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diff --git a/26523-h/26523-h.htm b/26523-h/26523-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f8d4787 --- /dev/null +++ b/26523-h/26523-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8135 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> +<title> +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Jessica Letters, by Paul Elmer Moore & Corra Harris. +</title> + +<style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p {margin-top: 0.5em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: 0.5em;} + body {margin-left: 11%; margin-right: 10%;} + a {text-decoration: none;} + .pncolor {color: silver;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + div.ce p {text-align: center; margin: auto 0;} + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; clear: both;} + .blockquot {margin-left:5%; margin-right:5%;} + .pagenum {display: inline; font-size: x-small; text-align: right; position: absolute; right: 2%; padding: 1px 3px; font-style: normal; font-variant:normal; font-weight:normal; text-decoration: none; background-color: inherit; border:1px solid #eee;} + div.ra p {text-align: right; margin: auto 0;} + hr.silver {width: 100%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver;} +// --> +/* XML end ]]>*/ +</style> + +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Jessica Letters: An Editor's Romance, by +Paul Elmer More and Corra Harris + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Jessica Letters: An Editor's Romance + +Author: Paul Elmer More + Corra Harris + +Release Date: September 4, 2008 [EBook #26523] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JESSICA LETTERS *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' font-size:2.0em; margin-top:; margin-bottom:;'>The</p> +<p style=' font-size:2.2em; margin-top:; margin-bottom:1em;'>Jessica Letters</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' font-size:1.4em; margin-top:; margin-bottom:5em;'>An Editor’s Romance</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' font-size:1.4em; margin-top:; margin-bottom:;'>G. P. Putnam’s Sons</p> +<p style=' font-size:; margin-top:; margin-bottom:;'>New York and London</p> +<p style=' font-size:; margin-top:; margin-bottom:;'>The Knickerbocker Press</p> +<p style=' font-size:; margin-top:; margin-bottom:;'>1904</p> +</div> + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div class='ce' style=' font-size:0.8em;'> +<p>Copyright, 1904</p> +<p>by</p> +<p>G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS</p> +<p>Published, April, 1904</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p>The Knickerbocker Press, New York</p> +</div> + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<p><i>Dear Jessica</i>:</p> +<p><i>For a little while like shadows we have +played our parts on a shadowy stage, aping +the passions and follies of actual life. And +now, as the kind authors who gave us being +withdraw their support and leave us to fade +away into nothingness, the doubt arises +whether our little comedy was not all in +vain. I do not know. A wise poet of the +real world once said that man’s life was +merely</i> the dream of a shadow, <i>yet somehow +men persuade themselves that their own +pursuits are greatly serious. Was our life +any less than that, and were not our hopes +and sorrows and tremulous joy as full of +meaning to us as theirs to the creatures who +strut upon the stage of the world? Again +I say, I do not know: Only I am troubled +that so fair an image as yours should prove +after all a dream, a shadow’s dream, and +melt so swiftly away</i>:—</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>In what strange lines of beauty should I draw thee?</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>In what sad purple dreamshine paint thee true?</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>How should I make them see who never saw thee?</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>How should I make them know who never knew?</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><i>And my last word is a message. He who +created me would convey in this, my farewell +letter, his thanks to the creator of +Jessica. He himself has found in our correspondence +only pleasure, and, as he turns +from this romance to other and different +work of the pen, he hopes that she who +made you will be encouraged by your charm +to deal bravely with her imagination and +to give the world other romances quite her +own and without the alloy of his coarser wit</i>.</p> +<div class='ra'> +<p><i>Philip</i>.</p> +</div> + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' font-size:1.4em; margin-bottom:1em;'>CONTENTS</p> +</div> + +<table border='0' width='500' cellpadding='2' cellspacing='0' summary='Contents' style='margin:1em auto;'> +<tr> + <td align='left'><span style='font-size:small;'> </span></td> + <td align='right'><span style='font-size:small;'>PAGE</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:1em;'><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Part</span> I—Which shows how Jessica visits an editor in the city, and what comes of it</td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#PART_I_WHICH_SHOWS_HOW_JESSICA_VISITS_AN_EDITOR_IN_THE_CITY_AND_WHAT_COMES_OF_IT'>1</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:1em;'><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Part</span> II—Which shows how the editor visits Jessica in the country, and how love and philosophy sometimes clash</td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#PART_II_WHICH_SHOWS_HOW_THE_EDITOR_VISITS_JESSICA_IN_THE_COUNTRY_AND_HOW_LOVE_AND_PHILOSOPHY_SOMETIMES_CLASH'>83</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:1em;'><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Part</span> III—Which shows how the editor again visits Jessica in the country, and how love is buffeted between philosophy and religion</td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#PART_III_WHICH_SHOWS_HOW_THE_EDITOR_AGAIN_VISITS_JESSICA_IN_THE_COUNTRY_AND_HOW_LOVE_IS_BUFFETED_BETWEEN_PHILOSOPHY_AND_RELIGION'>212</a></td> +</tr> +</table> +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 0em; padding-bottom: 0em'> +<a name='PART_I_WHICH_SHOWS_HOW_JESSICA_VISITS_AN_EDITOR_IN_THE_CITY_AND_WHAT_COMES_OF_IT' id='PART_I_WHICH_SHOWS_HOW_JESSICA_VISITS_AN_EDITOR_IN_THE_CITY_AND_WHAT_COMES_OF_IT'></a> +</div> + +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' font-size:1.2em; margin-top:; margin-bottom:;'>The First Part</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p>which shows how Jessica visits an editor</p> +<p>in the city, and what comes of it.</p> +</div> + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_3' name='page_3'></a>3</span></div> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>I</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<div class='ra'> +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>New York</span>, April 20, 19—.</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My Dear Miss Doane</span>:</p> +<p>You will permit me to address you with +this semblance of familiarity, I trust, for the +frankness of our conversation in my office +gives me some right to claim you as an acquaintance. +And first of all let me tell you +that we shall be glad to print your review +of <i>The Kentons</i>, and shall be pleased to +send you a long succession of novels for +analysis if you can always use the scalpel +with such atrocious cunning as in this case. +I say atrocious cunning, for really you have +treated Mr. Howells with a touch of that +genial “process of vivisection” to which +it pleases him to subject the lively creatures +of his own brain. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_4' name='page_4'></a>4</span></p> +<p>“Mr. Howells,” you say, “is singularly +gifted in taking to pieces the spiritual machinery +of unimpeachable ladies and gentlemen”; +and really you have made of the +author one of the good people of his own +book! That is a malicious revenge for his +“tedious accuracy,” is it not? And you +dare to speak of his “hypnotic power of +illusion which is so essentially a freak element +in his mode of expression that even +in portraying the tubby, good-natured, +elderly gentleman in this story he refines +upon his vitals and sensibilities until the +wretched victim becomes a sort of cataleptic.” +Now that is a “human unfairness” +from a critic whom the most ungallant editor +would be constrained to call fair!</p> +<p>I forget that I am asked to sit as adviser +to you in a question of great moment. +But be assured neither you nor your perplexing +query has really slipped from my +memory. Often while I sit at my desk in +this dingy room with the sodden uproar of +Printing House Square besieging my one +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_5' name='page_5'></a>5</span> +barricadoed window, I recall the eagerness +of your appeal to me as to one experienced +in these matters: “Can you encourage me +to give my life to literature?” Indeed, my +brave votaress, there is something that disturbs +me in the directness of that question, +something ominous in those words, <i>give +my life</i>. Literature is a despised goddess +in these days to receive such devotion.</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Naked and poor thou goest, Philosophy,</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>as Petrarch wrote, and as we may say of +Literature. If you ask me whether it will +pay you to employ the superfluities of your +cleverness in writing reviews and sketches +and stories,—why, certainly, do so by all +means. I have no fear of your ultimate +success in money and in the laughing honours +of society. But if you mean literature +in any sober sense of the word, God forbid +that I should encourage the giving of your +young life to such a consuming passion. +Happiness and success in the pursuit of any +ideal can only come to one who dwells in a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_6' name='page_6'></a>6</span> +sympathetic atmosphere. Do you think a +people that lauds Mr. Spinster as a great +novelist and Mr. Perchance as a great critic +can have any knowledge of that deity you +would follow, or any sympathy for the +follower?</p> +<p>It has been my business to know many +writers and readers of books. I have in all +my experience met just four men who have +given themselves to literature. One of these +four lives in Cambridge, one is a hermit in +the mountains, one teaches school in Nebraska, +and one is an impecunious clerk in +New York. They are each as isolated in +the world as was ever an anchorite of the +Thebaid; they have accomplished nothing, +and are utterly unrecognised; they are, +apart from the lonely solace of study, the +unhappiest men of my acquaintance. The +love of literature is a jealous passion, a self-abnegation +as distinct from the mere pleasure +of clever reading and clever writing as the +religion of Pascal was distinct from the +decorous worship of Versailles. The solitude +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_7' name='page_7'></a>7</span> +of self-acknowledged failure is the +sure penalty for pursuing an ideal out of +harmony with the life about us. I speak +bitterly; I feel as if an apology were due +for such earnestness in writing to one who +is, after all, practically a stranger to me.</p> +<p>Forgive my naïve zeal; but I remember +that you spoke to me on the subject with +a note of restrained emotion which flatters +me into thinking I may not be misunderstood. +And, to seek pardon for this personal +tone by an added personality, it +distresses me to imagine a life like yours, +with which the world must deal bountifully +in mere gratitude for the joy it takes from +you,—to imagine a life like yours, I say, +sacrificed to any such grim Moloch. Write, +and win applause for gay cleverness, but +do not consider literature seriously. Above +all, write me a word to assure me I have +not given offence by this very uneditorial +outburst of rhetoric.</p> +<div class='ra'> +<p style=' margin-right:4em;'>Sincerely yours,</p> +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Philip Towers</span>.</p> +</div> + +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_8' name='page_8'></a>8</span></div> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>II</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<div class='ra'> +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Morningtown, Georgia</span>, April 27, 19—.</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My dear Mr. Towers</span>:</p> +<p>Since my return home I have thought +earnestly of my visit to New York. That +was the first time I was ever far beyond +the community boundaries of some Methodist +church in Georgia. I think I mentioned +to you that my father is an itinerant +preacher. But for one brief day I was a +small and insignificant part of the life in +your great city, unnoted and unclassified. +And you cannot know what that sensation +means, if you were not brought up as a +whole big unit in some small village. The +sense of irresponsibility was delightful. I +felt as if I had escaped through the buckle +of my father’s creed and for once was a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_9' name='page_9'></a>9</span> +happy maverick soul in the world at large, +with no prayer-meeting responsibilities. I +could have danced and glorified God on a +curbstone, if such a manifestation of heathen +spirituality would not have been unseemly.</p> +<p>But the chief event of that sensational +day was my visit to you. Of course you +cannot know how formidable the literary +editor of a great newspaper appears to a +friendless young writer. And from our +brief correspondence I had already pictured +you grim and elderly, with huge black +brows bunched together as if your eyes +were ready to spring upon me miserable. +I even thought of adding a white beard,—you +do use long graybeard words sometimes, +and naturally I had associated them +with your chin. You can imagine, then, +my relief as I entered your office, with the +last legs of my courage tottering, and beheld +you, not in the least ferocious in appearance, +and not even <i>old</i>! The revulsion +from my fears and anxieties was so swift +and complete that, you will remember, I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_10' name='page_10'></a>10</span> +gave both hands in salutation, and had I +possessed a miraculous third, you should +have had that also.</p> +<p>I am so pleased to have you confirm my +judgment of Howells’s novel; and that I +am to have more books for review. I +doubt, however, if Mr. Howells will ever +reap the benefit of my criticisms, for not +long since I read a note from him saying +that he never looked into <i>The Gazette</i>. +You must already have given offence by +doubting his literary infallibility.</p> +<p>But on the whole you question the wisdom +of my ambition to “give my life to +literature.” As to that I am inclined to +follow Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler’s opinion: +“Writing is like flirting,—if you can’t +do it, nobody can teach you; and if you +can do it, nobody can keep you from doing +it.” With a certain literary aspirant I know, +writing is even more like flirting than that,—an +artful folly with literature which will +never rise to the dignity of a wedding sacrifice. +She could no more give herself +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_11' name='page_11'></a>11</span> +seriously to the demands of such a profession +than a Southern mockingbird can take +a serious view of music. He makes it +quite independently of mind, gets his inspiration +from the fairies, steals his notes, +and dedicates the whole earth to the sky +every morning with a green-tree ballad, +utterly frivolous. Such a performance, my +dear Mr. Towers, can never be termed a +“sacrifice”; rather it is the wings and tail +of humour expressed in a song. But who +shall say the dear little wag has no vocation +because his small feather-soul is expressed +by a minuet instead of an anthem?</p> +<p>Therefore do not turn your editorial back +upon me because I am incapable of the more +earnest sacrifice. Even if I only chirrup a +green-tree ballad, I shall need a chorister to +aid me in winning those “laughing honours +of society.” And your supervision is all +the more necessary, since, as you said to +me, I live in a section where the literary +point of view is more sentimental than accurate. +This is accounted for, not by a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_12' name='page_12'></a>12</span> +lack of native wit, but by the fact that we +have no scholarship or purely intellectual +foundations. We are romanticists, but not +students in life or art. We make no great +distinctions between ideality and reality +because with us existence itself is one long +cheerful delusion. Now, while I suffer +from these limitations more or less, my ignorance +is not invincible, and I could learn +much by disagreeing with you! Your letters +would be antidotal, and thus, by a +sort of mental allopathy, beneficial.</p> +<div class='ra'> +<p style=' margin-right:4em;'>Sincerely,</p> +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Jessica Doane</span>.</p> +</div> + +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_13' name='page_13'></a>13</span></div> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>III</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My dear Miss Doane</span>:</p> +<p>There can be no doubt of it. Your reply, +which I should have acknowledged sooner, +gives substance to the self-reproach that +came to me the moment my letter to you +was out of my hands. All my friends +complain that they can get nothing from +me but “journalistic correspondence”; and +now when once I lay aside the hurry and +constraint of the editorial desk to respond +to what seemed a personal demand in a new +acquaintance, I quite lose myself and launch +out into a lyrical disquisition which really +applies more to my own experience than +to yours. Will you not overlook this fault +of egotism? Indeed I cannot quite promise +that, if you receive many letters from me +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_14' name='page_14'></a>14</span> +in the course of your reviewing, you may +not have to make allowances more than +once for a note of acrid personality, or egotism, +if you please, welling up through the +decorum of my editorial advisings. “If +we shut nature out of the door, she will +come in at the window,” is an old saying, +and it holds good of newspaper doors and +windows, as you see.</p> +<p>But really, what I had in mind, or should +have had in mind, was not the vague question +whether you should “sacrifice your +life to literature,”—that question you very +properly answered in a tone of bantering +sarcasm; but whether you should sacrifice +your present manner of life to come and +seek your fortune in this “literary metropolis”—Heaven +save the mark! Let me +say flatly, if I have not already said it, there +is no literature in New York. There are +millions of books manufactured here, and +millions of them sold; but of literature the +city has no sense—or has indeed only contempt. +Some day I may try to explain +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_15' name='page_15'></a>15</span> +what I mean by this sharp distinction between +the making of books, or even the +love of books, and the genuine aspiration +of literature. The distinction is as real to +my mind—has proved as lamentably real in +my actual experience—as that conceived in +the Middle Ages between the life of a <i>religiosus</i>, +Thomas à Kempis, let us say, and +of a faithful man of the world. But this is +a mystery, and I will not trouble you with +mysteries or personal experiences. You +would write as your Southern mockingbird +sings his “green-tree ballad”; the thought +of that bird mewed in a city cage and +taught to perform by rote and not for spontaneous +joy, troubled me not a little. I am +sending you by express several books....<a name="FNanchor_1" id="FNanchor_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p> +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_16' name='page_16'></a>16</span></div> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>IV</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My Dear Miss Doane</span>:</p> +<p>I have said such harsh things about our +present-day makers of books that I am going +to send you, by way of palliative, a +couple of volumes by living writers who +really have some notion of literature. One +is Brownell’s <i>Victorian Prose Masters</i>, and +the other is Santayana’s <i>Poetry and Religion</i>. +If they give you as much pleasure +as they have given me, I know I shall win +your gratitude, which I much desire. It is +a little disheartening and a justification of +my pessimism that neither of these men +has received anything like the same general +recognition as our fluent Mr. Perchance, +that interpreter of literature to the American +<i>bourgeoisie</i>. I will slip in also a volume +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_17' name='page_17'></a>17</span> +or two of Matthew Arnold, as a good +touchstone to try them on. Now that you +are becoming a professional weigher of +books yourself, you ought to be acquainted +with these gentlemen. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_18' name='page_18'></a>18</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>V</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My Dear Mr. Towers</span>:</p> +<p>Do not reproach yourself for having written +me a “journalistic” letter. I always +think of an editor as having only ink-bottle +insides, ever ready to turn winged +fancies into printed matter, or to enter upon +a “lyrical disquisition” concerning them. +Your distinction consists in a disposition +to abandon the formalities of the editorial +desk that you may “respond to the personal +demands of a new acquaintance.” +And this humane amiability leads me to +make a naïve confession. There are some +people whose demands are always personal. +I think it is their limitation, resulting +from a state of naturalness, more or less +primitive, out of which they have not yet +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_19' name='page_19'></a>19</span> +evolved. They do not appeal to your +judgment or wisdom or even to your sympathy, +but to <i>you</i>. Their very spirits are +composed of a sort of sunflower dust that +settles everywhere. And if they have +what we term the higher life at all, it is expressed +by a woodland call to some tree-top +spirit in you. Thus, here am I, really +desirous of an abstract, artistic training of +the mind, already taking liberties with the +sacred corners of your editorial dignity by +impressing <i>personal</i> demands.</p> +<p>And just so am I related to the whole +of life,—even to the “publicans” in my +father’s congregation. Indeed, if the desire +“to eat with sinners” insured salvation, +there would be less cause for alarm about +my miraculous future state. The attraction, +you understand, depends not upon the +fact of their being sinners, but upon the +sincerity of their mortality. The more unassumingly +these reprobates live in their share +of the common flesh, far below spiritual pretences, +the more does my wayward mind +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_20' name='page_20'></a>20</span> +tip the scales of unregenerate humour in +their direction. My instincts hobnob with +their dust. But do not infer that I have +identified you with these undisciplined +characters. When I was a child, out of the +rancour of a well-tutored Southern imagination +I honestly believed that every man the +other side of Mason and Dixon’s line had a +blue complexion, thin legs, and a long tail. +And once when I was still very young, as I +hurried from school through a lonely wood, +I actually <i>saw</i> one of these monsters quite +plainly. And I thought I observed that +his tail was slightly forked at the end! I +have long since forgiven you these terrifying +caudal appendages, of course, but, for +all that, I keep a wary eye upon my heavenly +bodies and at least one wing stretched +even unto this day when my guardian +angel introduces a Northern man. My +patriotic instincts recommend at once the +wisdom of strategy. And it is well the +“personal demands” come from me to +you; for, had the direction been reversed, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_21' name='page_21'></a>21</span> +by this time I should have sought refuge +somewhere in my last ditch and run up a +little tattered flag of rebellion to signify the +state of my mind.</p> +<p>It is just as well that you advise me +against trying my fortunes in your “literary +metropolis.” My father is set with all his +scriptures against the idea. “Strait is the +gate and narrow is the way that leads to +eternal life”; and, having predestined me +for a deaconess in his church, he is firmly +convinced that the strait and narrow way +for me does not lie in the direction of New +York. However, I have already whispered +to my confidential hole-in-the-ground that +nothing but the extremity of old-maid desperation +will ever induce me to accept the +vocation of a deaconess. Thus do a man’s +children play hide and seek with the beam +in his eye while he practises upon the mote +in theirs! But if, some day when the heavens +are doubtful between sun and rain, you +espy a little ruffled rainbow, propelled by +a goose-quill pen, coquetting northward +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_22' name='page_22'></a>22</span> +with the retiring clouds, know that ’tis the +spirit of Jessica Doane arched for another +outing in your literary regions.</p> +<p>Meanwhile you amaze me with the +charge that “of literature the city has no +sense, or indeed only contempt,” and I +await the promised explanation with interest. +For my own part, I often wonder +if there will remain any opportunities for +literary intelligence to expand at all when +the happy (?) faculty of man’s ingenuity +has devastated all nature’s countenance and +resources with “improvements,” cut down +all the trees to make houses of, and turned +all the green waterways into horse-power +for machinery. Then we shall have cotton-mill +epics, phonograph elegies from +the tops of tall buildings; and then ragtime +music, which interprets that divine art only +for vulgar heels and toes, will take the place +of anthems and great operas.</p> +<p>The books have come, and among them +is another lady’s literary effort to make a +garden. <i>Judith</i> it is this time, following +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_23' name='page_23'></a>23</span> +hard upon the sunburned heels of <i>Elizabeth, +Evelina</i>, and I do not know how +many more hairpin gardeners. Why does +not some man with a real spade and hoe +give his experience in a sure-enough +garden? I am wearied of these little +freckled-beauty diggers who use the same +vocabulary to describe roses and lilies that +they do in discussing evening toilets and +millinery creations. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_24' name='page_24'></a>24</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>VI</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My dear Mr. Towers</span>:</p> +<p>We have had a visitor, Professor M——, +the doctor of English literature in E—— +College, which you will remember is not +very far from Morningtown. He came to +examine a few first editions father has of +some old English classics—(I have neglected +to tell you that this is father’s one carnal +indulgence, dead books printed in funny +hunchbacked type!). He is a young man, +but so bewhiskered that his face suggests a +hermit intelligence staring at life through +his own wilderness. His voice is pitched +to a Browning tenor tone, and I have good +reasons for believing that he is a bachelor.</p> +<p>Still we had some talk together, and that +is how I came to practise a deceit upon +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_25' name='page_25'></a>25</span> +you. Seeing a copy of <i>The Gazette</i> lying +on the table this morning, Professor M—— +was reminded to say that there was a +“strong man,” Philip Towers by name, +connected with that paper now. I cocked +my head at once like a starling listening to +a new tune, for that was the first time I had +heard your name praised by a literary man +in the South. He went on to say that he +had been delighted with your last book, <i>Milton +and His Generation</i>, and asked if I had +observed your work in the literary department +of <i>The Gazette</i>. I admitted demurely +that I had. He praised several reviews (all +written by me!) particularly, and said that +you were the only critic in America now +who was telling the truth about modern +fiction. Then he incensed me with this +final comment:</p> +<p>“I do not understand how he does this +newspaper work so forcefully, almost savagely, +and is at the same time capable of +writing such delicate, scholarly essays as +this volume contains!” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_26' name='page_26'></a>26</span></p> +<p>“I have seen Mr. Towers,” I remarked, +mentally determining that you should suffer +for that distinction.</p> +<p>“Indeed! what manner of man is he?”</p> +<p>“His dust has congealed, stiffened into +a sort of plaster-of-Paris exterior, and he +has what I call a <i>disinterred</i> intelligence!”</p> +<p>“A what?”</p> +<p>“A man whose very personality is a +kind of mental reservation, and whose intelligence +has been resurrected up through +the thought and philosophy of three thousand +years.”</p> +<p>M—— looked awkward but impressed.</p> +<p>And I hoped he would ask how you actually +looked, for I was in the mood to give +a perfectly God-fearing description of you.</p> +<p>But from the foregoing you will see that +I am capable of sharing your literary glory +on the sly, and without compunction. Indeed, +the false rôle created in me a perverse +mood. And I entered into a literary discussion +with M—— that outraged his pedantic +soul. It was my way of perjuring +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_27' name='page_27'></a>27</span> +his judgment, in return for his unwitting +approval of my reviews. Besides, the +assumption of infallibility by dull, scholarly +men who have neither imagination nor +genius has always amused me. And this +one danced now as frantically as if he had +unintentionally grasped a live wire that hurt +and burned, but would not let go! Finally +I said very engagingly:</p> +<p>“Doctor M——, I hope to improve in +these matters by taking a course of instruction +under you next year.”</p> +<p>“Now God forbid that you should ever +do such a thing, Miss Doane! I would +sooner have you thrust dynamite under the +chair of English Literature, than see you in +one of my classes!”</p> +<p>Thus am I cast upon the barren primer +commons of this cold world! And that +reminds me to say that I have been reading +the essays by Arnold and Brownell which +you gave me, with no little animosity. +Brownell’s criticism of Thackeray is very +suggestive, and brushes away a deal of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_28' name='page_28'></a>28</span> +trash that has been written about his lack +of artistic method. But I never supposed +such loose sentences would be characteristic +of so acute a critic. They do not stick +together naturally, but merely logically. +And I am sure you would not tolerate them +from me. But of all the books you have given +me I like best George Santayana’s +<i>Poetry and Religion</i>. Who is he anyhow? +It may be a disgraceful admission to make, +but I never heard of him before. His name +is foreign, and his style is not American. +For when an American says a daring thing, +particularly of religion, he says it impudently, +with a vulgar bravado. But this +man writes out his opinion coolly, simply, +with that fine hauteur that will not condescend +to know of opposition. I think that +is admirable. Arnold’s courtesy and satirical +temperance in dealing with what he +discredits is a pose by the side of this +man’s mental grace and courage. And you +know how we usually denominate style: +it is the little lace-frilled petticoat of the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_29' name='page_29'></a>29</span> +lady novelist’s mincing passions, or the +breeches that belong to a male author’s +mental respirations. But with this man, +style is a spirit sword which cleaves between +delusions and facts, which separates +religion from reality and establishes it in +our upper consciousness of ideality.</p> +<p>Is it not absurd for such a barbarian as I +am to discuss these gospel-makers of literature +with you? But it is much more remarkable +that one or any of them should +excite my admiration and respect. Really, +if you must know it, Mr. Towers, this is +where I grow humble-minded in your presence. +I am fascinated with your ability to +deal with the usually indefinable, the esoteric +side of art,—the esoteric side of life +by interpretation. And here I discover a +shadowy, ghostly likeness between you and +this George Santayana. You do not think +toward the same ends, or write in the same +style, but you <i>know</i> things alike, as if you +had both drunk from the same Eastern +fountain of mysteries. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_30' name='page_30'></a>30</span></p> +<p>And now I am about to change my gratitude +into indignation. For I begin to +suspect that you sent me these books to +inculcate the doctrine of literary humility. +If so, you have succeeded beyond your +highest expectations. Until now, writing +has been a series of desperate experiments +with me. I progressed by inspiration. But +these fellows—Arnold especially—discredit +all such performances. And he does it +with the air of an English gentleman inspecting +a naked cannibal. He makes my +flesh creep! He regards an inspiration as +a sort of vulgarity that must be dressed +and stretched before it can be used. From +his point of view I infer that he considers +genius as a dangerous kind of drunkenness +that fascinates the world, but is really closely +related to bad form in literature. On the +other hand, father says that if Matthew +Arnold had known of me he would have +purchased me, placed me in a cage with a +fountain pen, and exhibited me to his +classes at Oxford as a literary freak! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_31' name='page_31'></a>31</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>VII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My dear Miss Doane:</span></p> +<p>I will remember your amused hostility to +“hairpin gardeners” and see that no more +out-of-door books come to you until I have +one with a stimulating odour of burning +cornstalks and rotting cabbages. Meanwhile +let me assure you that your reviews +of <i>Elizabeth, Evelina, Judith</i>, and their sisters +have been none the less delightful for a +vein of wicked impatience running through +them. The books I am now sending....</p> +<p>You ought not to be amazed at my +dismal comments on latter-day literature. +The fact is, you have dissected our present +book-makers better than I could do it myself, +for the reason that I am too amiable +(I presume, you see, that I have the wit) +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_32' name='page_32'></a>32</span> +to judge my fellow-workers with such +merciless veracity.</p> +<p>But I have just read an article in the +<i>Popular Science Monthly</i> which throws an +unexpected light on the subject. The paper +is by Dr. Minot and is a biologist’s comment +on “The Problem of Consciousness.” +You might not suppose that an argument +to show how “the function of consciousness +is to dislocate in time the reactions +from sensations” (!) would have much to do +with the properties of literature, but it has. +Let me copy out some of his words, as +probably you have not seen the magazine:</p> +<div class='blockquot'> +<p>“The communication between individuals is especially +characteristic of vertebrates, and in the higher members +of that subkingdom it plays a very great rôle in aiding +the work of consciousness. In man, owing to articulate +speech, the factor of communication has acquired a +maximum importance. The value of language, our +principal medium of communication, lies in its aiding +the adjustment of the individual and the race to external +reality. Human evolution is the continuation of animal +evolution, and in both the dominant factor has been the +increase of the resources available for consciousness.”</p> +</div> +<p>Now that sounds pretty well for a scientist. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_33' name='page_33'></a>33</span> +It should seem to follow that literature, +being, so to speak, the permanent +mode of communication,—conveying ideas +and emotions not merely from man to man, +but from generation to generation,—is the +predominant means by which this development +of consciousness is attained. It is a +pretty support we derive from the enemy. +But mark the serpent in the grass—“the +adjustment of the individual and the race +to external reality.” The real aim of evolution +is purely external, the adjustment of +man to environment; consciousness has +value in so far as it promotes this adjustment. +Flatly, to me, this is pure nonsense, +a putting of the cart before the horse, a +vulgar <i>hysteron-proteron</i>, none the less execrable +because it is the working principle +not of a single man, but of the whole of +soctety to-day. Consciousness, I hold, is +the supremely valuable thing, and progress, +evolution, civilisation, etc., are only significant +in so far as they afford nourishment to +it. Literature is the self-sufficient fruit of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_34' name='page_34'></a>34</span> +this consciousness, I say; the world says it +is a mere means of promoting our physical +adjustment. You see I take up lightly the +huge enmity of the world.</p> +<p>This is wild stuff to put into a journalistic +letter, no doubt. If I were writing a treatise +I would undertake to show that this difference +of view in regard to consciousness +and physical adjustment is the oldest and +most serious debate of human intelligence. +Saint Catharine, Thomas à Kempis, and +all those religious fanatics who counted the +world well lost, made a god of consciousness +and thought very little of physical adjustment. +The debate in their day was an +equal one. To-day it is all on one side—and +<i>væ victis</i>! I cry out—why should I +not?—as one of the conquered, and I am +charitable enough to advise another not to +enter the combat. It is a poor consolation +to wrap yourself in your virtue, mount a +little pedestal, set your hand on your heart, +and spout with Lucan: <i>The winning cause +for the gods, but the vanquished for me</i>! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_35' name='page_35'></a>35</span> +Sometimes we begin to wonder whether, +after all, the world may not be right, and +at that moment the wind begins to blow +pretty chill through our virtue. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_36' name='page_36'></a>36</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>VIII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My dear Miss Doane</span>:</p> +<p>Is my suspicion right? Was my last +letter to you really a tangle of crude ideas? +That has grown to be my way, until I begin +to wonder whether the horrid noises of +Park Row may not have thrown my mind +a little out of balance. For my strength +lay in silence and solitude. It is hard for +me to establish any sufficient bond between +my intellectual life and my personal relationships, +and as a consequence my letters, +when they cease to be mere journalistic +memoranda, float out into a sea of unrestrained +revery.</p> +<p>Yet I would ask you to be patient with +me in this matter. From the first, even +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_37' name='page_37'></a>37</span> +before I saw you here in New York, I felt +that somehow you might, by mere patience +and indulgence, if you would, re-establish +the lost bond in my life; that somehow the +shadow of your personality was fitted to +move among the shadows of my intellectual +world. What a strange compliment to +send a young woman!—for compliment it +seems in my eyes.</p> +<p>Meanwhile, as some explanation of this +intellectual twilight into which I would so +generously introduce you, I am sending +you a little book I wrote and foolishly +printed several years ago on the quiet +life of the Hindus. The mood of the book +still returns to me at times, though I have +cast away its philosophy as impracticable. +I look for peace in the way that Plato +trod, and some day I shall write my palinode +in that spirit. Let me, in this connection, +copy out a few verses I wrote +last night and the night before. It is my +first digression into poetry since I was a +boy: +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_38' name='page_38'></a>38</span></p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='text-align: center;'>THE THREE COMMANDS</p> +<br /> +<p style='text-align: center;'>I</p> +<br /> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Out of this meadow-land of teen and dole,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>Because my heart had harboured in its cell</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>One prophet’s word, an Angel bore my soul</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>Through starry ways to God’s high citadel.