w h a t she wanted. M o f f a t t still lingered o n ; b u t he b e g a n to speak more definitely of sailing a n d she foresaw t h a t t h e d a y w o u l d c o m e w h e n , strong as her a t t r a c t i o n w a s , stronger in fluences w o u l d s n a p it like a thread. She was a w a r e t h a t she i n t e r e s t e d a n d a m u s e d him, a n d t h a t it flattered his v a n i t y to be seen w i t h her, a n d t o k n o w t h a t r u m o u r coupled their n a m e s ; b u t he g a v e her, more t h a n a n y one she h a d e v e r k n o w n , the sense of b e i n g in c o m m a n d of his life, detached from it, in c o n t r o l of it, a n d able, w i t h o u t w e a k n e s s or u n c e r t a i n t y , to choose w h i c h of its calls he should o b e y . If the call w e r e t h a t of business—of a n y of the g r e a t perilous affairs he h a n d l e d like a snake-charmer s p i n n i n g the d e a d l y rep tiles a b o u t his h e a d — s h e k n e w she w o u l d drop from his life like a loosened p e t a l . T h e s e c o n t e n d i n g anxieties sharpened the intensity of her present e n j o y m e n t , and m a d e t h e c o n t r a s t m o r e delectable between her c r o w d e d s p a r k l i n g hours a n d the v a c a n t m o n t h s a t S a i n t D e s e r t . Lit tle as she u n d e r s t o o d of the qualities t h a t made M o f f a t t w h a t he w a s , the results were of t h e sort m o s t p a l p a b l e t o her. H e used life e x a c t l y as she w o u l d h a v e used it if it h a d been a t her feet as it w a s

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a t his. T h e r e were elements of his en j o y m e n t t h a t w e r e b e y o n d her r a n g e , b u t e v e n these a p p e a l e d to her b e c a u s e a g r e a t deal of m o n e y w a s required t o g r a t i f y t h e m . W h e n she t o o k h i m to see some inaccessible picture, or w e n t w i t h h i m to inspect the treasures of some famous dealer, she s a w t h a t the things he looked a t m o v e d h i m in a w a y she could n o t un derstand, and t h a t the actual t o u c h i n g of rare t e x t u r e s — b r o n z e or m a r b l e or v e l v e t s flushed w i t h the b l o o m of a g e — g a v e h i m sensations a k i n to those her o w n b e a u t y h a d once roused in him. B u t the n e x t m o m e n t he w a s laughing o v e r some c o m m o n p l a c e j o k e , or absorbed in a long cipher cable h a n d e d to him as t h e y re entered the N o u v e a u L u x e for tea, and his aesthetic emotions b a d been thrust b a c k into their o w n c o m p a r t m e n t of the g r e a t steel strong-box of his mind. H e r n e w life continued to go on w i t h o u t c o m m e n t or interference from her hus b a n d , and she s a w t h a t he h a d a c c e p t e d their altered relation, and intended merely to k e e p u p an external semblance of har m o n y . T o t h a t semblance she k n e w he a t t a c h e d intense i m p o r t a n c e : it w a s an article of his c o m p l i c a t e d social creed t h a t a m a n of his class should appear to live on g o o d terms w i t h his wife. F o r different reasons it w a s scarcely less i m p o r t a n t t o U n d i n e : she h a d no wish to affront again t h e social reprobation t h a t h a d so n e a r l y w r e c k e d her. B u t she could not k e e p u p the life she w a s leading w i t h o u t more m o n e y , a g r e a t deal more m o n e y ; a n d the t h o u g h t of contracting her requirements to R a y m o n d ' s s t a n d a r d s w a s no longer tolerable. O n e afternoon, several w e e k s later, she c a m e in to find a t r a d e s m a n ' s representa t i v e a w a i t i n g her w i t h a bill. T h e r e w a s a noisy scene in the a n t e r o o m before t h e m a n t h r e a t e n i n g l y w i t h d r e w — a scene witnessed b y the s e r v a n t s , and o v e r h e a r d b y her mother-in-law, w h o m she found a w a i t i n g her in the d r a w i n g - r o o m . T h e old M a r q u i s e ' s visits to her d a u g h ter-in-law were m a d e a t long i n t e r v a l s b u t w i t h ritual r e g u l a r i t y ; she called e v e r y other F r i d a y a t five, a n d U n d i n e h a d for g o t t e n t h a t she w a s due t h a t d a y . T h i s did n o t m a k e for greater c o r d i a l i t y be t w e e n t h e m , a n d the altercation in t h e a n t e r o o m h a d been too l o u d a n d explicit

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for c o n c e a l m e n t . T h e M a r q u i s e w a s on her feet w h e n her d a u g h t e r - i n - l a w entered, a n d i n s t a n t l y said w i t h lowered e y e s : " I t w o u l d p e r h a p s b e b e s t for m e to g o . " " O h , I d o n ' t care. Y o u ' r e w e l c o m e t o tell R a y m o n d y o u ' v e h e a r d m e insulted b e c a u s e I ' m too poor to p a y m y bills—he k n o w s it well e n o u g h a l r e a d y ! " T h e w o r d s b r o k e from U n d i n e u n g u a r d e d l y , b u t once spoken t h e y fed her defiance. " I ' m sure m y son h a s frequently rec ommended greater prudence—" the Marquise murmured. " Y e s ! I t ' s a p i t y he d i d n ' t r e c o m m e n d it to y o u r other son i n s t e a d ! A l l of t h e m o n e y I w a s entitled t o h a s g o n e t o pay Hubert's debts." " R a y m o n d h a s told m e t h a t there are certain things y o u fail to u n d e r s t a n d — I h a v e n o w i s h w h a t e v e r t o discuss t h e m . " T h e M a r q u i s e h a d m a d e her w a y t o t h e d o o r ; w i t h her h a n d on it she p a u s e d t o a d d : " I shall s a y n o t h i n g w h a t e v e r of w h a t has h a p p e n e d . " H e r i c y m a g n a n i m i t y a d d e d the last t o u c h to U n d i n e ' s w r a t h . T h e y k n e w her e x t r e m i t y , one a n d all, a n d it did n o t m o v e them. A t most, they would con spire to conceal it like a b l o t on their hon our. A n d m e a n w h i l e the m e n a c e g r e w and mounted, and not a hand was stretched to h e l p her. . . H a r d l y a half-hour earlier M o f f a t t , w i t h w h o m she h a d been v i s i t i n g a " P r i v a t e V i e w " , h a d sent her h o m e in his m o t o r w i t h the excuse t h a t he m u s t h u r r y b a c k t o the N o u v e a u L u x e t o m e e t his s t e n o g r a p h e r a n d sign a b a t c h of letters for the N e w Y o r k m a i l . I t w a s therefore p r o b a b l e t h a t he w a s still a t h o m e — t h a t she should find h i m if she h a s t e n e d there a t once. She h a r d l y k n e w w i t h w h a t o b j e c t she w a s g o i n g , b u t an o v e r w h e l m i n g desire to c r y o u t her w r a t h a n d w r e t c h e d ness b r o u g h t her t o her feet a n d sent her d o w n to hail a passing c a b . A s it w h i r l e d her t h r o u g h the b r i g h t streets p o w d e r e d w i t h a m b e r sunlight her brain t h r o b b e d w i t h confused intentions. S h e d i d n o t t h i n k of M o f f a t t as a p o w e r she could use, b u t s i m p l y as s o m e one w h o k n e w her a n d u n d e r s t o o d her g r i e v a n c e . I t w a s essen tial to her a t t h a t m o m e n t t o b e told t h a t she w a s r i g h t a n d t h a t e v e r y one o p p o s e d t o her w a s w r o n g . A t the hotel she a s k e d his n u m b e r a n d

w a s carried u p in t h e lift u n a n n o u n c e d . O n the l a n d i n g she p a u s e d a m o m e n t , dis c o n c e r t e d — i t h a d o c c u r r e d to her t h a t he m i g h t n o t b e alone. B u t she m o v e d on quickly, found the n u m b e r and knocked. . . H e o p e n e d t h e door, a n d she g l a n c e d beyond him and saw that the great g a u d y sitting-room w a s e m p t y . " H u l l o ! " he e x c l a i m e d , surprise and pleasure in his v o i c e ; b u t as h e stood aside t o let her enter she s a w h i m d r a w o u t his w a t c h a n d g l a n c e a t it surrepti tiously. H e w a s e x p e c t i n g s o m e one, or he h a d an e n g a g e m e n t e l s e w h e r e — s o m e thing c l a i m e d h i m from w h i c h she w a s ex cluded. T h e t h o u g h t flushed her w i t h sudden resolution. S h e k n e w n o w w h a t she h a d c o m e f o r — t o k e e p h i m from e v e r y one else, t o k e e p h i m for herself alone. " D o n ' t send m e a w a y ! " she said, and laid her h a n d on his b e s e e c h i n g l y . XLV S H E a d v a n c e d i n t o t h e r o o m a n d slowly l o o k e d a b o u t her. T h e big v u l g a r wri ting-table wreathed with showy bronze was h e a p e d w i t h letters a n d p a p e r s . A m o n g t h e m s t o o d a lapis b o w l in a m o u n t i n g of R e n a i s s a n c e e n a m e l a n d a v a s e of Phenician glass t h a t w a s like a b i t of rainbow c a u g h t in c o b w e b s . O n a n o t h e r table, a g a i n s t t h e w i n d o w , a little G r e e k marble lifted its p u r e lines. O n e v e r y side some rare a n d s e n s i t i v e o b j e c t s e e m e d to be s h r i n k i n g b a c k from t h e false colours and crude c o n t o u r s of the h o t e l furniture. T h e r e were no b o o k s in t h e r o o m , b u t the florid gilt console under t h e mirror was s t a c k e d w i t h old n u m b e r s of Town Talk a n d t h e N e w Y o r k Radiator. U n d i n e re called the d i n g y h a l l - r o o m t h a t Moffatt h a d l o d g e d in a t M r s . F l y n n ' s , o v e r H o b e r ' s l i v e r y stable, a n d her h e a r t began t o b e a t m o r e v i o l e n t l y a t the signs of his altered s t a t e . W h e n her e y e s c a m e back t o h i m their lids w e r e moist. " D o n ' t send m e a w a y , " she repeated. M o f f a t t l o o k e d a t her a n d smiled. " W h a t is it? W h a t ' s t h e m a t t e r ? " " I d o n ' t k n o w — b u t I h a d t o come. T o - d a y , w h e n y o u s p o k e a g a i n of sailing, I felt as if I c o u l d n ' t s t a n d i t . " She lifted her e y e s a n d l o o k e d in his p r o f o u n d l y . H e r e d d e n e d a little u n d e r her gaze, b u t she c o u l d d e t e c t n o softening or con-

T h e Custom of the Country fusion in t h e s h r e w d s t e a d y g l a n c e he g a v e her b a c k . " T h i n g s going wrong again—is that the t r o u b l e ? " h e m e r e l y a s k e d w i t h a comforting inflexion. " T h e y a l w a y s are w r o n g ; it's all been an awful m i s t a k e . B u t I s h o u l d n ' t care if y o u were here a n d I c o u l d see y o u some times. Y o u ' r e so strong: t h a t ' s w h a t I feel a b o u t y o u , E l m e r . I w a s t h e o n l y one to feel it t h a t t i m e t h e y all t u r n e d against y o u o u t a t A p e x . . . D o y o u re m e m b e r the afternoon I m e t y o u d o w n on M a i n Street, a n d w e w a l k e d o u t t o g e t h e r to the P a r k ? I k n e w t h e n t h a t y o u w e r e stronger t h a n a n y of t h e m . . . " She h a d n e v e r s p o k e n m o r e sincerely. For the m o m e n t all t h o u g h t of self-inter est w a s in a b e y a n c e , a n d she felt a g a i n , as she h a d felt t h a t d a y , t h e i n s t i n c t i v e yearning of her n a t u r e t o be one w i t h his. S o m e t h i n g in her v o i c e m u s t h a v e at tested it, for she s a w a c h a n g e in his face. " Y o u ' r e n o t t h e b e a u t y y o u w e r e , " he said i r r e l e v a n t l y ; " b u t s o m e h o w y o u ' r e a lot more f e t c h i n g . " T h e o d d l y qualified praise m a d e her laugh w i t h m i n g l e d pleasure a n d a n n o y ance. " I suppose I m u s t b e dreadfully changed " " Y o u ' r e all r i g h t ! — B u t I ' v e g o t to g o h o m e , " he b r o k e off a b r u p t l y . "I've put it off too l o n g a l r e a d y . " She p a l e d a n d l o o k e d a w a y from h i m , helpless in her s u d d e n d i s a p p o i n t m e n t . " I k n e w y o u ' d s a y t h a t . • . And I shall just be left here. . • " S h e sat d o w n on t h e sofa near w h i c h t h e y h a d been standing, and t w o tears f o r m e d on her lashes a n d fell. M o f f a t t sat d o w n beside her, a n d b o t h were silent. S h e h a d n e v e r seen h i m a t a loss before. S h e m a d e no a t t e m p t to draw nearer, or t o use a n y of the arts of cajolery; b u t p r e s e n t l y she said, w i t h o u t rising: " I s a w y o u l o o k a t y o u r w a t c h when I c a m e in. I s u p p o s e s o m e b o d y else is w a i t i n g for y o u . " " Y e s — b u t it d o n ' t m a t t e r . " " S o m e other w o m a n ? " " I t don't matter." " I ' v e w o n d e r e d so often a b o u t y o u r life —but of course I ' v e g o t no r i g h t to a s k . " She stood u p s l o w l y , u n d e r s t a n d i n g t h a t he m e a n t t o let her g o .