</p> +<br /> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>There in the shadow of a thousand domes</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>I walked, beyond the echo of earth’s noise;</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>While down the streets between the happy homes</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>Only the murmur passed of infinite joys.</p> +<br /> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Then said my soul: “O fair-engirdled Guide!</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>Show me the mansion where I, too, may won:</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Here in forgetful peace I would abide,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>And barter earth for God’s sweet benison.”</p> +<br /> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>“Nay,” he replied, “not thine the life Elysian,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Live thou the world’s life, holding yet thy vision</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>A hope and memory, till thy course be run.”</p> +<br /> +<p style='text-align: center;'>II</p> +<br /> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Then said my soul: “I faint and seek my rest;</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>The glory of the vision veils mine eyes;</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>These infinite murmurs beating at my breast</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>Turn earthly music into plangent sighs.</p> +<br /> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>“Because thou biddest, I will tread the maze</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>With men my brothers, yet my hands withhold</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>From building at the Babel towers they raise,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>And all my life within my heart infold.”</p> +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_39' name='page_39'></a>39</span></div> +<br /> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>The Angel answered: “Lo, as in a dream</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>Thy feet have passed beyond the gates of flame;</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>And evermore the toils of men must seem</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>But wasteful folly in a path of shame.</p> +<br /> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>“Yet I command thee, and vouchsafe no reason,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Thou shalt endure the world’s work for a season;</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>Work thou, and leave to others fame and blame.”</p> +<br /> +<p style='text-align: center;'>III</p> +<br /> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>I bowed submission, dumb a little while.</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>Then said my soul: “Thy will I dare not balk;</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>I reach my hands to labours that defile,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>And help to rear a plant of barren stalk.</p> +<br /> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>“Yet only I, because in life I bear</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>The vision of that peace, may never feel</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>The spur of keen ambition, never share</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>The dread of loss that makes the world’s work real.</p> +<br /> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>“Therefore in scorn I draw my bitter breath,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>And sorrow cherish as my proudest right,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Till scorn and sorrow fade in sweeter death.”</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>The Angel answered, turning as for flight:</p> +<br /> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>“The labour sorrow-done is more than sterile,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>And scorn will change thy vision to soul’s peril:</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>Be glad; thy work is gladness, child of light!”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_40' name='page_40'></a>40</span></div> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>IX</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My dear Mr. Towers</span>:</p> +<p>Many thanks for this copy of your book, +<i>The Forest Philosophers of India</i>. I have +just finished reading it, and now I understand +you better. Your sense of reality +has been destroyed by this mysticism of +the East. The normal man has a more +materialistic consciousness. But having +lost that, your very spirit has dissolved +into these strange illuminations which you +call thought, but which I fear are only +the ghostly rays of a Nirvana intelligence. +With you life is but a breath without form, +a whisper out of your long eternity. And +I confess that to me the impression of a +man not being at home in his own body +is nothing short of terrifying. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_41' name='page_41'></a>41</span></p> +<p>You were not expecting so fierce a criticism +of your own book from one of your +own reviewers, I suspect. Ah, but your +“Three Commands” have laid me under a +spell. I cannot say anything about them +without saying too much; and I am a little +rebellious. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_42' name='page_42'></a>42</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>X</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My dear Mr. Towers</span>:</p> +<p>I have not replied earlier to your letter +on the problem of consciousness, because +I was waiting to read Dr. Minot’s article. +At last I got hold of the magazine, and so +far from finding your comments “a tangle +of crude ideas,” they have even proved +suggestive—perhaps not in the way you +expected. For following your line of +thought, I wondered if it could have been +some violent death-rate among our own +species that has produced that desperate +phenomenon, the literary consciousness of +the historical novelist I have been reviewing +for you. And, come to think of it, I do not +know any other class of people whose problem +of consciousness could be so readily +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_43' name='page_43'></a>43</span> +reduced to a “bionomical” platitude. They +all write for the same slaying purpose. +Did you ever observe how few of their +characters survive the ordeals of art? +Usually it is the long-lost heroine, and the +hero, “wounded unto death” however, +and one has the impression that even these +would not have lived so long but for the +necessity of the final page.</p> +<p>But I must not fail to tell you of a dramatic +episode in connection with my first +venture into the realm of biological thought. +<i>The Popular Science Monthly</i> has long been +proscribed at the parsonage on account of +its heretical tendencies. And my purpose +was to keep a profound secret the fact that +I had purchased a copy containing Minot’s +article. But some demon prompted me to +inquire of my father the meaning of the +term “epiphenomenon.” Now a long association +with the idea of omniscience has +rendered him wiser in consciousness than +in fact, which is a joke the imagination +often plays upon serious people. But he +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_44' name='page_44'></a>44</span> +could neither give a definition nor find the +word in his ancient Webster. This dictionary +is his only unquestioned authority +outside the Holy Scriptures, and he declines +to accept any word not vouched for by this +venerable authority. Therefore he reasoned +that “epiphenomenon” had been built up +to accommodate some modern theory of +thought, some new leprosy of the mind +never dreamed of by the noble lexicographer. +And so, fixing me with a pair of +accusing glasses, he inquired:</p> +<p>“My daughter, where did you see this +remarkable word?”</p> +<p>I do not question that I am a direct descendant +from my fictitious grandmother, +Eve! I am always being tempted by apples +of information, and I have often known +the mortifying sensation of wishing to hide +my guilty countenance in my more modern +petticoat on that account.</p> +<p>He read the “blasphemous” article +through, only pausing to point out heresies +and perversions of the sacred truth as he +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_45' name='page_45'></a>45</span> +went along. But when he reached the +sentence in which the author calmly asserts +the theory of monism, he actually gagged +with indignation: “My child, do you know +that this godless wretch claims that the +same principle of life which makes the cabbage +also vitalises man?” I looked horrified, +but I could barely restrain my +laughter; for, indeed, there are “flat-dutch”-headed +gentlemen in his congregation +who might as well have come up at +the end of a cabbage stalk for all the thinking +they do. But I need not tell you that +the magazine containing the profane treatise +on consciousness was burned, while a +livid picture was drawn of my own future +if I persisted in stealing forbidden fruit from +this particular tree of knowledge.</p> +<p>But your last letter put me into a more +serious frame of mind. And I <i>am</i> complimented +that you entertain the hope that +I may be of assistance in re-establishing +the lost bond between you and real life. +But do you know that you have appealed +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_46' name='page_46'></a>46</span> +to the missionary instincts of a barbarian? +The attributes of patience and indulgence +do not belong to natures like mine. Never +has any affliction worked out patience in +me, never has my strongest affection taken +the form of indulgence. In me Love and +Friendship, Sorrow and Gladness, take +fiercer forms of expression.</p> +<p>But I will not conceal from you the fact +that from the first I have felt in our relationship +a curious sensation of magic in +one opposed to mystery in the other. I +have felt the abandon and madness of a +happy dancer, whirling around the dim +edge of your shadow-land in the wild +expectation of beholding the disembodied +spirit of you come forth to join me. It is +not that I <i>wished</i> to work a charm, but +the shadow of your mysterious life draws +me into the opposition of a counter-influence. +The gift of power is not in me to +set foot across the magic line into the dim +land of your soul, any more than I could +dissolve into a breath of moonlit air, or a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_47' name='page_47'></a>47</span> +wave of the sea. For, in you, I seem to +perceive some strange phenomenon of a +spirit changed to twilight gloom which +covers all your hills and valleys with the +mournful shadow of approaching night. +Often this conception appalls me, but more +frequently I conceive a wild energy from +the idea, as of one sent to rim the shadows +in close and closer till some star shall shine +down and bless them into heroic form and +substance. And I have been amazed to +find within my mind a witch’s charm for +working rainbow miracles upon your dim +sky,—but so it is. There have always +been mad moments in my life when I have +felt all-powerful, as if I had got hold of the +ribbon ends of an incantation! This is +another one of my limitations at which +you must not laugh. For a juggler must +be taken seriously, or he juggles in vain; +he must have an opportunity to create the +necessary illusion in you to insure the success +of his performance. Meanwhile, I go +to make the circle of my dance smaller; +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_48' name='page_48'></a>48</span> +who knows but to-morrow I may be a +snow-bunting on your tall cliffs, or a little +homeless wren seeking shelter in your +valley. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_49' name='page_49'></a>49</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XI</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My dear Miss Doane</span>:</p> +<p>So I am a disembodied ghost in your +estimation, and you, “happy dancer,” are +whirling around the rim of my shadow-land +with some sweet incantation learned +in your Georgia woods to conjure me out +into the visible world. Really I would call +that a delicious bit of impertinence were I +not afraid the word might be taken in the +wrong sense.</p> +<p>And yet, I must confess it, there is too +much truth in what you say. Some day, +when I am bolder, I may unfold to you the +whole story of my ruin—for it is a ruin to +be disembodied, is it not? I may even +indicate the single phrase, the mysterious +word of all mysteries, that might evoke +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_50' name='page_50'></a>50</span> +the spirit from the past and incarnate him +in the living present. Do not try to guess +the phrase, I beseech you, for it would +frighten you now and so I should lose my +one chance of reincarnation. When I visit +you in the South, some day soon, I will +tell you the magic word I have learned.</p> +<p>What hocus-pocus I must seem to be +talking, as if there were some cheap +tragedy in my life. Indeed there is nothing +of the sort. I have lived as tamely as a +house-cat, my only escapade having been +an innocent attempt at playing Timon for +a couple of years. The drama of my life +has been a mere battling with shadows. +Your relation of the effect produced in +your home by Dr. Minot’s heresies carries +me back to the first act in that shadow +fight, for I too was brought up by the +strictest of parents, and, indeed, was myself, +as a boy, a veritable prodigy of piety. +What would you think of me as a preacher +expounding the gospel over a piano-stool +for pulpit to a rapt congregation of three? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_51' name='page_51'></a>51</span> +I could show you a sermon of that precocious +Mr. Pound-text printed in the New +York <i>Observer</i> when he was as much as +nine years old—and the sermon might be +worse.</p> +<p>I can recall these facts readily enough; +but the battle of doubt and faith that I +passed through a few years later I can no +more realise than I can now realise your +father’s blessed assurance of heaven. I +know vaguely that it was a time of unspeakable +agony for me, a rending asunder, +as it were, of soul and body. The doctrine +was bred into my bones; I saw the folly +of it intellectually, but the emotional comfort +of it was the very quintessence of my +life. The struggle came upon me alone +and I was without help or guidance. Into +those few years of boyish vacillation, I see +now that the whole tragedy of more than +a century of human experience was thrust. +One day I sat in church listening to a +sermon of appealing eloquence: “And +this is the condemnation, that light is come +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_52' name='page_52'></a>52</span> +into the world, and men loved darkness +rather than light, because their deeds were +evil.” Was I too deliberately turning my +back on the light? I hid my face and +cried. That was the end. I came out of +the church free, but I had suffered too +much. Something passed from my life +that day which nothing can replace; for +perfect faith, like love, comes to a man but +once.</p> +<p>1 was empty of comfort and without +resting-place for my spirit. Then said I: +Look you, belief in this religion as dogma +is gone; why not hold fast to its imaginative +beauty! If revelation is a fraud, at +least the intricacies of this catholic faith +have grown up from the long yearning of +the human heart, and possess this inner +reality of corresponding with our spiritual +needs. And for several years I wrought +at Christian symbolism, trying to build up +for my soul a home of poetical faith so to +speak. But in the end this could not +satisfy me; I knew that I was cherishing +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_53' name='page_53'></a>53</span> +a sham, a pretty make-believe after the +manner of children. Better the blindness +of true religion than this illusion of the +imagination. And I was now a grown +man.</p> +<p>Then by some inner guidance I turned +to India. How shall I tell you what I +found in the philosophies of that land! +One thing will surprise you. Instead of +pessimism I found in India during a certain +period of time a happiness, an exultation +of happiness, such as the world to-day +cannot even imagine. And I found that +this happiness sprang from no pretended +revelation but from a profound understanding +of the heart. Do this, said the books, +and you will feel thus, and so step by step +to the consummation of ecstasy. I read +and was amazed; I understood and knew +that I too, if my will were strong, might +slip from bondage and be blessed. But +I saw further that the path lay away from +this world, that I must renounce every +desire which I had learned to call good, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_54' name='page_54'></a>54</span> +that I must strip my soul naked of all this +civilisation which we have woven in a +loom of three thousand years. The dying +command of Buddha terrified me: “All +things pass away; work out your own +salvation diligently!” The words were +spoken to comfort and strengthen the +bereaved disciples, but to me they sounded +as an imprecation, so different is the training +of our society from theirs. The loneliness +and austerity of the command appalled +me; I would not take the first step, and +turned back to seek the beautiful things of +the eye.</p> +<p>And now at last I am caught up in the +illusion of a new Western ideal—not +Christianity, for that has passed away, +strange as such a statement may sound +to you in your orthodox home, but yet +a legacy of Christ. Thou shalt love God +with all thy heart and thy neighbour as +thyself, was the law of Christianity. We +have forgotten God and the responsibility +of the individual soul to its own divinity; +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_55' name='page_55'></a>55</span> +we have made a fetish of our neighbour’s +earthly welfare. We are not Christians +but humanitarians, followers of a maimed +and materialistic faith. This is the ideal +of the world to-day, and from it I see but +one door of escape—and none but a strong +man shall open that door.</p> +<p>So I look at the world and life, but, even +as I write, something like a foreboding +shudder comes over me. I think of your +home and your father and the straitness +of the law under which you live, and I +wonder whether after all the ghost of that +fierce theology is yet laid. Can it be that +this law which darkened my boyhood shall +arise again and claim the joy of my maturer +years?</p> +<p>Alas, you who venture to trip so gayly +about the rim of my shadow-land with +your brave incantations, behold what spirit +of gloom and malignant mutterings you +have evoked from the night. I have written +more than I meant—too much, I fear. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_56' name='page_56'></a>56</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My dear Mr. Towers</span>:</p> +<p>An evangelist has been here this week. +He fell upon us like a howling dervish who +had fed fanaticisms on locusts and wild +honey. And he has stirred up the spiritual +dust of this community by showing an intimacy +with God’s plans in regard to us +very disconcerting to credulously minded +sinners. As for me, I have passed this +primer-state of religious emotion. I am +sure a kind God made me, and so I belong +to Him, good or bad. In any case I cannot +change the whole spiritual economy of +Heaven with my poor prayers and confessions. +I try to think of my shortcomings, +therefore, as merely the incidents of an +eternal growth. I shall outlive them all +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_57' name='page_57'></a>57</span> +in the course of time, quite naturally, perennially, +as the trees outlive the blight of +winter and put forth each year a new +greenness of aspiring leaves. I dare not +say that I know God, and I will not believe +some doctrines taught concerning Him; but +I keep within the principle of life and follow +as best I can the natural order of things. +And for the most part I feel as logically related +to the divine order as the flowers are +to the seasons. I know that if this really is +His world,</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 4.04709345106696em;'>should the chosen guide</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Be nothing better than a wandering cloud,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>I cannot miss my way.</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>Are you shocked, dear Shadow, at such +a creed of sun and dust?—you, a dishoused +soul, wandering like a vagrant ghost along +life’s green edge? After all, I doubt if I am +so far behind you in spiritual experience. +The difference is, I have two heavens, that +orthodox one of my imagination, and this +real heaven-earth of which I am so nearly a +part. But you have forced the doors of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_58' name='page_58'></a>58</span> +mystery and escaped before your time. +And you can never return to the old dust-and-daisy +communion with nature, yet you +are appalled at the loneliness and the terrible +sacrifices made by a man in your situation. +Your spiritual ambition has outstripped your +courage. You are an adventurer, rather +than an earnest pilgrim to Mecca.</p> +<p>And yet day after day as I have weathered +farther and farther back in the church, +like a little white boat with all my sails +reefed to meet the gospel storm of damnation +that has been raging from the pulpit, I +have thought of you and your Indian philosophy, +by way of contrast, almost as a +haven of refuge. Our religion seems to me +to have almost the limitations of personality. +There can be no other disciples but Christian +disciples. Our ethics are bounded by +doctrines and dogmas. But, whether Buddhist +or Christian, the final test of initiation +is always the same—“All things pass away, +work out your own salvation with diligence,” +“Die to the world,” “Present +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_59' name='page_59'></a>59</span> +your bodies a living sacrifice”—and you +would not make these final renunciations. +You “turned back to seek the beautiful +things of the eye.” Well, if one is only +wise enough to know what the really +beautiful things are, it is as good a way as +any to spin up to God. Meanwhile, I +doubt if that “Western ideal,” the kind-hearted +naturalism which “makes a fetish +of our neighbour’s welfare,” will hold you +long. Already you “see one door” of +escape. I wonder into what starry desert +of heaven it leads.</p> +<p>Do you know, I cannot rid myself of the +notion that yours is an enchanted spirit, +always seeking doors of escape; but at the +moment of exit the wild wings that might +have borne you out fail. Some earth spell +casts you back, incarnate once more. A +little duodecimal of fairy love divides the +desires of your heart and draws one wing +down. “The beautiful things of the eye,” +that is your little personal footnote, O +stranger, which clings like a sweet prophecy +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_60' name='page_60'></a>60</span> +to all your asceticism and philosophy. And +prophecies cannot be evaded. They must +be fulfilled. They are predestined sentences +which shape our doom, quite independently +of our prayers I sometimes think,—like the +lily that determined to be a reed, and +wished itself tall enough, only to be +crowned at last with a white flag of +blooms.</p> +<p>And do not expect me to pray you +through these open ways of escape. I +only watch them to wish you may never +win through. Something has changed me +and set my heart to a new tune. I must +have already made my escape, for it seems +to me that I am on the point of becoming +immortal. As I pass along the world, I +am Joy tapping the earth with happy heels. +I am gifted all at once with I do not know +what magic, so that all my days are changed +to heaven. And almost I could start a +resurrection of “beautiful things” only to +see you so glad. But that will never be. +There are always your wings to be reckoned +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_61' name='page_61'></a>61</span> +with; and with them you are ever +ready to answer the voices you hear calling +you from the night heavens, from the temples +and tombs of the East.</p> +<p>Yesterday I saw a woman sitting far +back in the shadows of the church wearing +such a look of sadness that she frightened +me. It was not goodness but sorrow that +had spiritualised her face. And to me she +seemed a wan prisoner looking through the +windows of her cell, despairing, like one +who already knows his death sentence. +“What if after all I am mistaken,” I thought, +“and there really is occasion for such grief +as that!” I could think of nothing but +that white mystery of sorrow piercing the +gloom with mournful eyes. And when at +last the “penitents” came crowding the +altar with quaking cowardly knees, I fell +upon mine and prayed: “Dear Lord, I am +Thine, I will be good! Only take not from +me the joy of living here in the green valleys +of this present world!” Was such +a prayer more selfish than the sobbing +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_62' name='page_62'></a>62</span> +petitions of the penitents there about the +church-rail, asking for heavenly peace? I +have peace already, the ancient peace of +the forests as sweet as the breath of God. +I ask for no more.</p> +<p>You see, dear “Spirit of gloom,” that +I have sent you all my little scriptures in +return for your “malignant mutterings.” +My God is a pastoral Divinity, while yours +is a terrible Mystery, hidden behind systems +of philosophy, vanishing before Eastern +mysticism into an insensate Nirvana, revealing +ways of escape too awful to contemplate. +I could not survive the thoughts +of such a God for my own. I am <i>His</i> +heathen. By the way, did you ever think +what an unmanageable estate that is—“And +I will give you the heathen for your +inheritance”? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_63' name='page_63'></a>63</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XIII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My dear Miss Doane</span>:</p> +<p>What mental blindness led me to give +you such a book? What demon of perversity +tempted you to send me such a +review of Miss Addams’s Hull-House heresies? +You know my abhorrence of our +“kind-hearted materialism” (so you call +it), yet you calmly write me a long panegyric +on this last outbreak of humanitarian +unrighteousness—unrighteousness, I +say, vaunting materialism, undisciplined +feminism, everything that denotes moral +deliquescence. Of course I see the good, +even the wise, things that are in the book, +but why didn’t you expose the serpent +that lurks under the flowers?</p> +<p>As a matter of fact, what is good in the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_64' name='page_64'></a>64</span> +book is old, what is bad is new. Do you +suppose that this love of humanity which +has practically grown into the religion of +men,—do you suppose that this was not +known to the world before? The necessity +of union and social adhesion was +seen clearly enough in the Middle Ages. +The notion that morality, in its lower +working at least, is dependent on a man’s +relation to the community, was the basis +of Aristotle’s Ethics, who made of it a +catchword with his <i>politikon zôon</i> (your +father will translate it for you as “a political +animal”). The “social compunction” +is as ancient as the heart of man. How +could we live peacefully in the world +without it? Literature has reflected its +existence in a thousand different ways. +Here and there it will be found touched +with that sense of universal pity which +we look upon as a peculiar mark of its +present manifestation. In that most perfect +of all Latin passages does not Virgil +call his countryman blessed because he is +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_65' name='page_65'></a>65</span> +not tortured by beholding the poverty of +the city—</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 12.1412803532009em;'>neque ille</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Aut doluit miserans inopem, aut invidit habenti?</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>And is not the <i>Æneid</i> surcharged with +pitying love for mankind, “the sense of +tears in mortal things”? So the life and +words of St. Francis of Assisi are full of +the breath of brotherly love—not brotherhood +with all men merely, but with the +swallows and the coneys, the flowers, and +even the inanimate things of nature. And +the letters of St. Catherine of Siena are +aflame with passionate love of suffering men.</p> +<p>But there is something deplorably new +in these more modern books, something +which makes of humanitarianism a cloak +for what is most lax and materialistic in the +age. I mean their false emphasis, their +neglect of the individual soul’s responsibility +to itself, their setting up of human love +in a shrine where hitherto we worshipped +the image of God, their limiting of morality +and religion to altruism. I deny flatly that +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_66' name='page_66'></a>66</span> +“Democracy ... affords a rule of living +as well as a test of faith,” as Miss Addams +says; I deny that “to attain individual +morality in an age demanding social morality, +to pride one’s self on the results of +personal effort when the time demands +social adjustment, is utterly to fail to apprehend +the situation”; I say we do <i>not</i> +“know, at last, that we can only discover +truth by rational and democratic interest in +life.” Why did you quote these sentences +with approval? There is no distinction +between individual and social morality, or, +if there is, the order is quite the other way. +All this democratic sympathy and social +hysteria is merely the rumour in the lower +rooms of our existence. Still to-day, as +always, in the upper chamber, looking out +on the sky, dwells the solitary soul, concerned +with herself and her God. She +passes down now and again into the noise +and constant coming and going of the +lower rooms to speak a word of encouragement +or admonition, but she returns soon +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_67' name='page_67'></a>67</span> +to her own silence and her own contemplation. +(The heart of a St. Anthony in the +desert of Egypt, the heart of many a lonely +Hindu sage knows a divine joy of communication +of which Hull House with its +human sympathies has no conception.) Morality +is the soul’s debt to herself.</p> +<p>It is a striking and significant fact that +these humanitarians are continually breaking +the simplest rules of honesty and decent +living. Rousseau, the father of them +all, sending his children (the children of +his body, I mean) to the foundling asylum, +is a notorious example of this; and John +Howard is another. I have in my own +experience found these people impossible +to live with.</p> +<p>Let me illustrate this tendency to forget +the common laws of personal integrity +by allusion to a novel which comes from +another college-settlement source. It is a +story called, I think, <i>The Burden of Christopher</i>, +published three or four years ago,—a +clever book withal and rather well +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_68' name='page_68'></a>68</span> +written. The plot is simple. A young +man, just from his university, inherits a +shoe factory which, being imbued with +college-settlement sentimentalism, he attempts +to operate in accordance with the +new religion. Business is dull and he is +hard-pressed by competitive houses. An +old lady has placed her little fortune in his +hands to be held in trust for her. To prevent +the closing down of his factory and +the consequent distress of his people, he +appropriates this trust money for his business. +In the end he fails, the crash comes, +and, as I recollect it, he commits suicide. +All well and good; but in a paragraph +toward the end of the book, indeed by the +whole trend of the story, we discover that +the humanitarian sympathy which led the +hero to sacrifice his individual integrity for +the weal of his work-people is a higher +law in the author’s estimation than the old +moral sense which would have made his +personal integrity of the first importance to +himself and to the world. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_69' name='page_69'></a>69</span></p> +<p>I submit to you, my dear reviewer, that +such notions are subversive of right thinking +and are in fact the poisonous fruit of an +era which has relaxed its hold on any ideal +outside of material well-being. For that +reason when I read in Miss Addams’s book +such words as these, “Evil does not shock +us as it once did,” I am filled with anger. +I wonder at the blindness of the age when +I read further such a perversion of truth as +this: “We have learned since that time to +measure by other standards, and have ceased +to accord to the money-earning capacity +exclusive respect.”—Have we? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_70' name='page_70'></a>70</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XIV</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My dear Miss Doane</span>:</p> +<p>I am troubled lest the letter I wrote yesterday +should have seemed to breathe more +of personal bitterness than of philosophic +judgment. Did I make clear that my hostility +to modern humanitarianism is not due +to any contempt for charity or for the desire +of universal justice? I dislike and distrust +it for its false emphasis and for its +perversion of morality—and the two faults +are practically one.</p> +<p>Last night I was reading in <i>Piers Plowman</i> +and came upon a passage which exactly +illustrates what I mean. The old Monk of +Malvern might be called the very fountainhead +in English letters of that stream +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_71' name='page_71'></a>71</span> +of human brotherhood which has at last +spread out into the stagnant pool of humanitarianism. +He wrote when the rebellion +of Wat Tyler and Jack Straw was fermenting, +when the people were beginning to +cry out for their rights, and his vision is +instinct with the finest spirit of love for the +downtrodden and the humble. Yet never +once does his compassion or indignation +lead him to neglect spiritual things for +material. Let me copy out a few of his +lines on “Poverte”:</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>And alle the wise that evere were,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>By aught I kan aspye,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Preiseden poverte for best lif,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>If pacience it folwed,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>And bothe bettre and blesseder</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>By many fold than richesse.</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>For though it be sour to suffre,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Thereafter cometh swete;</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>As on a walnote withoute</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Is a bitter barke,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>And after that bitter bark,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Be the shelle aweye,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Is a kernel of comfort</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Kynde to restore.</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>So is after poverte or penaunce</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Paciently y-take;</p> +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_72' name='page_72'></a>72</span></div> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>For it maketh a man to have mynde</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>In God, and a gret wille</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>To wepe and to wel bidde,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Whereof wexeth mercy,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Of which Christ is a kernelle</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>To conforte the soule.</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>Imagine, if you can, such a speech in the +precincts of Hull House! I am not concerned +to exalt poverty, I know how much +suffering it creates in the world; and yet I +say that an age to which poverty is only a +degradation without any possible spiritual +compensation, is an age of materialism. I +wish I might follow the use of the word +<i>comfort</i> from its early nobility as you see it +here down to its modern degeneracy, where +it signifies the mere satisfaction of the body. +The history of that word would be an eloquent +sermon. Have I made myself clear? +Do you understand what I mean by the +false emphasis of our humanitarianism? +And do you see why I could not stomach +your review of Miss Addams’s book?—I am +sending by express several novels, among +them.... +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_73' name='page_73'></a>73</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XV</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My dear Mr. Towers</span>:</p> +<p>Here in the South we are born into our +traditions and we generally die by them. +We never encourage the mental extravagance +of adding new dimensions to our +minds. When you have had an hour’s +conversation with any of us, or have exchanged +three letters, you can be comfortably +sure of what we think on any subject +under the sun. Thus, you see, I was +wholly unprepared for the point of view +expressed in your last two letters. I +thought you were a gentle disciple,—following +the lights behind us indeed; but I +did not suspect that you were bent upon +this journey through the dust of centuries +with the temper of a modern savage. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_74' name='page_74'></a>74</span></p> +<p>However, it seems a man must have +either ass’s ears or a cloven foot; and, soon +or late, most of us expect to find our hero +in Bottom’s predicament. But I would +rather have acknowledged the beam in my +own eye than have discovered this diabolical +split in your heel. All my life I have +been familiar with the inhumanity of the +merely spiritually minded. And I think it +was because your own spirit was not denominational, +nor fitted to any dogma of +my acquaintance, that I trusted it. But +really, the product is always the same. +And I begin to wonder if there is not +something fundamentally cruel in the law +that governs soul-life. No matter what the +age or the colour of the doctrine is, those +most highly developed in this way generally +show a <i>conscientious selfishness</i> that +is dehumanising. They have no tender +sense of touch, their relation to the world +about them is obtuse; and for this reason, +I think, they excite aversion in normally +minded people. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_75' name='page_75'></a>75</span></p> +<p>I leave you, my dear sir, to “expose the +serpent lurking under the flowers.” For +my part, I believe humanitarianism is the +better part of any religion. And while my +knowledge of social orders does not reach +so far back into the grave-dust of the past, +I am unwilling to agree with you that it is +“coeval with human nature.” But it is +one of the ends toward which all religions +must tend,—for if a man love not his +brother whom he hath seen, how can he +love God whom he hath not seen?—But I +forget! Love is not essential to your sort +of Nirvana mysticism. In you, spirituality +is a sort of cruel aspiration toward personal +perfection. Still, that little scripture represents +the advance made by this modern +religion of Christianity over your Hindu +theosophy.</p> +<p>Do you know I think a man’s religious +philosophy ought to fit him particularly for +his present environment of earth and flesh. +One cannot tell so much about the life after +death. It may be necessary to make us +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_76' name='page_76'></a>76</span> +over in the twinkling of an eye, and even +to change the very direction of all spirit life +in us. But here, we know accurately what +the needs are; and any sort of wisdom that +fails to provide us with the right way +of dealing with one another is defective. +Thus your Buddhism seems to me more +mesmeric than satisfying. It is a way men +have of murdering themselves, while continuing +to live, into peace and oblivion. +There is a surrender, a negation of life, a +denial of total responsibilities, or human +obligations, which to my mind indicates a +monstrous selfishness, none the less real +because its manifestations are passive and +dignified by a philosophic pose. You see +I am reading your last two letters by the +light of certain earlier confessions.