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" J u s t tell m e one t h i n g — d i d y o u n e v e r miss m e ? " " O h , d a m n a b l y ! " he b r o u g h t o u t w i t h sudden bitterness. She flushed w i t h t r i u m p h a n d c a m e nearer, sinking her v o i c e t o a low whisper. " I t ' s the o n l y time I e v e r really c a r e d — all t h r o u g h ! " H e h a d risen t o o , a n d t h e y stood in tensely g a z i n g a t each other. Moffatt's face w a s fixed a n d g r a v e , as she h a d seen it in hours she n o w s u d d e n l y found her self reliving. " I b e l i e v e y o u did," he said. " O h , Elmer—if I'd known—if I'd only known!" H e m a d e no answer, a n d she t u r n e d a w a y , t o u c h i n g w i t h an unconscious h a n d the edge of the lapis b o w l a m o n g his papers. T h e n she c a m e b a c k to him. " E l m e r , if y o u ' r e going a w a y it c a n ' t do a n y h a r m t o tell m e — i s there a n y one else?" H e g a v e a l a u g h t h a t seemed to s h a k e him free. " I n t h a t k i n d of w a y ? L o r d , no! T o o b u s y ! " She c a m e close again a n d laid a h a n d on his shoulder. " T h e n w h y n o t — w h y s h o u l d n ' t w e — ? " She leaned her h e a d b a c k so t h a t her g a z e slanted u p at h i m t h r o u g h clouded lashes. " I can do as I p l e a s e — m y h u s b a n d does. T h e y think so differently a b o u t marriage o v e r here: it's j u s t a business c o n t r a c t , t h a t ' s all. A s long as a w o m a n doesn't m a k e a show of herself no one c a r e s . " She p u t her other h a n d up, so t h a t she held him facing her. " I ' v e a l w a y s felt, all t h r o u g h e v e r y t h i n g , t h a t I belonged to y o u . " M o f f a t t did not m o v e . H e left her hands on his shoulders, b u t did not lift his o w n to clasp t h e m . F o r a m o m e n t she t h o u g h t she h a d m i s t a k e n h i m , a n d a leaden sense of s h a m e descended on her. T h e n he asked a b r u p t l y : " Y o u s a y y o u r h u s b a n d goes w i t h other w o m e n ? " L i l i E s t r a d i n a ' s t a u n t flashed t h r o u g h her a n d she seized on it. " P e o p l e h a v e told me so—his o w n relations h a v e . I ' v e n e v e r stooped t o s p y on him. . . " " A n d the w o m e n in y o u r s e t — I sup pose it's t a k e n for g r a n t e d t h e y all do t h e same?" She l a u g h e d . " E v e r y t h i n g fixed u p for t h e m , s a m e as it is for the h u s b a n d s , eh? N o b o d y m e d -

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dies or m a k e s t r o u b l e if y o u k n o w the ropes?" " N o , n o b o d y . . . i t ' s all q u i t e e a s y . . . " She s t o p p e d , her faint smile c h e c k e d , as his b a c k w a r d m o v e m e n t m a d e her h a n d s d r o p from his shoulders. " A n d that's w h a t you're proposing to m e n o w ? T h a t y o u a n d I should do like t h e rest of ' e m ? " H i s face h a d lost its c o m i c roundness a n d g r o w n h a r s h a n d d a r k , as it h a d w h e n her father h a d t a k e n her a w a y from h i m a t O p a k e . H e t u r n e d on his heel, w a l k e d t h e l e n g t h of t h e r o o m a n d h a l t e d w i t h his b a c k to her in t h e em b r a s u r e of t h e w i n d o w . T h e r e he p a u s e d a full m i n u t e , his h a n d s in his p o c k e t s , staring o u t a t the incessant criss-cross of m o t o r s in t h e l u m i n o u s setting of the square. T h e n he t u r n e d a n d s p o k e to her from w h e r e he stood. " L o o k here, U n d i n e , if I ' m t o h a v e y o u again I don't w a n t to have y o u that w a y . T h a t t i m e o u t in A p e x , w h e n e v e r y b o d y in the p l a c e w a s d e a d a g a i n s t me, and I was down and out, y o u stood u p to t h e m a n d s t u c k b y me. Y o u w a n t t o k n o w if I r e m e m b e r t h a t w a l k d o w n M a i n Street? D o n ' t I ! — a n d the w a y t h e people glared a n d hurried b y ; a n d h o w y o u k e p t on alongside of m e , t a l k i n g and laughing, and looking your S u n d a y best. W h e n A b n e r S p r a g g c a m e o u t t o O p a k e after us a n d pulled y o u b a c k I w a s p r e t t y sore a t y o u r deserting; b u t after a w h i l e I c a m e to see it w a s n a t u r a l e n o u g h . Y o u were o n l y a spoilt girl, used to having everything y o u wanted; and I c o u l d n ' t g i v e y o u a t h i n g then, and t h e folks y o u ' d been t a u g h t t o b e l i e v e in all told y o u I n e v e r w o u l d . W e l l , I did look like a b a c k n u m b e r , a n d n o b l a m e to y o u for t h i n k i n g so. I used t o s a y it to m y self o v e r a n d o v e r a g a i n , l a y i n g a w a k e nights and totting up m y mistakes . . . a n d t h e n there were d a y s w h e n the w i n d set a n o t h e r w a y , a n d I k n e w I ' d pull it off y e t , a n d I t h o u g h t y o u m i g h t h a v e held on a n d t r u s t e d me. . . " H e s t o p p e d , his h e a d a little lowered, his c o n c e n t r a t e d g a z e on her flushed face. " W e l l , a n y h o w , " he b r o k e out, " y o u were m y wife once, a n d y o u were m y wife first—and if y o u w a n t to come back to me y o u ' v e g o t t o c o m e t h a t w a y : n o t slink t h r o u g h t h e b a c k w a y w h e n t h e r e ' s n o one w a t c h ing, b u t c o m e in b y t h e front door,

with your head up, and y o u r M a i n Street look." Since t h e e a r l y d a y s w h e n he h a d p o u r e d o u t to her his g r e a t f o r t u n e - b u i l d i n g p r o j ects she h a d n e v e r h e a r d h i m m a k e so long a s p e e c h ; a n d her h e a r t , as she listened, b e a t w i t h an u n k n o w n j o y a n d terror. I t s e e m e d t o her t h a t t h e g r e a t m o m e n t of her life h a d c o m e a t l a s t — t h e m o m e n t all her m i n o r failures a n d successes h a d b e e n b u i l d i n g u p for her w i t h b l i n d in defatigable hands. " E l m e r — E l m e r — " she s o b b e d o u t . She e x p e c t e d t o find herself in his arms, s h u t in a n d shielded from all pursuing t r o u b l e s ; b u t h e s t o o d his g r o u n d across the room, immovable. " I s it y e s ? " She faltered t h e w o r d after him: "Yes—?" " A r e y o u g o i n g to m a r r y m e ? " She stared, b e w i l d e r e d . " W h y , E l mer—marry you? Y o u forget!" " F o r g e t what? T h a t y o u don't want to g i v e u p w h a t y o u ' v e g o t ! " " T h a t I can't—how can I? Such, things are n o t done o u t here. W h y , I ' m a Catholic; and the Catholic C h u r c h — " She b r o k e off, r e a d i n g t h e e n d in his face. " B u t later, p e r h a p s . • . t h i n g s m i g h t c h a n g e . O h , E l m e r , if o n l y y o u ' d stay o v e r here a n d let m e see y o u s o m e t i m e s ! " " Y e s — t h e w a y y o u r friends see each other. W e ' r e differently m a d e out in A p e x . W h e n I w a n t t h a t sort of thing I g o d o w n t o N o r t h F i f t h S t r e e t for i t . " She p a l e d u n d e r the retort, b u t her h e a r t b e a t h i g h w i t h it. W h a t he asked w a s i m p o s s i b l e — a n d she gloried in his a s k i n g it. F e e l i n g her p o w e r , she tried t o t e m p o r i z e . " A t least if y o u s t a y e d here w e c o u l d b e friends—I s h o u l d n ' t feel so t e r r i b l y a l o n e . " H e laughed impatiently. " D o n ' t talk m a g a z i n e stuff to m e , U n d i n e S p r a g g . I guess w e w a n t e a c h o t h e r the s a m e w a y . O n l y our ideas are different. Y o u ' v e got all m u d d l e d , l i v i n g o u t here a m o n g a lot of loafers w h o call it a career t o run round after e v e r y p e t t i c o a t . I ' v e g o t m y job o u t a t h o m e , a n d I b e l o n g w h e r e m y job is." " A r e y o u g o i n g t o b e tied to business all y o u r life? " H e r smile w a s faintly de preciatory. " I g u e s s business is tied t o me: Wall

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T h e Custom of the CountryStreet a c t s as if it c o u l d n ' t g e t a l o n g w i t h out m e . " H e g a v e his shoulders a s h a k e and m o v e d a few steps nearer. " See here, U n d i n e — y o u ' r e t h e one t h a t d o n ' t u n derstand. If I w a s t o sell o u t t o - m o r r o w , and d e v o t e t h e rest of m y life t o r e a d i n g art m a g a z i n e s in a p i n k v i l l a , I w o u l d n ' t do w h a t y o u ' r e a s k i n g m e . A n d I ' v e about as m u c h i d e a of d r o p p i n g business as y o u h a v e of t a k i n g t o district nursing. T h e r e are s o m e t h i n g s a m a n d o e s n ' t do. I understand w h y y o u r h u s b a n d w o n ' t sell those tapestries—till he's g o t to. H i s ancestors are his b u s i n e s s : W a l l S t r e e t ' s mine." H e paused, a n d for a m o m e n t t h e y si lently faced e a c h other. U n d i n e m a d e no attempt to a p p r o a c h h i m : she u n d e r s t o o d that if he y i e l d e d it w o u l d b e o n l y to re cover his a d v a n t a g e a n d deepen her feel ing of defeat. S h e p u t o u t her h a n d a n d took up the sun-shade she h a d d r o p p e d on entering. " W e l l , I suppose it's g o o d - b y e , then," she said. H e g a v e her a l o n g l o o k . " Y o u haven't got the nerve? " " T h e n e r v e for w h a t ? " " T o come where y o u belong: with m e . " She laughed a little a n d t h e n sighed. She wished he w o u l d c o m e nearer, or look at her differently: she felt, u n d e r his cool eye, no m o r e c o m p e l l i n g t h a n a w a x w o m a n in a s h o w - c a s e . " H o w could I g e t a d i v o r c e ? W i t h m y religion " " Why, y o u were born a Baptist, weren't you? T h a t ' s w h e r e y o u used to a t t e n d church w h e n I w a i t e d r o u n d t h e corner, Sunday mornings, w i t h one of old H o ber's b u g g i e s . " T h e y b o t h l a u g h e d , a n d he went o n : " I f y o u ' l l c o m e a l o n g h o m e with .me I'll see y o u g e t y o u r d i v o r c e all right. W h o cares w h a t t h e y do o v e r here? Y o u ' r e an A m e r i c a n , a i n ' t y o u ? W h a t y o u w a n t is t h e h o m e - m a d e a r t i c l e . ' ' She listened, d i s c o u r a g e d y e t fascina ted b y his s t u r d y i n a c c e s s i b i l i t y t o all her arguments a n d o b j e c t i o n s . H e k n e w what he w a n t e d , s a w his r o a d before h i m , and a c k n o w l e d g e d no o b s t a c l e s . H e r de fense seemed t o b e d r a w n from reasons he did not u n d e r s t a n d , or b a s e d on difficul ties that did n o t exist for h i m ; a n d g r a d u ally she felt herself y i e l d i n g t o t h e s t e a d y impact of his will. Y e t t h e reasons he brushed a w a y c a m e b a c k w i t h r e d o u b l e d VOL.

LIV.—58

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t e n a c i t y w h e n e v e r he p a u s e d l o n g e n o u g h for her to p i c t u r e the consequences of the m o n s t r o u s renunciation he e x a c t e d . " Y o u d o n ' t k n o w — y o u d o n ' t under s t a n d — " she k e p t r e p e a t i n g ; b u t she k n e w it w a s p a r t of his terrible p o w e r t h a t he d i d n ' t : t h a t his v e r y ignorance of the coil of c o n v e n t i o n s she w a s t r a p p e d in t u r n e d their i m p e n e t r a b l e net into a c o b w e b . I t w a s hopeless to t r y to m a k e h i m feel the v a l u e of w h a t he w a s asking her to g i v e up. " S e e here, U n d i n e , " he said slowly, as if he measured her resistance t h o u g h he c o u l d n ' t f a t h o m it, " I guess it h a d b e t t e r b e y e s or no right here. I t ain't g o i n g to do either of us a n y g o o d to d r a g this thing o u t . If y o u w a n t to c o m e b a c k to me, c o m e — i f y o u d o n ' t , w e ' l l shake h a n d s on it n o w . I ' m due in A p e x for a directors' m e e t i n g on the t w e n t i e t h , a n d as it is I'll h a v e to cable for a special to g e t m e o u t there. N o , no, d o n ' t c r y — i t ain't t h a t k i n d of a s t o r y . . . b u t I'll h a v e a d e c k suite for y o u on the Semantic if y o u ' l l sail w i t h m e the d a y after t o - m o r r o w . " XLVI I N t h e great high-ceilinged library of a p r i v a t e hotel o v e r l o o k i n g one of the n e w quarters of P a r i s , P a u l M a r v e l l stood list lessly g a z i n g o u t into the twilight. T h e s y m m e t r i c a l trees were b u d d i n g a l o n g t h e a v e n u e b e l o w ; a n d P a u l , look ing d o w n , saw, b e t w e e n w i n d o w s a n d tree-tops, a pair of tall iron g a t e s w i t h gilt o r n a m e n t s , t h e m a r b l e curb of a semi circular drive, and b a n d s of spring flowers set in turf. H e w a s n o w a big b o y of n e a r l y nine, w h o w e n t to a fashionable p r i v a t e school, a n d he h a d c o m e h o m e t h a t d a y for t h e E a s t e r h o l i d a y s . H e h a d not been b a c k since C h r i s t m a s , a n d it w a s the first time he h a d seen t h e n e w hotel w h i c h his step-father h a d b o u g h t , a n d in which M r . and Mrs. Moffatt had hastily established t h e m s e l v e s , a few w e e k s ear lier, on their return from a flying trip to America. T h e y were always coming and g o i n g ; d u r i n g the t w o y e a r s since their m a r r i a g e t h e y h a d been p e r p e t u a l l y dash i n g o v e r to N e w Y o r k a n d b a c k , or rush ing d o w n t o R o m e or u p t o t h e E n g a d i n e : Paul never knew where they were except w h e n , n o w a n d then, a t e l e g r a m a n n o u n c e d

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t h a t t h e y w e r e going s o m e w h e r e else. H e did n o t e v e n k n o w t h a t there w a s a n y m e t h o d of c o m m u n i c a t i o n b e t w e e n m o t h ers a n d sons less laconic t h a n t h a t of t h e electric w i r e ; a n d once, w h e n a b o y a t school a s k e d h i m if his m o t h e r often w r o t e , he h a d a n s w e r e d in all s i n c e r i t y : " O h y e s — I g o t a t e l e g r a m last w e e k . " H e h a d been almost sure—as sure as he e v e r w a s of a n y t h i n g — t h a t he should find her a t h o m e w h e n he a r r i v e d ; b u t a m e s s a g e (she h a d n ' t h a d t i m e t o write) a p p r i s e d h i m t h a t she a n d M r . M o f f a t t h a d run d o w n t o D e a u v i l l e the n i g h t before t o look at a house t h e y t h o u g h t of hiring for t h e s u m m e r ; t h e y w e r e t a k i n g an early train b a c k , a n d w o u l d be a t h o m e in t i m e for dinner—were in fact h a v i n g a lot of p e o p l e t o dine. I t w a s j u s t w h a t he o u g h t t o h a v e ex p e c t e d , a n d h a d been used to e v e r since he c o u l d r e m e m b e r ; a n d generally he d i d n ' t m u c h m i n d , especially since his m o t h e r h a d b e c o m e M r s . M o f f a t t , a n d t h e father he h a d been m o s t used to, a n d fondest of, h a d a b r u p t l y disappeared from his life. B u t the n e w hotel w a s b i g a n d strange, a n d his o w n r o o m , w i t h o u t a t o y or a b o o k , or a n y of his dear b a t t e r e d relics in it (none of t h e n e w s e r v a n t s — t h e y w e r e a l w a y s n e w — c o u l d find his things, or t h i n k w h e r e t h e y h a d been p u t ) , seemed t h e strangest a n d loneliest spot in the w h o l e house. H e h a d g o n e u p there after his solitary luncheon, served in the i m m e n s e m a r b l e dining-room b y a f o o t m a n on t h e s a m e scale, a n d h a d tried t o oc c u p y himself w i t h p a s t i n g post-cards into his a l b u m ; b u t the newness a n d s u m p t u ousness of the r o o m embarrassed h i m — the w h i t e fur rugs a n d b r o c a d e chairs seemed maliciously on the w a t c h for smears a n d i n k - s p o t s — a n d after a w h i l e he p u s h e d t h e a l b u m aside a n d b e g a n t o r o a m t h r o u g h the house. H e w e n t to all the rooms in t u r n : his m o t h e r ' s first, the wonderful l a c y bed r o o m , all pale silks a n d v e l v e t s , artful mirrors a n d v e i l e d l a m p s , a n d the b o u d o i r as b i g as a d r a w i n g - r o o m , w i t h pictures he w o u l d h a v e liked to k n o w a b o u t , a n d frail t a b l e s a n d cabinets holding things he w a s afraid t o t o u c h . M r . M o f f a t t ' s r o o m s c a m e n e x t . T h e y were soberer a n d richer, b u t as big a n d splendid; a n d in the bed r o o m , on the d a r k b r o w n w a l l , h u n g a

single p i c t u r e — t h e p o r t r a i t of a b o y in g r e y v e l v e t — t h a t interested P a u l m o s t of all. T h e b o y ' s h a n d rested on a big d o g ' s h e a d , a n d he l o o k e d infinitely noble a n d c h a r m i n g , a n d y e t (in spite of the dog) so sad a n d l o n e l y t h a t he t o o , t h a t v e r y d a y , m i g h t h a v e c o m e h o m e to a strange house in w h i c h n o n e of his o l d things c o u l d b e found. F r o m these r o o m s P a u l w a n d e r e d d o w n stairs a g a i n . T h e l i b r a r y a t t r a c t e d h i m m o s t ; there w e r e r o w s a n d r o w s of books, b o u n d in d i m b r o w n s a n d g o l d s , a n d old faded reds as rich as v e l v e t : t h e y all l o o k e d as if t h e y m i g h t h a v e h a d stories in t h e m as splendid as their bindings. B u t the tall b o o k - c a s e s w e r e closed w i t h gilt trellising, a n d w h e n P a u l r e a c h e d up t o open one, a s e r v a n t t o l d h i m t h a t M r . M o f f a t t ' s s e c r e t a r y k e p t t h e m l o c k e d be cause the b o o k s w e r e t o o h a n d s o m e to be t a k e n d o w n . T h i s s e e m e d t o m a k e the l i b r a r y as s t r a n g e as the rest of the house, a n d he passed on t o t h e b a l l r o o m a t the b a c k . T h r o u g h its closed doors he heard a sound of h a m m e r i n g , a n d w h e n he tried t h e door h a n d l e a s e r v a n t passing w i t h a tray-full of glasses t o l d h i m t h a t " t h e y " h a d n ' t finished, a n d w o u l d n ' t let a n y b o d y in till t h e y h a d . T h e m y s t e r i o u s p r o n o u n s o m e h o w in creased his sense of isolation, and he w a n d e r e d on t o t h e d r a w i n g - r o o m s , steer ing his w a y p r u d e n t l y b e t w e e n the gold arm-chairs a n d t h e shining tables, and w o n d e r i n g w h e t h e r t h e w i g g e d a n d corseleted heroes on t h e w a l l s represented M r . M o f f a t t ' s ancestors, a n d w h y , if t h e y did, he l o o k e d so little like t h e m . T h e diningr o o m b e y o n d w a s m o r e a m u s i n g , because, w h e n P a u l g o t b a c k t o it, b u s y servants w e r e a l r e a d y l a y i n g t h e long table. It w a s too e a r l y for the florist, a n d the centre of the t a b l e w a s e m p t y , b u t d o w n the sides w e r e gold b a s k e t s h e a p e d with p u l p y s u m m e r fruits—figs, strawberries • a n d b i g b l u s h i n g nectarines. Between these s t o o d c r y s t a l d e c a n t e r s w i t h red and y e l l o w w i n e , a n d little dishes full of s w e e t s ; a n d on e a c h side of the r o o m were s i d e b o a r d s w i t h g r e a t pieces of gold and silver, ewers a n d urns a n d branching c a n d e l a b r a , w h i c h sprinkled the green m a r b l e w a l l s w i t h starlike reflections. P r e s e n t l y , h o w e v e r , he grew tired of w a t c h i n g t h e c o m i n g a n d g o i n g of white-

T h e Custom of the Country sleeved f o o t m e n , a n d of listening to t b ^ butler's v o c i f e r a t e d orders, a n d s t r a y e d b a c k i n t o t h e l i b r a r y . T h e h a b i t of soli t u d e h a d d e v e l o p e d in h i m a passion for the p r i n t e d p a g e , a n d if he c o u l d h a v e found a b o o k a n y w h e r e — a n y k i n d of a book—he would h a v e forgotten the long hours a n d t h e e m p t y house. B u t t h e tables in t h e l i b r a r y held o n l y m a s s i v e unused i n k s t a n d s a n d i m m e n s e i m m a c u late b l o t t e r s : n o t a single v o l u m e h a d slipped its g o l d e n prison. A n o v e r w h e l m i n g loneliness possessed him, a n d he s u d d e n l y t h o u g h t of M r s . H e e n y ' s clippings. H i s m o t h e r , a l a r m e d b y an insidious gain in w e i g h t , h a d b r o u g h t the masseuse b a c k from N e w Y o r k w i t h her, and M r s . H e e n y , w i t h her old b l a c k bag and waterproof, w a s established in one of the g r a n d b e d r o o m s lined w i t h mirrors. She h a d b e e n l o u d in her j o y at seeing her little friend t h a t morning, but four y e a r s h a d p a s s e d since their last parting, a n d her p e r s o n a l i t y h a d g r o w n remote to him. H e s a w too m a n y people, and t h e y too often d i s a p p e a r e d a n d w e r e replaced b y o t h e r s : his s c a t t e r e d affec tions had e n d e d b y c o n c e n t r a t i n g t h e m selves on the c h a r m i n g i m a g e of the gentleman he called his F r e n c h father; and since his F r e n c h f a t h e r h a d also v a n ished no one else s e e m e d to m a t t e r m u c h to him. " O h , w e l l , " said M r s . H e e n y , discern ing the r e l u c t a n c e under his civil greeting, " I guess y o u ' r e as s t r a n g e here as I a m , and w e ' r e b o t h p r e t t y s t r a n g e t o e a c h other. Y o u j u s t g o a n d l o o k round, a n d see w h a t a l o v e l y h o m e y o u r M a ' s g o t to live in; a n d w h e n y o u g e t tired of t h a t , come up here to m e a n d I'll g i v e y o u a look at m y c l i p p i n g s . " T h e w o r d w o k e a train of d o r m a n t as sociations, a n d P a u l s a w himself seated on a dingy c a r p e t , b e t w e e n t w o familiar taciturn old presences, w h i l e he r u m maged in t h e d e p t h s of a b a g stuffed w i t h strips of n e w s p a p e r . H e found M r s . H e e n y sitting in a p i n k arm-chair, her b o n n e t p e r c h e d on a p i n k shaded electric l a m p a n d her n u m e r o u s implements s p r e a d o u t on a n i m m e n s e pink toilet-table. A l t h o u g h his recollec tion of her w a s b u t v a g u e she g a v e h i m a t once a sense of s t a b i l i t y a n d reassurance that nothing else in t h e h o u s e c o n v e y e d ,

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a n d after he h a d e x a m i n e d all her scissors a n d pastes a n d nail-polishers he t u r n e d to the b a g , w h i c h stood on the c a r p e t a t her feet as if she were w a i t i n g for a train. " M y , m y ! " she said, " d o y o u w a n t t o g e t into t h a t a g a i n ? H o w y o u used t o h u n t in it for taffy, to be sure, w h e n y o u r P a b r o u g h t y o u u p to G r a n d m a S p r a g g ' s o' S a t u r d a y s ! W e l l , I ' m afraid there a i n ' t a n y taffy in it n o w ; b u t there's piles a n d piles of l o v e l y n e w clippings y o u a i n ' t seen." " M y P a p a ? " H e paused, his h a n d a m o n g the strips of n e w s p a p e r . "My P a p a never saw m y Grandma Spragg. H e n e v e r w e n t to A m e r i c a . " " N e v e r went to America? Y o u r P a n e v e r — ? W h y , land a l i v e ! " M r s . H e e n y g a s p e d , a blush e m p u r p l i n g her large w a r m face. " W h y , P a u l M a r v e l l , d o n ' t y o u r e m e m b e r y o u r o w n father, y o u t h a t b e a r his n a m e ? " she exclaimed. T h e b o y blushed also, conscious t h a t i t m u s t h a v e been w r o n g to forget, and y e t n o t seeing h o w he w a s to b l a m e for it. " T h a t one died a long, long time a g o , d i d n ' t he? I w a s thinking of m y F r e n c h f a t h e r , " he explained. " O h , m e r c y , " ejaculated M r s . H e e n y ; a n d as if to c u t the c o n v e r s a t i o n short she stooped over, creaking like a ship, a n d thrust her p l u m p strong h a n d into the b a g . " Here, n o w , j u s t y o u look at these clip p i n g s — I guess y o u ' l l find a lot a b o u t y o u r M a . — W h e r e do t h e y c o m e from? Why, o u t of the papers, of c o u r s e , " she a d d e d , in response to P a u l ' s e n q u i r y . "You'd o u g h t e r s t a r t a scrap-book yourself— y o u ' r e p l e n t y old e n o u g h . Y o u could make a beauty just about your M a , with her picture p a s t e d in the front—and an other a b o u t M r . M o f f a t t a n d his collec tions. T h e r e ' s one I cut out the other d a y t h a t s a y s he's the g r e a t e s t collector in America." P a u l listened, fascinated. H e h a d t h e feeling t h a t M r s . H e e n y ' s clippings, aside from their g r e a t intrinsic interest, m i g h t furnish h i m the clue to m a n y things he d i d n ' t understand, a n d t h a t n o b o d y h a d e v e r h a d t i m e to explain to h i m . His m o t h e r ' s marriages, for i n s t a n c e : he w a s sure there w a s a g r e a t deal t o find o u t a b o u t t h e m . B u t she a l w a y s s a i d : " I ' l l tell y o u all a b o u t it w h e n I c o m e b a c k " — a n d w h e n she c a m e b a c k it w a s i n v a r i a b l y

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t o rush off s o m e w h e r e else. So he h a d re m a i n e d w i t h o u t a k e y to her transitions, a n d h a d h a d t o t a k e for g r a n t e d n u m b e r less t h i n g s t h a t s e e m e d to h a v e no parallel in the experience of the other b o y s he knew. " H e r e — h e r e it i s , " said M r s . H e e n y , a d j u s t i n g the big tortoiseshell spectacles she h a d t a k e n to w e a r i n g , a n d reading o u t in a slow c h a n t t h a t seemed to P a u l to c o m e o u t of some lost remoteness of his infancy. " ' I t is r e p o r t e d in L o n d o n t h a t t h e price p a i d b y M r . E l m e r M o f f a t t for t h e c e l e b r a t e d G r e y B o y is the largest s u m e v e r g i v e n f o r a V a n d y c k . Since M r . M o f fatt b e g a n to b u y e x t e n s i v e l y it is esti m a t e d in art circles t h a t v a l u e s h a v e g o n e u p a t least s e v e n t y - f i v e per c e n t . ' " B u t the price of the G r e y B o y did n o t interest P a u l , a n d he said a little i m p a tiently: " I ' d r a t h e r hear a b o u t m y mother." " T o b e sure y o u w o u l d ! Y o u w a i t now." M r s . Heeny made another dive, a n d a g a i n b e g a n t o spread her clippings on her lap like cards on a b i g b l a c k t a b l e . " H e r e ' s one a b o u t her last p o r t r a i t — n o , here's a b e t t e r one a b o u t her pearl n e c k lace, the one M r . M o f f a t t g a v e her last Christmas. ' T h e necklace, which was formerly the p r o p e r t y of an A u s t r i a n A r c h d u c h e s s , is c o m p o s e d of five h u n dred perfectly m a t c h e d pearls t h a t h a v e t a k e n t h i r t y y e a r s to collect. I t is esti mated among dealers in precious stones t h a t since M r . M o f f a t t b e g a n t o b u y t h e price of pearls has gone u p o v e r fifty per c e n t . ' " E v e n this did n o t fix P a u l ' s a t t e n t i o n . H e w a n t e d to hear a b o u t his m o t h e r a n d M r . M o f f a t t , a n d n o t a b o u t their t h i n g s ; a n d he d i d n ' t quite k n o w h o w to frame his question. B u t M r s . H e e n y l o o k e d k i n d l y a t h i m a n d he tried. " W h y is m o t h e r married to M r . M o f f a t t n o w ? " " W h y , you must know that much, P a u l . " M r s . H e e n y again l o o k e d w a r m a n d worried. " S h e ' s m a r r i e d to h i m b e cause she g o t a d i v o r c e — t h a t ' s , w h y . " A n d s u d d e n l y she h a d a n o t h e r inspira tion. " D i d n ' t she e v e r send y o u o v e r a n y of those splendid clippings t h a t c a m e o u t the t i m e t h e y w e r e m a r r i e d ? W h y , I de clare, t h a t ' s a s h a m e ; b u t I m u s t h a v e s o m e of 'em right h e r e . " She d i v e d a g a i n , shuffled, sorted, a n d