</p> +<p>And again I do not think you can fairly +complain of humanitarianism because in +some books “it is synonymous with all +that is lax and materialistic in the age.” +The author of a novel is never so concerned +to tell the truth as he is to exploit and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_77' name='page_77'></a>77</span> +illustrate an interesting theory. You have +no right to expect gospel from literary +mountebanks. Nor can you judge the integrity +of it by such disciples as Rousseau, +who was merely a decadent soul fascinated +by the contemplation of his own depravity. +The scriptures of such a Solomon, however +true in theory, are neither honest nor effective. +But as a final climax of your argument, +you declare that in your “own +experience” you have found these humanitarians +“impossible to live with.” I do +not wonder at that. A question far more +to the point is, Did they find <i>you</i> impossible +to live with? Come to think of it, I would +rather live with a humanitarian, myself, +even if his soul was carnally bow-legged. +But my sort of charity is so perverse, so +awry with humour, that the constant contemplation +of a man trying to wriggle out of +the flesh through some spiritual key-hole, +made by his own imagination, into a form +of existence much higher than agreeable, +would be, to say the least of it, diverting. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_78' name='page_78'></a>78</span></p> +<p>You copy several sentences from the +Hull-House book in your letter and cry to +me in an accusing voice to know why I +quoted them in my review “with approval.” +Suppose I did not comprehend +their important relation to the subject from +your point of view? But I do understand +enough to know that the “social compunction” +in Aristotle’s day was a mere theory, +a sublime doctrine practised by a few, +whereas now it is a great governing principle, +a dynamic power in the social order +of mankind. And I challenge your accuracy +in calling such social sympathy +“only a rumour in the lower rooms of our +existence.” My notion is that the choir +voice of it has already reached that grand +third story of yours, and that the “solitary +soul” in the “upper chamber” will presently +find herself along with other traditions—in +the attic! Oh, I know your sort! +You stay in your upper chamber as long +as atmospheric conditions make it comfortable. +But before this time I have known +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_79' name='page_79'></a>79</span> +you to sneak down into those same “lower +rooms” to warm yourself by humanitarian +hearthstones. And that you are not nearly +so immortal as you think you are is proved +by these winter chills along the spine. +There come occasions when you get tired +of your own stars and long to feel the thrill +of that royal life-blood that leaps like a +ruby river of love through the grimy, toiling, +battling humanitarian world beneath +you. Did you once intimate to me that if +ever I conjured you out of the shadows +which seem to surround you, I should be +horrified at the vision? Well, I am! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_80' name='page_80'></a>80</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XVI</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My dear Miss Doane</span>:</p> +<p>So your servant has a cloven hoof and +just escapes the adornment of ass’s ears! +Dear, dear, what a temper! But, jesting +aside, you must not suppose I abhor the +cant of humanitarianism from any thin-blooded +selfishness or outworn apathy. +Have I not made this clear to you? It is +the negative side of humanitarianism (the +word itself is an offence!), and not its portion +of human love that vexes my soul.</p> +<p>Through one of the crooked streets not +far from Park Row that wind out from +under the grim arches of the Brooklyn +Bridge, I often pass on business. Here on +the step at the entrance to a noisome court, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_81' name='page_81'></a>81</span> +where heaven knows how many families +huddle together behind the walls of these +monstrous printing-houses, there sits day after +day a child, a little pale, peaked boy, who +seems to belong to no one and to have +nothing to do—sits staring out into the +filthy street with silent, wistful eyes. There +is only misery and endurance on his face, +with some wan reflection of strange dreams +smothered in his heart. He sits there, +waiting and watching, and no man knows +what world-old philosophy comforts his +weary brain. The face haunts me; I see it +at times in my working hours; it peers at +me often from the surging night-throngs of +upper Broadway; it passes dimly across my +vision before I fall asleep. It has become a +symbol to me of the long agony of human +history. Because I know the misery of +that face and the evil that has produced it, +because I know that misery has been in the +world from the beginning and shall endure +to the end, and because my heart is sickened +at the thought,—that is why I rebel so +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_82' name='page_82'></a>82</span> +bitterly against a doctrine that turns away +from all spiritual consolation for some +vainly builded hope of a socialistic paradise +on this earth. I have heard one of these +humanitarians avow that he and practically +all his friends were materialists, and such +they are even when they will not admit it. +Dear girl, believe me, I have lived over in +my mind and suffered in my heart the long +toil and agony which the human race has +undergone in its effort to wrest some assurance +of spiritual joy and peace from +these clouds of illusion about us; I have read +and felt what the Hindu ascetic has written +of lonely conflict in the wilderness; I have +heard the Greek philosophers reason their +way to faith; I have comprehended the +ecstasy of the early Christians; I have taken +sides in the high warfare of mediæval realists +against the cheap victory of nominalism. +I know that the word of deliverance +has been spoken by all these and that it is +always the same word. And now come +these humanitarians, with their starved +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_83' name='page_83'></a>83</span> +imaginations, who in practice, if not in +speech, deny all the spiritual insight of the +race and seek to lower the ideal of mankind +to their fools’ commonwealth of comfort in +this world. Because I revolt from this false +and canting conception of brotherly love, +am I therefore devoted to “conscientious +selfishness”? Ah, I beg you to revise your +reading of this book of my heart, and to +remodel your criticism.</p> +<p>But I am saying not a word of what is +most in my thoughts. In two days I shall +set out for a trip to the South which will +bring me to Morningtown. Will you turn +away in horror if you see a wretched creature +hobbling with cloven hoof up the +scented lane of your village? For sweet +charity’s sake, for your own sweeter sake, +believe that his heart is full of love however +wrong his mind may be.</p> + +<hr style='width: 10%; border:none; border-bottom:1px solid black; clear:both; margin: 2em auto 1em 0' /> + +<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_1' id='Footnote_1'></a><a href='#FNanchor_1'><span class='label'>[1]</span></a> +<p style='font-size: small'>Much of the routine matter in regard to reviewing has been omitted from these letters.</p></div> + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 0em; padding-bottom: 0em'> +<a name='PART_II_WHICH_SHOWS_HOW_THE_EDITOR_VISITS_JESSICA_IN_THE_COUNTRY_AND_HOW_LOVE_AND_PHILOSOPHY_SOMETIMES_CLASH' id='PART_II_WHICH_SHOWS_HOW_THE_EDITOR_VISITS_JESSICA_IN_THE_COUNTRY_AND_HOW_LOVE_AND_PHILOSOPHY_SOMETIMES_CLASH'></a> +</div> + +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' font-size:1.2em; margin-top:; margin-bottom:;'>The Second Part</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p>which shows how the editor visits Jessica</p> +<p>in the country, and how love</p> +<p>and philosophy sometimes clash.</p> +</div> + +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XVII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p>WRITTEN AFTER RETURNING FROM MORNINGTOWN</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My Dear Miss Doane</span>:</p> +<p>It is all different and the morning has +forgotten to return since I left you where +your village meets the great world. Have +you kept God’s common dayspring imprisoned +among your garden trees and +flowers? What shall I say? What shall I +not say? Only this, that I gave my happiness +into your hands and you have broken +it and let it drop to the ground. See what +a shipwreck I have suffered of all my +dreams. These long years of solitary reading +and study I have been gathering up +in my imagination the passions and joys +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_84' name='page_84'></a>84</span> +and hopes of a thousand dead lovers,—the +longing of Menelaus for Helen, the outcry +of Catullus for Lesbia, the worship of +Dante for Beatrice—all these I have made +my own, believing that some day my love +of a woman should be rendered fair in her +eyes by these borrowed colours; and now I +have failed and lost; and what I would +give, you have accounted as light and insufficient. +Is there no speech left to tell +you all the truth? I am a little bewildered, +and have not been able to pluck up heart +of courage. Write me some word of familiar +consolation; do not quite shut the +door upon me until my eyes grow accustomed +to this darkness. All the light is +with you, and the beauty that God has +given the world, all the meaning of human +life,—and I turn my back on this and go +out into the night alone. Dear girl, I +would not utter a word of reproach. I +know that my love, which seemed to me +so good, may be as nothing to you, is indeed +not worthy of you, for you are more +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_85' name='page_85'></a>85</span> +than all my dreams—and yet it was all that +I had. I shall learn perhaps to write to +you as a mere reviewer of books;—the +irony of it. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_86' name='page_86'></a>86</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XVIII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My dear Mr. Towers</span>:</p> +<p>Can you believe it? I was absurdly glad +to receive your letter this morning. Ever +since you went away I have felt so brave +and desolate—like a poor dryad who has +fought her way out of her own little kingdom +of love and peace and green silence, +for the sake of a foreign ideal which really +belongs to the world at large. (I shouldn’t +wonder if I did become a deaconess after +all!) In my effort to escape a romantic +sacrifice to a strange heathen divinity, I +find myself offered upon this common altar +in the name of a theory, Humanitarianism. +My smoke arises. I have been consumed, +and now I write you merely in the spirit,—you +see I am learning <i>your</i> incantations. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_87' name='page_87'></a>87</span></p> +<p>But being disembodied, I may at least be +truthful. Besides, it is sometimes wiser +to make long-distance confessions than to +tell the truth face to face. Then listen, +dear Heart, it was not Philip, but poor +Jessica who was vanquished that day as +we walked through the lanes and fields +around Morningtown. I do not know how +to tell you, but of a sudden I am becoming +learned in all the joys and griefs of +this world. There is a sweetheart reason +for them all, lying buried somewhere. +For love is nature’s vocation in us, I think. +We cannot escape it. Our vision is already +love-lit when the prince comes. All he +needs do is to step within the radiant +circle. Oh, my Heart, is it not terrible +when you think of it, that we may keep +our wills, but our hearts we cannot keep! +They go from us happy pilgrims, and +return unto us old and grey, sometimes +lost and forsaken.</p> +<p>You came so fast upon the heels of +your other letter that I did not have time +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_88' name='page_88'></a>88</span> +to put on my shield and buckler before +you were here in the flesh, formidable, +real, cloven hoof and all! I was frightened +and militant,—frightened lest you should +win from me the freedom of my heart, +militant for the freedom of my will. Well, +at least I kept the latter, but I can tell you, +it is making a poor bagpipe tune of the +victory. When I went down to you that +first evening, it was like going to meet an +enemy, dear and terrible. I was divided +between two impulses, both equally savage +1 think, either to stab or to fall upon +your breast and weep. But you will bear +me witness that my greeting in reality was +conventionally awkward. In any case, +your eyes would have saved me. They +are wide and deep, and as you stood here +by the window where I am writing now, +with both my hands clasped in yours, I +saw a bright beam leap up far within them +like candles suddenly lighted in an open +grave. You had not come merely to make +peace with me, you had my capitulation +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_89' name='page_89'></a>89</span> +ready, but I knew then I should never +sign. Let the dead bury their dead; as for +me, I am too much alive to die long and +amicably with any ghost of a philosopher +in the “upper chamber.” I do not even +belong in the “lower rooms,” but outside +under the skies of our ever green world. +I have already determined that if there is +nothing going on in heaven when I am +translated thither, I will ask to be changed +into a wreath of golden butterflies with +permission to follow spring round and +round the earth.</p> +<p>And that brings me to another part of +my confession. You are aware that I do +not really know <i>you</i>, only your mind. The +time I saw you in New York does not +count. For upon that occasion we only +ran an editorial handicap just to try each +other’s intellectual paces, did we not? But +when you ventured boldly down here upon +my own heath—oh! that was a different +matter. I meant to be as brave as a +Douglas in his hall. You should not ride +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_90' name='page_90'></a>90</span> +across my drawbridge and away again till +I knew <i>you</i>. Well, you know the dull +usual way of discovering what and who +a stranger is, by asking his opinions or +by classifying his face and expression +according to biological records. Now, a +man’s features are only his great-grand +somebody’s modified or intensified, and +his opinions, as in your case, may not +represent him but his mental fallacies. So +I invented a test of my own. I tried a +man by a jury of my trees, not your peers +exactly, but friends of mine who have +become to me strong standards of excellence +and virtue and repose in human +nature. Dear Enemy, I coaxed you into +my little heart-shaped forest, which you +remember lies like a big lover’s wreath on +the Morningtown road beyond my father’s +church. And behold! it was as if we had +come home together. We touched hands +with the green boughs in friendly greeting. +There was nothing to be said, no place +now for a difference between us. For the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_91' name='page_91'></a>91</span> +rights and wrongs of the world did not +reach beyond the shady rim of the silence +there. Goodness and fidelity was the +ground we trod upon, and we were native +to it. Yet it was the first time I ever +entered a little into sympathy with the +exalted cruelty of your spiritual nature. +For in the forest, ever present, is the intimation +of Nature’s indifference to pain. +There is no charity in a commonwealth +of trees. They live, decay, and die, and +there is no sign of compassion anywhere. +It is terrible, but there is a Spartan beauty +in the fact.</p> +<p>But suddenly, as we sat there in the +sweet green twilight, the thought pierced +me like a pang that after all you are more +nearly related to the life of the forest than +I am. I merely love it, but you are like it +in the cold, ruthless, upward aspiration of +your soul. I long for a word with the +trees, but you are so near and kin that +your silence is speech. And then I asked +myself this question: “What is the good, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_92' name='page_92'></a>92</span> +where is the wisdom in loving a tree man, +who may shelter you, but never can be +like you in life or love?” Always his +arms are stretched upward to the heavens +in a prayer to be nearer to the light. He +is a sort of divine savage who cannot +remember the earth heart that may love +and die beneath him like the leaves upon +the ground. Thus we came out of the +wood, you who are made so that you can +never really understand what you have +lost, and I, with all my will in my wings, +and stronger for the loss of my heart. +Some day, perhaps, if I keep the wings, +it will return, a little withered, but sound +as a brownie’s. Then, dear man of the +trees, I shall bury it here in the forest like +a precious seed. Who knows what it may +come to be, my poor heart that was dead +and shall live again,—a tall lady-tree as +heartless as any man-oak, or only a poor +vine! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_93' name='page_93'></a>93</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XIX</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My Dear Mr. Towers</span>:</p> +<p>Imagine if you can the moral perversity +of a young woman who never regrets a +witty deception or a graceful subterfuge, +but repents sometimes in sackcloth and +ashes for her truth-telling. I’d give half +my forest now to have back the letter I +sent you yesterday. But since I cannot +recall it, I wish you to bear in mind that +what was true of a woman’s heart yesterday, +to-day may be only a little breach of +sentiment with which to reproach her +prudence. We are never lastingly true. +The best you can expect is that we be +generally true to the mood we are in.</p> +<p>When you were here, I could not beguile +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_94' name='page_94'></a>94</span> +you into a discussion of the subject upon +which we differ so widely. Pardon the +malicious reference, but it seemed to me +that you had closed the door of your +“upper chamber” and hastened down +here to confess your own reality. And +no challenge, however ingenious, could +provoke you into displaying the cloven +hoof of your “higher nature.” When my +father, for instance, who has long suspected +the soundness of your doctrines, laid down +one of his lurid hell-fire premises as an +active reason for seeking salvation, I observed +that you showed the agility of a +spiritual acrobat in avoiding the conflict.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, I return to the point of +divergence between us. You are angry +with the humanitarians for their materialism. +But you forget who the Hull-House +classes are,—people so poor and starved +and cold that their very souls have perished. +You cannot teach your little goblin-faced +boy who sits under the bridge the +philosophy of the Hindu ascetic until you +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_95' name='page_95'></a>95</span> +have fed and vitalised him, and stretched +his poor withered imagination across the +fair fields of youth’s summer years. Believe +me, the humanitarian’s calling seems +stupid from your point of view because +you are born five hundred years before +your time. When the Hull-House principles +have abolished the poor and the rich, +and have transplanted the whole human +race far and wide over the hills and valleys +of this earth, then will be time enough for +the spiritual luxury of such teachings as +yours.</p> +<p>The last batch of books has come, Creelman’s +novel, <i>Eagle Blood</i>, among them. +Evidently it is a story written to prove the +intellectual and commercial ascendency of +Americans over mere Anglo-Saxons. The +heroine and a few romantic details are +thrown in as a bait to the “average +reader.” Alas for the “average reader”! +How many crimes of this sort are committed +in his name! We can never hope +to have a worthy literature until he has +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_96' name='page_96'></a>96</span> +been eliminated from the consciousness of +those who make it. In the days when +he was not to be reckoned with, and men +wrote for a very few appreciative admirers +and some desperately cruel critics, then +Carlyle began to swear at his “forty-million +fool,” and so attracted their attention, +and ever since we have had them +with us, forty-million average readers, calling +for excitement and amusement. It is +this same “forty-million fool” who has +made historical romances an inexhaustible +source of revenue to the writers of them. +For he is naïve, and has never suspected +the real dime-novel character of such fiction. +Can you not get some one to write +an article outlining a plan by which the +“average reader” may be abolished? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_97' name='page_97'></a>97</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XX</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Dear Jessica</span>:</p> +<p>I will not for any consideration of custom +put such a breach between my dreams and +reality as to go on addressing you in the +old formal way. It will be idle to protest; +I have bought the privilege with a great +price; nay, I have even bought you, and +no outcry of your rebel will shall ever redeem +you from this bondage to my hopes. +One thing I know: there is no power in +all the world equal to love, and he who +has this power may win through every +opposition. And was ever a man in such +a position as mine? Others have been +compelled to overcome a prejudice against +what was base or unworthy in themselves, +but I am forced to defend myself for my +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_98' name='page_98'></a>98</span> +best heritage of understanding. Would it +help me in your esteem if I flung away all +my hard-won philosophy and ranged myself +with the sentimentalists of the day? +I will not believe it. I will fight this upstart +folly while breath is in me, and I will +teach you to fight it with me. This morning +I took that poor book of Miss Addams’s +and, in place of what you sent me, wrote +such a review as will quite astound the +“forty-million fool” you so despise—we +agree there, at least. And all the while I +was writing, I kept saying to myself, How +will Jessica answer that? and, Will not +Jessica believe now that my hatred of humanitarianism +does not spring from selfishness +or contempt, but from sympathy for +mankind?</p> +<p>Yet if anything could bring me to hate +my brothers it would be this monstrous +certainty that my feeling towards them +stands in the way of the one supreme, all +consuming desire of my heart. I could +cry out in the words of the <i>Imitation</i>: +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_99' name='page_99'></a>99</span></p> +<p>“As often as I have gone among men, I +have returned less a man”; for their foolish +chatter has stolen from me the possession +without which we are dwarfed and marred +in our being. Your love is more to me +than all the hopes of men. You must +hearken to me. I have charged the winds +with my passion; the scent of flowers shall +tell you the sweetness of love; you shall +not walk among your beloved trees but +their whispering shall repeat the words +they heard me speak. I will wrap you +about with fancies and dreams and passionate +thoughts till no way of escape is left +you. You shall not read a book but some +word of mine shall come between your +eyes and the printed page. You shall not +hear a simple song but you shall remember +that music is the voice of love. You think +that I have no heart for the many and can +therefore have no heart for one. Dear girl, +my love is so great that it has made me +stronger a thousand times than you; there +is no escape for you. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_100' name='page_100'></a>100</span></p> +<p>As I passed the little goblin boy this +morning I dropped a coin in his hand and +said: “It is from a lady in Georgia who +loves you.” His face lighted up with surprise +at the words (not at the money, for I +have given him that before), and I was +glad to extend the benediction of your +sweetness a little further in the world. Believe +me, I am not so foolish as to despise +charity or true efforts to increase the comfort +of the poor; but I know that poverty +and pain and wretchedness can never be +driven from the world by any besom of the +law, and I do see that humanitarianism, +sprung as it is from materialism and sentimentalism +(what a demonic crew of <i>isms</i>!) +has bartered away the one valid consolation +of mankind for an impossible hope +that begets only discontent and mutual +hatred among men. They are the followers +of Simon Magus, these humanitarians; +they would buy the gifts of Heaven with a +price; and their creed is the real Simonism. +Have you ever read the <i>Imitation</i>, and do +you remember these verses? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_101' name='page_101'></a>101</span></p> +<div class='blockquot'> +<p>For though I alone possessed all the comforts of the +world and might enjoy all the delights thereof, yet it is +certain that they could endure but a little.</p> +<p>Wherefore, O my soul, thou canst not be fully comforted, +nor be perfectly refreshed, save in God, the comforter +of the poor and the helper of the humble.</p> +<p>Let temporal things be for use, but set thy desire on +the eternal.</p> +<p>Man draweth nearer to God so as he departeth further +from all earthly comfort.</p> +</div> +<p>You have taught me to love, dear Heart; +and now, as you see, you are teaching me +to be orthodox. Do not think I shall give +you up; there is only one power greater +than my desire, and that is Death. I would +not end with so ill-omened a word, but +rather with your own sweet name, Jessica. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_102' name='page_102'></a>102</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXI</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Dear Father Confessor</span>:</p> +<p>You observe, I do not retaliate by addressing +you as Dear Philip. After reflecting, +I conclude that this would be an undue +concession to make, while the above title +removes you to a safer sphere. It limits +and qualifies your relationship and at the +same time affords me the happy advantage +of confessing my heart to you. Really, I +have always felt the need of such an officer +in my spiritual kingdom. I could never +reconcile myself to the incongruity of confessing +in our experience meetings. It +seemed to me that sharing my confidence +with so many people was heterodox to nature +itself. For this reason I have always +thought that while Protestantism is based +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_103' name='page_103'></a>103</span> +upon a nobler theory of the truth, Roman +Catholicism is founded upon a much +shrewder knowledge of human nature.</p> +<p>However, I do not come seeking absolution +for any sins. Such shortcomings as I +have are so personal, so really a part of dear +me, that I should scarcely be complete without +them. They are vixenish plagues of +character that distinguish me from more +conventional saints. But now that I have +willed myself away from you, I need no +longer conceal my heart. My love has +been shriven, and, like a little white ghost +out of heaven, must hark back to you +occasionally for a blessing.</p> +<p>To begin with, then, when your letter +came this morning, I took just a peep inside +to see if it was good, and then hurried +away to our forest to enjoy it, for I always +feel more at home with you there. And +although the season is so far advanced that +the whole earth is chilled and desolate, my +heart was like the springtide, swelling with +gladness. Joy reached to my vagabond +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_104' name='page_104'></a>104</span> +heels, and I had much ado to maintain the +resignation gait of a minister’s daughter +through the village streets. And once out +of sight I kissed my hand quickly over my +shoulder till my face burned. For had you +not promised to attend me? “I will wrap +you about with fancies and dreams,” you +said. I was like a young-lady comet drawing +after me a luminous trail of love. I +began to comprehend the advantages of +my position, to rejoice in my sacrifice. I +caught the finer aspiration of love, like one +who lays down his life and finds it again +in nobler forms. Brave, good father, this +thing that you have revealed to me is like +a sweet eternity. It neither begins nor +ends: only we do that. When our time +comes we are swept into the current of it, +happy, predestined atoms, and afterwards +we are lost out of it like the leaves on the +trees. But love is like the wind in their +branches; it never is gone. So it seems +to me now when all my heart’s leaves are +stirred to gladness by the dear gale of love. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_105' name='page_105'></a>105</span></p> +<p>But do not despise me, O sage in the +upper chamber, for my selfishness. I keep +far to the windward of you because I +was made for love, not for sacrifice. The +altar of your soul life is very fine, very +beautiful, but I am too much alive to be +offered up on such a table. Suppose I +trusted you, gave myself with my heart, +and in after years you should fall upon the +idea of expurgating all sensations, all heresies, +all affections from your life as the +Brahmins do, what then would become of +poor Jessica? I should sit upon your altar +like a withered fairy, casting dust over my +unhallowed head and calling down elfish +curses upon you. Ah me! when I come +upon a splendid man-statue that suddenly +glows into living heart and flesh, I may +wonder and love, but I should never trust +myself in the arms of that phenomenon, +lest, being clasped there, he should as +suddenly turn back to his native stone and +freeze the life in me!</p> +<p>Have you noticed that I tell you nothing +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_106' name='page_106'></a>106</span> +of the village doings here, the little church +sociables and a thousand commonplace +details that go to make up the sum of +existence amid such surroundings? It is +because I do not really live among them. +My mind is alien to these narrow margins +of society and religion. But it is always +of the little forest that I tell you, as if that +were my real home, as indeed it is. And +it is the dearer to me now that we have +walked through it together. So in each +letter you may expect a report of how +things go there. This morning, as I looked +about at the sober ground covered thick +with dying leaves, I thought of what a +gallant display of autumnal colors we had +on that morning. Our little friends of the +summer time are flitting here and there +through the naked branches in silent confusion. +There are no green boughs behind +which to conceal their orchestral +moods. Besides, their inspiration is gone, +their singing hearts are benumbed by the +cold. But for your letter thrust somewhere +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_107' name='page_107'></a>107</span> +I could not have escaped the ghost +of sadness that seemed to haunt the earth +and sky. Suddenly, as I stood in the +midst of it all, a cardinal flashed like a red +spark into a tall pine, fluffed out his breast, +and swept the forest with a defiant note +of melody. It was a challenge to the long +winter time, a prophecy of spring and of +high green trees, and of a mate cloistered +now far away in the wilderness: “You +shall not hear a simple song, but you shall +remember that music is the voice of love,” +whispered the letter against my heart. +What a brave thing is life when we have +love and the hope of spring latent within +us! I admit, as I listened to the little red +troubadour of the pine, that, had you been +as near as the dreams and fancies that +wrapped me about, this fight in me for +freedom would have been at an end. Do +not trust these feeble moods of mine, however; +not one of them would last half the +length of time you would need to make the +journey from New York to Morningtown! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_108' name='page_108'></a>108</span></p> +<p>So! you have written such a review +of Miss Addams’s book as will astonish the +“average reader,” and all the while you +wondered: “How will Jessica answer +that?” Abridged, this is her opinion: +That an editor should be careful how he +kicks his heels at the spirit of his age. +The world has an ancient and effective +way of dealing with such heroes.</p> +<p>No, I am not familiar with the <i>Imitation</i>. +But I gather from the passages you +quote that it is a spiritual exercise prepared +for those who “possess all the comforts +of this life,” and are weary enough +of them to pass on to the philosophy of +renunciation. But you should remember +that the Hull-House classes have not had +the necessary experience with comforts. +Renunciation is impossible for them, for +they have nothing to give up.</p> +<p>My love to the little goblin boy. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_109' name='page_109'></a>109</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My Dear Jessica</span>:</p> +<p>Did ever “Father Confessor” have so +sweet and so wilful a sinner to shrive! +Your only sin is that you love me, and do +you think I shall grant absolution for that? +As I read your letter with its wayward confession, +it seemed to me indeed that I was +in some temple of the gods instead of this +book-littered den, and the rumble of the +street was transfigured into the sound of +triumphant music. And all the while the +voice of the little penitent, hidden from my +eyes, but almost within reach of my breath, +murmured in my ears: “I love you, I love +you, and that is my sin.” Dear girl, when +you have given me your heart, do you suppose +I shall be slow to confiscate your will? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_110' name='page_110'></a>110</span> +It is not lawful that a man’s, or a woman’s, +heart and will should be at enmity with +each other. I know that your will is strong, +but I know, too, that your heart is stronger. +Why did you turn me away without one +word of hope or consolation when I visited +you in Morningtown? Out of the great +store of happiness that God has given you, +could you not spare one little morsel? Ah, +I would not offer you up a sacrifice on the +altar of any spiritual creed, but take you +with me into that upper chamber that looks +toward the golden sunrise. I would share +your happiness and give you in return a +portion in the hope that I too have found. +With you at my side I could walk through +the world, (for I am not such a recluse +as you might suppose,) knowing that +the desire of all men’s hearts had fallen to +me, and that my life was consecrated henceforth +to noble uses. And yet to-day I am +very sad.</p> +<p>Let me tell you a little story of the way +your admired Simonians act when their +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_111' name='page_111'></a>111</span> +general promulgations of brotherhood are +brought to an individual test. Our proprietor +and manager, a smooth-faced, +meek-eyed Jew, who has made himself +right with this world, at least, is much +concerned with charities and civic meetings +and reform clubs and progress societies +and the preaching of universal democracy, +and all that,—a veritable Pharisee among +the humanitarians. He often asks me to +give a good word to some Simoniacal +book. Well, I have a poor broken-down +Irishman named O’Meara, who reviews a +certain class of publications for me. He is +the kind of man you would never expect to +meet in this country: a relic of eighteenth-century +Grub Street,—a man who reads +Latin and Greek, who can quote pages of +the Fathers, who has a high ideal of literature +and conscience in writing, and withal +a victim to the demon whiskey that has +dragged him down to the very gutter. His +life has been a mystery to me, and some +feeling of shame has kept him from ever +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_112' name='page_112'></a>112</span> +telling me where and how he lives. At +intervals he comes shuffling into my office, +with bleared eyes and palsied hand, and for +charity’s sake I give him a book to review—and +not exactly for charity either, for he +does his work well. Two or three weeks +ago our Simoniacal manager came into my +office and asked me who that tramp was +whom he had seen several times go away +with books. I told him the whole story, +thinking to arouse his sympathy. What +was my surprise when he broke out into +a mild stream of abuse—the more startling +because he ordinarily says so little—against +allowing such besotted tramps to come into +the offices! When a man drank himself +into such a state as that there was no doing +anything with him, etc. O’Meara came +back in a day or two with his “copy,” and +I told him that the chief had ordered me to +cut him off. Poor wretch! he said never a +word for himself, but turned and shambled +guiltily out of the room—I shall never forget +the sound of his trailing, despondent feet. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_113' name='page_113'></a>113</span></p> +<p>I heard no more from him until yesterday, +when the office boy came in and told me a +beggar child insisted on seeing me. What +was my astonishment when it proved to +be our goblin boy, who had been sent to +ask me to come to his father; and his father +was O’Meara! It all seemed as unsubstantial +as a dream. I went with the child, of +course. He guided me through the dark +entry where I had seen him so often, in behind +a great printing house, to a foul court +hidden away from the street like some +criminal outlaw. I will not try to describe +the noisomeness of that reeking hole. I +found O’Meara lying on a heap of sacks in +a mouldering closet which was entirely +dark save for what little light came through +the doorway. Darkness, indeed, was his +only comfort. He would not shake hands +with me, for he has, withal, the instincts +of a gentleman, and it seemed as if the +shame of his whole degraded life lay with +him before me in his misery. His tragedy +will have been played out in a day or two, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_114' name='page_114'></a>114</span> +I think; and I wish the memory of it might +also pass from my mind. What shall I do +with the goblin boy? The hatefulness of +it all stands between me and my thoughts +of you. I cannot harden myself yet for a +while to dream of pure beauty. I read +your letter over and over, but its sweet +medicament cannot purge my breast. Not +even the acknowledgment of your love can +drown these sighs I have heard. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_115' name='page_115'></a>115</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXIII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My Dear Mr. Philip Towers</span>:</p> +<p>You lack the proper ethical pose of a +Father Confessor. I have excommunicated +you. The charge against you is that you +take an audacious advantage of the confessional, +not to bless me, but to rejoice +in my romantic vagrancy. For a man giving +himself airs in the “upper chamber,” +you have very human ways, and I begin +to suspect you only keep your creed and +philosophy up there.</p> +<p>But you are greatly mistaken if you think +you can ever wheedle me into such a sunrise +attic. I can be domesticated, but not +etherealised. And you hold strange doctrines +for an ascetic. You think that because +I love it will be easy to “confiscate” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_116' name='page_116'></a>116</span> +my will. Even <i>I</i> know better than that. +We live to conquer our hearts. There is +no freedom of mind and spirit till that +decisive battle has been fought and won. +My heart is a gay vagabond, ready to dance +before the door of your tent, but my will +is better disciplined. It weighs and counts +the costs and rejects this sentimental bargain, +because, O Stranger to my soul, I +doubt if you can pay the interest love demands +upon so large an investment. There +is not enough of you; and your capital +consists in something less vital,—in wind-cooled +philosophies, and the passions of +an occult spirit ever ready to escape into +mysticism. Why will you not be content +with a companionship on this basis? You +keep your wings and you wish mine also. +Well, you shall not have them! I have +no disposition to simulate the example of +those small insects who come out in early +spring with splendid wings, make one +flight far enough through the sunlight to +lose them, and crawl all the remainder +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_117' name='page_117'></a>117</span> +of their days in the domestic dust of their +little tenements.</p> +<p>Besides, does not the science of biology +teach that romantic love, in the very +nature of things, is transient?—a little +heathen angel that we entertain unawares, +who comes and goes at will? I cannot +tell you what satisfaction and what distress +that theory has caused me of late. I would +have my own heart free, but I am willing +to move my little heaven and earth to +prolong your bondage. Selfish?—I know, +but consider upon what loneliness and +terror such selfishness is based. A man +is always sufficient unto himself, particularly +if he can abstract and divert himself +into a line of thought as you are able to +do, but a woman without a lover is a +pathetic thing. There is no real reason +for her existence; all her little miracles of +expression and posing are for naught. She +is a sort of prima donna lost out of the +play. There is no one to give her the +happy cue to the whole meaning of life. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_118' name='page_118'></a>118</span> +Oh, my Love! I <i>cannot</i> live without a +lover. Do not bereave me! I should shrivel +up, I am sure,—grow old and sour and +sad. I might even become a deaconess +with Hull-House propensities. I am a +naïve beggar, you see; I ask all you have, +and admit that I am unwilling to give in +return what I myself have.</p> +<p>Your account of O’Meara interests me. +But what right have you to slip out of your +stern character as a merely spiritual man, +and assume the guise of a good Samaritan? +Really it is not fair; your tender compassion +is illogical, and, however benign, I +cannot accept it as evidence in your favour. +But your account of the poor man’s distress +touched my heart. And you ask me +what ought to be done with the little +goblin boy. Dear Philip, could <i>we</i> not +adopt him? Think how many years then, +we should have to correspond in and to +dispute with each other about his upbringing! +I would make the jackets and you +should furnish the ethics for him. You +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_119' name='page_119'></a>119</span> +should provide a home for him, and I would +give a little of the warmth that any woman’s +tenderness imparts to any child. I +will begin at once with a maternal dictation,—he +must be sent into the country. +For children are like lambs, I think; they +also need to grow up in a green field, and +to gambol there. He must have no cares, +no obligations—just be encouraged to let +go all the good and evil there is in him. +When he has expanded to his natural size +morally and physically, we can tell better +what to do with him. Are you laughing +at me, or are you scandalised at such a +proposition? Then why did you ask my +advice? When a child is without parents, +is it not better to provide him with a pair +of them, even if one is a wizard who +knows how to metamorphose himself into +many different personalities, such as sage, +mystic, lover, good Samaritan, and I know +not how many more? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_120' name='page_120'></a>120</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXIV</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p>[THIS LETTER WAS WRITTEN BEFORE THE PRECEDING +LETTER OF JESSICA’S, BUT WAS NOT RECEIVED UNTIL LATER.]</p> +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Dear Jessica</span>:</p> +<p>I often wonder whether I have made it +quite clear to you why it is possible to +hold in high esteem personally the workers +of Hull House and these other philanthropists, +while detesting their views as formulated +into a dogma. Just after I had +sent off my last letter to you I met with +something in a morning paper which will +throw light on my position. In an address +before Princeton Theological Seminary +Dr. Lyman Abbott is reported to have +used these words:</p> +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_121' name='page_121'></a>121</span></div> +<div class='blockquot'> +<p>“To follow Christ is, first of all, to give yourself to +the service of God by serving your fellow-men. This is +more important than the question of the Trinity, of the +atonement, or of creeds.”</p> +</div> +<p>Now the question of the Trinity or of the +atonement may not seem essential to me. +My faith has passed out of them—beyond +them, I trust; and at least I do not call +myself a Christian. But remember that +Dr. Abbott is a teacher of Christianity and +was on this occasion addressing students +of theology. Certainly to him and to his +audience these are, they must be, the first +of all matters in the realm of ideas, whether +accepted or rejected, and to speak slightingly +of them is to show contempt for +everything that transcends the material +world. I know that Dr. Abbott, like some +others, makes this service of our fellow-men +to be a form of the service of God; +but the slightest knowledge of the spirit +of the day, indeed any intelligent reading +of the words I have quoted, makes plain +how entirely this “service of God” is a +tag, a meaningless concession to an older +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_122' name='page_122'></a>122</span> +form of speech. What seriously concerns +our humanitarians is the service of mankind. +Now am I not justified in saying +that true religion would at least change +the order of ideas and declare that to serve +mankind is, first of all, to give one’s self +to the service of God? This is not a quibbling +of words, but a radical distinction. +It is because I find in all so-called humanitarians +this tendency to place humanity +before God, material needs before ideals, +that I call them, when all is said, the most +insidious foes of true religion. Their very +virtues make them more dangerous than +outspoken materialists and scoffers. It is +largely due to them and their creed that +we have no art and no literature; for art +and literature depend, at the last analysis, +on a reaching out after ideas, on an attempt +to transmute material things into spiritual +values,—on faith, in a word. The humanitarians +cry out against the materialism +and the commercial spirit of the age. They +do not perceive that the only remedy +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_123' name='page_123'></a>123</span> +against this degeneracy is the renewal of +faith in something greater and higher than +our material needs. Let them preach for +a while the blessings of poverty and other-worldliness. +The attempt to instil benevolence +or so-called human justice into +society as the chief message of religion is +merely to play into the hands of the enemy. +Do you see why I call them the real followers +of Simon Magus, who sought to +buy the gift of God with a price? “Thou +hast neither part nor lot in this matter; for +thy heart is not right in the sight of God.”</p> +<p>Consider how impossible it would have +been in any age of genuine or real creativeness +for a leading preacher of Christianity +to have pronounced Dr. Abbott’s words, +and you will see how far humanitarianism +has fallen from faith in the spirit. I know +that passages maybe quoted from the Bible +which might seem to make Christ himself +responsible for this new Simony; but +Satan, too, may quote Scripture. Surely +the whole tenor of Christ’s teaching is the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_124' name='page_124'></a>124</span> +strongest rebuke to this lowering of the +spirit’s demands. He spent his life to +bring men into communion with God, not +to modify their worldly surroundings. Indeed, +the world was to him a place of +misery and iniquity, doomed to speedy +destruction. He sought to save a remnant +from the wrath of judgment as a brand is +plucked from the fire, and he separated his +disciples utterly from acquiescence in the +comforts of this earth; they were to be +in the world but not of it: “Render unto +Cæsar the things which are Cæsar’s, and +unto God the things that are God’s.” He +taught poverty and not material progress. +Those he praised were the poor and the +meek and the unresisting and the persecuted—those +who were cut off from the +hopes of the world.</p> +<p>And now, dear girl, do you ask me to +apply my preaching to my own case? Of +a truth I have faith. I think it my true +service to men that I should learn to love +you greatly; and out of that love shall flow +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_125' name='page_125'></a>125</span> +charity and justice and righteousness toward +the world. Let it be my meed of +service that men shall see the beauty of +my homage. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_126' name='page_126'></a>126</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXV</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Dear Jessica</span>:</p> +<p>The end has come even sooner than I +looked for it. This afternoon, little Jack, +our goblin boy, came to my office and I +followed him back to the dismal court +where his father lay expecting me. I had +arranged that the poor wretch should be +carried into a room where at least there +was a bed and where a ray of clean sunshine +might greet his soul when departing +on the long journey; and there I found him +lying perfectly quiet save for the twitching +of his hands outstretched on the counterpane. +I thought a glimmer of content +lightened his dull eyes as I sat down beside +him. I talked with him a little, but he +seemed scarcely to heed my words. Then +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_127' name='page_127'></a>127</span> +turning his head towards me he plucked +from under his pillow an old thumb-worn +copy of <i>Virgil</i> (so bedraggled and spotted +that no second-hand book-seller would +have looked at it) and thrust it out to me, +intimating by a gesture that he would have +me read to him. I asked him where I +should begin, and he held up two fingers +as if to indicate the second book of the +<i>Æneid</i>; and there I began with the fall of +Troy-town.</p> +<p>He listened with apparent apathy, though +I know not what echoes the sonorous lines +awakened in his mind, until I came to the +words:</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Venit summa dies et ineluctabile tempus.</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>I saw his hands clench together feebly here, +and then there was no more motion. Presently +I looked into his face, and I knew +that no sound of my voice, nor any sound +of the world, could ever reach him again; +for the story of his unspeakable sorrow, +like the ruin of Troy, had been told to the +end. He had spoken not a single word; +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_128' name='page_128'></a>128</span> +he had carried the silence of his soul into +the infinite silences of death. The secret +of his life had passed with him. I shall +probably never know what early dreams +and ambitions had faded into this squalid +despair. And his pitiful wan-faced boy—who +was the child’s mother? I am glad I +do not know; I am only glad I can tell him +of your love. I shall see that the father is +buried decently with a wooden slab to distinguish +his grave from the innumerable +dead who rest in the earth. Might we not +print above his body the last words of the +poem he seems to have loved so much: +<i>Fugit indignata sub umbras</i>! For I think +it was the indignity of shame in the end +that killed him. Is he not now all that +Cæsar and Virgil are? Shall he not sleep +as peacefully in his pauper’s bed as the +great General Grant in that mausoleum +raised by the river’s side?—Commonplace +thoughts that came to me as I sat for a +while musing in the presence of death; but +is not death the inevitable commonplace +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_129' name='page_129'></a>129</span> +that shall put to rout all our originality in +the end?</p> +<p>And all the while our Jack was sitting +perfectly motionless by the window, looking +out into the court—into the blue sky, +I think. I picked up one of his thin hands +and said to him: “Little Jack, your father +has gone away from us and is at rest. +There is a beautiful lady in the South who +loves you as she loves me; will not her +love make you happy?” He did not appear +to understand me, but shrank into +himself as if afraid. Indeed, sweet benefactress, +I shall send him into the country +somewhere as you bid me, and I shall see +that your love brings him greater happiness +than it has brought me, for with him +you shall not withdraw with one hand +what you have held out in the other.</p> +<p>I went away, leaving an old woman to +care for the dead man and his child. It +will be long before I forget how alien and +far-away the noises of the street sounded +as I passed out of that chamber of silence. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_130' name='page_130'></a>130</span> +Is it not a strange thing that death should +have this power of benediction? Of a sudden +a breath comes out of the heavens, our +little cares are touched by an eternal presence, +a rift is blown in the thick mists that +hem us about, and behold, we look out +into infinite visionless space. And now I +am back in my office. I open O’Meara’s +worn and much-stained <i>Virgil</i>, and inside +the cover I find these words scribbled in +pencil: “<i>I have cried unto God and He +hath not heard my cry; but thou, O beloved +poet, art ever near with consolation</i>!” +I do not know whether the sentence is +original with O’Meara or a quotation; it is +certainly new to me. One other book I +brought with me, and the two were the +whole worldly possession of the dead man. +This is a small but pretty thick blank-book, +written over almost to the last page. I +have not examined the contents carefully, +but I can see that they are made up of miscellaneous +passages copied from books and +of reflections on a great variety of topics, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_131' name='page_131'></a>131</span> +with few or no records of events. One of +the last entries is from Clarence Mangan’s +heart-breaking poem, <i>The Nameless One</i>:</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>And want, and sickness, and houseless nights,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>He bides in calmness the silent morrow</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>That no ray lights.</p> +<br /> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>Deep in your bosoms: there let him dwell!</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>Here, and in hell.</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>And is it not a touch of Fate’s irony that +I should be sending this threnody of death +to one who might expect to receive from +me only messages and pleadings of love? +Death and love are the very antipodes of +our existence, one would say. And yet I +do not know; I feel nothing incongruous +in linking the twain together. Love, too, +breaks open the barriers of our poor personality +that the breath of the infinite may +blow in upon us. I cannot say how it is +with others, but so it is with me: love lays +a hand upon me, and instantly the discords +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_132' name='page_132'></a>132</span> +of the world are hushed in my ears, the +little desires and fears that trouble me are +shamed into silence, and I am rapt away +into the infinitely great heart that throbs at +the centre of all. It is strange, but life +itself seems to pass away in the presence +of this power that is the creator of life. I +speak darkly, but my words have a meaning. +And, dear sweetheart, be not afraid +that you shall be left without a lover; +that I shall bereave you! Do you think +for an instant that I can cease to love? +I cannot understand this war between your +heart and your will; am I very stupid? +Surely when I come to you, I shall bring +this contention to an end, and you—it hath +not entered into the heart of man to conceive +what you shall give me. Out of +the conclusions of death into the prophecies +of love! I am filled with wondering.</p> +<p>You shall hear more hereafter of poor +Jack, our adopted child. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_133' name='page_133'></a>133</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXVI</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My Dear Philip</span>:</p> +<p>See how you shame me! For this long +while I have wished to begin my letters +thus, but I waited, hoping you would entreat +me to do so. I expected you to +provide an excuse. I thought my own +pleasure would wear the genial air of a +concession to your wishes. Indeed, the +way you wait for me to be obliged to do +such things of my own accord, fills me +with superstitious anxieties. It is as if you +had some unfair foreknowledge of the +natural order of events. You would take +things for granted, and thus produce an +hypnotic effect by your convictions so +strong as to compel my conformity. But I +console myself with the reflection that all +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_134' name='page_134'></a>134</span> +this is mental. You terrify only my intelligence +with your strange sorcery. And +for this reason I shall always escape your +bondage, for I am too wise to concede my +familiar territory to such an overbearing +foreign power.</p> +<p>However, I must not forget the prime +object I have in writing this letter. It is to +tell you that the little box of childish things, +which you must have received already and +wondered at, are <i>not</i> for the literary editor +of <i>The Gazette</i>, but for Jack, sent with the +hope that they may in some measure +comfort his sad heart. I went so far as to +purchase material for the promised set of +jackets, when suddenly I remembered that +I was ignorant of both his age and size. +You have never told me that, though you +have given me such a real picture of him +that I could almost trust my imagination +to cut those garments to fit him!</p> +<p>Your account of O’Meara’s death affected +me deeply. With what sublime abandon +does such a man let go his soul into the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_135' name='page_135'></a>135</span> +mystery of that silence which we call +eternity!</p> +<p>Is it not strange how the same impressions +come to many, but by different +ways! “It will be long before I forget +how alien and far-away the noises of the +street sounded as I passed out of that +chamber of silence,” you said, and the +sentence recalled a somewhat similar experience +of my own on Cumberland Island, +where father and I went last summer for +a short vacation. One day, leaving the +group of happy bathers to their surf, I +climbed up inland among the sand-hills, +that lie along the shore like the white pillows +of fabulous sea-gods. Presently I +came upon one of those great sand-pits +that stretch along the Island, deep and +wide like mighty graves. Far below me +a whole forest stood in ghostly silence, +with every whitening limb lifted in supplication, +as if all had died in a terrified +struggle with the engulfing sands. Unawares, +I had happened upon one of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_136' name='page_136'></a>136</span> +Nature’s griefs—and I do not know how +to tell you, but the sight of it aged me. +Of a sudden this death of the trees seemed +a far-off part of my own experience. I +was swept out of this contesting, energetic +world into a still region where great events +come to pass in silence, and inevitably. +And so real was the illusion that, as I +turned to hurry back, it seemed to me +that centuries had passed since I saw the +same little tuft of flowers like a group of +purple fairies nodding to me from the top +of a tall cliff. And so I stood there confused +by the significance of this silence, +so incredible that even the winds could +not shake it. I felt so near and kin to +death that I became “alien” to all the +living world about me. For the first time +in my life, I lost the <i>sense</i> of God, which +is always a kind of mental protection +against the terrors of infinity. There was +nothing to pray to, only the sea on one +side and this grave on the other, with a +little trembling life between. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_137' name='page_137'></a>137</span></p> +<p>Thus you will understand that not only +have I had a similar experience to your +own upon the occasion of O’Meara’s death, +but that for once I came into your region +of shades and terrors. I was like one on +the point of dissolution, and almost my +soul escaped into your dim habitation. +From your letters I had already learned +how near together love and death stood +in your consciousness. Each is an exit +through which your spirit is ever ready +to pass. And for the moment, crowded in +with skeleton shadows there, you seemed +sensibly near me. I was divided between +fear and love. But the blood of life in me +always triumphs,—and then it was that I +made my first flight in consciousness from +you. I kissed my hand to the twilight and +ran! I am sure you were there, Philip, a +cold-lipped spirit-lover seeking my mortal +life. And, oh my Heart! is it wrong that +I would love and be loved in the flesh? +I do not object to spirituality, only it must +have a visible presence and a warm cheek. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_138' name='page_138'></a>138</span></p> +<p>P. S.—But, dear Philip, how am I to +reconcile this tender charity to Jack with +your anti-humanitarian views? Is a man’s +heart so divided from his philosophy? Or +do you intend to make a mystic of that +poor child, so that he may escape the +woes of his condition? I am curious to +see what you will do with him. Also, +I shall certainly defend him against your +Nirvana doctrines if I suspect you of juggling +with his soul. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_139' name='page_139'></a>139</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXVII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Dear, teasing, rare Jessica</span>:</p> +<p>I have so many things to say to you. +First of all, why do you blame me for my +“foreknowledge”? You scold me for my +hostility to the sentimentalism of the day, +you scold me then for any act of common +human sympathy, and now you take me +to task because I foresee how you will address +me in a letter. Dear me, what a +horrid little scold it is! I wonder you +didn’t quote <i>The Raven</i>,—</p> +<div class='blockquot'> +<p>“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, +if bird or devil!”</p> +</div> +<p>But really no great powers of prophecy +were required. Have you forgotten that +in the very letter before this one you called +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_140' name='page_140'></a>140</span> +me “Dear Philip”? And wasn’t that a +good index of your tempestuous, contradictory +sweet self, that you should have +begun your letter “My dear Mr. Philip +Towers” and then thrown in your “Dear +Philip” by the way, as if it would not +be observed! Why, my naughty Jessica, +when I came to that phrase, I just took +my longest, biggest blue pencil and put +a ring about it so that I might find it at +a moment’s notice and feast my eyes a +thousand thousand times on its sweet familiarity. +Do not suppose that anything +ever escapes me in your letters. I con +every little lapse in your spelling until I +know it by heart. And you do make so +many slips, you know, in your reviews as +well as in your letters! I never correct +them,—that would be a desecration, I +think,—but send up your copy just as +it comes to me. Indeed, I find myself +imitating unawares some of your most unaccountable +originalities. Only the other +day I was in the reading-room and our +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_141' name='page_141'></a>141</span> +head proofreader, a sour, wizened old +man, cried out to me: “I say, Mr. Towers, +what is the matter with your spelling? +You write <i>propotion</i><a name="FNanchor_2" id="FNanchor_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> for proportion and +<i>propersition</i> for proposition, and get your +<i>r</i>’s all mixed up generally!” There was +a titter from all the girls in the room. +Then said I: “Thou fool! knowest thou +not that Jessica lives in the South, and +treats her <i>r</i>’s with royal contempt as she +was taught to treat the black man? And +shall I not imitate her in this as in all +her high-born originalities?” Of course I +didn’t say that aloud, but just thought it +to myself. And really I do wonder sometimes +that your excellent father, when he +taught you Latin, should have permitted +you to take such liberties with our good +mother tongue. But after all it is only +another sign of your right Southern wilfulness. +Do you not take even greater liberties +with poor human souls? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_142' name='page_142'></a>142</span></p> +<p>And you make my prophetic powers a +bulwark for your licentious rebellion and +declare that you will always escape my +bondage. Shall you, indeed? You once +intimated that I wore ass’s ears. I begin +to believe it. What a blind, solemn animal +I was when I came to Morningtown +to beg for your love! I was so afraid of +you. And as we sat in the circle of your +watching, motionless trees, something of +their stiff ways entered into my heart. I +told you of my love so solemnly, and you +answered so solemnly. Fool! Fool! I +should have spoken not a single word, +but just taken you in my arms and kissed +you once and twice. Don’t frown now, +it is too late. There would have been one +wild, tempestuous outbreak of indignation, +and then my dryad maiden would have +known my “foreknowledge” indeed. Is +it too late to rehearse that curtain-raiser? +Dear girl, I would be merry, but I am not +so sure that all is well with my heart. I +need you so much now, for I have entered +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_143' name='page_143'></a>143</span> +on a new path and the way is obscure +before me. I need you. Your hand in +mine would give me the courage I require.</p> +<p>Do you remember how you warned me +of dangers when I reviewed Miss Addams’s +book? You, too, were a prophet. Let +me tell you how it all came about. The +other day I wrote up Mme. Adam’s <i>Romance +of My Childhood and Youth</i> (Addams +and Adam—the name has a fatality +for me), and took occasion to make it the +text of a tremendous preachment against +our latter-day Simony,—as well it might +be, for Mme. Adam grew up in the thirties +and forties when France was a huge seething +caldron in which all these modern +notions were brewing together. And unfortunately +we are just beginning now +where France left off a score of years ago. +You have already seen the review, no +doubt, and it is superfluous to repeat its +argument. But for my own justification +to you I want to quote a few sentences +from the book. You disdained to make +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_144' name='page_144'></a>144</span> +any reply to my letter on Lyman Abbott, +and I fear you have grown weary of the +whole subject; but certainly you will be +interested in what I am copying out for +you now. In one of her chapters, then, +Mme. Adam writes:</p> +<div class='blockquot'> +<p>Nature, Science, Humanity, are the three terms of +initiation. First comes nature, which rules everything; +then the revelations of nature, revelations which mean +science—that is to say, phenomena made clear in themselves +and observed by man; and lastly, the appropriation +of phenomena for useful social purposes.... +There is no error in nature, no perversity in man; evil +comes only from society.... He [Mme. Adam’s +father] delighted in proving to me that it was useless for +man to seek beyond nature for unattainable chimeras, +for the infinite which our finite conception was unable +to understand, and for the immaterial, which our +materiality can never satisfactorily explain.... +They [these humanitarian socialists] resembled my father. +Their doubts—and they had many!—were of +too recent a date to have dried up their souls; <i>they no +longer believed in a divine Christ; they still believed +in a human one</i>. They worshipped that mysterious +Science, which replaced for them the supernatural, and +which had not then brought all its brutality to light in +crushing man under machinery.</p> +</div> +<p>Could anything be more illuminating +than that? Does it not set forth the close +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_145' name='page_145'></a>145</span> +cousinship of humanitarianism with socialism +and the fungous growth of the two +out of the mouldering ruins of faith and +the foul reek of a sensuous philosophy? +And do you not see why any surrender to +this modern cult of human comfort means +the indefinite postponement of that fresh-dawning +ideal which shall bring life to literature +and art and evoke once more the +golden destiny of man?</p> +<p>Well, this morning the particular Simon +Magus who rules <i>The Gazette</i> walked into +my office and, after some preliminary sparring, +came out with a complaint which I +knew had been preparing in his brain for +some time. It seems that he had already +been deluged with letters about my heretical +attack on Miss Addams, and now a +new storm had begun over my further +delinquencies. He kindly told me that my +views were a hundred years behind the +age and that they were doing injury to +the paper. Against the latter charge I had +no defence, and immediately capitulated. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_146' name='page_146'></a>146</span> +To cut a disagreeable tale short, I anticipated +his purpose and offered to make way +for some man who would better harmonise +with the benevolent policy of the +paper. The first of the month comes in +four days, and then I shall be thrown once +again on my own resources. The shock, +though expected, is a little disconcerting; +for at times a man grows weary and discouraged +in fighting against the perpetual +buffeting of the current. But most of all +I am wondering how my independence +will affect the hopes that were beginning +to colour my dreams. Dear Jessica, you +will not forsake me now; you will put +away your perversity and love me simply +and unreservedly? There are difficulties +before me, I know; but I am not afraid +if only my heart is at peace. I am free, +and if there is any power in my brain, +any skill in my right hand, I will make +such a pother that the world shall hear +me. I will not die till I am heard. And +so I ask you to help-me. With your love +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_147' name='page_147'></a>147</span> +I shall be made bold, and no opposition +and no repeated reverses shall trouble me. +And in the end your happiness is in my +making.</p> +<p>Indeed, your box of little things for Jack +made Olympian merriment in Newspaper +Row, for several men were in my office +when I opened it. Jack is ten years old, +small for his age, but quietly precocious. +I cannot write more of him now. Address +your next letter not to the office but +to——; and when I open that letter will +it bring me joy or grief? Your joy may +cast a ruddy light on my path, but nothing +that you can say will shake me in +my firm resolve. No sorrow shall hinder +me, but, oh, happy Heart! I, too, long for +happiness. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_148' name='page_148'></a>148</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXVIII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Kind Sir</span>:</p> +<p>Which do you think requires the more +grace in a woman, to hold out against a +dear enemy or to yield? My own experience +teaches me that there is more facility +in resistance. Acting thus I have always +felt in accord with natural instincts, and +there is a barbaric sense of security in following +them.... Yet I have only +one thing to tell you in reply to your “so +many.” Can you guess what it is? Already +I think the birds know it. I have so far +departed from my natural order of perversity +and self-protection that they feel it, and +twitter together when I pass by. I think +they look down upon me now with high-feathered +contempt. Could anything be +more mortifying? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_149' name='page_149'></a>149</span></p> +<p>Do not laugh, Philip! You have behaved +little better than a robber in this matter. I +have lost to you, but the game was not +fair; dear mendicant, you played with a +card up your sleeve! All my life I have +planned to outwit predestination. I have +ignored Sabbath-day doctrines and faith-binding +dogmas to this end. I could even +have held out indefinitely against your +“foreknowledge,” but when you come, +heralded by an unexpected misfortune, asking +“peace” of me that you may meet your +own difficulties with a steadier courage, I +find you invincible. It is as if you had +suddenly slipped through the door of my +heart and left will, betrayed, on guard outside. +I have no defence in my nature +against your plea. The diplomacy of your +need takes me unawares, and, no matter +how I fear the future, now I am bound to +add myself to you in love and hope. The +prospect is terrible and sweet. Already it +has made me a stranger in my father’s +house, a foreigner among the trees, and a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_150' name='page_150'></a>150</span> +wakeful, frightened mystery to myself. I +am full of tears and secresy. I am no +longer Jessica, the wind-souled dryad of +the forest, but merely a woman in definition, +facing a new world of pain and joy. +Oh, my beloved! you have taken all that I +have, all that I am! Henceforth I shall be +only a part of you,—a little hyperbole of +domesticity always following after, or advancing +to meet you.... Dear gods +of the world, defend me from such a fate! +... After all, I cannot admit the “one +thing.” I cannot submit to this annihilation, +this absorption of character and personality. +If you take me, you do so at your +own risk, I will not promise “peace,” +but confusion rather. But if you get me, +you must take me. Yet, if you come to +Morningtown after me, I will deny my +love, not out of perversity, but out of fear. +The sight of you is a signal for me to take +refuge upon my tallest bough. And I can +no more come down to you than a young +lady robin could fly into your pocket. It +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_151' name='page_151'></a>151</span> +is all very well for you to exhort me to +love you “simply and unreservedly,”—I +do. Nothing could be simpler, more elemental, +than my love is; and do I reserve +a single thought of it from you? But I am +not conventional enough in heart or training +to surrender. My genius for you does +not extend so far. To lose myself does +not seem to me wise or logical, however +scriptural or legal the practice is. The +truth is, I cannot agree to be taken, any +more than the little petticoated planet above +your head can kick off her diadem of light. +I do not know what you will do about it, +because it is not my business to know +these things. All I am sure of is that I +love you, and that I belong to you if only +you can get my extradition papers from +Nature herself.</p> +<p>Meanwhile I have ventured to prepare my +father’s mind for a new idea. As we sat +before the library fire this evening, each +employed according to his calling, he with +Fletcher’s <i>Appeal</i> and I with my sewing, I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_152' name='page_152'></a>152</span> +asked the usual introductory question to +our conversations. And it is always the +signal for him to raise his shield of orthodoxy; +for it has long been my habit to +creep around the corner of my private +opinion and tease him with what he is +pleased to term “the most blasphemous +speculations.” Therefore when I said, +“Father, I wish to ask you a question,” he +looked up with the guarded eye of a man +who expects an assault from an unscrupulous +antagonist.</p> +<p>“Well, my daughter, ask.”</p> +<p>“Which would you advise me to marry, +father, a humanitarian whose highest law +is the material welfare of his kind, or an +ascetic whose spirituality is something more +and something less than scriptural?”</p> +<p>“Neither, Jessica; if you must marry, +choose a man who believes in the divinity +of Christ and lives somewhere within the +limits of the Ten Commandments!”—Heavens! +think of bondage with a man +who is bounded upon the north, east, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_153' name='page_153'></a>153</span> +south, and west of his soul by laws enacted +to discipline the Israelites in the Wilderness! +In that case, I should insist upon a +bridal trip to Canaan, with the hope of +reaching the Promised Land as a widow.</p> +<p>And this reminds me to ask you what +manner of man you are yourself. Do you +reflect that we have seen each other only +twice? and both times you were on guard, +once as an editor, and once as a lover. +Even your face has faded to a mere shadow, +and, if you persist in your petulant obstinacy +about the picture<a name="FNanchor_3" id="FNanchor_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a>, is like to vanish +clean away into nothing. Only your encompassing +eyes peer at me with solemn +expostulation out of the shimmering form I +conjure up and call my lover. Is it quite +fair, Philip? And as for your character, my +hope is that, in spite of your mental pose +as a sage, you have an unreasonable disposition, +a chaotic temper. A long term +of years with a serene, gentle-spirited man +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_154' name='page_154'></a>154</span> +would be unbearable to me. Rather than +prolong the futility of existence with one I +could not provoke, even enrage, I should +commit suicide. My own disposition is so +equally divided between perversity and repentance +that I could not endure the placidity, +the ennui, of a level turnpike existence.</p> +<p>And now isn’t it an evidence of your +high-minded heartlessness, that in the same +letter where you sue for love you also +introduce a philosophical discussion and +show even more heat in maintaining it +than you do in your amorous petition? +Why I cannot take warning and fly to the +ends of my earth away from you now +while there is yet time, is a mystery to +me!</p> +<p>And so you expect to make such a +pother in your opposition to the spirit of +the times that all the world will hear you. +Dear Master, I doubt if you will! Your bells +ring too high up. The angels in heaven +may hear you, but men are not listening in +that direction. I did not reply to your +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_155' name='page_155'></a>155</span> +contention against Lyman Abbott, because +it is a far cry from you to me on this subject. +In consciousness we are at opposite +ends of a great problem, and I think the +normal man walks somewhere between. +Besides, I am not sure that I understand +your position; I am not familiar with the +starry highways of your mind. Still, in a +general way it has always seemed to me +that material things are, after all, “counters +which represent spiritual realities.” And I +take comfort in the fact that it must require +us all to work out the Great Plan,—humanitarian, +sage, pilgrim, ascetic, even the +butcher and candlestick maker. And while +we do not know it, really we are working +together for one end hidden now in the +divine economy of far-off destiny and justice.... +To me the wonder of wonders +is that I may some day light a little +taper in your upper chamber myself, and +kneel together with you before the same +window to worship. Only, dear Heart, +please get your deity named before I come! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_156' name='page_156'></a>156</span></p> +<p>P.S.—As to my spelling, that is a coquettish +licence I take with the genealogy of +words. And you may tell your proofreader +that the letter <i>r</i> has never been +popular in the South since the war. There +is hauteur in my omission of it, and it is a +fact that we can express ourselves with far +more vigour without <i>g</i>’s or <i>r</i>’s than you of +the North can with them. For expression +with us is not scholastic, but temperamental! +Where is Jack?</p> +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_157' name='page_157'></a>157</span></div> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXIX</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Kind Madam</span>:</p> +<p>Yes, a little more than kind, dear Jessica, +for you have put into my grasp the flower +of perfect delight, and “my hand retains a +little breath of sweet.” You have opened +a window into my heart and poured through +it the warmth and golden glory of your +own sunlight. I am filled with a joyousness +of a new spring—and yet there is +something in your letter that makes me a +little sad. You express so frankly that reserve +of resentment, even of bitterness, +which always, I think, abides with a woman +in all the sweetness of her love, but +which with most women never comes to +entire consciousness. Listen, dear Heart, +while I talk to you of yourself and myself, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_158' name='page_158'></a>158</span> +until we comprehend each other better. +It is so much easier for me to understand +you than for you to understand me, because +a woman’s nature is single, whereas +a man’s is double, and in this duality lies +all the reason of that enmity of the sexes +which draws us together yet still holds us +asunder.