p u l l e d o u t a long discoloured strip. " I ' v e carried this r o u n d w i t h m e e v e r since, a n d so m a n y ' s w a n t e d t o read it, it's all t o r n . " She smoothed out the paper and began: " ' D i v o r c e a n d r e m a r r i a g e of M r s . U n dine S p r a g g - d e C h e l l e s . A m e r i c a n M a r quise renounces a n c i e n t F r e n c h title to wed Railroad King. Quick work untying a n d t y i n g . B o y a n d girl r o m a n c e re newed. " ' S i o u x F a l l s , N o v e m b e r 23d. T h e M a r q u i s e de C h e l l e s , of P a r i s , F r a n c e , formerly M r s . U n d i n e S p r a g g M a r v e l l , of A p e x C i t y a n d N e w Y o r k , g o t a decree of d i v o r c e a t a special session of t h e C o u r t last night, a n d w a s r e m a r r i e d fifteen min u t e s later t o M r . E l m e r M o f f a t t , t h e bil lionaire R a i l r o a d K i n g , w h o w a s t h e M a r quise's first h u s b a n d . " ' N o case h a s e v e r been railroaded t h r o u g h the d i v o r c e c o u r t s of this S t a t e a t a higher r a t e of s p e e d : as M r . M o f f a t t said last n i g h t , before he a n d his bride j u m p e d o n t o their e a s t - b o u n d special, e v e r y record h a s b e e n b r o k e n . I t was j u s t six m o n t h s a g o y e s t e r d a y t h a t the present M r s . M o f f a t t c a m e t o Sioux Falls t o look for her d i v o r c e . O w i n g to a de l a y e d train, her counsel w a s late yester d a y in r e c e i v i n g s o m e n e c e s s a r y papers, a n d it w a s feared t h e decision w o u l d h a v e t o b e held o v e r ; b u t J u d g e T o o m e y , who is a personal friend of M r . M o f f a t t ' s , held a n i g h t session a n d rushed it t h r o u g h so t h a t t h e h a p p y c o u p l e c o u l d h a v e the k n o t tied a n d b o a r d their special in time for M r s . M o f f a t t to s p e n d T h a n k s g i v i n g in N e w Y o r k w i t h her a g e d parents. T h e hearing b e g a n a t s e v e n ten p . m . and at eight o ' c l o c k the bridal couple were s t e a m i n g o u t of t h e s t a t i o n . ' " A t t h e trial M r s . S p r a g g - d e Chelles, w h o w o r e c o p p e r v e l v e t a n d sables, g a v e e v i d e n c e as to t h e b r u t a l i t y of her French h u s b a n d , b u t she h a d to t a l k fast as time pressed, a n d J u d g e T o o m e y w r o t e the e n t r y at t o p speed, a n d t h e n j u m p e d into a m o t o r w i t h t h e h a p p y c o u p l e and drove to the J u s t i c e of t h e P e a c e , w h e r e he acted as b e s t m a n to t h e b r i d e g r o o m . T h e latter is said to b e one of the six w e a l t h i e s t men east of the R o c k i e s . H i s gifts to the bride are a n e c k l a c e a n d t i a r a of pigeonb l o o d rubies b e l o n g i n g t o Q u e e n Marie A n t o i n e t t e , a million dollar cheque and a h o u s e in N e w Y o r k . T h e h a p p y pair


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will pass t h e h o n e y m o o n in M r s . M o f f a t t ' s " G r a c i o u s , h o w y o u s q u e e z e ! " she pro new h o m e , 5009 F i f t h A v e n u e , w h i c h is an tested, loosening his arms. " B u t y o u look e x a c t c o p y of t h e P i t t i P a l a c e , F l o r e n c e . s p l e n d i d l y — a n d h o w y o u ' v e g r o w n ! " T h e y p l a n t o s p e n d their springs in She t u r n e d a w a y from h i m a n d b e g a n to France.'" inspect t h e tapestries critically. " S o m e M r s . H e e n y d r e w a l o n g b r e a t h , folded h o w t h e y l o o k smaller h e r e , " she said w i t h the p a p e r a n d t o o k off her s p e c t a c l e s . a tinge of d i s a p p o i n t m e n t . " T h e r e , " she said, w i t h a b e n i g n a n t smile M r . M o f f a t t g a v e a slight l a u g h a n d and a t a p on P a u l ' s p a l e c h e e k , " n o w y o u w a l k e d slowly d o w n the r o o m , as if t o see h o w it all h a p p e n e d . . . " s t u d y its effect. A s he t u r n e d b a c k his P a u l w a s n o t sure he d i d ; b u t he m a d e wife said: " I d i d n ' t think y o u ' d ever g e t no answer. H i s m i n d w a s too full of t h e m . " troubled t h o u g h t s . I n t h e d a z z l i n g de H e l a u g h e d again, more c o m p l a c e n t l y . scription of his m o t h e r ' s l a t e s t n u p t i a l s " W e l l , I d o n ' t k n o w as I ever should h a v e , one fact alone s t o o d o u t for h i m — t h a t she if General A r l i n g t o n h a d n ' t h a p p e n e d t o had said t h i n g s t h a t w e r e n ' t t r u e of his b u s t u p . " F r e n c h father. S o m e t h i n g he h a d halfT h e y b o t h smiled, and P a u l , seeing his guessed in her, a n d a v e r t e d his frightened m o t h e r ' s softened face, stole his h a n d in thoughts from, t o o k his little h e a r t in an hers a n d b e g a n : " M o t h e r , I t o o k a prize iron g r a s p . She said t h i n g s t h a t w e r e n ' t in composition " true. . . T h a t w a s w h a t he h a d a l w a y s " D i d y o u ? Y o u m u s t tell m e a b o u t it feared to find o u t . . . S h e h a d g o t u p a n d to-morrow. N o , I really m u s t rush off said before a lot of p e o p l e t h i n g s t h a t w e r e n o w a n d dress—I h a v e n ' t e v e n placed the awfully false a b o u t his dear F r e n c h fa dinner-cards." She freed her hand, and ther. . . as she t u r n e d to go P a u l heard M r . M o f T h e sound of a m o t o r t u r n i n g in at t h e fatt s a y : " C a n ' t y o u ever g i v e h i m a gates m a d e M r s . H e e n y e x c l a i m " H e r e m i n u t e ' s time, U n d i n e ? " they a r e ! " a n d a m o m e n t later P a u l She m a d e no answer, b u t sailed t h r o u g h heard his m o t h e r calling to h i m . H e g o t t h e door w i t h her h e a d high, as she did up r e l u c t a n t l y , a n d s t o o d w a v e r i n g till he w h e n a n y t h i n g a n n o y e d her; a n d P a u l felt t h a t M r s . H e e n y m u s t b e a s k i n g her a n d his step-father stood alone in the il self w h a t ailed h i m . T h e n he h e a r d M r . l u m i n a t e d ballroom. Moffatt's j o v i a l call of " P a u l M a r v e l l , M r . M o f f a t t smiled g o o d - n a t u r e d l y at ahoy t h e r e ! " a n d roused himself to run t h e little b o y and t h e n t u r n e d b a c k t o downstairs. t h e c o n t e m p l a t i o n of the h a n g i n g s . F r o m the l a n d i n g he s a w t h a t t h e b a l l " I guess y o u k n o w where those come room doors w e r e o p e n a n d the c r y s t a l lus from, d o n ' t y o u ? " he a s k e d in a tone of tres lit. H i s m o t h e r a n d M r . M o f f a t t satisfaction. stood in t h e m i d d l e of t h e shining floor, " O h , y e s , " P a u l answered eagerly, looking u p a t the w a l l s ; a n d as P a u l c a m e w i t h a h o p e he dared n o t u t t e r t h a t , in his heart g a v e a j o y f u l b o u n d , for there, since the tapestries were there, his F r e n c h set in great gilt p a n e l s , w e r e t h e p i n k a n d father m i g h t be c o m i n g too. blue tapestries t h a t h a d a l w a y s h u n g in " Y o u ' r e a smart b o y to r e m e m b e r the gallery at S a i n t D e s e r t . t h e m . I d o n ' t suppose y o u ever t h o u g h t " W e l l , old m a n , it feels g o o d to s h a k e y o u ' d see t h e m h e r e ? " " I d o n ' t k n o w , " said P a u l , e m b a r your fist a g a i n ! " his step-father said, ta king him in a friendly g r a s p ; a n d his rassed. " W e l l , I guess y o u w o u l d n ' t h a v e if mother, w h o l o o k e d h a n d s o m e r a n d taller and more s p l e n d i d l y dressed t h a n ever, their o w n e r h a d n ' t been in a p r e t t y t i g h t exclaimed: " M e r c y ! h o w t h e y ' v e c u t his place. I t w a s like d r a w i n g t e e t h for h i m to let t h e m g o . " h a i r ! " before she b e n t t o kiss h i m . P a u l flushed u p , a n d again the iron " O h , m o t h e r , m o t h e r ! " he b u r s t o u t , feeling, b e t w e e n his m o t h e r ' s face a n d t h e g r a s p w a s on his h e a r t . H e h a d n ' t , others, h a r d l y less familiar, on the w a l l s , hitherto, a c t u a l l y disliked M r . M o f f a t t , that he w a s r e a l l y a t h o m e a g a i n , a n d n o t w h o w a s a l w a y s in a g o o d h u m o u r , a n d s e e m e d less b u s y a n d absent-minded in a strange h o u s e .

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t h a n his m o t h e r ; b u t a t t h a t i n s t a n t he s t r o n g h o l d s she m i g h t n e v e r c a p t u r e . felt a r a g e of h a t e for him. H e t u r n e d B u t a l r e a d y seceders w e r e b e g i n n i n g to s h o w t h e m s e l v e s , a n d her dinner-list t h a t a w a y a n d b u r s t i n t o tears. " W h y , hullo, old c h a p — w h y , w h a t ' s e v e n i n g w a s g r a c e d w i t h t h e n a m e s of an u p ? " M r . M o f f a t t w a s on his knees b e a u t h e n t i c D u k e a n d a n o t t o o d a m a g e d side the b o y , a n d the a r m s e m b r a c i n g C o u n t e s s . I n a d d i t i o n , of course, she had h i m w e r e firm a n d friendly. B u t P a u l , t h e S h a l l u m s , t h e C h a u n c e y Ellingers, for t h e life of h i m , c o u l d n ' t a n s w e r : h e M a y B e r i n g e r , D i c k y B o w l e s , W a l s i n g c o u l d o n l y sob a n d sob as the g r e a t surges h a m P o p p l e , a n d t h e rest of t h e N e w Y o r k frequenters of t h e N o u v e a u L u x e ; she had of loneliness b r o k e o v e r h i m . " I s it b e c a u s e y o u r m o t h e r h a d n ' t t i m e e v e n , a t t h e l a s t m i n u t e , h a d t h e amuse for y o u ? W e l l , she's like t h a t , y o u k n o w ; m e n t of a d d i n g P e t e r V a n D e g e n t o their I n t h e e v e n i n g t h e r e w a s to be a n d y o u a n d I h a v e g o t to l u m p i t , " M r . n u m b e r . M o f f a t t continued, g e t t i n g t o his feet. S p a n i s h d a n c i n g a n d R u s s i a n singing; H e s t o o d l o o k i n g d o w n at t h e b o y w i t h a a n d D i c k y B o w l e s h a d p r o m i s e d her a queer smile. " I f w e t w o c h a p s s t i c k t o G r a n d D u k e for her n e x t dinner, if she g e t h e r it w o n ' t b e so b a d — w e c a n k e e p c o u l d secure t h e n e w t e n o r w h o a l w a y s re e a c h other w a r m , d o n ' t y o u see? I like fused t o sing in p r i v a t e houses. E v e n n o w , h o w e v e r , she w a s n o t al y o u first rate, y o u k n o w ; w h e n y o u ' r e b i g e n o u g h I m e a n t o p u t y o u in m y busi w a y s h a p p y . S h e h a d e v e r y t h i n g she ness. A n d it looks as if one of these d a y s w a n t e d , b u t she still felt, a t times, t h a t y o u ' d b e the richest b o y in A m e r i c a . . . " there w e r e o t h e r t h i n g s she m i g h t w a n t if she k n e w a b o u t t h e m . A n d there had T h e l a m p s w e r e lit, the v a s e s full of been m o m e n t s l a t e l y w h e n she h a d been flowers, t h e f o o t m e n a s s e m b l e d on t h e o b l i g e d t o confess t o herself t h a t Moffatt l a n d i n g a n d in t h e v e s t i b u l e b e l o w , w h e n d i d n o t fit i n t o t h e p i c t u r e . A t first she U n d i n e descended to the d r a w i n g - r o o m . h a d been d a z z l e d b y his success and sub H e h a d g i v e n her A s she p a s s e d t h e b a l l r o o m door she d u e d b y his a u t h o r i t y . g l a n c e d in a p p r o v i n g l y at the tapestries. all she h a d e v e r w i s h e d for, a n d more than T h e y really l o o k e d b e t t e r t h a n she h a d she h a d e v e r d r e a m e d of h a v i n g : he had b e e n willing to a d m i t : t h e y m a d e her m a d e u p to her for all her failures and her b a l l r o o m t h e h a n d s o m e s t in P a r i s . B u t b l u n d e r s , a n d there w e r e hours w h e n she s o m e t h i n g h a d p u t her o u t on t h e w a y u p still felt his d o m i n i o n a n d e x u l t e d in it. from D e a u v i l l e , a n d the simplest w a y of B u t there w e r e others w h e n she saw his de easing her n e r v e s h a d been to affect indif fects a n d w a s i r r i t a t e d b y t h e m : w h e n his ference t o t h e tapestries. N o w she h a d loudness a n d redness, his m i s p l a c e d jo q u i t e r e c o v e r e d her g o o d h u m o u r , a n d as v i a l i t y , his f a m i l i a r i t y w i t h the servants, she g l a n c e d d o w n the list of guests she his a l t e r n a t i n g s w a g g e r a n d ceremony w a s a w a i t i n g she said to herself, w i t h a w i t h her friends, j a r r e d on perceptions sigh of satisfaction, t h a t she w a s g l a d she t h a t h a d d e v e l o p e d in her u n a w a r e s . N o w a n d t h e n she c a u g h t herself t h i n k i n g that h a d p u t on her rubies. F o r t h e first t i m e since her m a r r i a g e to his t w o p r e d e c e s s o r s — w h o w e r e gradu M o f f a t t she w a s a b o u t to r e c e i v e in her ally b e c o m i n g m e r g e d in her m e m o r y — house the p e o p l e she m o s t w i s h e d to see w o u l d h a v e said this or t h a t differently, there. T h e b e g i n n i n g s h a d b e e n a little b e h a v e d o t h e r w i s e in s u c h a n d such a A n d t h e c o m p a r i s o n w a s almost difficult; their first a t t e m p t in N e w Y o r k case. w a s so u n p r o m i s i n g t h a t she feared t h e y a l w a y s t o M o f f a t t ' s d i s a d v a n t a g e . m i g h t n o t b e able t o l i v e d o w n t h e sensa T h i s e v e n i n g , h o w e v e r , she t h o u g h t of tional details of their reunion, a n d in h i m i n d u l g e n t l y . S h e w a s pleased with sisted on her h u s b a n d ' s t a k i n g her b a c k his c l e v e r s t r o k e in c a p t u r i n g t h e Saint D e t o P a r i s . B u t her apprehensions w e r e sert tapestries, w h i c h G e n e r a l A r l i n g t o n ' s unfounded. I t w a s o n l y n e c e s s a r y to s u d d e n b a n k r u p t c y , a n d a fresh gam g i v e p e o p l e t h e t i m e to p r e t e n d t h e y h a d b l i n g s c a n d a l of H u b e r t ' s , h a d compelled f o r g o t t e n ; a n d a l r e a d y t h e y were all pre their o w n e r t o p a r t w i t h . S h e k n e w that tending beautifully. T h e F r e n c h w o r l d R a y m o n d de C h e l l e s h a d t o l d the dealers h a d of course held o u t l o n g e s t ; it h a d he w o u l d sell his t a p e s t r i e s t o a n y one but