</p> +<p>You complain of my letter because I argue +a philosophical proposition in it while +pleading for love. Do you not know that +this is man’s way? And I would not try to +deceive you: this philosophical proposition, +which seems to you almost a matter of indifference, +is more to me than everything +else in the world. For it I could surrender +all my heart’s hope; for it I could sacrifice +my own person; even, if the choice were +necessary, which cannot be, I might sacrifice +you. There is this duality in man’s +nature. The ambition of his intellect, the +passion, it may be, to force upon the world +some vision of his imagination or some +theorem of his brain, works in him side by +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_159' name='page_159'></a>159</span> +side with his personal being, and the two +are never quite fused. Can you not recall +a score of examples in history of men who +have led this dual existence? You reviewed +for me Bismarck’s Love Letters and +were yourself struck by this sharp contrast +between the iron determination of the +man in public affairs and the softness and +sweetness of his domestic life. That is but +one case in point of the eternal dualism in +masculine nature which a woman can never +comprehend, and which always, if it confronts +her nakedly, she resents. For a woman +is not so. There exists no such gap +in her between her heart and brain, between +her outer and inner life. And the +consequence shows itself in many ways. +She is less efficient in the world and is +never a creator or impresser of new ideas; +but, on the other hand, her character possesses +a certain unity that is the wonder +of all men who observe. She calls the +man selfish and is bitter against him at +times, but her accusation is wrong. It is +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_160' name='page_160'></a>160</span> +not selfishness which leads a man if needs +be to cut off his own personal desires while +sacrificing another; it is the power in him +which impels the world into new courses. +A man’s virtues are aggressive and turned +toward outer conquest and may have little +relation to his own heart. But a woman’s +virtues are bound up with every impulse of +her personal being; they work out in her +a loveliness and unity of character which +make the man appear beside her coarse and +unmoral. Men of vicious private life have +more than once been benefactors of the human +race; I think that never happened in +the case of a woman.</p> +<p>And because of this harmony, this unconsciousness +in woman’s virtue, a man’s +love of woman takes on a form of idealisation +which a woman never understands +and indeed often resents. What in him +is something removed from himself, something +which he analyses and governs and +manipulates, is in the woman beloved an +integral part of her character. Virtue seems +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_161' name='page_161'></a>161</span> +in her to become personified and he calls +her by strange names. For this reason men +who make language tend always to give to +abstract qualities the feminine gender, as +you must have observed in Latin and might +observe in a score of other tongues. For +this reason, too, a man’s love of woman +assumes such form of worship as Dante +paid to Beatrice or Petrarch to Laura. It +would be grotesque for a woman to love +in this way, for virtue is not a man’s character, +but a faculty of his character. And +so is it strange that I should approach you +asking for love that my soul may have +peace? It cannot enter into my comprehension +that such a cry should come from +you to me. All that I strive to accomplish +in the world, all that I gird myself to battle +for, the ideals that I would lay down my +life that men may behold and cherish,—is +it not now all gathered up in the beauty +and serenity of your own person? What +I labour to express in words is already yours +in inner possession. If I ask you for peace, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_162' name='page_162'></a>162</span> +it is not selfishness, dear girl; it is prayer. +If you should come to me begging for +peace, I should be filled with amazement; +for I myself have it not. What I can give +is love’s unwearied tenderness and love’s +unceasing homage to the beauty of your +body and your soul. More than that, I +shall give you in the end the crown of the +world’s honour. Without you I may accomplish +the task laid upon me, but only +with heaviness of soul and abnegation of +all that my heart craves. I was reading in +an old drama last night until I came to +these words, and then I set the book aside:</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 2.94334069168506em;'>Once a young lark</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Sat on thy hand, and gazing on thine eyes</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Mounted and sung, thinking them moving skies.</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>In that sweet hyperbole I seemed to read a +transcript of your beauty. If I am selfish, +beloved, all love is selfishness.</p> +<p>Dear girl, it seems that always I must +woo you in metaphysics and express my +ardour in theorems. But have I not made +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_163' name='page_163'></a>163</span> +myself understood? “Man’s love is of +man’s life a thing apart,” as a thousand +women have quoted: and it is true. But +do you not see that even for this reason +his love swells into a passionate idolatry of +the woman who knows no such cleavage +in her soul. Try us with sacrifices. I +could throw away every earthly good to +bestow on you a year of happiness—only +not my philosophic proposition, as you +sarcastically call it. That is greater than I +and greater than you—pray heaven it do +not clash with the promise of our peace. +Virgil, I think, meant to exhibit such a +tragic conflict in his tale of Æneas and +Dido, only poetwise the inner impulse +which worked within Æneas he expressed +dramatically as a messenger from the gods. +It shows but little understanding of the +poem or of human nature to censure Æneas +as a cold egotist. Did he not sail away +carrying anguish in his heart, <i>multa gemens</i>? +For him there was destined toil and warfare, +for Dido only terror and death. The +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_164' name='page_164'></a>164</span> +tragedy fell hardest upon the woman, for +so the Fates have ordered.</p> +<p>But why do I write such grim reflections? +There is no tragedy, no separation, +for us, but a great wonder of happiness:</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>The treasures of the deep are not so precious</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>As are the concealed comforts of a man</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Locked up in woman’s love.</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>All the marvellous words of the poets rush +into my brain when I think of this new +blessing. Yes, I have acted a robber’s +part, sweet Jessica, and he who ravished +that great jewel from the Indian idol never +carried away so large a draft on the world’s +happiness as this that I have stolen. I +cannot be repentant while this golden glow +is upon me; later I shall begin to question +my own worthiness.</p> +<p>I cannot now tell you one half that is in +my mind to write, or answer one half the +questions in your letter. Jack is living +with me just at present, but of him I will +speak next time. I have planned to change +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_165' name='page_165'></a>165</span> +my abode, but of that too next time. And +I would not attempt to give a name to the +deity I serve in a postscript, as it were. +Dear Heart, only let your love add a little +to your happiness as it has added so much +to mine; and trust me.—I am sending a +letter to your father, the contents of which +you might imagine even if he should not +show it to you. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_166' name='page_166'></a>166</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXX</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p>WRITTEN BEFORE THE RECEIPT OF THE PRECEDING LETTER</p> +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My Beloved</span>:</p> +<p>Last night, I dreamed myself away to +you. I walked beside you, a little wraith +of love, through the silent night streets of +your great city,—but you did not know +me. There was no sky above us, only a +hollow blackness, and the snow lay new +and white upon the pavements; but I wore +green leaves in my hair and a red Southern +rose on my breast to remind you of a +brown forest maid and summer-time far +away—and you would not see me! I faced +you in gay mockery and swept a bow, but +the blue silence in your eyes terrified me. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_167' name='page_167'></a>167</span> +I held out my hands beseechingly, touched +my cheek to yours, and you did not feel +the pressure. Then I slipped down upon +the snow and wept, and you did not hear +me.</p> +<p>We were both “in the spirit,” I think. +Only, dear Love, when I am in the spirit, +all my thoughts are of you; but though I +looked far and near, I could not find in all +your regions one little thought of poor +Jessica. All was misty and dim within +your portals. <i>Your</i> thoughts were vague +ancient shapes that wandered past me like +Brahmin ghosts. And not one gallant +memory of Jessica legended upon those +inner walls of yours!</p> +<p>Dear, I cannot escape now, my heart +<i>will</i> not come back to me; and since it is +too late I will not complain. But for a +little while I must tell you these things and +pray for your kind comfort, till I shall have +become accustomed to your attic moods +and exaltations.</p> +<p>Do you recall the woman I told you of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_168' name='page_168'></a>168</span> +last summer, whose sorrow-smitten face +in the church terrified me so? Grief became +credible to me as I gazed at her. +And could it have been, do you think, a +message foretold to me of this magic future, +full of intangible fears, wherein I am to live +with you? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_169' name='page_169'></a>169</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXXI</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p>Love is a mystic worker of miracles, O +my sweet visionary! for on that very day +when you dreamed yourself away to me I +beheld you suddenly standing before me, +so life-like and appearing so wistfully beautiful +that I reached out my hand to touch +you—but grasped only the impalpable air. +All day and late into the night I had been +reading and reflecting, seeking in the ways +of thought some word of comfort for the +human heart, until at last my consciousness +became confused. It often happens +thus. So real is this search for some truth +outside of me, that it seems as if my soul +were a thing apart from me, a thing which +left me to go alone on its dim and perilous +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_170' name='page_170'></a>170</span> +way. I behold it as it were a shadow +floating away from me out into that abyss +of shadows which are the thoughts of +many men long dead. And on this occasion +the silence into which the Searcher +went forth was vaster and more obscure +than ever before, filled with unfathomable +darkness as a clear night might look +wherein no moon or stars appeared, and +so lonely “that God himself scarce seemed +to be there.”</p> +<p>Then, as often when this mood comes +upon me, I went out to walk under the +hard flaring lights and amid the streaming +crowds of Broadway, in order to bring +back the sense of mortal illusion and unite +myself once more to human existence. +The people were pouring from the theatres, +and I sought the densest throng. But still +I could not awaken in myself the illusion +of life. And then suddenly, without warning, +there in the noisy brawl of the street, +I beheld you standing before me, looking +into my face and smiling. You wore a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_171' name='page_171'></a>171</span> +burning Southern rose upon your breast +and were more wondrously and delicately +fair than the dream of poets. And there +was a smile upon your lips as if to say: +“Dear Philip, thou hast put away the +pleasures and loveliness of this world as +they had been a snaring web of illusion; +yet I do but look upon thee, and forthwith +thou art pierced with love and know that +in this scorned desire of beauty dwells the +great reality.” I reached out my hand to +touch the rose against your heart, but the +vision was gone, and all about me was +only the tumultuous mockery of the street. +Sweetheart, you have smitten me with +remorse. Shall I take from you only happiness, +and give in return only this spectral +dread? Ah, you shall learn that I am very +real, very earthly, capable of love and tenderness +and daily duties and quiet human +sympathies! I told you of the dualism into +which my life, into which, indeed, every +man’s life, is cast; why will you persist in +clinging to that part which is cold and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_172' name='page_172'></a>172</span> +inhuman instead of seizing upon that which +is warm and very near by? I would not +take you with me into those bleak ways +where always there is fear lest our personality +be swallowed up in the dark impersonal +abyss. I would love you as a man +loves a woman and cleaves to her. Nay, +more, I perceive dimly in that love a strange +reconcilement wherein the dual forces of +my nature shall be made one, wherein truth +and beauty shall blend together in a kiss, +and there shall be no more seeking in obscurity, +but only peace.</p> +<p>When the vision faded from me on +Broadway, I turned back to my home, and +there, before the dawn came, tried to write +out in words one thought of the many that +thronged upon me. I have almost forgotten +the art of making rhymes if ever I +knew it.</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='text-align: center;'>A RECONCILIATION</p> +<br /> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>All beauteous things the world’s allurement knows:</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>Starred Venus, when she droops on Tyrian couch</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>While Evening draws her dusky curtains close,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>Or pearled from morning bath she seems to crouch;</p> +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_173' name='page_173'></a>173</span></div> +<br /> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>In bleak November one strayed violet;</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>The rathe spring-beauty scattered wide like snow;</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>The opal in a cirque of diamonds set;</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>Rare silken gowns that rustle as they flow;</p> +<br /> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>The dumb thrush brooding in her lilac hedge;</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>The wild hawk towering in his proudest flight;</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>A silver fountain splashed o’er mossy ledge;</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>The sunrise flaming on an Alpine height;—</p> +<br /> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>All these I’ve seen, yet never learned, till now</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>In thy sweet smiling, to accord my vow</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.735835172921266em;'>Austere of truth with beauty’s charmed delight.</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_174' name='page_174'></a>174</span></div> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXXII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p>WRITTEN IN ANSWER TO LETTER XXIX</p> +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My Dear Philip</span>:</p> +<p>You are a magician rather than a lover. +And no lover, I think, was ever so subtle +at reasoning. At least you do not act the +part as I supposed it was played. A lover, +I thought, was one who stood at the door +of a woman’s heart and serenaded till she +crept out upon her little balcony of sighs +and kissed her hand to him, or shed a +tokening bloom upon his upturned countenance. +So far as I could imagine, he was +prehistoric in the simplicity of his methods. +Two things I never suspected: that love +is the kind of romantic exegesis you represent +it to be, or that every lover, psychically, +is a sort of twin phenomenon—that +he is <i>two</i> men instead of one! And after +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_175' name='page_175'></a>175</span> +he is married, I suppose he will be a domestic +<i>trinity</i>, but with his godhead concerned +with the affairs of the world at +large. I am awed by the revelation; still, +it excuses much in my conduct that I had +before felt was reprehensible; for I have +scarcely faced my own reflection in the +glass since my ignominious capitulation. +Something within charged treachery against +poor Jessica. But if there are <i>two</i> of you, +and only <i>one</i> of me, that fact gives a new +and honourable complexion to my part in +the transaction.</p> +<p>However, the way you have multiplied +yourself and doubled forces upon me may +be good masculine tactics, but I am sure +it is an unparliamentary advantage you +have taken. For you have not only posed +as a lover, but with the cunning words of +a logician you prove what seemed wrong +to be really a sublime right; and what <i>I</i> +charged as selfishness, <i>you</i> call “a prayer.” +I am confused by your argument; it seems +incontestable. But do you know, my +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_176' name='page_176'></a>176</span> +Philip, that a woman’s convictions are +never reached by a mere argument? For +they are hidden in her heart, not in her +little bias-fold mind. And so, in spite of +your sweet reasoning with me, and the +assumption you make of omniscience concerning +me, my convictions remain. Only, +now, I do not know whether I cherish +them against you or against the God who +made me simple and you double.</p> +<p>But granting all you say to be true, that +every man has a personal life and at the +same time a universal life energy as well, +that there is in him a little domestic fortress +of love, and a battle power of life apart,—admitting +all this, how do you reconcile +justice with the fact that you frankly offer +only half of your duality for all of Jessica? +Have you never suspected that she also +has fair kingdoms of thought apart from +your science of her? My Prophet, it is +you who have discovered them to me! +Love has added a sweet Canaan to my +little hemisphere. I have heard invisible +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_177' name='page_177'></a>177</span> +birds singing, I have trysted with spirits +of the air since I knew you. And I have +felt the pangs of a consciousness in me so +new and so tender, that I am no longer +merely the maid you know, but, dear +Master, I am some one else, near and kin +to you as life and spirit are kin! What is +this strange white space in my soul that +love has made, so real, yet so holy that +I dare not myself lift the veil of consciousness +before it? And all I know is that I +shall meet you there finally heart to heart!—Philip, +kiss me! For I am a frightened +white-winged stranger in my own new +heavens and new earth. I am no longer +as you imagine, simply one, but I have a +foreign power of life and death in me, and +the fact terrifies me.</p> +<p>You declare that there is a difference and +a distance between a man’s love and a man’s +mind which account for his dual nature. +There is also an intelligence of the heart, +more astute, more vital, which divides +woman’s nature also between the abandon +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_178' name='page_178'></a>178</span> +of love and the resentment of understanding. +We know, and we do not know, +and we <i>feel</i>. What we know is of little +consequence, what we feel is written upon +the faces of each succeeding generation. +But what we do <i>not</i> know constitutes that +element of mystery in us that makes us +also dual. For we feel and suspect further +than we can understand. Thus, your faculty +for projecting yourself in spirit further +than I can follow, excites in me a terror +of loneliness that sharpens into resentment. +I am widowed by the loss of the +higher half of your entity. Can you not +see, Philip, it is not your views I combat, +your theory about humanitarianism and all +that? They are but the geometrical figures +of thought in your mind; and I have no +wish to disturb your “philosophic proposition.” +The point is, I love that in you +more than I love the lover. And the passion +with which you cling to it as something +apart from our relationship offends +me, excites forebodings. Tell me, are +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_179' name='page_179'></a>179</span> +“philosophic propositions” alien to love? +And after all do you think you are the only +one who may claim them? This is a +secret,—I have a little diagram of feminine +wisdom hid away from you somewhere, +founded upon the wit of love. And we +shall see which lasts the longer, your +proposition or my understanding!</p> +<p>But I must not forget to speak of a +matter much more practical just now. +You mentioned the letter that you sent +to father,—“The contents you might imagine +even if he did not show it to you.” +Well, he did not show it to me, but +from the effect it produced upon him I am +obliged to infer that it contained the most +iniquitous blasphemies. Philip, I do hope +you are not subject to fits of “righteous +indignation!” I could welcome a season +of secular rage in a man as I could a fierce +wind in sultry weather, but this kind of +fury that cloaks itself in the guise of outraged +piety is very trying. No sooner did +father read your letter than he strode in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_180' name='page_180'></a>180</span> +upon me like a grey-bearded firebrand. +The offending letter was crushed in his +hand, and his glasses were akimbo on his +nose, the way they always are when he is +perturbed. I spare you the details, but +from the nature of his questions you might +have thought he was examining you +through me for a licence to preach. I did +not try to deceive him in regard to your +views, but my own impression of them +is so nebulous that the very vagueness of +my replies increased his alarm. Nor did I +protest at the abuse he heaped upon your +absent head. For I know how wickedly +and unscrupulously you acted in the felony +of my love, and there was a certain humorous +satisfaction in hearing father give +a “philosophic proposition” to your criminality. +My only prayer was that he might +not ask me if I loved you. Philip, I would +rather live on bread and water a week than +confess it to any living man besides yourself. +But father has dwelt too long outside the +realm of romance to ask that very natural +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_181' name='page_181'></a>181</span> +question. Finally I protested feebly: “But +how can it vitally affect a woman’s happiness +whether or not her husband accepts +the doctrine of repentance just as you do? +Can he not love and cherish his wife even +if he does question the veracity of Jonah’s +whaling experience?” But when I looked +up and saw his face, I was ashamed, and +ran and kissed him, and straightened his +glasses so that he could see me with both +eyes. But, dear Heart, his eyes were too +full of tears to fire upon me. And as I sat +there upon the arm of his chair, twisting +his sacred beard, this is what he told me. +When my mother died, he said, and left +me a little puckered pink mite in his arms, +he had solemnly dedicated me to God. +And he declared, moreover, that he could +not be faithless to his vow by giving me +in marriage to an infidel. Being an infidel, +Philip, is much worse than being a plain +heathen; an infidel is a heathen raised to +the sixteenth power of iniquity! Now I +rarely quote Scripture, for I have too much +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_182' name='page_182'></a>182</span> +guile in me to justify the liberty, but I +could not refrain from mentioning Abraham’s +dilemma, it seemed so appropriate +to the occasion,—how when he was about +to offer up Isaac, he saw a little he-goat +suggestively nearby fastened among the +thorns; and I suggested that instead of +sacrificing me he should take the widow +Smith’s little Johnnie, who shows even at +this early Sabbath-school age a pharisaical +aptitude for piety. I pointed out that in +the sight of heaven one soul is as worthy, +as acceptable, as another. Besides, did not +Isaac become a righteous man, even if he +was not offered up and did live in this +world of temptations an unconscionably +long time? But father was not to be +reasoned with or comforted. And yesterday, +Sunday, he preached impressively +from the text, “Why do the heathen rage +and the people imagine a vain thing? ”Of +course <i>you</i> are the heathen, Philip, and of +course <i>I</i> am the “vain thing.” But that is +not father’s idea. The vain thing you imagine +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_183' name='page_183'></a>183</span> +is that he will give his consent to +our marriage! Well, you may settle it +between you! All I know is that now I +am predestined, but not in the dedicated +deaconess direction!</p> +<div class='ra'> +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Jessica, the Brave</span>.</p> +</div> + +<p>P.S.—What do you think, <i>our</i> little forest +is for sale. And oh, Philip, if some +vandal buys my dear trees and cuts them +down, my very life will die of grief! They +are my brothers. And if a man built a +house there and asked me to marry him, I +would, if he were as ugly as old Jeremiah! +(I suppose all the prophets were like this, +their writings produce that impression!) +And my father would consent, even if the +bridegroom were a heathen instead of a +prophet. For he would be obliged to attend +religious services at Morningtown, +and father does not believe any man can +long remain under the drippings of his +sanctuary without being forgiven. And I +do not either. God would have mercy +upon him somehow! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_184' name='page_184'></a>184</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXXIII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p>Your letter, dearest Jessica, and your +father’s came by the same post, and the +sensation they gave me was as if some +moral confusion had befallen the elements +and summer were mingled with winter in +the same sky. Not that his letter was anything +but kind and dignified, but it seemed +to remove you and your life so far away +from me. I confess I had some fears that +he might insist on the little we have seen +or, as the world judges, know of each +other; it had not occurred to me that my +“infidelity” would block my path to happiness—so +little do the people I commonly +meet reck of that matter. I have been accusing +the world all along of indifference to +the spirit and to theology, and now, by a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_185' name='page_185'></a>185</span> +sort of poetical irony, I am blocked in my +progress toward happiness by meeting one +who adheres to an old-world belief in +these things. The burden of his reply +was in these words: “I cannot conceive +that my daughter should give her heart to +a man who was not strong in the faith in +which she has herself been nurtured. I +would gladly be otherwise convinced, but +from all I can learn you are of those who +trust rather in the pride of intellect than in +the humility of Christian faith. ”Why, my +fair Jesuit, have you concealed your love +as well as this! I think no one could live +in the same house with me without hearing +the bird that sings in my breast. You +must tell your father the whole truth.</p> +<p>Meanwhile I will write to him as best I +can, but the real debate I must leave until +I come to Morningtown. And how shall I +persuade him that I have faith or that my +faith is in any way an equivalent for his +belief in the Christian dogma? Will he +listen to me if I say that a man may believe +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_186' name='page_186'></a>186</span> +the whole catechism and yet have no faith? +Mankind, as I regard them, are divided into +two pretty distinct classes: those to whom +the visible world is real and the invisible +world unreal or at best a shadow of the visible, +and those to whom this visible realm +with all its life is mere illusion whereas the +spirit alone is the eternal reality. Faith is +just this perception of the illusion enwrapping +all these phenomena that to those +without faith seem so real; faith is the voluntary +turning away of the spirit from this +illusion toward the infinite reality. It is because +I find among the men of to-day no +perception of this illusion that I deny the +existence of faith in the world. It is because +men have utterly lost the sense of +this illusion that religion has descended into +this Simony of the humanitarians. How +shall I tell your father this? I think we +should do better to discuss household +economy than religion.</p> +<p>Just now I am forcibly detained in New +York by a number of petty duties, but in a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_187' name='page_187'></a>187</span> +few days I shall set forth on my second pilgrimage +to Morningtown. Shall I have +any wit to persuade your father that my +“infidelity” is not the unpardonable sin, +or that my love for you is sufficient to +cover even that sin and a host of others? +And how will Jessica meet me? She will +not look now, I trust, for that cloven hoof +which I never had and those ass’s ears +which, alas! I did flourish so portentously. +Why, Jessica, according to your +own words you will have a strange double +lover to greet, and I think it would be +mathematically correct if you gave two +kisses in return for every one. It will be a +new rendering of Catullus’s <i>Da Basia</i>.</p> +<p>And so your little forest is for sale. +Could I buy that faerie land, sweetheart, +and build therein a hidden house and over +its threshold carry a sweet bride! Ah, +you have rewritten the sacred story of +Eden. Not for the love of woman should +I be driven from the happy garden, but +brought by woman’s grace from the desert +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_188' name='page_188'></a>188</span> +into the circle of perfect Paradise. Together +we should hearken to the singing +of birds; together, we should bend over +the bruised flowers and look up into the +green majesty of the trees; and sometimes, +it might be, as we walked together hand +in hand in the cool of the evening,—sometimes, +it might be, we should hear the +voice of our own happiness speaking to us +from the shadows and deem that it was +God. May angels and ministers of grace +enfold you in their mercy for this dream of +rapture you have given me! It shall feed +my imagination in dreams until I come to +you and learn in your arms the more “sober +certainty of waking bliss.”</p> +<p>Yet, withal, would you be willing to +forego your “brothers,” as you call the +trees, and this vision of hidden peace? +Would it pain you to leave them and come +with me into this great solitude of people +which we call New York? How in that +idyllic retreat should I keep my heart and +mind on the stern purpose I have set before +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_189' name='page_189'></a>189</span> +me? There, indeed, the world and all the +concerns of mankind would sink so far +from my care, would fade into the mist of +such utter illusion, that I know not how I +could write with seriousness about them. +I need not the happiness of love’s isolation, +but the rude contact of affairs, yet with +love’s encouragement, to hold me within +practical ideas. So it seems to me now, +but I would not mar the beauty of your +life. Of this and many more things we +will talk together when I come.</p> +<p>I have given up my old comfortable +quarters in the——and have taken a couple +of cheap rooms here at——. For some +months I shall not be writing for money +and I wished not to eat unnecessarily into +my small savings. One room is a mere +closet where I sleep, the other is pretty +large, but still crowded immoderately with +my books. I am hard at work on a book +I have had in mind for several years,—the +history and significance of humanitarianism. +I need not tell you what the gist of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_190' name='page_190'></a>190</span> +that <i>magnum opus</i> is to be, and, dear sceptic, +trust me it will be put into such a form +as to stir up a pother whether with or +without ultimate results. I have learned +enough from the despised trade of journalism +to manage that. When I return from +Morningtown I shall give myself up utterly +to composition. Two or three months +ought to suffice for the work, for the material +is already well in hand; and at the +end of that time my pen shall turn to making +money again. I have no anxiety about +gaining a modest income—and can you +imagine what that means to you and me?</p> +<p>I had thought to send our goblin boy +into the country as you bade me, but for a +while I am keeping him here. He sleeps +in a cot beside me, and in the day, when +not at school or crouching in sphinxlike +silence on the curbstone, he sits in a great +chair by the window. Often when I look +up from my book his eyes are fixed on me +with a kind of mute appealing wonder. +Somehow I could not let him go. He +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_191' name='page_191'></a>191</span> +seems a link between us in our separation; +and while my thoughts are set upon rebuking +the errors of humanitarianism it will +be well to have this object of human pity +before my eyes.</p> +<p>I wonder if you comprehend what a +strange wistful letter you have written. +You are no longer merely the maid I knew, +and my ways of thought excite in you a +terror of loneliness that sharpens into resentment—so +you say. Once more, dear +girl, we will talk of all this when I come. +Until that happy day, wait, and fortify your +love with trust. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_192' name='page_192'></a>192</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXXIV</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p>I have a number of terms, my Philip, +with which I might begin this letter, but I +have not yet the courage to call you by +such dear names beyond the whispering +gallery of my own heart.</p> +<p>And you wonder how I have concealed +my romantic deflections from father. Indeed, +I am sure he has noticed a heavenly-mindedness +in me for some time past; but +out of the sanctity of his own heart he +probably attributed this improvement to the +chastening effects of a particularly gloomy +course of religious reading that he has insisted +upon my undertaking this winter. +And, after all, father is not so far wrong as to +my spiritual state, for when love becomes a +woman’s vocation, she carries blessings in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_193' name='page_193'></a>193</span> +her eyes and all her moods tiptoe reverently +like young novices who follow one +another down a cathedral aisle. This life +of the heart becomes her piety, I think, and +the highest form of religion of which she is +capable. Jessica begins to magnify herself, +you see! A kingdom of heaven has been +set up within me, dear creator, and naturally +I feel this extension of my boundaries.</p> +<p>But do not expect me to tell father “the +whole truth,”—how you first fascinated +me with editorial magnanimity, then baited +me with compliments, and later with deepest +confidences, and finally slipped into my +Arcadia disguised as a philosopher, but, +when you had got entire possession, declared +yourself a victorious lover! I wonder +that you can contemplate the record +you have made in this matter without +blushing!</p> +<p>As for your “infidelity,” and what you +call your “faith,” I think father will denounce +them both as blasphemous. Religion +to father is something more than +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_194' name='page_194'></a>194</span> +“the poetry he believes in.” It has the +definition of experience, miracles, and a +whole body of spiritual phenomena quite +as real to him as your upper-chamber existence +is to you. Only father has this +advantage of you, he has a real Divinity, +with all the necessary attributes of a man’s +God. His “voice of happiness” speaks to +him from the stars, and he does not call it +an echo, as you do, of a fair voice within +your own heart. Father gets his salvation +from the outside of his warring elements; +you speak to your own seas, “Peace be +still!” As for me, between you, I stand +winking at Heaven; and I say: “It is evident +that neither of them understands this +mystery of life; I will not try to comprehend. +I will be good when I can, and +diplomatic when I must, and leave the rest +to heaven and earth and nature.” Meanwhile, +I advise you not to quote your +pagan authorities to father. If the very +worst comes, you may say that you have +almost scriptural proof of my affections,—and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_195' name='page_195'></a>195</span> +mind you say affections, father could +not bear the romantic inflection of such a +term as love. It sounds too secular, carnal, +to him.</p> +<p>You ask me if I will consent to abandon +such a life as our forest offers and come +with you into “this great solitude of people” +which you call New York. Philip, +when a man holds a starling in his hand he +does not ask the bird whether it will stay +here or wing yonder, but he carries it with +him where he will; and the starling sings, +no less in one place than in another, because +its nature is to sing. But, I think, +dear Master, the motive which prompts the +song in the cage is not the same as the +impulse to sing in the forest. So it is +with me. If we live here among the trees, +where their green waves make a summer sea +high in the heavens above our heads, I could +be as content as any bird is. But if you +make our home in the city, or in the midst +of a desert for that matter, I could not withhold +one thought from your happiness, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_196' name='page_196'></a>196</span> +for love has transformed me, adapted life +itself to a new purpose. I have been +“called,” and I have no will to resist, because +my heart tells me there is goodness +in the purpose, a little necklace of womanly +virtues for me. When I think of pain, and +sorrow, my eyes are holden, I can see only +the fair form of love sanctified, and I can +hear only your voice calling me to fulfil a +destiny which you yourself do not understand. +And as all these things approach, +beloved, father’s God is more to me than +your fine illusion. I wish for guardian angels, +I feel the need of a Virgin Mary and +of all the lady mothers in heaven to bless +me.</p> +<p>But I have been telling you only of my +inner life. Outwardly I shall ever be capable +of the most heathen manifestations. +For instance, loving as I do, how do you +account for this personal animosity I feel +toward you, almost a madness of fear at +the thought of your approaching visit? +There is something that has never been +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_197' name='page_197'></a>197</span> +finished in this affair of our hearts. Perhaps +it is that really you have never kissed +me. Well, I find it as easy to write of +kisses as to review a sentimental romance, +but actually there is some instinct in me +stronger than mind against the fact, do you +understand? Philip, you have no idea of +the depths of feminine treachery! Did I +ever intimate a willingness to do such a +thing? I do not say that I <i>wish</i> to kiss +another, but I affirm that it would be easier +for me to kiss my father’s presiding elder—and +heaven knows he is a didactic monster +of head and whiskers! It is not that I +do not love you, but that I do!</p> +<p>Do you know what will happen when +you come to Morningtown? I will meet +you at the station, not as Jessica, but as +the demure little home-made daughter of +the Methodist minister here; we will greet +each other with blighting formality, for +there will be the station-master’s wife to +observe us; we will walk home along the +main street, and we will speak of the most +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_198' name='page_198'></a>198</span> +trivial or useful subjects, of the weather in +New York, and of Jack more particularly. +Out of sheer bravado I will scan your face +now and then, but my eyes will not rest +there long enough to fall before yours discomfited. +When we reach the house father +will greet you from his Sinai elevation, with +pretty much the same holy-man courtesy +Moses would have showed if a heathen +Canaanite had appeared to him. And while +you two are exchanging platitudes, I will +escape into this room of mine, take one +glance at my mirror, and then cover my +face with my hands for joy and shame +while the red waves of love mount as high +as they will over it. Ah, Philip, I shall be +<i>so</i> glad to see you, and so afraid! But you +shall have small satisfaction in either fact, +for I do not aim to make it easy for you to +win what is already yours in my heart.</p> +<hr /> + +<p>P.S.—So you are keeping Jack mured +up with you and your <i>magnum opus</i>. No +wonder he “crouches in sphinxlike silence +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_199' name='page_199'></a>199</span> +on the curbstone.” He prefers it to your +company. You once told me that you +found humanitarians difficult to live with: +I wonder what Jack thinks of mystical +philosophers in the domestic relation. It +almost brings tears to my eyes. And some +day in a similar situation I may be driven to +seek the cold curbstone for companionship. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_200' name='page_200'></a>200</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXXV</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p>It seems to me as I read your letters, my +sweet wife to be, that I am only beginning +to learn the richness of my fortune. And +will you not, when you write to me next +time—will you not call me by one of +those dear names that you speak in the +whispering gallery of your heart? I shall +barely receive more than one letter from +you now before I come to see you in person +and tell over with you face to face the +story of our love. Just a few more days +and I shall be free.</p> +<p>But for the present I want to talk to you +about Jack. Indeed, I feel a little sore on +this point. It was you who proposed our +adopting him, yet, after your first words +of advice, you have left me to work out +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_201' name='page_201'></a>201</span> +the situation quite unaided; and now I can +see that you are laughing at me. Poor +Jack, he was something like a “philosophical +proposition” which I had never +very thoroughly analysed. One thing, however, +begins to grow perfectly clear: my +home is no place for him; he is only a +shadow in my life and needs to take on +substance. Well, I thought at last I had +solved the problem—or at least that +O’Meara had solved it for me; but here +too I was disappointed. Really, you must +help me out of this muddle.</p> +<p>Do you remember the note-book of +O’Meara’s that I told you about? Ever +since his death I have been too busy really +to look through the volume; but day before +yesterday it occurred to me that I +might find some information there about +Jack’s parentage, and with that end in +view I spent most of the day deciphering +the smeared pages. At first I found everything +in the notes except what I wanted, +but toward the end of the book I discovered +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_202' name='page_202'></a>202</span> +a whole group of memoranda and +reflections in which the name Tarrytown +occurred again and again. I will read you +the notes when I come; without giving +many events they tell in a disjointed way +a little idyllic episode in the story of his +life. He, too, knew love, and was loved. +There in that village by the Hudson for a +few short months he kept the enemy at +bay and was happy. And then, too soon, +came the fatal story—the only dated note +in the book, I believe:</p> +<div class='blockquot'> +<p>September 3d: A son was born and she has left me +to care for him alone. I had thought that happiness +might endure, and this too was illusion. I stand by +the tomb and read the graven words: <i>Et ego in Arcadia +fui</i>.</p> +</div> +<p>And so, yesterday, on a venture I took +our little goblin boy with me to Tarrytown, +and after some inquiry found that +his mother’s relations were farm people +living on the outskirts of the town. They +proved to have been poor but respectable +people. At present only the grandfather +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_203' name='page_203'></a>203</span> +is living alone in the house, and he is very +feeble. He was willing to assume the care +of Jack, but I cannot persuade myself to +leave the child in those trembling hands. +Indeed, when it comes to the issue, I cannot +quite decide to let him go entirely from +me, for is he not one of the ties that bind +me to you? I have brought him back +with me to New York—which will only +increase your merriment at my expense.</p> +<p>Some day when you have come to live +in New York—if this is to be our home—we +will go together up the river to Tarrytown, +and you shall see the land where +O’Meara dreamed his dream of happiness +and where your adopted child was born.</p> +<p>And when we go there, I will take you +to a bowered nook overhanging the river, +where I passed the afternoon reading and +thinking of many things. There together +we will sit in the shadow of the trees and +talk and plan together how <i>our</i> happiness, +at least, shall be made to endure; and you +shall teach me to lose this haunting sense +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_204' name='page_204'></a>204</span> +of illusion in the great reality of love. And +as the evening descends and twilight steals +upon the ever-flowing water, I will take +you in my arms a moment, and this shall +be my vow: God do so to me and more +also, if any darkness falls from my life +upon yours, until our evening, too, has +come and the light of this world passes +quietly into the dream that lies beyond.</p> +<p>All this I thought yesterday while I sat +alone and read once more the sad record +of O’Meara’s ruin. He did not stay long +in Tarrytown, it seems, after his loss, but +came back to New York, bringing Jack +with him, in the hope that this care might +keep him from the old disgrace. Alas, +and alas, you know the end! Sometimes +apparently the vision of those peaceful +days returned to him with piercing sweetness. +Above all he associated them—so +one may surmise from a number of memoranda—with +a new meaning he began to +discover in his beloved Virgil. For, somehow, +the story of the <i>Æneid</i> became a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_205' name='page_205'></a>205</span> +symbol to him of the illusion of life. Especially +the last bewildered, shadowy fight +of Turnus, driven by some inner frenzy to +his destruction, grew to be the tragedy of +his own fall. Many verses from those +books he quotes with comments only too +clear. And is there not a touch of strange +pathos in this memory of his summer +joy?—</p> +<div class='blockquot'> +<p>There the meaning of the <i>Georgics</i> was opened to me +as it never was before. The stately lines of precept and +the sunny pictures of the <i>lœtas segetes</i> seemed to connect +themselves with the smiling scenes about us. The +little village lay among broad farm-checkered hills, and +the garden behind my house stretched back to the brow +of a deep slope. In the cool shadows of the beech trees +that edged this hill I used to lie and read through the +long summer mornings; and often I would look up from +the page, disturbed by the hoarse cawing of the crows +as they flew up from the woods or fields nearby and +flapped heavily across the valley. The effect of their +flight was simple, but laid hold on the imagination in a +peculiar manner. As they flew in a horizontal line the +sloping hillside appeared to drop away beneath them +like the subsiding of a great wave. It was just the +touch needed to add a sense of mystic instability to the +earth and to subtilise the prosaic farmland into the realm +of illusion. Looking at the fields in this glorified light +I first understood the language of the poet:</p> +</div> +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_206' name='page_206'></a>206</span></div> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'><i>Flumina amem silvasque inglorius</i>,</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<div class='blockquot'> +<p>and his pathetic envy of those</p> +</div> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Too happy husbandmen, if but they knew</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>The wonders of their state!</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<div class='blockquot'> +<p>And when wearied of this wider scene I turned to +the garden itself, still I was in Virgil’s haunted world. +Some distance from the house was a group of apple +trees, under whose protecting branches stood a row +of beehives; and nearby, in a tiny rustic arbor, I could +sit through many a golden hour and read, while the +hum of bees returning home with their burden of honey +sounded in my ears. It was there I learned to enjoy +the <i>levium spectacula rerum</i>, as he calls the story of +his airy tribes; and there in that great quiet of nature,—so +wide and solemn that it seemed a reproach +against the noisy activities of men,—I learned what +the poet meant to signify in those famous lines with +which he closes his account of the warring bees:</p> +</div> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>These mighty battles, all this tumult of the breast,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>With but a little scattered earth are brought to rest.</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>In this way Jack’s father learned the illusion +of life by looking back on his happy +days. I did not mean to fill my letter with +this long extract from his note-book, nor +would I end with such ill-omened words. +Dear girl, I too have learned the deception +of life in other ways. Teach me, when I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_207' name='page_207'></a>207</span> +come to you, the great reality. In all +O’Meara’s memoranda after his return to +New York I could find only a single direct +allusion to the woman he loved. It was +very brief: “On this day two years ago +she said I made her happy!”</p> +<p>Shall I bring happiness to you when I +come? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_208' name='page_208'></a>208</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:1.5em;'>A CODICIL TO LETTER XXXIV</p> +</div> + +<p>JESSICA TO PHILIP. WRITTEN BEFORE THE RECEIPT +OF THE PRECEDING LETTER FROM PHILIP</p> +<p>Think of this,—I love you, but I do not +know you. I only know your heart, your +mind, that part of you which meets me in +spirit like the light from some distant star +that slips across my window sill at evening. +But you, oh! Philip, I do not know +<i>you</i>. You are a stranger whom I have +seen only twice in my life. Do not be +angry, my beloved, I do love you; but +cannot you understand that I must get +used to the idea of your being some one +very real? These are thoughts forced upon +me by your approaching visit, and so I +ask a favour: Do not tell me when to expect +you. If you threaten me with the +identical day of your coming, I will vanish +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_209' name='page_209'></a>209</span> +from the face of the earth! But if you +come upon me unawares, I shall have been +spared that consciousness of <i>confession</i> face +to face involved by a deliberate welcome. +And if you come thus, I shall not have +time to retire behind my instinctive defence +against you. You see that I plan in +your favour, that I wish to be unrestrainedly +glad when you come.</p> +<p>And about the kisses, you understand of +course, dear Philip, that I am incapable +of determining them really! I only contemplated +the possibility when distance +made it an impossibility. Still, you cannot +fail to know that I love you, that it +would even break my heart if you did not +come! For, Philip, a woman’s heart is +like the Scriptures, apparently full of contradictions, +but really it is the symbol of +our everlasting truth, if only you have the +wisdom to understand it.</p> +<p>And another thing, Philip, the more I +think of it, the more I am scandalised by +the way you drag that poor goblin child +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_210' name='page_210'></a>210</span> +about. My heart yearns for him and his +solitude in the midst of your philosophies. +You have made a perfect jumping-jack of +him for your lordly amusement, and it +isn’t fair. Bring him with you to Morningtown. +I charge you. And remember, +don’t lose him or philosophise him out of +existence on the way. I have talked with +father about the boy, and he is primed +with religious zeal to snatch this tender +brand from your burning. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_211' name='page_211'></a>211</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXXVI</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p>Just a note, sweet lady, to bid you expect +me on the afternoon train Thursday—and +is not that a long while from to-day? +And please do not come to the station. +I would not have our meeting chilled by +the curious eyes of that station-master’s +wife; I remember the scrutiny of her gaze +too well. And as for our greeting—you +have made a very pretty story out of that, +but have you not omitted Philip from the +account? Is it not just possible that he +may mar all Jessica’s nicely laid plans? I +have a suspicion that, in his crude masculine +way, he may prefer to translate into +fact what Jessica finds so easy to contemplate +in words. I feel a bit uncertain as +to how he will behave as a lover; the rôle +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_212' name='page_212'></a>212</span> +is new to him, and he may be awkward +and a bit vehement.</p> +<p>Yes, I will bring Jack and leave him to +be brooded under your kind maternal feathers. +You will love him for the pathos of +his eyes and for his quaint ways.</p> + +<hr style='width: 10%; border:none; border-bottom:1px solid black; clear:both; margin: 2em auto 1em 0' /> + +<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_2' id='Footnote_2'></a><a href='#FNanchor_2'><span class='label'>[2]</span></a> +<p style='font-size: small'>It is unnecessary to say that the spelling throughout these letters has been corrected for the press.</p></div> + +<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_3' id='Footnote_3'></a><a href='#FNanchor_3'><span class='label'>[3]</span></a> +<p style='font-size: small'>Alluding to a request not found in this correspondence.</p></div> + +<hr class='silver' /> + +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 0em; padding-bottom: 0em'> +<a name='PART_III_WHICH_SHOWS_HOW_THE_EDITOR_AGAIN_VISITS_JESSICA_IN_THE_COUNTRY_AND_HOW_LOVE_IS_BUFFETED_BETWEEN_PHILOSOPHY_AND_RELIGION' id='PART_III_WHICH_SHOWS_HOW_THE_EDITOR_AGAIN_VISITS_JESSICA_IN_THE_COUNTRY_AND_HOW_LOVE_IS_BUFFETED_BETWEEN_PHILOSOPHY_AND_RELIGION'></a> +</div> + +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_213' name='page_213'></a>213</span></div> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' font-size:1.2em; margin-top:; margin-bottom:;'>The Third Part</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p>which shows how the editor again visits</p> +<p>Jessica in the country, and how love</p> +<p>is buffeted between philosophy</p> +<p>and religion.</p> +</div> + +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXXVII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p>WRITTEN ON RETURNING FROM HIS VISIT TO +MORNINGTOWN</p> +<p>Here I am back in my own room, in this +solitude of books; and how different is +this home-coming from that other when +I brought with me only bitterness and +despair!</p> +<p>Shall I tell you, sweetheart, some of the +things I learned during my three days in +Morningtown? First of all, I discovered +that you are clothed with wonderful beauty. +In a dim way I knew this before, but the +full mystery of your loveliness was not revealed +to me until this third time. Can it +be that love has transformed you a little and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_214' name='page_214'></a>214</span> +added grace to grace, or is it only my +vision that has been purged of its earthly +dulness? I could love a homely woman +whose spirit was fair, but to love one who +is altogether beautiful, in whose perfect +grace I can find no spot or blemish—that is +the miracle of my blessedness. There was +a strange light in your eyes that haunts me +yet. Such a light I have seen on a lonely +pool when the evening sunlight slanted +upon it from over the brown hills of autumn, +but nowhere else. My soul would +bathe in that pure water and be baptised +into the new faith.</p> +<p>For my faith, of which I boasted so valiantly, +has changed since I have seen you. +Faith, I had thought, was a form of insight +into the illusion of earthly things, of transient +joys and fears. And always a little +dread would creep into my heart lest love, +too, should prove to be such an illusion, +the last great deception of all, binding the +bewildered soul in a web of phantom desires. +So I still felt as I walked with you +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_215' name='page_215'></a>215</span> +that first evening out into the circle of your +trees. And there, dear Jessica, in the +waiting silence and the grey shadows of +that seclusion I put my arms about you +and would have drawn you to my heart. +Ah, shall I not remember the wild withdrawing +of your eyes as I stooped over +your face! And then with a cry of defiance +and one swift bound, you tore yourself +loose from me and ran like a frightened +dryad deeper into the forest. That was a +mad chase, and forever and forever I shall +see your lithe form darting on before me +through the mingled shadow and light. +And when at last I caught you and held you +fast, shall I not remember how you panted +and fluttered against me like a bird in the +first terror of captivity! And then, suddenly, +you were still, and looked up into my +face, and in your eyes I beheld the wonder +of a strange mystery which no words can +name. Only I knew that my dread was +forever at end. It was for a second—nay, +an eternity, I think—as if we two were rapt +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_216' name='page_216'></a>216</span> +out of the world, out of ourselves, into +some infinite abysm of life. It was as if +the splendour of the apocalypse broke upon +us, and poured upon our eyes the ineffable +whiteness of heaven. I knew in that instant +that love is not an illusion, but the one +reality, the one power that dispels illusion, +the very essence of faith. I shuddered +when the vision passed; but its memory +shall never fade. So much I learned on +that day.</p> +<p>And I also learned, or thought I learned, +that your father’s real objection to my suit +lay not so much in his hostility to my views, +as in his fear of losing you out of his life. And +as I talked with him, even plead with him, +I was filled with pity and with something +like remorse for the sorrow I was to bring +upon his heart. He is a saint, dear Love, +but very human. You have said that I +acted like a robber toward you. I could +smile at your fury, but to your father I do +indeed play the robber’s part. Yet in the +end I think he will learn to trust me and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_217' name='page_217'></a>217</span> +will give me the one jewel he treasures in +this world. Shall a man do more than this? +It is hard to remain in this uncertainty, but +our love at least is all our own. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_218' name='page_218'></a>218</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXXVIII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p>I have just received your letter, dear +lover, and as I read it, all my lilies changed +once more to roses—as they did, you remember +how often, while you were here. +This is your miracle, my Philip, for in the +South you know we do not have the brilliant +colour so noticeable in your Northern +women. But now I have only to think of +you, to whisper your name, to recall something +you said or did, and immediately I feel +the red rose of love burn out on cheek and +brow. Indeed, I think it was this magic +of colour that made the difference in my appearance +which seems to have mystified you.</p> +<p>And will it please you to learn that at the +end of each day, as the shadows begin to +crowd down upon the world, I keep a tryst +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_219' name='page_219'></a>219</span> +with you beneath the old Merlin oak where +you first clasped me breathless and terrified +in your arms? (Be sure, dear Heart, +on this account, he will be the first sage in +the forest to wear a green beard of bloom +next spring!) And each time the memory +of that moment, which began in such +fright for me, and ended in such rapture for +us both, rushes over me, I wonder that I +could ever have feared the man whom I +love. But you must not infer from this +that I can be prodigal of my kisses. Only, +in the future, I shall have a saner reason for +withholding them,—that of economy. For +if frugality is ever wise, and extravagance +forever foolish, it must be true in love as +in the less romantic experiences of life.</p> +<p>And now I have a sensation for you, Mr. +Towers. Now that love has finished me, I +have found my real self once more. I am +no longer the bewildered woman, embarrassed +by a thousand new sensations, lost +in the maze of your illusions, but I am Jessica +again, as remote from you, by moods, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_220' name='page_220'></a>220</span> +as the little green buds that swing high +upon the boughs of these trees, wrapped yet +in their brown winter furs. I mean that +now I am able even to detach my thoughts +from you at will and to live with the sort +of personal emphasis I had before I knew +you. I think it is because at last I am so +sure of you that I can afford to forget you! +How do you like that?</p> +<p>Besides, are we not now a part of the +natural order, and does not everything there +hint of a divine progression? The trees +will be covered soon with the fairy mist of +a new foliage, and our earth sanctified with +many a little pageant of flowers. Goodness +and happiness are foreordained. No +real harm can befall us, now that we belong +to this heavenly procession. All our days +will come to pass, like the seasons of the +year, inevitably. There is no longer any +escape from our dear destiny. And as for +me, dear Philip, I think there are already +hopes enough in my heart to grow a green +wreath about my head by next spring! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_221' name='page_221'></a>221</span></p> +<p>Jack is very well, but still a little foreigner +in this land where there is so much +space between things, so many wide +sweeps of brown meadow for him to stretch +his narrow street faculties across. He is +silent but acquisitive, so I do not tease him +with too many explanations. He will be +happier for learning all these mysteries of +nature herself, as he watches the miracle of +new life now about to begin on the earth. +Occasionally, however, when an unbidden +thought of you makes it imperative that +some one should be kissed, I sweep him +up into my arms rapturously, and bestow +my alms upon his brow. But if you could +see the nonchalance, the prosaic indifference +with which he endures these caresses, +you <i>could</i> not be jealous! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_222' name='page_222'></a>222</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XXXIX</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p>I have always known, dear Love, that the +first gentleman was a gardener and that all +men hanker after that blissful state of Adam +whose only toil was to care for the world’s +early-blooming flowers. But what was +our first great parent to me?</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>There is a garden in her face,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Where roses and white lilies show—</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>and I, even I, by some magic skill of commutation, +am able to change the one bloom +into the other. Was it not the rising colour +on Cynthia’s cheek that the poet described +as “rose leaves floating in the purest +milk”? And was it not Keats (or who +was it?) who vowed he could “die of a +rose in aromatic pain”? I could write an +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_223' name='page_223'></a>223</span> +anthology on Jessica Blushing; indeed I +could hardly otherwise be so pleasantly and +virtuously employed as in going through the +poets and bringing together all that they +have said in prophecy of your many divine +properties.</p> +<p>Meanwhile you have turned me into a +poet myself—think of that!—me, for these +dozen years a musty, cobwebbed groper in +philosophies and religions! I have been +sitting here by my fire for hours, smoking +and dreaming and rhyming, rhyming and +dreaming and smoking; and pretty soon +the rumble of the first milk-waggons will +come up from the street, and with that +prosaic summons I shall go to bed when +thrifty folk are beginning to yawn under the +covers and think of the day’s work.</p> +<p>I wonder sometimes if my inveterate +pedantries do not amuse or, worse yet, +bore you. I am grown so used to books +and the language of books. I believe +when Gabriel blows his trump I shall start +up from my long slumber with a Latin +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_224' name='page_224'></a>224</span> +quotation on my lips—<i>At tuba terribili</i>, +like as not. (Query: Does Gabriel understand +Latin, or is Hebrew your only celestial +speech?)</p> +<p>I am trying to be facetious, but really the +matter worries me a little. Have you been +laughing at me because I scolded you for +neglecting your Latin, and because I took a +copy of Catullus in my pocket when we +made our Sunday excursion into the woods? +Yet it was all so sweet to me. In the air +hovered the first premonitions of spring, +and the sunlight poured down upon the +earth like an intoxicating wine that has +been chilled in the cellar but is golden yellow +with the glow of an inner fire. And +some day I must set up an inscription on +that Merlin oak over the nook where +we sat together and talked and read, and +ceased from words when sweeter language +was required. As you leaned back against +the warm, dry leaves I had piled up, with +your great cloak twisted about your body—all +except your feet, that would creep out +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_225' name='page_225'></a>225</span> +into the sun, tantalising me with a thousand +forbidden thoughts—I understood +how the old Greeks dreamed of dryads, +fairer than mortal women, who haunted the +forests. It pains me almost to think of that +hour; I cannot fathom the meaning of so +much beauty; a dumb fear comes upon me +lest you should fade from my life like an +aërial vision and leave me unsatisfied. Yet +you seemed very real that day, and your +lips had all the fragrance of humanity.</p> +<p>Was it not characteristic of me that I +could not revel in that present bliss without +seeking some warrant for my joy in ancient +poetry? To read of Catullus and his passion +while your heart throbbed against my +hand seemed to lend a profounder reality to +my own love. Dear dryad of the groves, +yet womanly warm, because inevitably I +connect my emotions with the hopes and +fears of many poets who have trod the paths +of Paradise before me, because I translate +my thoughts into their passionate words, +you must not therefore suppose that something +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_226' name='page_226'></a>226</span> +fantastic and inhuman clings to my +love for you. The deeper my feelings, the +more certainly do they clothe themselves +in all that my reading has garnered of rare +and beautiful. Other men woo with flowers; +I would adorn you also with every +image and comparison of grace that the +mind of man has conceived. The more +fully my love invades every faculty of my +soul and body, the more certain is it to assume +for its own uses the labour and learning +of my brain. You see I am welded +more than I could believe into a feminine +unity by your mystic touch, and that masculine +duality of which I spoke is passing +away. With some trepidation I write out +for you these half-borrowed verses:</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='text-align: center;'>VIVAMUS ATQUE AMEMUS</p> +<br /> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Dear Heart, the solitary glen we found,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 1.47167034584253em;'>The moss-grown rock, the pines around!</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>And there we read, with sweet-entangled arms,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 1.47167034584253em;'>Catullus and his love’s alarms.</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'><i>Da basia mille</i>, so the poem ran;</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 1.47167034584253em;'>And, lip to lip, our hearts began</p> +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_227' name='page_227'></a>227</span></div> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>With ne’er a word translate the words complete:—</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 1.47167034584253em;'>Did Lesbia find them half so sweet?</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>A hundred kisses, said he?—hundreds more,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 1.47167034584253em;'>And then confound the telltale score!</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>So may we live and love, till life be out,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 1.47167034584253em;'>And let the greybeards wag and flout.</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Yon failing sun shall rise another morn,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 1.47167034584253em;'>And the thin moon round out her horn;</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>But we, when once we lose our waning light,—</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 1.47167034584253em;'>Ah, Love, the long unbroken night!</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_228' name='page_228'></a>228</span></div> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XL</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p>A letter from my lover, so like him that +it is the dearest message I have ever had +from him. In this mood you are nearest +akin to my heart. For if love fills my mind +with a thousand woodland images, it sends +you back to the classic groves of the ancients, +where the wings of a bird might +measure off destiny to a lover in an hexameter +of light across his morning, and +where the whole world was full of sweet +oracles. The truth is we have need of an +old Latin deity now. There was a romantic +sympathy between the Olympian dynasty +of gods and common men, more vital than +our ascetic piety. And there are some +experiences so essentially pagan that no +other gods can afford to bless them! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_229' name='page_229'></a>229</span></p> +<p>Indeed, since your departure I have found +a sort of occult companionship with you +in reading once more some of the old +Latin poets. Father is gratified, for he +thinks that after all I may sober into a +Christian scholarship with the old Roman +monks, and to this end he will tolerate +even Catullus. But really the wisdom of +love has given me a keener appreciation +of these sweet classics. Did you ever +think how wonderful is the youth, the +simplicity, the morning freshness of all +their thoughts. It is we moderns who +have grown old, pedantic; and when some +lyrical experience, such as love, suddenly +rejuvenates us, drawing us back into the +primal poetic consciousness, then we turn +instinctively to these ancients for an interpretation +of our hearts,—also because their +definition of beauty, which is always the +garment Love wears, is better than we can +make now. With us “The Beautiful” is +often mere cant, or a form of sentimentality, +but with them it was a principle, a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_230' name='page_230'></a>230</span> +spirtual faculty that determined all proportions. +Thus their very philosophies show a +beautiful formality, a Parthenon entrance to +life. And from first to last they never left +the gay amorous gods of nature out of +their thoughts. This is a relief, a tender +companionship, that we have lost from our +prosaic world. You see Jessica grows +“pedantic” also! The poem you sent has +awakened in me these reflections. The +words of it slipped into my heart as warm +as kisses.</p> +<p>But I have anxieties to tell you of. I fear +trouble is brewing for us in father’s prayer-closet. +You remember the little volume you +gave me, <i>The Forest Philosophers of India</i>? +Well, he found it last night in the library, +where I had inadvertently left it; and recognising +the author as the same dragon +who threatens the peace and piety of his +household, he settled himself vindictively +to reading it. The result exceeded my +worst fears. If his daughter were about +to become the hypnotised victim of an Indian +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_231' name='page_231'></a>231</span> +juggler he would not be more alarmed. +He holds that all truth is based upon the +God idea. And he vows that you have attempted +to dissolve truth by detaching it +from this divine origin. You speak the +truth in other words, but you are accused +of blasphemously ignoring its sublime authorship. +Nor is that all. Your philosophy +must have gripped him hard, for he +declares that you have an abnormally +clairvoyant mind, and that “no female +intelligence” can long withstand the diabolical +influence of your heathen suggestions. +Really it made my flesh creep! +You might have thought he was warning +me against a snake charmer. And when +I declined to be alarmed, he locked himself +up in his closet to fast and pray. This is +the worst possible symptom in his case, +for he will work himself into a frenzy, and +before ever he eats or drinks he will get +“called” to take some radical stand against +us.</p> +<p>Meanwhile, besides a growing affection +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_232' name='page_232'></a>232</span> +for Jack, I take a factitious interest in him +because he was your daily companion for +several months. I am tempted to ask him +many questions that are neither fair nor +modest, particularly as he is devoted to +you, and quite willing to talk of “Misther +Towers.”</p> +<p>“Does he ever sing, Jack?” I began last +evening, as we sat alone before the library fire.</p> +<p>“Nope,”—Jack is laconic, but wise far +beyond his years in silent sympathy.</p> +<p>“Did he often talk to you?”</p> +<p>“Yes, when we went for a walk.”</p> +<p>“Tell me what about, Jackie.”</p> +<p>“I don’t know!” was the ungrateful +revelation.</p> +<p>“You mean you have forgotten!” I insinuated.</p> +<p>“Never did know. He talks queer!”—I +tittered and Jack wrinkled up his face into +a funny little grimace. We both knew the +joke was on you.</p> +<p>“Did he ever mention any of his friends,” +I persevered. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_233' name='page_233'></a>233</span></p> +<p>“Nope. Once he give me your love and +some things you sent,”—the little scamp +knew the direction of my curiosity!</p> +<p>“But did he never tell you anything +about me, Jackie?”</p> +<p>“Never did!”—I was wounded.</p> +<p>“What does he like best?”—for I had +made up my mind to know the worst.</p> +<p>“His pipe,” he affirmed without hesitation.</p> +<p>“And when he smoked he’d +lay back in his chair and stare at the +rings he made like they was somebody, +and once I saw him look jolly and kiss his +hand to ’em.”</p> +<p>“Oh! did you, Jack? then what did he +do?”</p> +<p>“Caught me looking at him, and told +me to go to bed.”</p> +<p>“Mean thing!” I comforted. “But +run along now and put the puppy to bed; +Mr. Towers was very rude to you!”</p> +<p>I was so happy I wished to be alone, for +no man, I am persuaded, ever smiled and +kissed his hand to Brahma. Dear Philip, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_234' name='page_234'></a>234</span> +if you only knew how jealous I am sometimes +of your Indian reveries, you would +understand how I could consider Jack’s +treacherous little revelation almost as an +answer to a prayer. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_235' name='page_235'></a>235</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XLI</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p>Dear Jessica, you must not let the sins of +my youth find me out now and cast me +from Paradise. You alarm me for what +your father may think of that book of mine +on Oriental philosophy; I would not have +him take it with him into his prayer-closet +and there in that Star Chamber use it +against us in his determination of our suit. +Tell him, my Love, that I too have come to +see the folly of what I there wrote. Not +that anything in the book is false or that I +have discarded my opinion of the spiritual +supremacy of those old forest philosophers +of India, but I have come to see how unsuited +their principles of life must be for our +western world. They beheld a great gap +between the body and the spirit, and their +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_236' name='page_236'></a>236</span> +remedy was, not to construct a bridge between +the two, but by some tremendous +and dizzy leap to pass over the yawning +gulf. We, to whom the life of the body is +so real, we who have devoted the whole +ingenuity of our mechanical civilisation to +the building up of a comfortable home for +that body, turn away from such spiritual +legerdemain with distrust, almost with terror. +A man among us to-day who would +take the religion of India as his guide is in +danger of losing this world without gaining +the other. No, our salvation, if it comes, +must come from Greece rather than from +India. Some day I shall write my recantation +and point out the way of salvation according +to the Gospel of Plato. Indeed, +since love has become a reality to me, I +have learned to read a new meaning in this +philosophy of reconciliation instead of renunciation. +Tell your father all this. +Some way we must bring this uncertainty +to an end. I must know that you are to be +my wife. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_237' name='page_237'></a>237</span></p> +<p>And so Jack thinks a fuliginous pipe +holds the first place in my affections. The +little rascal! And why don’t you make that +precocious imp write to me? Do I not +stand to him <i>in loco parentis</i>? But, joking +aside, he does not know and you can +scarcely guess the full companionship of +my pipe these days. As the grey smoke +curls up about me in my abandonment, +(for I never even read during this sacramental +act,) there arises before my eyes in +that marvellous cloudland the image of +many wind-tossed trees down whose murmuring +avenue treads the vision of a dryad, +a woman; and as she moves the waving +boughs bend down and whisper: “Jessica, +sweet Jessica, he loves you; and when +our leaves appear and all things awake into +life, he will come to gather your sweetness +unto himself.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_238' name='page_238'></a>238</span></p> +<p> .ce begin +XLII</p> +<p>JESSICA TO PHILIP +.ce end</p> +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My dear Mr. Towers</span>:</p> +<p>It seems unnatural for me to address you +in this manner—as if I had cast off the +dearer part of myself by the formality. But +no other course is open to me after what +has happened.</p> +<p>After praying and fasting till I really +feared for his reason, father thinks he received +a direct answer from Heaven concerning +his duty toward us. He declares it +has been made absolutely clear to him that +if he deliberately gives his daughter in marriage +to one who will corrupt and destroy +her soul with “heathen mysticism,” his +own must pay the forfeit, and not only is +his personal damnation imminent, but his +ministry will become as sounding brass and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_239' name='page_239'></a>239</span> +tinkling cymbals of insincerity. He is entirely +convinced of the divine inspiration +of this revelation, and I am sure madness +would follow any resistance I might make. +I have therefore been obliged to promise +him that I will break our engagement and +end this correspondence, and I beg that you +will not make it harder for me by any protest, +either in person or letter. No appeal +can ever be made against a fanatic’s decision, +because it is based not upon reason, but +upon superstition, a sort of spiritual insanity +that becomes violent when opposed.