T h e Custom of the Country M r . E l m e r M o f f a t t , or a b u y e r a c t i n g for h i m ; a n d it a m u s e d her to t h i n k t h a t , t h a n k s to E l m e r ' s a s t u t e n e s s , t h e y w e r e under her roof after all, a n d t h a t R a y mond a n d all his clan w e r e no d o u b t a w a r e of it. T h e s e c o n s i d e r a t i o n s disposed her f a v o u r a b l y t o w a r d her h u s b a n d , a n d deepened t h e sense of w e l l - b e i n g w i t h w h i c h — a c c o r d i n g to her i n v a r i a b l e h a b i t —she w a l k e d u p t o t h e mirror a b o v e the mantelpiece a n d s t u d i e d t h e i m a g e it re flected. She w a s still lost in this pleasing con t e m p l a t i o n w h e n she s a w her h u s b a n d en ter the r o o m a n d c o m e u p b e h i n d her. H e w a s stouter a n d redder t h a n e v e r , a n d his e v e n i n g clothes l o o k e d a little too tight. H i s shirt front w a s as g l o s s y as his baldness, a n d he w o r e in his b u t tonhole the red r i b b o n b e s t o w e d on h i m for surrendering his c l a i m on a V e l a s q u e z that w a s w a n t e d for t h e L o u v r e . H e car ried a n e w s p a p e r in his h a n d , a n d s t o o d looking a b o u t t h e r o o m w i t h a c o m p l a c e n t eye. " W e l l , I guess this is all r i g h t , " he said, and she a n s w e r e d briefly: " D o n ' t forget y o u ' r e t o t a k e d o w n M a d a m e de F o l l e rive; and for g o o d n e s s ' s a k e d o n ' t call her 'Countess.'" " W h y , she is one, a i n ' t s h e ? " he re turned g o o d - h u m o u r e d l y . " I wish y o u ' d p u t t h a t n e w s p a p e r a w a y , " she c o n t i n u e d ; his h a b i t of l e a v ing old n e w s p a p e r s a b o u t t h e d r a w i n g room a n n o y e d her. " O h , t h a t r e m i n d s m e — " i n s t e a d of obeying her he u n f o l d e d t h e p a p e r . "I brought it in to shew y o u s o m e t h i n g . Jim D r i s c o l l ' s b e e n a p p o i n t e d A m b a s s a dor to E n g l a n d . " " J i m D r i s c o l l — ! " She c a u g h t u p t h e paper and stared a t t h e flaring p a r a g r a p h . Jim D r i s c o l l — t h a t pitiful n o n e n t i t y , w i t h his stout mistrustful c o m m o n p l a c e w i f e ! THE

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I t s e e m e d e x t r a o r d i n a r y t h a t a n y one s h o u l d h a v e h u n t e d u p s u c h insignificant people. A n d i m m e d i a t e l y she h a d a g r e a t v a g u e vision of the splendours t h e y w e r e going t o — a l l t h e b a n q u e t s a n d cere monies a n d precedences. . . " I s h o u l d n ' t s a y s h e ' d w a n t to, w i t h so few j e w e l s — " She d r o p p e d the p a p e r a n d t u r n e d to M o f f a t t . " If y o u h a d a n y a m b i t i o n , t h a t ' s the k i n d of t h i n g y o u ' d t r y for. Y o u could h a v e g o t it j u s t as easily as n o t ! " H e l a u g h e d a n d t h r u s t his t h u m b s in his w a i s t c o a t armholes w i t h t h e gesture she disliked. " A s it h a p p e n s , i t ' s a b o u t the one t h i n g I c o u l d n ' t . " " Y o u couldn't? W h y n o t ? " " Because you're divorced. T h e y won't have divorced Ambassadresses." " T h e y w o n ' t ? W h y not, I ' d like t o know?" " W e l l , I guess the court ladies are afraid t h e r e ' d be too m a n y p r e t t y w o m e n in the E m b a s s i e s , " he a n s w e r e d j o c u l a r l y . She b u r s t into an a n g r y l a u g h , a n d t h e blood flamed u p into her face. " I n e v e r heard of a n y t h i n g so i n s u l t i n g ! " she cried, as if the rule h a d been i n v e n t e d t o h u m i l i a t e her. T h e r e w a s a noise of m o t o r s b a c k i n g a n d a d v a n c i n g in the court, a n d she heard the first voices on the stairs. She t u r n e d t o g i v e herself a last look in the glass, s a w the b l a z e of her rubies, the glitter of her hair, a n d r e m e m b e r e d the brilliant n a m e s u p o n her list. B u t under all the d a z z l e a t i n y b l a c k cloud remained. T h e r e w a s s o m e t h i n g she could n e v e r g e t , s o m e t h i n g t h a t neither b e a u t y nor influence nor millions could ever b u y for her. She could n e v e r be an A m b a s s a d o r ' s wife; a n d as she ad v a n c e d to w e l c o m e her first g u e s t s she said to herself t h a t it w a s the one p a r t she w a s really m a d e for. END.

HIS P R O F E S S I O N A L HONOR By Linn Murdoch Huntington ILLUSTRATIONS

BY C.

ISS P A R M A L E E was forty — u n f o r t u n a t e l y or fortu n a t e l y , as y o u choose t o look a t it, for she n e v e r b o t h e r e d her h e a d a b o u t it herself—• b u t she w a s neither fat nor y e t v e r y fair. She w a s of a c o m f o r t a b l e p l u m p n e s s , and, in t h e e y e s of her f a v o r i t e nephew, " t h e corkingest aunt g o i n g . " H a v i n g m a d e u p her m i n d to " t a s t e the r o m a n c e of the S p a n i s h M a i n , " she h a d p r o m p t l y decided t o visit the n e p h e w , and, after l o n g s t u d y of t h e m a p of C e n t r a l A m e r i c a in her atlas, h a d a c t u a l l y l o c a t e d his present abiding-place a n d set o u t . A f t e r a lifetime of N e w Y o r k — s h e w a s a b o r n N e w Y o r k e r , t h o u g h science tells us it is a n e x t i n c t s p e c i e s — a n d a more or less t h o r o u g h k n o w l e d g e of the w e l l - t r a v elled routes, the t u b b y little San Miguel w a s a shock, a n d the distinct flavor of garlic in the r o m a n c e she h a d so far col l e c t e d w a s a further one. B u t t h e spirit of r o m a n c e dies hard, e v e n in the y o u n g , a n d w h e n one is forty a n d r o m a n t i c it is unconquerable. T h e first little p o r t the w a l l o w i n g old fruit-steamer reached r e v i v e d her, a n d t h e g a u d i l y p a i n t e d houses, t h e b r o w n skinned b o a t m e n , a n d t h e o v e r p l u m p n a t i v e b e a u t i e s w h o t r a v e l l e d from p o r t t o p o r t w e r e almost equal t o w h a t she h a d i m a g i n e d . B u t her greatest interest w a s for the occasional A m e r i c a n s w h o b o a r d e d a n d left the ship as she trundled her lei surely w a y d o w n the coast. L e a n , b r o w n faced m e n t h e y were, for the m o s t p a r t , c l a d in k h a k i or w h i t e drill, living in un p r o n o u n c e a b l e places a n d doing m o s t in teresting things. T h e little Irish ship's doctor, w h o for once found his duties as entertainer of t h e feminine passengers a pleasure in s t e a d of a bore, carefully sorted the g o a t s from t h e sheep a n d presented t h e small r e m a i n d e r to her a t e v e r y port. That these s t r a n g e l y old y o u n g m e n t h o u g h t

D.

WILLIAMS

t h e m s e l v e s a n d their lives dull a n d un interesting w a s an a d d e d delight to her, a n d she told t h e m so—so t h a t they b l u s h e d a n d then told her their inmost longings. S h e w a s t h a t sort. I t did not seem s t r a n g e t o her t h a t a tall, q u i e t - e y e d y o u n g engineer (the doc tor told her confidentially t h a t he was k n o w n on t h e c o a s t as " M u l e " Sutton, b e c a u s e a certain f o r e m a n h a d likened t h e w e i g h t of his fist t o t h a t useful ani m a l ' s foot) h a d a l w a y s w a n t e d t o be an a u t h o r , a n d e n t e r t a i n e d w e i r d theories of the s u p e r n a t u r a l a l o n g w i t h a childlike belief in the efficacy of p r a y e r . N o r did it startle her w h e n the doctor said t h a t a p i n k - f a c e d little I r i s h m a n , who h a d t a l k e d e n t e r t a i n i n g l y a n d regretfully a b o u t the r e s t a u r a n t s of N e w Y o r k and P a r i s , h a d once held an a b a n d o n e d house alone a g a i n s t a h u n d r e d b l o o d - c r a z e d rev o l u t i o n i s t s — a n d h a d later c a l m l y sold out his ( p r e v i o u s l y ) r e s p e c t e d chief for four t h o u s a n d dollars. I t w a s in P u e r t o B a r r i o s t h a t she saw S e a b r i g h t . She liked h i m , she t h o u g h t — he w a s tall a n d b r o w n a n d straight, as a m a n o u g h t to b e . H e h a d g o o d shoul ders, a n d his k h a k i breeches w e r e well cut. H i s blue e y e s w e r e s t e a d y a n d clear, the m o u t h under t h e close-cut fair mustache w a s firm, a n d t h e line of his j a w w a s most u n c o m m o n l y square. H e shook h a n d s l a u g h i n g l y w i t h the doctor, a n d returned t o the friends w h o w e r e seeing h i m off. M i s s P a r m a l e e liked their t a l k — i t w a s w h a t she h a d t h o u g h t m e n said in these S p a n i s h places. " W h o is he?" she a s k e d t h e doctor w h e n her g u i d e a n d counsellor settled d o w n beside her. " T h a t tall y o u n g man in k h a k i ? " " T h a t ? T h a t ' s J a c k S e a b r i g h t , and a g o o d sort, t o o . I'll b r i n g h i m u p pres e n t l y , w h e n h e ' s shifted. H e ' s going to S a n t a M a r t a , t o o , w h e r e y o u r n e p h e w is, a n d y o u ' l l like h i m . "

Drawn by C. D.

Williams.

She speaks French and Spanish and Portuguese, and knows as much engineering as I do.—Page 651.

VUL. L I V — 5 9

6

49

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His Professional Honor

" W h a t does he d o ? " she a s k e d . " O h , he's an engineer—builds things. H e has b u i l t s o m e t h i n g in e v e r y t o w n on t h e coast, from harbor w o r k s t o a repu tation for d r a w - p o k e r a n d bridge. E v e r y one likes h i m , e x c e p t some of the con tractors. H e ' s a m a n ' s m a n , t h o u g h — keen as c a n b e on his w o r k , square a n d s t r a i g h t — w e call h i m H o n e s t J o h n w h e n w e w a n t to stir h i m u p — p l a y s the b e s t bridge of a n y A m e r i c a n I k n o w , holds his liquor like a m a n , speaks g o o d Spanish, a n d has a temper like chain-lightning. T h e consul a t P o r t L i m o n s a y s he comes of g o o d blood, a n d I k n o w he's a gentle m a n . Y o u should start h i m t a l k i n g on professional ethics; he s a y s w e medicos o n l y practise the rudiments of i t . " T h e d o c t o r inhaled his perpetual cigarette. " H e r e he c o m e s . " M i s s P a r m a l e e did like S e a b r i g h t , a n d he liked her. H e a m u s e d her a n d t a l k e d to her all the w a y d o w n the coast, a n d w h e n t h e y finally reached S a n t a M a r t a , it w a s he w h o s h o w e d her the old churches a n d the M u r i l l o in the cathedral, a n d told her q u a i n t legends of the thickwalled houses. She apologized half-heartedly for ta k i n g u p his time, b u t he w o u l d h a v e none of it. H e h a d p l e n t y of time, he said, a n d since he w a s b y w a y of b e i n g one of the bosses now, he liked to feel the leisure. H e w a s v e r y p r o u d in a shy w a y of his profession, and of the fact t h a t he w a s second in charge here, and, true to the doctor's prediction, he t a l k e d at length on the ethics of engineering. H e liked B o b Russell, the nephew, too, a n d pre dicted b i g things for h i m in the profes sion. So it w a s t h a t w h e n M i s s P a r m a l e e re t u r n e d to her flesh-pots, after steeping herself in the A t m o s p h e r e of S a n t a M a r t a — A t m o s p h e r e w i t h a big A — s h e t h o u g h t often of the big, clean-limbed engineer. If she sighed a t times for her o w n longa g o girlhood, and almost envied some girl, w h o w a s sure to come—for M i s s P a r m a lee, as I h a v e said, w a s r o m a n t i c — s h e o n l y l a u g h e d a t herself a n d m a d e u p her m i n d to send h i m a post-card, w h i c h she n e v e r did. T h e spring and s u m m e r passed a w a y — t h e y a l w a y s d o — a n d M i s s P a r m a l e e , be t w e e n the distractions of the seashore a n d

a n e w b o o k b y her dearest e n e m y , forgot S a n t a M a r t a entirely for a time. T h e n one d a y in early w i n t e r came the n e p h e w / ' A well-built y o u n g c h a p he was, too, and e n o u g h to g l a d d e n the heart of the m o s t critical a u n t , w h i c h M i s s Par m a l e e w a s not. " T e l l m e all a b o u t i t , " she demanded, after the greetings a n d kisses and nephew like h u g s were over, " t e l l m e a b o u t the c a t h e d r a l , a n d the M e r c e d e s C h u r c h , and the b a n d . A n d t h a t nice M r . Seabright, a n d the j o b , too. T e l l me all y o u k n o w ! " " T h a t ' s an e a s y one, t h a t l a s t ! " grinned t h e y o u t h . " T h e c a t h e d r a l a n d the M e r cedes C h u r c h are there y e t , y o u know, t h o u g h the irreverent b e g g a r s call the Mercedes the Viuda Alegre now, since the F r a n c i s c a n s spruced it u p . Seabright is t h e chief now, a n d he's married, and " " M a r r i e d ? A n d w h o did he marry? W h y ? A n d w h a t b e c a m e of t h a t M r . C a r s o n w h o c a m e the d a y I left? W a s n ' t he the c h i e f ? " a s k e d M i s s P a r m a l e e in a breath. " C o m e now, A u n t N a n — o n e at a time. T h e old m a n died—heart failure. A n d J a c k married his d a u g h t e r . A n d he mar ried her b e c a u s e he w a n t e d to, I guess, a n d she d i d n ' t seem to mind. I t ' s a long story, a n d J a c k will n e v e r tell it, and I c a n ' t — n o t right. I c a n ' t tell a n y one but y o u , a n y w a y , a n d y o u m u s t n ' t tell any one else. " T o begin w i t h , t h a t j o b d o w n there w a s one in a t h o u s a n d . T h e y had had the a n n u a l r e v o l u t i o n j u s t before w e went d o w n , a n d the usual n e w government, w i t h the usual high ideals, came into p o w e r . O n l y , in this case the new presi d e n t seems to m e a n it, for the present, a n y w a y , a n d he s t a r t e d in on the reser v o i r a n d the w a t e r s y s t e m . " T h e n e v e r y b o d y — e n g i n e e r s , I mean — w a s surprised w h e n M r . C a r s o n took the j o b . H e w a s one of the big bugs, y o u see, w i t h a reputation as long and b r o a d as S o u t h A m e r i c a . W h y , he's the m a n w h o built the j e t t y a t P u e r t o Lopez, a n d the harbor w o r k s at E s m e r a l d a , and — o h , lots of other things. I w o r k e d on t h a t E s m e r a l d a j o b , y o u k n o w , when I first w e n t d o w n , a n d y o u n e v e r saw such p l a n s ! J u s t like pictures, a n d as clear as a g o o d transit. E v e n the little things on his w o r k were like t h a t . So w e were all


651

thunderstruck when the Engineering News to d o the w o r k , and the sort of steel and said he was going t o Santa M a r t a — a n d c e m e n t w e could use, and so o n . Well, tickled w e were, t o o , for it's a big thing it said that the g o v e r n m e n t w o u l d fur to have w o r k e d under him. nish all the steel and cement at a speci " W e l l , he hired Jack—Seabright, y o u fied price, and then they m a d e a contract know—through C o l o n e l G r a d y , w h o k n e w with a man called Pefia to furnish it for Jack in C u b a and tried t o d o him and them. So we had to test the stuff and couldn't. ' A n d the office had hired the then p a y Pefia. rest of us. " H e was a funny little beggar, Pefia. " T h e size of it was that the old gentle H e was v e r y b r o w n , and v e r y long, and man had m a d e up his m i n d to retire and v e r y thin, and v e r y friendly. M y ! h o w go to N e w Y o r k with B a b — h i s daughter, he loved the Americans—when w e were you k n o w . T h e n the E m p i r e T r u s t C o m around. His father or uncle or something pany failure c a m e along, and his m o n e y had been president once, or, rather, sev went smash. eral times off and on, and finally died in " Y e s , he had a daughter, b u t I guess exile. So Luis—that was his other name you didn't see her. Y o u remember the —studied engineering somewhere and old gentleman, d o n ' t y o u ? Tall and hand came b a c k . H e didn't k n o w a great deal, some, snow-white hair and mustache, and b u t he m a d e a big bluff, and all the other pink skin, just like an old French marquis. Martanos thought he was the real thing. Well, B a b was just like h i m , o n l y a girl. " H e used to b e at the office a lot, She speaks French and Spanish and Portu though Jack didn't like him a bit and guese, and k n o w s as m u c h engineering as neither did I. It was funny h o w much I d o . A n d she does wear the stunningest he used to see the chief, t o o , for he was clothes! such a splendid old R o m a n , and this Pefia " W e l l , after t h e y c a m e , Jack saw a lot chap was such a rotter. of her, and he was m i g h t y hard hit. The " T h e n the steel and cement began to chief had an office at the house, t o o , y o u c o m e in, and m y troubles began. I had see, and Jack used to g o o u t in the even t o l o o k after the testing, t o o , as well as ing to talk things over. T h e y lived in keep the costs, and those t w o infernal that house o n the Carretera right next freshmen w h o did the laboratory work the Legation. B a b always brought in had about as m u c h sense of responsibil the whiskey and soda, and Jack says it ity as Jack's terrier p u p . used to take his breath a w a y every time, " A b o u t the second shipment, things she was so pretty. A n d she and Jack began to g o queer. W e were supposed used to have long talks a b o u t his favor t o use high-carbon steel, to begin with, ite h o b b y , professional ethics. If y o u and, of course, that was what Pefia was think Jack was rabid a b o u t it, y o u ought supposed to give us. T h e first shipment to have heard B a b . She was so p r o u d of tested up fine—seventy thousand p o u n d s her father's reputation for squareness that or better right along. Then one d a y R a y e , she fairly puffed a b o u t it. H e had a fine w h o was running the machine, called rep, y o u k n o w , n o t o n l y for doing splen m e in. did work professionally, b u t for being a b " ' L o o k here, M r . Russell,' he said. solutely fair, and so honest he almost ' T h e r e ' s something wrong with the ma leaned over b a c k w a r d . chine, and I can't tell for the life of m e " J a c k was in direct charge of the j o b , what. This is the same steel w e have you see, and after construction started he been getting, and it's seventy-thousandmade me cost engineer. T h a t ' s h o w I p o u n d stuff, b u t this b l o o m i n ' old rattle trap o n l y shows a b o u t fifty thousand.' come to k n o w it all. " I laughed at him, of course, and told " Y o u see, our c o m p a n y had a contract with the g o v e r n m e n t t o d o the j o b , and h i m h e ' d g o t the scale bar unbalanced. then run the system for t w e n t y years, and B u t I tried it, and turned the machine in the g o v e r n m e n t engineers drew u p the side out, so to speak, and she answered Pliego. T h a t Pliego was awfully queer every test as sweet as y o u please. I —the specifications, y o u k n o w — a set of c o u l d n ' t understand it, for I knew the conditions telling h o w the c o m p a n y had machine must b e unbalanced. T h e n I

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p i c k e d u p the last test bar R a y e had b r o k e n , and if that was high-carbon steel I never saw a n y before. T h e r e ' s a sort of a l o o k a b o u t the fracture of a highc a r b o n bar that this d i d n ' t h a v e . Well, I b r o k e every other piece myself, and they were all alike. That whole shipment was hardly medium steel. " I was certainly k n o c k e d all in a heap, b u t I told R a y e t o keep his m o u t h shut and I ' d l o o k into it. I t never rains b u t it pours, y o u k n o w , and when I went into the c e m e n t shed it began to pour. There were a b o u t fifty barrels unheaded, and there were n o t w o barrels the same color. I t l o o k e d funny, for that Atlas c e m e n t is famous for its uniformity in color as well as for its uniform strength. So I began t o l o o k over the cards. T h e r e was never such a range before! A t seven days Bennet had gotten all the w a y from five hun dred t o six hundred and fifty—not a one o v e r six hundred and fifty, and m o s t of them under six hundred. A n d that ce m e n t o u g h t n o t to v a r y o v e r thirty p o u n d s from its average! " S o I reported it, and Jack swore a little and sent for Pena. W h e n that par ticular 'competente ingeniero' arrived, all smiles and interest, he g o t just a b o u t the finest dressing d o w n that ever g o t across. W o w ! h o w Jack did bless h i m ! H e was desolado, of course, and c o u l d n ' t el Senor use the steel a n y w a y ? A n d the cement? H e was sure it was g o o d cement, and weren't the specifications a little severe in demanding an average of six hundred and fifty p o u n d s at seven days? A n d , really n o w , w o u l d n ' t the cement m a k e quite g o o d concrete? Just until he could look into the matter, of course. O h , he's a wise g u y all right! " J a c k never took his eyes off h i m — just leaned b a c k in his chair and r u b b e d his b o o t with one hand and looked at him. T h e n he said softly—oh, v e r y softly —that the c e m e n t w o u l d not d o , and that it w o u l d b e held at Senor Pefia's risk. W h a t he thought or what Senor Pena thought of the Pliego was entirely beside the question. T h e Pliego said thus and so, and he had no o p t i o n . A n d , of course, he was sure that Senor Pena must b e desolated at the d i s c o v e r y the laboratory had m a d e , and w o u l d take steps. Pena winced at that last, t o o , b u t

J a c k was so quiet, Pena never caught on h o w m a d he was. G e e ! I w o u l d n ' t have given him a n y lip that d a y for a year's pay! " T h i n g s w e n t o n for a couple of weeks —the chief was u p in the hills on an in vestigation for the g o v e r n m e n t — a n d then another shipment c a m e in. W e tested it right u p , and it was just like the last! W e were running short, t o o , for, of course, w e didn't use that second shipment, and w e c o u l d n ' t afford to waste any time. " W h e n I t o o k the test slips into the of fice and laid t h e m o n Jack's desk, I was s o m e scared, and the l o o k on his face when he read them was e n o u g h for y o u r Uncle D u d l e y ! T a l k a b o u t steel traps! His m o u t h looked like the plate-shearing ma chine at Bethlehem. I just beat it over to m y o w n desk and crawled into my shell. " P e n a c a m e a-running, and looked a little as if he w a n t e d a cyclone cellar. B u t he w e n t in. Jack was v e r y quiet this time, t o o , b u t his v o i c e had an edge t o it that m a d e even m e squirm. H e told P e n a just what k i n d of an animal he was —and it wasn't a nice kind—and just what he thought of him. A n d he gave him twelve hours t o take b o t h those ship ments o u t of the sheds and to cable for m o r e on the Benson, w h i c h w o u l d get in just in time t o save us if she wasn't de layed. " H e m a d e quite a little speech, and Pena sat there, and at first he looked scared, and then he l o o k e d mad. I could see h i m o u t of the corner of m y eye. T h e r e wasn't a n y o n e else in the office b u t just us three, and when I started to g o out, Jack l o o k e d around and said, ' S i t d o w n ! ' M a y b e y o u think I didn't sit d o w n ! " D o n Luis cleared his throat a time or t w o and started to make the same sort of speech he m a d e before. H e was very m u c h grieved, and he c o u l d n ' t under stand, and, a n y w a y , it was g o o d cement. Just then Jack said—well, what he said was in Spanish, and I w o n ' t translate it. Pena g o t red in the face and for a minute he c o u l d n ' t talk at all—just waved his hands and m a d e m o t i o n s with his face. T h e n he g o t started. "'Canalla! Puercos! Y o u cursed Americanos are all alike! Y o u make

653

Drawn

Williams.

B a b a l w a y s brought in the whiskey and soda, and J a c k says it used to take his breath away, she was so pretty.—Page 6 5 1 .

by C. D.

654


fine Pliegos t o show h o w well y o u w o r k , and then y o u tell m e y o u d o n ' t really need that g o o d cement, and y o u will take the other! A n d I—I, because I a m caballero, and have m a d e y o u the offer of a caballero, I believe y o u and conform m e t o o n e half! It looks so respetable, that white bigote, that I deceive myself! H o n o r ! Y o u h a v e n ' t even vergilenza, y o u Americanos! Y o u think to rob m e , b o y ? G o see y o u r je/e—ask him a b o u t the ce m e n t ! A n d then p a y m e m y m o n e y ! Mir a! Mira!' and he w a v e d a bit of paper in the air and slammed it d o w n on the desk. " A l l this time Jack had been sitting like he was frozen, b u t just then he t h a w e d o u t ! H e ' s pretty tall, y o u k n o w , and he's so m u c h wider than Pefia! Well, he t o o k him b y the scruff of the neck and led him to the door. Pefia had shut up like a clock that's run d o w n , and he looked pretty sick. Jack opened the d o o r and then at the head of the stairs he turned loose just o n c e ! It was the prettiest punt y o u ever saw! Pefia never hit a thing till he g o t t o the landing. " J a c k w e n t b a c k to his desk, and, some h o w , he l o o k e d about a thousand years old. T h a t little p a p e r — h e showed it to m e — w a s the chief's receipt for fifteen hun dred dollars, received of Pefia! Jack read it again, v e r y carefully, and then tore it into tiny pieces and d r o p p e d them on the floor. " H e filled his pipe carefully, b u t it t o o k four matches to light it, his hand shook so. A n d when I g o t up again he s a i d , ' Sit d o w n ! ' just the same w a y . D i d n ' t want to b e alone, I guess! " T h e n he began to talk—not to m e , b u t to himself. It was getting dark, t o o , and I could just see his face like a white blur—and o n e white p a t c h on the floor where the m o o n l i g h t came in. " H e saw it all at once, I guess, and after a while so did I. All the nasty little things L e v o r , of the bank, h a d said at the club, and the gossip that newspaper m a n —the red-faced o n e — h a d b r o u g h t from h o m e — i t all fitted in, like pieces in o n e of those jig-saw puzzles. " Here was the chief, getting an old man. H e ' d had a hard sort of life, after all, I guess. His wife had gotten herself talked a b o u t in Callao, I heard once, and the

chief had left there—only j o b he ever quit. T h e n she died the next year, and all he had left was B a b — s h e was just a tiny thing then. H e w o r k e d all o v e r , and B a b w e n t with him. H e g o t t o b e a big man, professionally, b u t he never saved m u c h . Engineers d o n ' t get v e r y big pay, even the big ones, and it costs t o live d o w n there. B u t he did g o o d w o r k , and he was straight—and I can tell y o u , it's not always easy to be straight, down there in the h o t places! " F i n a l l y , he had a little something ahead—enough for h i m and B a b to live on. I heard he had something to d o with that v a n a d i u m d i s c o v e r y at O r o y a . So he said he was going t o retire. I know Bab t o l d m e once a b o u t a little place they were going to b u y , up in V e r m o n t . " T h e n the panic c a m e along, and the trust c o m p a n y , where his m o n e y was, smashed—and there he was, just where he was to start with, and nothing left but his reputation, and his brains—an old man n o w , with a daughter he worshipped, and nothing to give her when he went. T h a t was w h y he c a m e to Santa Marta. T h e p a y was p r e t t y g o o d . So when that snake Pefia c a m e along, the p o o r old chief was easy prey. I t meant thirty thousand dollars to him, for w e used o v e r a hun dred thousand barrels of cement. H o w it must have hurt his pride, and h o w he must h a v e squirmed under the idea that it was only his reputation that made it possible! T h e r e was s o m e mistake, of course. W e were o n l y t o have tested some selected barrels of c e m e n t and bun dles of steel, I suppose. " B u t d o n ' t y o u see Jack's fix? H e was in love with B a b , y o u see, and the chief was her father. H e was an o l d man, and his reputation for squareness was the dear est thing in the w o r l d to her. There was n o use going t o him—he c o u l d n ' t break with Pefia if he w a n t e d to. If Jack put the thing up to the c o m p a n y , it w o u l d break the chief, and it w o u l d a b o u t kill Bab. A n d if he didn't, he was throwing away every principle of professional honor he had, and which B a b preached. Even if he just resigned, that w o u l d n ' t alter mat ters any. T h e stuff w o u l d b e in the j o b just the same, and it w o u l d b e he w h o put it there. I t l o o k e d like his o w n honor or the chief's, and Jack t o lose either way.

His Professional Honor " A l l the stuff Pena had said c a m e into his head, t o o . I t w a s n ' t rotten c e m e n t , y o u k n o w — i t just w a s n ' t what the Pliego called for. A n d the same w a y with the steel. T h e d a m w o u l d stand if it were used, and there wasn't one c h a n c e in a

H e w a v e d his hands and m a d e motions with his face.

655

—one of them had to be smashed. A n d it d i d n ' t mean anything to Jack that if it were his, n o one need ever k n o w . He'd k n o w , and h e ' d have to lose B a b . " Y o u m u s t n ' t think he said all this in so m a n y words, b u t he said a lot, and I

" Yuu cursed A inerkaiws

are all alike." — P a g e 6 5 2 .

million of a n y one ever finding out. O n l y could fill in. A t last he seemed to have the c o m p a n y w o u l d n ' t b e getting what m a d e up his mind to something, for he they paid for, and were entitled t o — a n d d r o p p e d his pipe o n the desk, turned o n what Jack was there t o see that they g o t . the light, and sat d o w n at the typewriter. It only m e a n t cutting the safety factor I thought he w o u l d never get d o n e . H e from four to t w o and a half, say. T h e r e wrote a long time, looking at his note wasn't a chance o n c e in a hundred years of b o o k from time to time. Finally he a flood like last year's, and if it did c o m e , signed the last sheet, addressed an en wasn't a factor of t w o and a half e n o u g h ? v e l o p e , stamped it and sealed it. T h e n But—the plans and the specifications said he w r o t e another letter, a short one this it was to b e four, and J a c k h a d p l e d g e d time, signed and sealed that, and g o t up his h o n o r as an engineer t o see that it from the machine. H e m o v e d heavily, was four. I t was his h o n o r or the chief's like an o l d m a n , as he walked into the

656

The Ghost

chief's office and laid the short letter o n his desk. " H i s face l o o k e d wet, and his lips were tight shut when he c a m e out, b u t he spoke almost in his ordinary v o i c e . ' C o m e o n , Russ, let's g o h o m e , ' was all he said. " I was just putting o n m y c o a t when we heard a horse c o m e d o w n the street o n a run. T h e n s o m e o n e ran up the stairs and fell against the d o o r . Jack o p e n e d it, and it was M a n u e l , the peon, w h o had been with the chief. '"Don Juan—' he gasped between breaths. T h e m a n was p r e t t y near all in. 'Don Juan—vent El Jefe — estd malo ! Se—muere ! Ven !' " J a c k p i c k e d h i m u p , and I g a v e him a drink from the flask in m y desk, and finally he talked intelligibly. T h e chief had gotten h o m e half an hour before, he said, and was just going up the steps at the house when Pefla's b o y c a m e up with a note. T h e chief o p e n e d it and read it. M a n u e l said he g o t v e r y white and tore it up into tiny pieces. ' Estd bien,' he told the b o y , and then j ust fell in a heap. M a n uel and the b o y carried him into the house, and B a b sent for Jack and the d o c t o r . " W e g r a b b e d the first c o a c h w e saw

THE

—there was a nigger in it, b u t Jack threw him o u t — a n d just a b o u t killed the horse. T h e chief was still alive, and when we w e n t in he o p e n e d his eyes. ' J a c k , ' he said quite plainly. ' F o r B a b . T o o late! S o r r y ! ' and then the d o c t o r said he was dead. " T h e r e isn't m u c h m o r e . H e was bur ied the next d a y — f a n c y being buried in Santa M a r t a ! A n d B a b and Jack were married v e r y quietly at the Legation the next week. T h e y m a d e Jack chief, too, and, o h y e s ! Pena c a b l e d for cement b y the Benson. I t was just a little deal of his o w n , y o u see. T h e g o v e r n m e n t wasn't in o n it at all." Miss Parmalee's eyes were bright with tears, and she said nothing for a time. T h e n she asked: " A n d what did Mr. Seabright mean to do a b o u t the c e m e n t before the chief d i e d ? " " W h y , d o n ' t y o u see? " asked her neph ew, filling his pipe. " T h e long letter was the report to the c o m p a n y , and the short o n e was his resignation. W h a t else could he d o ? " A n d M i s s Parmalee—for she was ro mantic—murmured, " I c o u l d n o t love thee, dear, so m u c h "

GHOST

By Hermann Hagedorn O N E w h o m I l o v e d and never can forget R e t u r n e d to m e in dream, and spoke with m e , A s audibly, as sweet familiarly A s though w a r m fingers twined w a r m fingers yet. H e r eyes were bright and with great w o n d e r w e t A s in old days when some strange, swift decree B r o u g h t touch-close love or death; and sorrow-free She spoke as one long purged of all regret. I heard, oh, glad b e y o n d all speech, I heard, Till t o m y lips the flaming query flashed: How is it—over there? T h e n , quite u n d o n e , She trembled; in her deep eyes like a bird T h e gladness fluttered, and as one abashed She s h o o k her head bewildered, and was g o n e .

THE

POINT OF

D

E E P L Y , perhaps t o o deeply, inter ested as we have always been in the first impressions of our distinguished visitors, we seldom trouble to ask the effect that his native land makes on the returning American. Y e t an eye, at once fresh and intimate, ought to see further than American™" foreigner's. For m y own part, I never come home without receiv ing the same vivid effect—one which I have never heard commented on—the effect of the acute awareness of American faces. B y this sign more than b y any other you recog nize your countrymen abroad; and when on your return y o u see them once more in the mass, y o u realize the extraordinary differ ence between them and the nations you have just left. 8

a

Ours is not the hard, childlike, almost hos tile stare of the Latin, nor the complete in difference of the English. The veil is never over our eyes; our ears are never deaf, how ever meaningless the sounds that beat upon them; nothing is excluded from our atten tion, which ripples like a pool to every breeze. There is a peace-like solitude in entering an English restaurant, for not a single pair of eyes will be turned on y o u ; and as for an English railway carriage, one almost feels one has lost all corporeal presence as one en ters it. But in America we seem to react automatically to each other. Notice, for instance, the expression of pointless amia bility with which the average American en ters a public conveyance, and if y o u doubt it is occasioned b y his consciousness of his fellow travellers, compare it with the same face in solitude. N o r does the audience awaiting him fail to respond. T h e y are aware of his every gesture; all eyes are directed to the vacant seat which he has not yet perceived; every one follows his de bate between giving his last five-cent piece or having a dollar bill changed; no one really relaxes until he has paid his fare and settled back in his place. In any crowd you may see five or six watching faces il luminated b y reflex smiles because someVol.

LIV.—60

VIEW

where in sight two utter strangers are hail ing each other. An old English novel speaks of "that blank expression of eye which is said to be long to the high and the low, but which is a finesse of countenance entirely beyond the intervening classes." As good democrats perhaps we ought to be content with the abilities suited to the "intervening classes," and yet we must admit that this is one of the less agreeable results of our friendly equality. In fact, so wearing is the effect of this mutual action and reaction on those fresh from the crowded solitudes of Europe, that we find ourselves asking this question: Is it a high state of nervous tension that renders us all so aware of each other? or is it rather this eternal self and other-self con sciousness that has reduced us to our un stable nervous condition?

A S I j o g on in years, b y comfortable L\ stages and slow, more and more often the old figure, favorite of poets and of moralists, comes back to me, of life as a journey wherein, whether one will or no, one must keep moving on. This increas ing sense of perpetual adventure i\ brings its own delight; on the other Packinghand, more troublesome becomes MaTeri"f that deep feeling of possession of things that impede a journey and hamper one i'n the eternal wayfaring. If I recapture at times something of that joyous mood with which I undertook m y first journey to Italy, with an absurd, illogical intimation of like ness in the destination, there comes back too that old realization of the need of mini mizing m y personal possessions — taking then, I remember, the form of a conviction that, for the brief journey, I must carry nothing that would not go into a huge ex tension bag. It is good to pack and travel now and then the ways of earth, because one must perforce sort over old possessions, letting the less worthy g o ; even here one cannot take one's all. If this task proves T

h

g

F na

S

657

658

The Point of View

puzzling, what of the final sifting and select ing, the spiritual house-cleaning that must come before the ultimate packing? At the outset I find myself hampered in m y setting forth; I have lived so long with this earthly furniture, have grown so fond of it, that I am loath to start for any region whatsoever to which I cannot take it. M y father's desk, m y mother's great gilt mirror, m y grandmother's rush-bottomed rockingchair—the passing years and the care I give these things but tighten their hold upon me. I sit and watch m y treasures, wondering. The Baluchistan rug, with the leopard-skin pattern; 'the Herati; the hangings with the pomegranate pattern, deep red and deeper blue, secretly darned in many places b y m y devoted fingers—how shall I let them go? What those do who really have great pos sessions I can but conjecture, yet I suppose that, as the number increases, the intensity of the grasp lessens; the human hand, after all, cannot hold more than it can hold. These insistent household furnishings—it would not do to sell them, or to give them away; they would but trouble me the more, for nothing looms so large as j o y or posses sion foregone. Here, I sometimes forget them, but were they gone beyond m y walls I could not get them out of m y mind with longing for them back. There is the trouble—they get into the wrong place! I leave them in living-room and dining-room; I find them in the secret, inner chambers of immaterial me. M y house of wood was built large enough for all that it must shelter; house room I have; m y difficulty is in finding mind room for m y good and chattels, for they take more space than I would have them. Amphibian as we are between flesh and spirit, as old Sir Thomas Browne used to say, what shall I do when the time draws near when I must choose m y element? I cannot go carrying m y rugs, like an old Armenian pedler, along that narrowest way, yet m y mind is full of these things, and I hope to take that with me. I do not like the way m y fingers cling to the little mahogany table; there will be difficulty in making them let g o . T h e thought of the high-boy at the gates of heaven troubles me; tug and tug as I will, I cannot get it through. There is some excuse for these prepos sessions, for many of these articles have, through long association, ceased to be mere

bits of furniture and have become embodied emotions, memories, states of mind. That aforesaid desk—it is not its deep rich redbrown of old black walnut that holds me, nor its fine, severe contours; it is the per sonality that called it into being; its dig nity, its silences are m y father's own. It gives the same infrequent, grave reproofs; it seems n o w and then to burst into deep, uncontrollable, shaking laughter, the un quenchable laughter of the Homeric gods. It is no mere object, but a something fash ioned for m y father's needs, something that became himself! The old daguerreotypes—it is easy to think of them as half-way between the spirit world and the material, in their elusive charm, face, expression, evading y o u always in whimsical fashion until just the right light, just the right angle, wins a moment's vision. Slim-waisted, erect, with parted waving hair demurely brushed behind their ears, in charming, old-fashioned, surpliced gowns of flowered muslin that they made themselves, m y mother and her sister, smi ling out upon the world, before trouble came, before we came—is this a mere material property, m a y I ask, or is it strange that I should hate to leave it behind? Or this, which is no daguerreotype, but always a moment's fit of mirth—this now triumphant and masterful leader in the suffrage move ment, at six years old, in low-necked dress, curls hanging at each side of her pretty head, her bashful finger in her mouth? And that old mirror, which has reflected the few wed dings, the many funerals, is to me no mere object; it is a record of faces, illumined faces, grief-stricken it may be, but holding the high expression of fine insight that comes, perhaps, but seldom, and most surely through sorrow. If we are amphibian be tween flesh and spirit—what, pray, is this, with its unfading reflection of pure soul? And these books—they seem to be tan gible things upon m y shelves; I turn the yellowing leaves and see quaint pictures, fra grances of old days come to me. T h e y seem to be tangible things, but they are breath less moments of wonder at new beauty. The Coleridge, the Keats are indeed " Magic casements opening on the foam Of perilous seas in faery lands forlorn."

T h e y are whole enchanted days of mirth, of tragic suffering, for the old leather-bound

The Point of View

659

Shakespeare, despite its wickedly small I can only trust that with it came something print and its absurd pseudo-classic illus of its old accompaniment, that sad sincerity trations, meant the anticipatory sting and of honest act that ran steadfastly through thrill of life itself. These books are not all questioning of G o d and doubt of man. things; they are not mere possessions; they And that quick humor, that "sense of sud aire moments of aspiration, of struggle, of den glory," at keen thrust of wit or revela victory or defeat: for " a good book is but tion of incongruity in things—did he take the precious life-blood of a master-spirit, that with him, and did he get it through the embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a narrow gate? I cannot think of him with life beyond life." Surely, nothing in the out it; for him endless existence would be relation of soul to b o d y is a deeper mystery flat and tame were it gone. Surely, lack than this marvel of the transmission of the ing this, that silent power of thought deep spiritual through mere material devices within himself could not get the full savor of of paper and printer's ink. Child-fingers what is to come, for life—and Shakespeare— touch the leaves, and there flows in upon prove that the deepest significance of any the young spirit the splendor of those who experience may not be without the penetra vanished long ago from sight and sense. tion of humor. Through them the glory and the passion of I think of other inheritances—my moth old prophets, of old poets, is alive and quick er's ready hospitable instinct—may that go in all of us to-day. I have no sense of real with me in m y extension soul? Without it, loss in leaving these books behind; they are how could I get used to the hosts of saints translated and transmuted into inmost me. and of angels—Michael, Gabriel, and Pres There is only one I would fain take with me, byterians all, with whom, m y childhood was so thin, so slender in its austere black cover instructed, heaven is peopled; those neigh that I could almost, I think, smuggle it over bors of eternity whose acquaintance I have the border line that separates the visible sometimes dreaded? This instinct has been from the invisible, the old Sartor Resartus, intermittently my own, but with a difference. which I used to learn b y heart as if it were With her, b y some survival of Scotch-clan poetry. I cannot hear its name to-day feeling, it concerned all relatives however without a sudden leaping of the soul, a thrill remote, and was connected with thoughts in the blood. of bed and board; with me, it concerns strangers, the more unknown the better, and is evinced b y swift, mute question as to R E A T as is the difficulty about the how far they have solved the mystery that material or so-called material things, baffles us all. Wayfarers whom I meet for greater still is the difficulty in get an instant on railway-car or avenue, friendly ting ready m y purely mental luggage for beggars, faces that I see but once and un that last long journey. What have I in derstand—surely Michael, Gabriel, and all the way of intellectual and spiritual fur Presbyterians cannot be so much stranger nishing that those celestial customs than those with whom I have in a minute's Spiritual* will permit to pass? H o w much must flash of sympathy made friends. And that maternal passion of faith: as I be thrown from me shred b y shred trudge on with staff and scrip, I think that that I may go in? This silent, thoughtful, ironic, watching some small part of this—perhaps even Ben tendency, m a y that go with me through the jamin's share, for I was the youngest—is divine adventure as it has through the mine. Y e t the heaviest articles of that earthly? I could not help it; it was be Scotch creed I can neither lift nor carry. stowed upon m e ; one must not throw one's H o w could I bear them across the heavenly father's gifts away. If it has meant at hills, who could not hold them here? I re times, through fear of doing harm, a lack of member with pity how hard a burden for radiant, immediate, feminine philanthropy; frail old age became that thought of endless if its hesitations have been, perhaps, incom punishment and the stern image of a right plete without that beard to stroke, slowly eous judge, and I try to imagine that sudden and more slowly, still, if it has been in many sense of lightness and of j o y with which ways a poor thing, it yet has been mine own, they were dropped at the great portal, while and I know not h o w to fare forth without it. the soul passed through without them.

G

660

The Point of View

Going on with m y inventory, I find that, after all, there is not much to take. T h e old longings, ambitions, even some of the con scientious scruples seem to fall away. As one weighs in the hands in packing before the open hand-bag this garment or that, pondering whether it should go in, I sit and weigh many things, inherited and acquired, realizing with relief that they m a y be left behind. I shall indeed travel light! D i m stirrings of memory in regard to the re sources of London and of Paris with respect to a new outfit at the journey's end blend, not blasphemously, but figuratively, in j o y ous foretaste, with far-off promises in regard to making all things new. The mental ac cumulation of all these years, information in regard to this or that, conscientiously ac quired, as conscientiously shared—the busi ness of a lifetime—how gladly do I throw it all away! T h e y are useless, these facts, and wholly of earth; in all this pile there are no charts and maps of celestial geography that may help me now. N o t with one's old note books does one enter a new country, but with wide-opened eyes. I want no cold mental stores with which to go on; I cannot be hampered with mere dates and summaries and ideas. It is with a fresh mind that I must start, a fresh sense of adventure, as of a schoolboy who has thrown his books away. Even the philosophers I shall leave behind— to Schopenhauer of the muddy mind I long since said good-by. H o w gladly, at the outer confines of Space and of Time, shall I say farewell even to Kant, for I am tired of try ing to think, and thinking space and time is wearisome! The poets I shall carry a bit farther: Shakespeare, Shelley, Browning sing songs at heaven's gate. I seem to di

vine that, of all one's mental furnishings, the reasoned formulae, like the facts, shall not linger. Only the spiritual impulse, the quickening m o o d , the leaping flame of mind and of spirit shall persist. Pondering on that last journey, the old figure of the wayfarer becomes the figure of the runner; one can take but the swiftness in one's feet, the soul's deep courage, the energy within as one speeds toward that goal. N o t even that most cherished prop erty, one's high-piled deeds of good, and charities, if such there be, may g o ; only the impulse that led to them, the pity, the sym pathy with man and beast. I begin to dis cern a more profound significance than I had dreamed in the rules of that far Inn, so dif ferent from those of the inns of earth, in re fusing to admit any luggage at all, instead of refusing those who come without. The old warning that having all we lose all; the simple statement that, as we brought noth ing into this world, we can take nothing away, become the clew to some dim knowl edge of the immortal in us—the inner vital ity of mind and of soul, the quickening intellectual aspiration, the quickening sym pathy. That which went out from one, not that which one tried to save; that energy of creative love that gives, not asks—this is the purely spiritual part of one, and one's only real possession. This is the secret of our going stripped and empty-handed through heaven's gate. So I sit and review m y belongings, ma terial, mental, spiritual, aware afresh, in this eternal paradox of things, that I may keep only that which I did not try to keep; that the secret of holding, in death as in life, is in letting g o .

THE

FIELD

JOHN TRUMBULL

I

T is the opinion of not a few whose esti mate carries weight that the name of John Trumbull stands first in the order of merit among American painters following the War of Independence, and that in a socalled " H a l l of F a m e " Trumbull's name should have been given the precedence over all others in estimating the relative rank of the artists of that period. The portraits of Gilbert Stuart are more widely scattered and consequently his merits as a painter are more generally recognized, while Trumbull's best work can only be seen at N e w Haven, in the collection bearing his name in Yale Univer sity; when these works are studied the in clination is to give to Trumbull the higher rank as an artist. Stuart could paint a bet ter life-size portrait, though he fell into a pronounced mannerism, especially as shown in his Washington portraits, including the unfinished head in the Boston art museum; but Trumbull, taken at his best, in his " Dec laration of Independence," "Battle of Bun ker's Hill," " D e a t h of M o n t g o m e r y at Que bec," and in his remarkable collection of oil miniatures of distinguished persons of the period, with an occasional life-size portrait— as the "Alexander Hamilton " in the city hall, New York—shows a much broader range of capacity than Stuart; indeed, it may be said that his historical pictures, as such, have not since been equalled in American art. Comparisons are not important, however, except as they may have been called forth by estimates claiming to be authoritative, which seem to challenge other opinions as to relative merit. In Trumbull's art, especially in the historical works above mentioned, there is very marked distinction, recognized also in his portraits, whether grouped in his torical compositions or as single heads. He was himself thoroughbred and quick to dis cern the mark of distinction in his sitters, indicating a type that is often remarked upon as having become modified in suc ceeding generations. Whether this be so or not, it frequently is a subject of comment in connection with portraits of that older generation of Americans. Trumbull's mother was the great-grandVOL. L I V . — 6 1

OF

ART-

daughter of John Robinson, who led the Pilgrim Fathers out of England. His father, Jonathan Trumbull, Senior, was the colonial governor of Connecticut when the War of Independence began, and he continued in office throughout the Revolution. He is reckoned the most distinguished governor of the time, upon whom Washington relied in an emergency. The son was reared in an atmosphere of patriotism, being daily in con tact with those who were fired by that spirit. It is not strange, therefore, with the develop ment of his powers as an artist, that this in fluence remained dominant in the production of his historical works. With the first rum blings of the approaching conflict he joined the assembling army in the vicinity of Bos ton, and later was for a time aide-de-camp to General Washington. This brought him in intimate association with federal officers, both civic and military, many of whose por traits he painted at the conclusion of the war. Though his military service was brief and unimportant, nevertheless it had its in fluence in his treatment of military subjects, tending to equip him with the requisite knowledge for this, apart from his training as an artist. First among his works in the order of his toric interest, and in some respects as to artistic merit, is his "Declaration of Inde pendence." In 1 8 4 8 the sculptor Horatio Greenough wrote of this picture: "Trumbull has earned the respect of all who have watched the development of American art, and the admiration of those who have tried their hand at wielding a weighty and diffi cult subject. I admire in this composition the skill with which he has collected so many portraits in formal session, without theat rical effort in order to enliven it, and with out falling into bald insipidity b y adhering to trivial fact. These men are earnest, yet full of dignity; they are firm yet cheerful; they are gentlemen; and you see at a glance that they meant something very serious in pledging their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honour." This well suggests the spirit in which the dominant motive is conceived in Trumbull's treatment of this subject. He himself wrote: " I n order to give some vari ety to the composition I found it necessary 661

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The Field of Art

to depart from the usual practice of report ing an act, and made the whole committee of five advance to the table of the president to make their report, instead of having the chairman rise in his place for the purpose; the silence and solemnity of the scene offered such real difficulties to a pictorial composi tion as to justify this departure from custom and fact." Excellent judgment is thus shown in arranging the details of the c o m position in subordination to its impressive moral theme; this is seen also in the char-

tural, for the technical execution, with few exceptions, bears no trace of their having been painted in different lights, or at differ ent times. Adams was painted in London, and Jefferson in Paris. The latter advised Trumbull not to introduce persons of whom it was impossible to obtain likenesses, "lest doubt should be inspired in the mind of pos terity as to the truth of those claiming to be authentic." Trumbull's treatment of this momentous event was the result of prolonged and care-

T h e Declaration of I n d e p e n d e n c e , b y J o h n T r u m b u l l . From the line-engraving by Asher B. Durand.

acteristic grouping, and in the animated ex ful study, and the picture shows that his pression of the individual heads, treated not conception was well on the plane of the merely as likenesses but as actually under moral act represented. This is what gives the dominant interest of the occasion; yet him high rank as a historical painter, for a the whole assembly is expressive of a certain distinction may be drawn between works so feeling of dignified reserve which comports conceived and those which are historical with the gravity of the scene. T o appreciate only in name. these merits the small original canvas at The "Battle of Bunker's H i l l " is in some Yale must be studied; the enlargement respects Trumbull's masterpiece, and is of the composition to figures of life-size in properly so characterized. Its technical the rotunda of the capitol at Washington merits are surprising, considering it was was made thirty years later, when the the first of his important works. He had artist's technical powers were on the de made careful sketches of the locality in cline. Trumbull carried this original can preparation for this, but the picture was vas with him as he drove through the painted in the studio of Benjamin West, in States in search of those of the signers who London, with whom he was then studying. were then living, for the picture was painted It is crisp and racy in execution, finely com in 1 7 9 1 , fifteen years subsequent to the act posed and spirited in action; it was once represented. H o w far he painted these thought that Trumbull was an eye-witness heads directly upon the canvas is conjec- of the battle, but he saw only the smoke of

The Field of Art the action from R o x b u r y , four miles away, where he had joined the army then forming under General Washington as commanderin-chief. All intelligent battle-pieces possessing in terest as works of art are necessarily con fined to the portrayal of some single incident which is characteristic of a general action that is constantly changing as to time and locality; an eye-witness can see only what is immediately in view at a chosen moment for pictorial representation. In selecting for

603

makes a glaring impression, until one gets reconciled to it on account of its merits." This is of interest as coming from the great German poet, who evidently was impressed with the picture. That Trumbull should have produced this important work at the beginning of his career is only another form of evidence, often remarked, that genius is born with its powers already matured. This picture ante dates the movement of romanticism in French art b y more than two decades; for

T h e Battle o f Bunker H i l l , b y J o h n Trumbull. From

the

e n g r a v i n g by M i i l l e r of Stuttgart.

the dominant interest of the battle the death of General Warren, Trumbull showed good judgment, for this centralizes the c o m position, to which everything else is sub ordinated. T h e expression of the persons comprising this central group is remarkable, and the technical execution masterly. In a letter written b y Goethe to Schiller, from Stuttgart, dated the 3 0 t h of August, 1 7 9 7 , he writes: " I found Professor Miiller [the en graver] busy with the death of a general, and that an American, a young man who fell at Bunker's Hill. T h e picture is b y an Ameri can, Trumbull, and has merits of the artist and faults of the amateur. T h e merits are characteristic and admirably handled por trait faces. It is composed relatively to the subject right well, and for a picture in which there must be so many red uniforms, is very judiciously colored; yet at first it

the "Battle of Bunker's H i l l " was painted in 1 7 8 5 ; Gros's "Pest at Jaffa" in 1 8 0 6 ; Gericault's " M e d u s a " in 1 8 1 6 ; and Dela croix's "Barque of D a n t e " in 1 8 2 2 . Trum bull visited D a v i d in his studio in the old Louvre in 1 7 8 6 ; he was then the acknowl edged leader of classicism, which dominated the art of the time. T h e originality and in dependence of Trumbull's art is the more remarkable therefore when these facts are taken into consideration. Trumbull had met Thomas Jefferson in London in 1 7 8 5 , and stayed with him in Paris; he writes of him' in his autobiog raphy: " H e had a taste for the fine arts and highly approved m y intention of pre paring myself for the accomplishment of a national work. He encouraged me to perse vere in this, and kindly invited me to Paris to see and study the great works of art

6G4

The

Field of Art

In a letter to the Marquis de Lafayette, there and to make his house m y home during m y stay." Trumbull took with him his two dated N o v e m b e r 2 1 , 1 7 9 1 , Washington paintings, the "Battle of Bunker's H u l l " wrote, in furthering the publication of en and " D e a t h of M o n t g o m e r y , " and these gravings from Trumbull's works: " M r . John Trumbull, with whom you " m e t Jefferson's warm approbation." It was during this visit that he began his are acquainted, is engaged in painting a "Declaration of Independence," "with the series of pictures of the most important assistance of Jefferson's information and ad events of the Revolution in this country, v i c e . " H e was well received b y the prin from which he proposes to have plates en cipal artists in Paris, b y David, Houdon, and graved. I have taken peculiar satisfaction Le Brun. D a v i d became his " w a r m and in giving every proper aid in m y power to a efficient friend." Of Le Brun's works he subscription here supporting his work, which writes: " The coloring is all that is bad, and, likewise has been patronized b y the prin after seeing the works of Rubens, quite in cipal people in this country. In the hope of sufferable. While they have great merit as meeting the patronage of the French nation, compositions, and are great in. point of to whose honour as well as that of America drawing, as colored pictures they are as this plan is directed, M r . Trumbull informs bad as possible"—which indicates his crit me that he has ordered a subscription to ical independence at that early date. H e be opened in Paris; and the object of this writes: " I n November I returned to Lon letter is to engage y o u to support the sub don, m y brain half-turned b y the attention scription in that city, and in other parts which had been paid my paintings in Paris, of the nation, where it may be offered. and b y the multitude of fine things I had . . . His pieces, so far as they are executed, seen." He adds: " M r . Adams, in the sum meet the applause of all who have seen mer of 1 7 8 7 , having taken leave of the them; the greatness of the design, and Court of St. James, and combed the powder the masterly execution of the work, equal out of his hair, I took that opportunity to ly interest the man of capacious mind, as paint his portrait in the 'Declaration of In the approving eye of the connoisseur. He has spared no pains in obtaining from the dependence.' " T o no other artist, and to no one his life the likenesses of those characters, French torian, does the nation owe so great a debt as well as American, who bore a conspic of gratitude as to Trumbull for preserving uous part in our Revolution; and the suc such a record of these important events. cess with which his efforts have been crowned His pictures are much more than a pictorial will form no small part of the value of record, however; they are the presentation his pieces. T o y o u , m y dear sir, who know of those events in a form that has stamped Mr. Trumbull as a man and as an artist, the impression indelibly in the minds of the it would perhaps have been hardly neces people through succeeding generations, in sary to say so much as I have done on this cluding the countless numbers who know the occasion; but I could not in justice say events of history in no other way than less of him, when I believe that in his pro through such memorials of art. Of his sense fession he will do much honour to the liberal of responsibility in this important under art of painting, as well as to this his native taking he writes: " T o preserve and diffuse country. . . . (through the engravings from these pictures) the memory of the noblest actions; to impart to future generations the glorious lessons of human rights, and of the spirit with which these should be asserted and supported; and to transmit to posterity the personal resem blance of those who have been great actors in those illustrious icenes, are objects that give dignity to m y profession. N o other artist now living possesses this advantage, and no one can come after me to divide the honor of truth and authenticity, however easily I may hereafter be exceeded in elegance."

(Signed) G E O . W A S H I N G T O N . "

While Trumbull's earlier historical paint ings are few in number their merit is great —great enough to have made his name illus trious in the annals of American art. When the first great impulse that vitalized his art had spent itself, his powers gradually declined. Nevertheless the proper estimate of merit to be formed of the work of any artist should be with reference to the highwater mark of attainment. JOHN F . W E I R .

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