</p> +<p>And father insists upon keeping Jack for +the same reason he preserves me from your +corrupting influence. He thinks the boy is +another little brand he has snatched from +your burning. And I hope you will consent +to his remaining with us, for he is a +great comfort now to my sad heart. He +will write to you, of course, for father cannot +but recognise that you have in a way a +prior authority over him.</p> +<p>Nothing more is to be said now that I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_240' name='page_240'></a>240</span> +have the right to say. I have tried to take +refuge in the biologist’s definition of love,—that +it is essentially a fleeting emotion, a +phantom experience. It is like the blossoms +in May; to-day they are all about us, +making the whole earth an epic in colours, +to-morrow they are scattered in the dust, +lost in the gale. Just so I try to wish that +I may lose some memories, some tenderness +out of my heart. But I have not the +strength yet to take leave of all my glory +and happiness, nor can I say that I wish +you to forget,—only that it is best for us +both to forget now if we can. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_241' name='page_241'></a>241</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XLIII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JESSICA</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>My dear Jessica</span>:</p> +<p>My first impulse on reading your letter +was to come immediately to Morningtown +and carry you away by storm; but second +thoughts have prevailed and I am writing +merely to bid you good-bye. For, after +all, if I came, what could I do? I would +not see you clandestinely and so mingle +deceit with our love, and I could not see +you in your father’s house while he feels as +he does. It would be fruitless too; you +have come to the meeting of ways and +have chosen. I think you have chosen +wrong, for the world belongs to the young +and not to the old. Life is ours with all +the prophecy and hopes of the future. +Ah, what mockery lurked in those words +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_242' name='page_242'></a>242</span> +we read together in the shadow of your +beloved trees, while your heart lay in my +hands fluttering like a captive bird:</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>So let us live and love till life be out,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>And let the greybeards wag and flout.</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>And now dear Love, only one phrase of all +that poem shall ring in my ears,—that +solemn <i>nox perpetua</i>, that long unending +night, for every joy you promised. Ah, +would you have thrust me away so easily +if I had not seemed to you wrapt up in a +strange shadow life into which no reality +of passion could enter? And was your +love, too, only a shadow? God help me +then! Yet I would not reproach you, for, +after all, the choice must have cost you a +weary pain. I have brought only misery +to you, and you have brought only misery +to me—and this is the fruit of love’s battle +with religion. Do you remember the story +of Iphigenia in Lucretius and that resounding +line, “So much of ill religion could +persuade”? Do you know Landor’s telling +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_243' name='page_243'></a>243</span> +of that story, “O father! I am young and +very happy”? And so, our story has been +made one with the long tragedy of life and +of the poets; and the bitterness of all this +evil wrought by religion has troubled my +brain till I know not what to say. Only +this, sweet girl, that no tears of separation +and long waiting can wash away the love +I bear you. And, yes, I will not believe +that you can forget me. Come to me +when you will, now or many years hence, +and the chamber of my heart shall be garnished +and ready to receive you, the latch +hanging from the door, and within, on the +hearth, the fire burning unquenched and +unquenchable. Will you remember this? +There is no woman in the whole earth to +me, but Jessica. It will be so easy for me +to shut myself off from all the world, and +wait—wait, I say, and work. No, I think +you will not forget. There has grown +within me with love a mystic power to +which I can give no name. But I know +that in the long silences of the night while +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_244' name='page_244'></a>244</span> +I sit reflecting after the day’s toil is done—that +something shall go forth from me to +you, and you shall turn restlessly in your +sleep and remember my kisses. And now +good-bye. Do not interpret anything I +have said as a rebuke. You are altogether +fair in my eyes, without spot or blemish, +and I would not exchange the pain you +have given me for the joys of a thousand +fleeting loves. And once again, good-bye.</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>(Enclosed with the foregoing)</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Dear Sir</span>:</p> +<p>My daughter has read your letter (I have +not) and asked me to return it to you, together +with those you had previously sent +her. Let me assure you, sir, that it is only +after much earnest prayer that I have dared +to step in where my daughter’s happiness +was concerned and have commanded her +to cease from this correspondence. I trust +I may retain your respect and esteem.</p> +<div class='ra'> +<p style=' margin-right:4em;'>Faithfully yours,</p> +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Ezra Doane</span>.</p> +</div> + +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_245' name='page_245'></a>245</span></div> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XLIV</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>EXTRACT FROM PHILIP’S DIARY</p> +</div> + +<p>I have been looking over her letters and +mine, steeping my soul in the bitterness of +its destiny; and what has impressed me +most is a note of anxiety in them from the +first, “some consequence yet hanging in +the stars,” which gave warning of their +futile issue. As I read them one after another, +the feeling that they were mine, a +real part of my life, written to me and by +me, became inexplicably remote. I could +not assure myself that they were anything +more than some broken memory of “old, +unhappy, far-off things,” a single, sobbing +note of love’s tragic song that has been +singing in the world from the beginning. +Our tale has been made one with the ancient +theme of the poets. I ask myself +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_246' name='page_246'></a>246</span> +why love, the one sweet reality of life, +should have been turned for men into the +well-spring of sorrows—for out of it, in +one way or another, whether through gratification +or disappointment, sorrow does inevitably +flow. Has some jealous power of +fate or the gods willed that man shall live +in eternal deceptions, and so fenced about +with cares and dumb griefs and many madnesses +this great reality and dispeller of +illusion?</p> +<p>And thus from a brief dream of love I +slip back into encircling shadows. I move +among men once more with no certainty +that I am not absolutely alone. Even the +passion I have felt becomes unreal as if +enacted in the dim past. And that is the +torture of it,—the torture of a man in a +wide sea who beholds the one spar that +was to rescue him drifting beyond his +reach, beyond his vision. Ah, sweet Jessica, +if only I could understand your grief +so that in sympathy I might forget my +own! But it all seems to me so unnecessary—that +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_247' name='page_247'></a>247</span> +we should be sacrificed for the +religious caprice of a frantic old man. +From the first there was a foreboding of +evil in my heart, but I did not look to see +it from this source. I feared always that +the remoteness of my character, which +seemed to terrify you with a sense of unapproachable +strangeness, might keep you +from responding to my passion. But that +passed away. Then came your opposition +to my crusade against the sentimentalism +of the day. That I knew was merely a +new phase of the earlier antipathy, a feeling +that there was no room in my breast +for the ordinary affections and familiarities +of life, a suspicion that my true interests +were set apart from human intercourse. +This, too, passed away, and in its place +came love. And now love is shut out by +the religious caprice of one who dwells in +an intellectual atmosphere which I supposed +had vanished from the world twenty +years ago. I had not imagined that the +institutes of Calvin were still a serious +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_248' name='page_248'></a>248</span> +matter. I have at least learned something; +and while writing against the lack of faith in +the present religion of humanity, I shall at +least remember that my own calamity has +come from one inured in the old dogma. +It is the irony of Fate that warns us to be +humble.</p> +<p>And so it is ended. I fold away the +little packet of letters with their foolish +outcry of emotion, and on their wrapper +inscribe the words that have been oftenest +on my lips since I grew up to years of +reflection: <i>Dabit deus his quoque finem</i>—God +will give an end to these things also. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_249' name='page_249'></a>249</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XLV</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>FROM PHILIP’S DIARY</p> +</div> + +<p>May the Weird Sisters preserve me from +another such experience! I was walking in +the Park in the evening, and the first warm +odours of spring floating up from the earth +troubled me with a feeling of vague unrest. +Some jarring dissonance between the death +in my heart and the new promise of life all +about me ran along my nerves and set them +palpitating harshly. Then I came upon a +pair of lovers lingering in the shadow of a +tree, holding to each other with outstretched +hands. As I approached them I saw the +woman was weeping quietly. There was +no outcry; no kiss even passed between +them; only a long gaze, a quivering of +the hands, and he was gone. I saw the +woman stand a moment looking hungrily +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_250' name='page_250'></a>250</span> +after him and then walk away still weeping. +And the sight stung me with madness. +What is the meaning of these endless +meetings and partings—meeting and parting +till the last great separation comes and +then no more? Are our lives no better +than glinting pebbles that are tossed on the +beach and never rest? Suddenly the blood +surged up into my head. It was as if all +the forces of my physical being had concentrated +into one frenzied desire to possess +the thing I loved. For a moment I +reeled as if smitten with a stroke, and then +without reasoning, scarcely knowing what +I did, started into a stumbling run. Only +the evident amazement of the strollers on +the Avenue when I left the Park brought +me back partially to my senses, yet the +madness still surged through my veins. +All my philosophy was gone, all my remoteness +from life; I was stung by that +fury that comes to beast and man alike; I +was bewildered by the feeling that my emotions +were no longer my own, but were +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_251' name='page_251'></a>251</span> +shared by the mob of strangers in the +street. It was the passion of love, pure +and simple, unsophisticated by questioning; +and it had turned my brain. Withal +there ran through me an insane desire to +commit some atrocious crime, to waylay +and strike, to speak words of outrageous +insult. I do verily believe that only the +opportunity was wanting, some chance +conflict of the street or temptation of solitude, +to have changed these demoniac impulses +to action—I whose most violent +physical achievement has been to cross +over Broadway. It is good that I am home +and the blood has left my brain. What +shall I think of this if I read it ten years +hence? +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_252' name='page_252'></a>252</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XLVI</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JACK TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Dear Sir</span>:</p> +<p>I have not wrote you before. This is a +beautiful place. I like it, especially the +young lady. The old man have been acting +wild, like a cop when he can’t find out +who done it. The difference is that it is +the bible in the old man and the devil in +the cop. He says you have hoodooed the +young lady, and he says let you be enathermered. +This is a religious cuss word. +The young lady don’t cry. She is dead +game, and have lost her colour.</p> +<p>So good by,</p> +<div class='ra'> +<p style=' margin-right:8em;'>Yours trewly,</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-right:1em;'><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Jack O’Meara</span>.</p> +</div> + +<p>P.S.—The young lady have quit the +family prayers, but me and the old man +have to say ours just the same, only more so. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_253' name='page_253'></a>253</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XLVII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>FROM PHILIP’S DIARY</p> +</div> + +<p>A wise man of the sect of Simon Magus +has replied to an assault of mine on humanitarianism +by trying to show that in this one +faith of modern days are summed up all +the varying ideals of past ages,—renunciation, +self-development, religion, chivalry, +humanism, pantheistic return to nature, +liberty. Ah, my dear sir, I envy you your +easy, kindly vision. Indeed, all these do +persist in a dim groping way, empty +echoes of great words that have been, bare +shadows without substance. What made +them something more than graceful acts of +materialism was that each and all ended not +in themselves or in worldly accommodation, +but in some purpose outside of human +nature as our humanitarians comprehend +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_254' name='page_254'></a>254</span> +that nature. Renunciation was practised, +not that my neighbour might have a morsel +more of bread, but that one hungry +soul might turn from the desires of the +flesh to its own purer longings. Self-development +looked to the purging and making +perfect of the bodily faculties, that within +the chamber of a man’s own breast might +dwell in sweet serenity the eternal spirit of +beauty and joy. Even humanism, which +by its name would seem to be brother to +its present-day parody, perceived an ideal +far above the vicious circle in which humanitarianism +gyrates. My dear foe might +read Castiglione’s book of <i>The Courtier</i> and +learn how high the Platonic ideal of the +better humanists floated above the charitable +mockery of its name to-day. As for +religion—go to almost any church in the +land and hear what exhortations flow from +the pulpit. The intellectual contention of +dogmas is forgotten—and better so, possibly. +But more than that: for one word on +the spirit or on the way and necessity of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_255' name='page_255'></a>255</span> +the soul’s individual growth, you will hear +a thousand on the means of bettering the +condition of the poor; for one word on the +personal relation of man to his God, you +will hear a thousand on the duties of man +to man. Woe unto you, preachers of a +base creed, hypocrites! These things ought +ye to have done, and not to leave the other +undone! You have betrayed the faith and +forgotten your high charge; you have made +of religion a mingling for this world’s use +of materialism and altruism, while the +spirit hungers and is not fed. Like your +father of old, that Simon Magus, you have +sought to buy the gift of God with a price; +like Judas Iscariot you have betrayed the +Lord with a kiss of brotherhood! Now +might the Keeper of the Keys cry out to-day +with other meaning:</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>“How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Enow of such, as for their bellies’ sake</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Creep and intrude and climb into the fold!</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Of other care they little reckoning make</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Than how to scramble at the shearer’s feast,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>And shove away the worthy bidden guest.</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Blind mouths!”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_256' name='page_256'></a>256</span></div> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XLVIII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>FROM PHILIP’S DIARY</p> +</div> + +<p>Reading a foolish book on the Literature +of Indiana (!) and find this sentence on the +first page: “It is not of so great importance +that a few individuals within a State +shall, from time to time, show talent or +genius, as that the general level of cultivation +in the community shall be continually +raised.” Whereupon the author proceeds +to glorify the “general level” through a +whole volume. Now the noteworthy thing +about this particular sentence is the fact +that it was set down as a mere truism +needing no proof, and that it was no doubt +so accepted by most readers of the book. +In reality the sentiment is so far from a +truism that it would have excited ridicule +in any previous age; it might almost be +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_257' name='page_257'></a>257</span> +said to contain the fundamental error +which is responsible for the low state of +culture in the country. Unfortunately the +point cannot be profitably argued out, +for it resolves itself at last into a question +of taste. There are those who are +chiefly interested in the life of the intellect +and the imagination. They measure +the value of a civilisation by the kind of +imaginative and intellectual energy it displays, +by its top growth in other words. +They crave to see life express itself thus, +<i>sub specie œernitatis</i>, and apart from this +conversion of human energy and emotion +into enduring forms they perceive in the +weltering procession of transient human +lives no more significance or value than in +the endless fluctuation of the waves of the +sea. For them, therefore, the creation of +one masterpiece of genius has more meaning +than the physical or mental welfare of +a whole generation; they can, indeed, discern +no genuine intellectual welfare of a +people except in so far as the people +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_258' name='page_258'></a>258</span> +look up reverently to the products of the +higher imagination. There are others for +whom this life of the imagination has +only a lukewarm interest, for the reason +that their own faculties are weak and +stunted. Naturally they think it a slight +matter whether genius appear to create +what they and their kind can only dimly enjoy; +on the contrary, they hold it of prime +importance that material welfare and the +form of mental cunning which subdues +material forces should be widely diffused +among the people.</p> +<p>Now no one would say a word against +raising “the general level of cultivation”; +the higher it is raised the better. Only the +cherishing of this ideal becomes pernicious +when it is made more sacred than the +appearance of individual genius. Nor is it +proper to say that the appearance of genius +is itself contingent on the level of cultivation. +There is much confusion of thought here. +The influence of the people on literature is +invariably attended with danger. It has its +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_259' name='page_259'></a>259</span> +element of good, for the people cherish +those instinctive passions and notions of +morality which keep art from falling into +artificiality. But refinement, distinction, +form, spirituality—all that makes of art a +transcript of life <i>sub specie œernitatis</i>—are +commonly opposed to the popular interest +and are even distrusted by the people. The +attitude of the Elizabethan playwrights +toward their audiences gives food for reflection +on this head. Just so sure as the +ideal of general cultivation is made paramount, +just so sure will the higher culture +become degraded to this consideration, and +with its degradation the general cultivation +itself will grow base and material. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_260' name='page_260'></a>260</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>XLIX</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>FROM PHILIP’S DIARY</p> +</div> + +<p>I lead a strange dual existence, the intensity +of whose contrast is almost uncanny. +After sitting for hours at my desk +working on my History of Humanitarianism, +I throw myself wearily on the sofa +and smoke. And as the grey fumes float +above my face, slowly they lay a spell +upon me like the waving of mesmeric +hands. I lose consciousness of the objects +about me, the very walls dissolve away in +a mist, and I am lifted as it were on softly +beating pinions and borne swift and far +like a bird. The sensation is curiously +familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, +yet it never causes me surprise. Sometimes +I am carried out into the wide sky +and soar as it seems for hours without ever +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_261' name='page_261'></a>261</span> +alighting, until I am brought to myself with +a sense of rapid falling. At other times I +am borne to the blessed forest where my +love walks, and always then the same +thing happens. I know not whether it is +my spirit or some emanation of my body, +but, however it is, I am there always pursuing +her as once I did in reality, until at +last I lay hold of her and draw her into my +arms beneath that ancient oak. I kiss her +once and twice and a third time, gazing the +while into her startled eyes. Then an inexpressible +sweetness takes possession of +me, a shudder runs through my veins, and +of a sudden all is dark; I am sinking down, +down, in unfathomable abysses, until abruptly +I awake. No words can convey +the mingled reality and remoteness of +these sensations. Jessica, Jessica, you have +troubled the very sources of my being; you +have abandoned me to contend with shadows +and the fear of shadows. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_262' name='page_262'></a>262</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>L</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JACK TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Dear Mr. Towers</span>:</p> +<p>You have not wrote to me yet. The +weather is fine and things come up here +and bloom out doors. But the old gentleman +says we are out of the ark of safety. +He have made up his mind to be damned +any how. He says the Lord have turned +his face against us. But I guess really it is +the young lady that is showing off. She +stands on her hind legs ’most all the time +now. She have back slid out of nearly +everything and have quit going to church. +She does the same kind of meanness I do +now, and don’t care. She is jolly all the +time, but she aint really glad none. She +have got a familiar spirit in the forest that +you can’t see with your eyes. But she +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_263' name='page_263'></a>263</span> +meets him under a big tree, and sometimes +she cries. She don’t let me come, but I +creep after her and hide, so as to be there +if he changes her into something else. The +old gentleman have quit his religious cussing +now and have took to fussing. But he +can do either one according to the bible. +He knows all the abusing scripture by +heart. But the young lady have hardened +her heart. She is dead game, and she aint +skert of him, nor of the bible, nor nothing. +And she aint sweet to nobody now but +me. If you answer this, I will show it to +her.</p> +<div class='ra'> +<p style=' margin-right:8em;'>Your trew friend,</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-right:1em’'><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Jack O’Meara</span>.</p> +</div> + +<p>P.S.—She wore your letter all one day +inside her things before she give it to the +old man. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_264' name='page_264'></a>264</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>LI</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>FROM PHILIP’S DIARY</p> +</div> + +<p>Humanitarians are divided into two classes—those +who have no imagination, and +those who have a perverted imagination. +The first are the sentimentalists; their brains +are flaccid, lumpish like dough, and without +grip on reality. They are haunted by +the vague pathos of humanity, and, being +unable to visualise human life as it is actually +or ideally, they surrender themselves +to indiscriminate pity, doing a little good +thereby and a vast deal of harm. The +second class includes the theoretical socialists +and other regenerators of society whose +imagination has been perverted by crude +vapours and false visions. They are ignorant +of the real springs of human action; +they have wilfully turned their faces away +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_265' name='page_265'></a>265</span> +from the truth as it exists, and their punishment +is to dwell in a fantastic dream of +their own creating which works a madness +in the brain. They are to-day what the +religious fanatics were in the Middle Ages, +having merely substituted a paradise on +this earth for the old paradise in the +heavens. They are as cruel and intolerant +as the inquisitors, though they mask themselves +in formulæ of universal brotherhood. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_266' name='page_266'></a>266</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>LII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>FROM PHILIP’S DIARY</p> +</div> + +<p>I have been reading too much in this +tattered old note-book of O’Meara’s. It is +my constant companion these widowed +days, and the mystic vapour that exhales +from his thought has gone to my head like +opium. I must get rid of the obsession +by publishing the book as a psychological +document or by destroying it once for all. +With its quotations and original reflections +it alternates from page to page between the +sullen despair of a man who has hoped too +often in vain and a rare form of inverted +exaltation. As with me, it was apparently +his custom, when the loneliness of fate oppressed +him, to go out and wander up and +down Broadway, seeking the regions by +night or day where the people thronged +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_267' name='page_267'></a>267</span> +most busily and steeping his fancy in the +turmoil of its illusion. I can see his ill-clad +figure with bowed head moving slowly +amid the jostling multitude, and I smile to +think how surprised the brave folk would +be, who passed him as he shuffled along +and who no doubt drew their skirts away +lest they should be polluted by rubbing +against him, if they could hear some of the +meditations in his book and learn the pride +of this despised tramp. Many times he +repeats the proverb: <i>Rem carendo non fruendo +cognoscimus</i>—By losing not by enjoying +the world we make it ours. Out of +the utter ruin and abandonment of his life +he seems to have won for himself a spiritual +possession akin to that of the saints, only +inverted as it were. The impersonal detachment +they gained by rising above human +affairs, he found by sinking below +them. He looked upon the world as one +absolutely set apart from it, and through +that isolation attained a strange insight into +its significance, and even a kind of intoxicating +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_268' name='page_268'></a>268</span> +joy. On me in my state of bewildered +loneliness his mood exerts an alarming +fascination. It is dangerous to surrender +one’s self too submissively to this perception +of universal illusion unless a strong +will is present or some master passion as a +guide; for without these the brain is dizzied, +and barely does a man escape the temptation +to throw away all effort and sink +gradually into the stupor of indifference or +something worse. I have felt the madness +creep upon me too often of late and I am +afraid. Ah, Jessica, in withdrawing the +hope of your blessing from me you know +not into what perils of blank indifference +you have cast my soul. Shall I drift away +into the hideous nightmare that pursued +O’Meara? I will seal up his book, and +make strong my determination to work and +in work achieve my own destiny. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_269' name='page_269'></a>269</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>LIII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JACK</p> +</div> + +<p>It seems very lonesome in the big city +without you, little Jack, and often I wish +that some of this pile of books around me +were carried away and you were brought +back to me in their place. But it is better +for you where you are.</p> +<p>You must listen to everything Miss Jessica +tells you about the trees and birds, and +learn to love all the beautiful things growing +around you. I remember there were +four or five great trees in my father’s garden +when I was a boy living in the country, +and I loved them, each in a different way, +and had names for them and talked to them. +One was an oak tree that grew up almost to +the clouds, and its boughs stood out stiff +and square as if nothing could bend them. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_270' name='page_270'></a>270</span> +That was the tree I went to when I had +some hard task to do and wanted strength. +Another was an elm that always whispered +comfort to me when I was in trouble. I +used to go to it as some boys run to their +mother, for I grew up like you without +a mother’s love, and I did not even have +any sweet lady like Miss Jessica to be fond +of me. You must ask Miss Jessica to teach +you all she knows about the trees in Morningtown, +and you must listen to what she +says to them. Perhaps she will tell you +about the famous oaks that grew in a place +called Dodona, and were wiser than any +man or woman in the world. People used +to talk with them as Miss Jessica does +with her favourite tree.</p> +<p>And now, dear Jack, I am going to tell +you a story which I have made up just for +you. It isn’t about trees exactly, but it all +took place in a deep forest that spread +around a wonderful city. From the high +white walls of the town one could look out +over the green tops of the trees as you look +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_271' name='page_271'></a>271</span> +down on the grass, and that was a marvellous +sight. There was a single road that +ran through the forest right up to the gate +of the city; but it was a hard road to travel, +dark most of the time because the sun +could not shine through the leaves, and +very lonely, and so still that you could hear +your heart beat except when the winds +blew, and then sometimes the boughs +clashed together overhead and roared and +moaned until you longed for the silence +again. It was a long road too, and the +men who walked through the forest to +the city all had great packs on their shoulders. +And what do you suppose was in +their packs? Why, every traveller carried +with him a gorgeous suit of clothes heavy +with velvet and gold and silver; for so the +people dressed in the beautiful city, and no +one could enter the gate unless he too bore +with him the royal robes. But you see, +while they were walking in the rough forest, +they wore their old clothes of course.</p> +<p>Now in one place a wonderful woman +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_272' name='page_272'></a>272</span> +sat by the roadside. She was a maga, or +witch, named Simona. She was beautiful +if you did not see her too close, with large +round eyes that looked very gentle and +kind. And when any traveller came by, +the big tears would begin to roll down +her cheeks and she would cry out to him +as if she pitied him and wanted to help +him.</p> +<p>“Dear traveller,” she would say, “why +do you trudge along this gloomy road, and +why do you carry that bundle which bends +your shoulders and tires your back? Don’t +you know that it is all a lie about the +city you are seeking? There is no city +of palaces at your journey’s end. Indeed, +you will never get to the end of the woods, +but will walk on and on, stumbling and +falling, and growing weaker and weaker, +until at last you fall and never rise. And +the wild beasts that you hear at night +howling in the bushes will rend and +gnaw your body until only your bones are +left.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_273' name='page_273'></a>273</span></p> +<p>At this the travellers would stop and say: +“But what shall we do, wise witch, and +whither shall we go?”</p> +<p>Then she would say to them: “Turn +aside by this pleasant path, and in a little +while you will come to my beautiful garden +which is named Philanthropia. There +you will find many others whom I have +wept for and saved as I do you; and there +amid the open glades you may live with +them in everlasting peace and love. Houses +are there which you need only to enter and +call your own. And when you are hungry +you have only to speak, and immediately +all that you desire to eat will appear on the +tables. And when you are tired, soft beds +will rise up to receive you. And clothes +will be spread before you—not stiff and +uncomfortable robes like those you carry +in your pack, but soft garments suited to +that land of comfort.”</p> +<p>Most of the travellers believed the witch +and turned into the by-path. But, alas! it +was soon worse for them than it had been +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_274' name='page_274'></a>274</span> +on the road; for they were led, not to a +garden, but into a great sandy desert, where +nothing grew and no rain or dew ever fell. +And somehow they could find no way out +of the desert, but wandered to and fro in +the endless fields of dust, while the hot +sun beat upon their heads and their hearts +failed them for hunger and thirst.</p> +<p>But now and then a wary traveller did +not believe the witch and laughed at her +tears and soft voice. And then, unless +he got away very quick, something dreadful +happened to him. The witch suddenly +changed into a huge monster with a hundred +flaming eyes, and a hundred mouths +with which she raved and bellowed, and a +hundred long arms that coiled about like +serpents. She was so terrible that most +men who saw her in her true form fell +down fainting at her feet; and these she +lifted up and threw into deep dark holes, +hidden from the road, where the poor +wretches soon died of sheer loneliness.</p> +<p>And now comes the heart of the story, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_275' name='page_275'></a>275</span> +dear Jack, if you are not too tired to read to +the end.</p> +<p>One day a knight and a lady came riding +up the road. The knight was not very +strong, nor was his armour much to look +at,—just an ordinary knight, but he was +brave, and there was a mighty determination +in his heart to slay the false, wicked +witch whose deeds he had heard of. And +as he rode he turned often to look into his +lady’s eyes, and always he seemed to drink +new courage from those clear pools, as a +thirsty man drinks refreshment from a well +of cool water, for the lady was young and +passing fair—as fair as Miss Jessica, and +she, you know, is the loveliest woman in +all the world. And so at last they came to +where the witch was sitting and weeping. +Without a word the knight drew his +sword and rushed upon her. Of course +she changed instantly to the monster with +the hundred eyes and mouths and arms. +The air was filled with the fire from her +eyes and with the dreadful bellowing from +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_276' name='page_276'></a>276</span> +her mouths, and her arms swung frantically +about on every side to seize the knight and +crush him. But this was the strange thing +about the battle: as often as the knight +looked at the lady, who stood near him, +he gained new strength and the witch +could not harm him.</p> +<p>He was cutting off her arms one by one +and victory was almost his, when down +the road came an old man wagging his +grey beard dolefully and muttering into his +breast. And when he reached the three +there at the roadside, he stood for a moment +watching the battle and still muttering +in his beard. Then without a word +he beckoned to the lady. She hesitated, +sighed, and turned away, leaving the poor +knight to struggle alone without the blessing +of her eyes. And immediately his +strength seemed to abandon him and his +sword dropped at his side. You may be +sure the witch shouted with triumph at +this, and the noise of her bellowing sounded +like the clanging of a hundred discordant +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_277' name='page_277'></a>277</span> +bells. It was almost over with the knight. +But suddenly he too uttered a great cry. +Despair came to give him strength where +hope had been before. “For love and +the world!” he cried out and drove at the +monster once again with his uplifted sword.</p> +<p>And, dear Jack, do you wish to know +how the battle ended? I am very, very +sorry, but I can’t tell you, for when I came +through the forest the knight and the witch +were still fighting. There was a look of +desperate determination in the knight’s +eyes, but, to tell you the truth, I think +his heart was with the lady who had left +him, and it is not easy to fight without a +heart in this world, you know.</p> +<p>Write to me soon, a long, long letter +and tell me about the trees of Morningtown. +Some day when you are grown +up and live with men, you will be glad +to remember the friendship and the wise +conversation of those brothers of the forest. +Good-bye for a time, my boy.</p> +<div class='ra'> +<p>Affectionately, <span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Philip Towers</span>.</p> +</div> + +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_278' name='page_278'></a>278</span></div> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>LIV</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>FROM PHILIP’S DIARY</p> +</div> + +<p>A wan beggar, seated on the coping that +surrounds St. Paul’s and exploiting his +misery before the world. A strange scene +calculated to give one pause,—the poor +waif crying his distress on the curb, +within the iron fence the ancient sleeping +dead, and along the thoroughfare of Broadway +the ceaseless unheeding stream of +humanity. As I walked up the street with +this image in my mind, the lines of an old +Oriental poem kept time with my steps +until I had converted them into English:</p> +<table summary='poetry' style='margin:0 auto'><tr><td> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>I heard a poor man in the grave-yard cry:</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>“Arise, oh friend! a little hour assume</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>My weight of cares, whilst I,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Long weary, learn thy respite in the tomb.”</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>I listened that the corpse should make reply;</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Who, knowing sweeter death than penury,</p> +<p style='margin: 0 0 0 0.0em;'>Broke not his silent doom.</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_279' name='page_279'></a>279</span></div> +<p>I am reminded of that joke, rather grim +forsooth, which Lowell thought the best +ever made. It is in <i>The Frogs</i> of Aristophanes. +The god Dionysus and his slave +Xanthias are travelling the road to Hades, +the slave as a matter of course carrying +the pack for the two. They meet a procession +bearing a corpse to the tomb. +Xanthias begs the dead man to take the +pack with him as he is borne so comfortably +on the same road to the nether world. +Whereupon they dicker over the portage. +“Two shillings for the job,” says the +corpse, sitting up on his bier. “Too +much,” says Xanthias. “Two shillings,” +insists the corpse. “One and sixpence,” +cries Xanthias. “<i>I’d see myself alive +first</i>!” says the corpse, sinking down +on the bier. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_280' name='page_280'></a>280</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>LV</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JACK TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Dear Mr. Towers</span>:</p> +<p>The young lady have the letter you wrote +me and I cant get it. But you needent +bother about writing any more tales. I +guess you done the best you could, but +we dont neither one like what you told +about the witch and them young people +in the forest. Why do the knight stand +there fighting the witch when the old man +have run off with his girl? Why dont he +take out after them and leave the witch +to bleed to death? And the young lady +thinks of it worse than I do. She went on +awful when she read it, and cried. I guess +she was sorry about the way the knight +kept on cutting off that woman’s legs and +arms even if she was bad. She don’t say +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_281' name='page_281'></a>281</span> +nothing else nice about you now, nor let +me. But she says you are the crewelest +man she have known. And she cries a +heap when there aint nothing the matter, +and blames at every thing. The old gentleman +feels bad about it but he dont know +what to do. I guess now he wishes he +hadent fooled with the young lady’s salvation +none. Because she have told him one +day when he was trying to talk pious at +her, not to say nothing, that she dident +believe in nothing now but damnation. +And he say “Dont talk that way before +the child.” But I aint come to neither +one of them things yet.</p> +<div class='ra'> +<p style=' margin-right:8em’'>Your trew Frend,</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-right:1em’'><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Jack O’Meara</span>.</p> +</div> + +<p>P.S.—She goes to see her tree spirit +every day. But she dont talk to him no +more. She just lays down on her face +and cries. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_282' name='page_282'></a>282</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>LVI</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>PHILIP TO JACK</p> +</div> + +<p>I am afraid, little Jack, that my long +story about the lady and the knight in +the woods did not interest you very much; +and that is a pity, for, if I cannot amuse +you, how shall I do when I come to write +stories for grown-up folk? Well, anyway, +I am going to tell you what happened after +the lady and the old man went away into +the forest.</p> +<p>For awhile they walked side by side in +silence. But the road was long and it was +already late, and by and by the night fell and +wrapped all the trees in solemn shadows. +It was not easy to keep the path in the +darkness, and pretty soon they were quite +lost and found themselves wandering helplessly +in the black tangled aisles of the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_283' name='page_283'></a>283</span> +forest. That was bad, for the lady was +tired in body and discomforted in heart. +But worse happened when the old man +left her to seek out the path alone, for he +only lost himself more completely in the +treacherous shadows and could not get +back to her. Ah, Jack, if the lady was +beautiful when the sunlight shone upon +her, how lovely do you suppose she was +here in the night with the white beams of +the moon sifting down through the swaying +boughs upon her blanched face? But +her beauty merely frightened her the more +in her terrible loneliness, where the only +sound she heard was the stealthy whisperings +of the breeze among the leaves, as +if all the shadows up yonder were weaving +some plot against her, while at times +a low inarticulate moan or some sudden +crackling of dry twigs floated to her out +of the impenetrable gloom of the forest. +At last she threw herself on her face under +a great tree, and wept and wept for very +terror and loneliness. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_284' name='page_284'></a>284</span></p> +<p>Now wonderful things may happen in +the night, dear Jack. The trees then have +a life of their own, and sometimes when +the sun, which belongs to man only, is +gone they have power to do what they +please to foolish people who come into +their circle. And so this tree that stood +leaning over the prostrate lady whispered +and whispered to itself in a strange language. +Then out of the boughs there came +creeping a dark cold shadow. It dropped +down noiselessly to the ground and covered +the lady all about. It moved and +swayed in the faint moonlight like a column +of wind-blown smoke. You will +hardly believe the rest, but it seemed slowly +to take the very shape of the lady herself, +as if it were her own shadow that had +found her; and so it began to creep into +her body. And as it melted into her flesh, +she grew cold and ever colder as if her +blood were turning to ice. Pretty soon it +would have reached her heart and then—I +shudder to think what would have become +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_285' name='page_285'></a>285</span> +of her. But when the first chill +touched her heart, she uttered a loud cry +of fear: “Dear knight, dear knight,” she +called out, “where are you? Save me! +save me!”</p> +<p>Then another wonderful thing happened +in the darkness, for at such times our spoken +words may take on a life of their own +just as the trees and shadows do. And so +these words of the lady, instead of scattering +in the air, were changed into a marvellous +little fairy elf that went stealing +away through the forest. And as the elf +ran swiftly under the trees and over the +long grass, so lightly indeed that the +flowers and weeds only bowed under his +feet as when a gentle breeze passes over +them,—as the elf sped on, I say, everywhere +the earth sent up a lisping whisper, +“Save me, dear knight! save me!”</p> +<p>Now the knight was far away, resting +from his battle with the old witch. He +had wounded her in many places, and +might perhaps have killed her, had not the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_286' name='page_286'></a>286</span> +sly wicked creature suddenly slipt away +from him into some hiding place of hers +in the desert. And so, as he could not +reach her, he was resting, very tired and +very sad. Then suddenly, as he sat with +his head hanging down, the little elf came +tripping over the grass and plucked him +by the arm, and the faint whisper stole into +his ear, “Save me, dear knight! save me!”</p> +<p>Do you suppose he was long in rising +and following the clever little elf back to +their mistress? Ah, Jack, there was a +happy hour and a happy year and a blissful +life for the lady and her knight then, +was there not?</p> +<p>And now, Jack, I will not bother you +with any more stories after this. Write to +me and tell me all you are doing. Be +good, little Jack, and listen to the wise +words of the trees and other growing +things; and, above all, love that sweet +lady, Miss Jessica.</p> +<div class='ra'> +<p style=' margin-right:4em;'>Affectionately,</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p><span style='font-variant: small-caps'>Philip Towers</span>.</p> +</div> + +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_287' name='page_287'></a>287</span></div> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>LVII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>FROM PHILIP’S DIARY</p> +</div> + +<p>There are two paths of consolation and +we have strayed from both. There is the +way of the <i>Imitation</i> trod by those who +have perceived the illusion of this life and +the reality of the spirit,—the way over +whose entrance stand written the words: +“The more nearly a man approacheth unto +God, the further doth he recede from all +earthly solace.” And truly he who hath +boldly entered on this path shall be free +in heart, neither shall shadows trample +him down—<i>tenebrœ non conculcabunt te</i>. +There is also that other way pointed out +by Pindar to the Greek world in his Hymns +of Victory,—the way of honour and glory, +of seeking the sweet things of the day +without grasping after the impossible, of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_288' name='page_288'></a>288</span> +joys temperate withal yet gilded with the +golden light of song; the way of the strong +will and clear judgment and purged imagination, +with reverence for the destiny +that is hereafter to be; of the man who is +proudly sufficient unto himself yet modest +before the gods; the way summed up by +a rival of Pindar’s in the phrase: “Doing +righteousness, make glad your heart!” +There is not much room for pity here or in +the <i>Imitation</i>, for compassion after all is a +perilous guest, and only too often drags +down a man to the level of that which he +pities.</p> +<p>And now instead of these twin paths of +responsibility to God and to a man’s own +self, we have sought out another way—the +way of all-levelling human sympathy, the +way celebrated by Edwin Markham! Oh, +if it were possible to cry out on the street +corners where all men might hear and +know that there is no salvation for literature +and art, no hope for the harvest of the +higher life, no joy or meaning in our civilisation, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_289' name='page_289'></a>289</span> +until we learn to distinguish between +the manly sentiment of such work +as Millet’s painting and the mawkishness +of such a poem as <i>The Man with the Hoe</i>! +The one is the vigorous creation of a craftsman +who builded his art with noble restraint +on the great achievements of the +past, and who respected himself and the +material he worked in; the other is the disturbing +cry of one who is intellectually an +hysterical parvenu. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_290' name='page_290'></a>290</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>LVIII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>FROM PHILIP’S DIARY</p> +</div> + +<p>The new volumes of Letters have carried +me back to Carlyle, who has always rather +repelled me by his noisy voluminousness. +But one message at least he had to proclaim +to the world,—the ancient imperishable +truth that man lives, not by surrender +of himself to his kind, but by following the +stern call of duty to his own soul. Do thy +work and be at peace. Make thyself right +and the world will take care of itself. +There lies the everlasting verity we are +rapidly forgetting. And he saw, too, as +no one to-day seems to perceive, the intimate +connection between the preaching +of false reform and the gripe of a sordid +plutocracy. He saw that most reformers, +by presenting materialism to the world in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_291' name='page_291'></a>291</span> +the disguise of a sham ideal, were really +playing into the hands of those who find +in the accumulation of riches the only aim +of life, that they are in fact one of the chief +obstacles in the path of any genuine reformation. +The humanitarianism that attains +its utterance in Mr. Markham’s rhapsodic +verse loses sight of judgment in its cry for +justice. It ceases to judge in accordance +with the virtue and efficiency of character, +and seeks to relieve mankind by a false +sympathy. Such pity merely degrades by +obscuring the sense of personal responsibility. +From it can grow only weakness +and in the end certain decay. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_292' name='page_292'></a>292</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>LIX</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>FROM PHILIP’S DIARY</p> +</div> + +<p><i>Finivi</i>. The last word of my <i>History of +Humanitarianism</i> is written, and it only +remains now to see this labour of months—of +years, rather—through the press. I +know not what your fate will be, little +book, in this heedless, multitudinous-hurried +world; I know but this, that I have +spoken a true word as it has been given +me to see the truth. That any great result +will come of it, I dare not expect. Only I +pray that, if the message falls unregarded, +it will be because, as she said, my bells +ring too high, and not for want of veracity +and courage in the utterance. After all it +is good to remember the brave words of +William Penn to his friend Sydney: “Thou +hast embarked thyself with them that seek, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_293' name='page_293'></a>293</span> +and love, and choose the best things; and +number is not weight with thee.” I have +tried to show how from one ideal to another +mankind has passed to this present +sham ideal, or no-ideal, wherein it welters +as in a sea of boundless sentimentalism. I +have tried to show that because men to-day +have no vision beyond material comfort +and the science of material things—that +for this reason their aims and actions are +divided between the sickly sympathies of +Hull House and the sordid cruelties of +Wall Street. And I have written that the +only true service to mankind in this hour +is to rid one’s self once for all of the canting +unreason of “equality and brotherhood,” +to rise above the coils of material +getting, and to make noble and beautiful +and free one’s own life. Sodom would +have been saved had the angel of the Lord +found therein only ten righteous men, and +our hope to-day depends primarily, not on +the elevation of the masses (though this +too were desirable), but on the ability of a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_294' name='page_294'></a>294</span> +few men to hold fast the ancient truth and +hand it down to those who come after. +So shall beauty and high thought not perish +from the earth—“Doing righteousness, +make glad your heart!”</p> +<p>And for my own sake it is good that the +work is finished. It has overmastered my +understanding too long and caused me to +judge all things by their relation to this +one truth or untruth. It has debarred me +from that <i>sereine contemplation de l’univers</i>, +wherein my peace and better growth +were found. I am free once again to look +upon things as they are in themselves. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_295' name='page_295'></a>295</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>LX</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>FROM PHILIP’S DIARY</p> +</div> + +<p>I went yesterday afternoon to see the +Warren collection of pictures which has +been sent here for sale at auction, and one +little landscape impressed me so deeply +that all last night in my dreams I seemed +to be walking unaccompanied in the waste +places of the artist’s vision. It was a picture +by Rousseau; a <i>Sunset</i> it was called, +though something in the wide look of expectancy +and the purity of the light reminded +me more of early dawn than of +evening; one waited before it for the unfolding +of a great event. A flat, marshy +land stretched back to the horizon, where it +blended almost indistinguishably into the +grey curtain of the sky. A deserted road +wound into the distance, passing at one +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_296' name='page_296'></a>296</span> +spot a low boulder and farther on a little +expanse of dark water, and vanishing +then into the far-off heavens. Overhead, +through the level clouds, the light pierced +at intervals, wan and cold, save near the +horizon where a single spot of crimson gave +hint of the rising or the setting sun. There +lay over the whole a sense of inexpressible +desertion, as if it were almost a trespass +for the human eye to intrude upon the +scene—as if some sacred powers of the +hidden world had withdrawn hither for +the accomplishment of a solemn mystery. +As I stood before it, a great emotion broke +over me, a feeling of extraordinary expansion, +like that which comes to one in a +close room when a broad window is +thrown suddenly open to the fresh air and +to far-vanishing vistas. I know little or +nothing of the artist’s life, but I am sure +that he had looked upon this desert scene +with the same emotion of enlargement as +mine, only far greater and purer. And I +know that his heart in its loneliness had +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_297' name='page_297'></a>297</span> +comprehended the infinite solitudes of nature +and through that act of comprehension +was lifted up with a strange and austere +exultation. For, gazing upon these wide +silences, he learned that the indignities and +conflicts and weary ambitions of life meant +little to him, as the storms and tumultuous +forces of the earth mean nothing to the +heart of Nature, and in that lesson was his +peace. One concern only was his,—to +wrest from the impenetrable mystery of +the world an image of everlasting beauty, +and to set forth this image to others whose +vision was not yet purged of trouble. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_298' name='page_298'></a>298</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>LXI</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>FROM PHILIP’S DIARY</p> +</div> + +<p>I can rest no more to-night, for I have +been visited by strange dreams. It seemed +to me in my sleep that I wandered desolate +in a desolate land—not in wide waste +places as I dreamed after seeing Rousseau’s +picture, but in some wilderness of trees +where the light from a thin moon drifted +rarely through the slow-waving boughs. +And always as I wandered, I knew that +somewhere afar off in that dim forest my +beloved whom I had deserted lay in an +agony of suspense, waiting for me and +calling to me through the night. It seemed +almost as if the years of a lifetime passed, +and still I sought and could not find her—only +shadows met me and fantastic shapes +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_299' name='page_299'></a>299</span> +out of the darkness greeted me with staring +eyes. And, oh, I thought, if this long +agony of solitude troubles her heart as it +troubles mine and she perish in fear because +I have forsaken her! My distress +grew to be more than I could bear. And +then in a loud voice I cried to her: “Fear +not, beloved; be at peace until I come!” +I think I must actually have called out in +my sleep, for I awoke suddenly and started +up with the sound still ringing in my ears. +Ah, Jessica, Jessica, what have I done! +My own misery has lain so heavily upon me +that it has not occurred to me to imagine +what you too must have suffered. Indeed, +the wonder of your love has been to me so +incomprehensibly sweet that the notion of +any actual suffering on your part has never +really entered my thought. My own need +I understood—can it be that our separation +has caused the same weary emptiness in +your days that has made the word peace +a mockery to me? Can it even be that +while I have sought refuge and a kind of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_300' name='page_300'></a>300</span> +forgetfulness in the domination of my work, +you have been left a prey to unrelieved +despondency? You accused me once of +conscientious selfishness—have I made you +a victim of that sin? Idle questions all, +for I have come to a great awakening and +a sure determination. Dear Jessica, it was +this very day one year ago that you walked +into my office, bringing with you hope and +joy like the scent of fresh flowers on the +breath of summer—making as it were a dayspring +within my sombre life more filled +with glorious promise than the dawn that +even now begins to break against my windows. +It was doubtless the half-conscious +recollection of this anniversary that troubled +my dream—dream I call it, and yet there is +a conviction strong upon me that somehow +my spirit, or some emanation of my spirit, +was actually abroad this night seeking +yours, that somehow, when I cried aloud, +the sound of my voice penetrated to you +through the darkness and distance. Be at +peace, beloved; for this rising sun shall +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_301' name='page_301'></a>301</span> +not set until I am with you; and no power +of fanaticism, nor any brooding phantasy of +mine, shall ever draw us apart. Fear not, +beloved; be at peace till I come. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_302' name='page_302'></a>302</span></p> +<div class='ce'> +<p style=' margin-top:2em;'>LXII</p> +<div style='margin-top:1em'></div> +<p style=' margin-bottom:1.5em;'>JESSICA TO PHILIP</p> +</div> + +<p>I need not tell you that I read the letters +to me which you wrote to Jack. But the +sequel of your story is wrong, dear knight. +After a long famine, out of a very wilderness +of sorrows, it is I who return to you. +And I wonder if you will recognise in the +poor little bedraggled vixen that I now am, +the gay lady dryad with whom you walked +that day in the forest when we met the +witch. You may be shocked to learn, however, +that I hold you more than half accountable +for the misfortunes that have +befallen me since! You should have saved +<i>me</i> instead of attempting to slay the witch. +But you allowed me to depart, a dejected +fiction of filial piety, to become the victim +of a fanatical father’s ethics. Why did you +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_303' name='page_303'></a>303</span> +consent to this sacrilege? For, indeed, I +hold it as much a sacrilege to change a +Jessica into a deaconess as it would be to +turn a Christian into a Hottentot,—provided +either were possible.</p> +<p>I admit that it was I who ended our +engagement and forbade you to come here; +but that was only a part of <i>my</i> delusion, +not <i>yours</i>! But why did you not rescue +me from these delusions? Are they not +more terrible than the beasts at Ephesus? +Really I know not which of us has showed +less wisdom,—you who stayed to slay a +metaphorical witch created of your own +heated imagination, or I, with all my hopes +unfulfilled, turning aside to follow one whose +prophecies carry him out of the world rather +than into it. And I do not know what +has been the result of your mistake, but +with me it has been war. I have been like +a small province in rebellion, burning and +slaying all within my borders. I am a +heathen Hittite in father’s vineyard. I have +profaned all his scriptures and confounded +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_304' name='page_304'></a>304</span> +all his doctrines, until I think now the only +boon he prays for is deliverance.</p> +<p>But one thing I have learned, dear knight +of my heart,—submitting to a paternal edict +does not change the course of nature, although +true love often runs less smoothly +on that account. You cannot make a wren +out of a redbird, even if you are the God of +both. And not all the prayers in heaven +can save a little white moth from her candle, +once she has felt it shining upon her +wings. Just so, some charm of light in +you, some clear illumination of things that +reaches far beyond all the doctrines I know, +draws me like a destiny. It does not appear +whether I shall live in a gay rhythm +around it or drop dead in the flame, and it +no longer matters. Like the poor moth, +all I know is that I can neither live nor die +apart from it.</p> +<p>And this brings me to the point of telling +you why I have the courage to break my +promise and to write again. I have had +what father calls a “revelation,” when he +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_305' name='page_305'></a>305</span> +is about to construe life for me according +to the prayers he has said. But in no +sense does my revelation resemble the +Christian shrewdness of his. It has all the +grace of a heathen oracle, and, father would +say, all the earthly fallacies of one! For, +indeed, my life is so near and kin to Pan’s +that my vision never goes far beyond the +green edges of this present world. So! +draw near, then, while I tell your fortune +according to the shadows of my own destiny!—as +near as you were that day when +we read the old Latin poet together under +the trees in our forest,—for in some ways +your fortune resembles the scriptures of +Catullus. They are dual, and the ethics +they prove are romantic, too, rather than +ascetic.</p> +<p>I have a mind to begin at the beginning +and to run again over the long fairy trail of +our love, so that we may see more clearly +where our good stars agree. And oh, +dear Philip, my heart craves to talk with +you. Silence to you is the rare atmosphere +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_306' name='page_306'></a>306</span> +where your wings expand and bear you +swiftly upward and ever upward. But I—I +cannot soar, I cannot breathe in that +silence. I am writing, writing, to save +my heart from the madness of this long +restraint. I am comforting myself with +this story of our love—until you come, +for you will come, Philip. Well, the beginning +was when a certain poor little +Eve escaped from her garden in the South, +which was not according to the record in +such matters, and brazened her way into +the office of a certain literary editor in New +York. As well as I can remember she +was in search of fame, and she found,—ah, +dear Heart,—she found both love and +knowledge. But do you know how terrifying +you are to a primitive original woman +such as I was then? I had nothing +in my whole experience by which to interpret +the broad white silence of the brow +you lifted to greet me, nor the grave knowledge +of your eyes that comprehended me +altogether without once sharpening into a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_307' name='page_307'></a>307</span> +penetrating gaze. I had a judgment-day +sensation, through which I did not know +if I should endure! I was divided between +one impulse to flee for my life and the +more natural one to stand and contend for +my secrets. Did you know, dear Philip, +that every woman is born with a secret? +I did not until that revealing day when +first you encompassed me about with the +wisdom of your eyes. Then, all in a moment, +I longed to clasp both hands over +my heart to hide it from you. You talked +by rote of literature, but I could not tell +of what you were really thinking. And +I answered in little frightened chirups, like +a small winged thing that is blown far out +of its course by the gale.</p> +<p>All this happened to me one year ago +to-day, dear Philip. But this year with +you I have come a longer distance than +in all the years of my life before. After +that desperate visit to New York, I returned +to Morningtown, a delightful mystery to +myself, made rich with an unaccountable +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_308' name='page_308'></a>308</span> +joy, and with an inexplicable rainbow +arched in my heart’s heavens. I did not +know for what I hoped, but suddenly I +understood that life’s dearest fulfilment was +before me.</p> +<p>After that I do not know how the charm +of love worked within my heart, only that +I had always the happy animation of some +one newly blessed. And I had the divine +sensation of being recreated, fashioned +for some happier destiny. I lost father’s +boundary lines of prayer and creed. Some +limitation of my own mind passed away +and I entered into a sort of heathen fellowship +with the very spirits of the air. And +always I thought only of you. The very +reviews I wrote were, in a sense, remote +love letters, foreign prayers to your strange +soul. I even banished distance by some +miracle of love and often sat in spirit +upon the perilous ledge of your window +sill.</p> +<p>This feat was not so easy to do at first, +for I was much afraid of you. Your mind +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_309' name='page_309'></a>309</span> +seemed alien to me in the anti-humanitarian +attitude which you assumed to life. Yet +it was this very power in you to surpass +in philosophy all mere mortal conditions +that fascinated my attention, compelled my +allegiance. And for a long while I stood +in jealous awe of your “upper chamber.” +I resented that cold expression of your +spirituality. Then suddenly I was like a +white moth beating my wings against +your high windows.</p> +<p>In those days, Philip, I felt that I could +be forever contented if only I <i>knew</i> that +you loved me, and that your loving included +all the strange altitudes of your +mind. Nor can I ever forget the happiness +I felt in the first assurances of your tenderness. +They seemed to justify and set me +free. I danced many a pagan rhythm +through my forest, and dared every bird +with a song. I had that liberty of being +which comes of perfect peace,—the same +I have heard father’s repentant sinners +profess. And I was resolved, oh, so firmly! +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_310' name='page_310'></a>310</span> +never to compromise it with any sacrifice +of romance to reality.</p> +<p>But, alas! now I know that if a man +loves a woman, this is only the beginning +of a long negotiation, carried forward in +poetic terms; and that his love is a sort +of <i>fi. fa.</i>, which he will some day serve +upon her heart.</p> +<p>Upon your first visit to Morningtown it +was easy to hold out against you, for you +were such a distant, dignified admirer then. +Your apparent diffidence, your natural reserve, +seemed to give me a coquettish +advantage over the situation, and I was +not slow to avail myself of it. How was I +to know there was such a mad lover lying +concealed behind your classic pose? Thus +it was that I compromised all the armies +of my heart. Henceforth I marched madly, +dizzily to my final surrender. I could not +have saved myself if a thousand Blüchers +had hurried to my defence. And there +even came a time when I desired my own +capitulation; a thing which, owing to some +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_311' name='page_311'></a>311</span> +perversity of nature, I was unable to accomplish +of my own will.</p> +<p>But you will remember how that finally +came about, and it might have come so +much earlier if you had made your first +visit with the same brigand determination +as your second. And you brought Jack +with you! How droll you two looked that +day as you stood upon our narrow door-sill +awaiting your welcome! There was +no accent of paternity in your expression +to justify poor little Jack’s presence. The +relationship between you seemed so ludicrously +artificial,—as if you had somehow +got an undeserved iota subscript to your +callous, scholarly heart. The situation put +you at such a humorous disadvantage, +made you appear so at variance with your +hard, uncharitable theories of life, and with +your superlative dignity of mien, that the +terror I had felt in anticipation of your +visit vanished away. I think the awkward +helplessness with which you seemed always +to be trying to domesticate yourself +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_312' name='page_312'></a>312</span> +to Jack appealed to my sense of humour +so keenly that your romantic proportions +were suddenly reduced. You were less +formidable to deal with as a lover. That +is how I came to consent to the walk +we took in the forest. Ah me! I should +have taken warning from your enigmatical +silence. And indeed I did tremble with +vivacity in my effort to break it. But you +only looked mysteriously confident about +something and kept your own counsel, +giving me a nod or a quizzical smile now +and then, as if what I was saying really +had no bearing whatever upon the issue +at hand.... Then suddenly the grey +wood shadows fell about us. The world +changed back a thousand ages and we +were the only man and woman in it. I +felt the sudden compulsion of your arms +about me. And, Philip, I could have rested +in them if I had not caught in your face +the expression of a new, undisguised man; +but the strange white intensity of it startled +me so that I must have died or made +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_313' name='page_313'></a>313</span> +my escape. Ah! you do not know how +sincere was my flight from you the next +moment. I knew that I should be captured +at last; but after the divine madness I had +seen in your eyes, I could not be <i>willing</i>. +And when at last you overtook me under +that old Merlin oak, you showed no mercy +at all, my lord. You were not even sorry +for me, and you did not understand as I +lay with my face covered in terror and +shame against your breast. Philip, why +does a woman always weep when the +first man kisses her the first time, no +matter how glad she is? I hope you do +not know enough to answer this question. +But I am sure every woman does weep; +and I think it is because she feels even in +the midst of her great happiness, an irremediable +loss, for which nothing ever fully +atones.</p> +<p>But another question is, How could I, +after being lost to you in this dear way, +turn my face from you at the command of +a religious enthusiast? A regard for father +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_314' name='page_314'></a>314</span> +and not for his righteousness is the explanation; +for I felt more nearly right following +my heart to you. But now, dear +knight, I am ready to forgive you the fault +of assenting to such an unnatural sacrifice, +if only you will come and take me once +more. At present I am a sorry little vagabond, +very much the worse for wear, owing +to father’s efforts to sanctify me. But +if you will only love me enough, I think I +could be Jessica again. And perhaps you +have some more natural way of sanctifying +me yourself; for I doubt now if I shall ever +see heaven unless I may ascend through +your portals.</p> +<p>Every day since our bereavement of each +other, I have kept a tryst under our big +tree in the forest. At first this was a tender +formality, a memorial of a happiness +that had passed. But after a time I began +to have a power of mental vision that was +akin to communication. I came out of +myself to meet you somewhere in that +mysterious world of silence to which you +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_315' name='page_315'></a>315</span> +seem to belong. There were hours when +I felt absolutely certain of your nearness, a +tender peace enfolded me as warm as your +arms are. And I had the supreme satisfaction +of having outwitted all father’s powers +and principalities. Then came days when +by no sweet incantation could I bring myself +near you. I wept upon my sod like +one forsaken, and grieved the more because +I conceived that you must be far out of my +regions in one of your “upper chamber” +moods, where all your faculties were +concentrated upon some merely philosophical +proposition. I wonder now if +you are laughing! If you knew how I +have suffered, you would not even smile. +If you knew how I have <i>needed</i> to be +kissed, you would make haste to come +to me.</p> +<p>I had been making these excursions into +the forest for a long time before I discovered +that Jack was playing the part of +eavesdropping guardian angel. Do you +know, by the way, what a quaint little +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_316' name='page_316'></a>316</span> +ragamuffin philosopher that child is? He +has a shrewd sobriety, a steady watchfulness +over all about him, and he is endowed +with a power of silent devotion that is absolutely +compelling. He has been such a +comfort to me! and there is no way of +keeping him out of your confidence. He +knows things by some occult science of +loving. Thus I was not offended one day +when I looked up from the shadows under +my oak and saw him regarding me gravely, +almost compassionately, from behind a +neighbouring tree. After this we had a +tacit understanding that he might play +sentinel there when I came into the +forest.</p> +<p>See how much I have said, and still I +have not told you the strangest part of my +story—the moonlit revelation of you to me. +I am writing, writing, to ease my heart +until you come. And always as I write I +listen for the sound of your dear footsteps. +For many successive days I had found our +trysting place a veritable desert. I seemed +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_317' name='page_317'></a>317</span> +to have lost my heart’s way to you; and +in proportion to my bewilderment, life became +more and more intolerable. I had +the desperate sensation of one who is about +to be lost in a waste land, and I felt that I +could not live through the frightful loneliness +of such an experience. Yesterday +again I failed to find the comfort of your +occult presence when I went into the +wood. I was filled with consternation, +and when the night came I lay tossing in +a sleepless fever. Unless I knew once +more in my heart that you loved me, I felt +that I could no longer endure life. So I lay +far into the night. At last in desperation I +arose from my bed, slipped on my shoes +and the big cloak that you will remember, +and fled away to our tree in the forest, +pursued by a thousand shadows. For indeed +I am usually afraid of the dark; it is +like a silence to me—your silence, Philip—and +I fear it because I do not know what +it contains. But I had got one of father’s +wrestling-Jacob’s moods upon me by this +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_318' name='page_318'></a>318</span> +time, and if Mahomet’s mountain had come +booming by I should not have been deterred +from my purpose. But do you know that +there is more life in a little forest when +darkness falls than in a big town? and +that every living thing there recognises you +as an intruder with warning calls from tree +to tree? I had not more than cast myself +upon the ground to sob out all my griefs to +whatever gods would listen, when a sleepy +little robin just overhead called up to his +mistress the tone of my trouble. The +young leaves whispered it, the boughs +swept low about me, and the winds carried +messages of it away into the heavens, so +that suddenly the whole night knew of my +woe and pitied me.</p> +<p>I know not how long I lay there staring up +at the blue abyss of stars through the grizzly +shades of night. I only know that my face +was wet with tears and that I seemed to +tremble upon the brink of a long life’s despair. +And oh! Philip I never <i>loved</i> you +so,—not only with my heart and lips, but +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_319' name='page_319'></a>319</span> +with my soul. And it was my soul that +went out in a prayer to you to come. I +remembered not only the dear ways you +have of folding me into your arms and +making me surpassingly happy, so against +my own will, but I remembered the silent +young sage in his upper chamber, and I +felt that indeed it was to this esoteric personality +that I must pray for help.</p> +<p>And so I gave my soul away to the +sweet silence, and waited. The moonlight +falling down through an open space made +a cataract of tremulous brightness. It edged +all the shadows with a silver whiteness, as +of wings hidden.</p> +<p>And then suddenly there came to me out +of the far abyss above my trees a message, +a sweet assurance. Oh, I know not how +to call to it, only I felt the nearness of my +love. And I was afraid, my darling, and +closed my eyes lest I should <i>see</i> you. And +then, oh, Philip, I felt, I am sure I felt your +face close to mine, and in my ears a low +whisper breathed like the passing of the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_320' name='page_320'></a>320</span> +breeze, a voice saying: “Fear not, beloved; +be at peace until I come!” And I +knew then that you loved me and had not +forsaken me altogether.</p> +<p>And when at last I raised my eyes, I +became aware of the fact that I was still +not alone; and peering through the dim +spaces about me I beheld <i>Jack</i> sitting +hunched up on the root of his tree like a +small toad of fidelity! The little owl +sprite in him never quite slumbers, I think; +and seeing me leave the parsonage, he +had crept out and followed bravely after +through the shadows. But the picture +he made now startled me into a peal of +laughter.</p> +<p>“You are the lady in the story that +was lost,” said Jack, with the solemn intonation +of one who has himself received a +revelation.</p> +<p>“Yes,” I confessed softly.</p> +<p>“But will the knight come to find you?”</p> +<p>“I hope so; I think he is coming now, +dear Jack.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_321' name='page_321'></a>321</span></p> +<p>“Well damn him if he don’t!” was +the little wretch’s impious comment. I +always suspected him capable of using +strong language, but this was the first +time we had met upon a sufficiently intimate +basis of friendship for him to exploit +it.</p> +<p>And now, Philip, that is all until you +come. But hasten, my beloved! I am +already aged with this long waiting for +you. Do not ask me about father. He is +a good shepherd, but I am a small black +sheep determined not to be made white +according to his plan. And he has come +to that place where he would be ready to +take even you as an under-shepherd of this +factious ewe lamb. Besides, could we not +make a providential offering of Jack, as +Abraham did of the goat when he was +about to slay Isaac? Jack, I think, has a +heavenly wit withal, and could adjust the +little prayer light of his soul even to father’s +high altar mind. As for me, I cannot conceive +of life alone without you one whole +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_322' name='page_322'></a>322</span> +day longer. Indeed, so strong is my premonition +of your approach, that even now I +listen for the sound of your footsteps upon +the gravel outside.</p> +<div class='ce'> +<p>THE END</p> +</div> + +<!-- generated by ppgen.rb version: 2.24 --> +<!-- timestamp: Tue Aug 19 06:10:57 -0600 2008 --> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Jessica Letters: An Editor's +Romance, by Paul Elmer More and Corra Harris + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JESSICA LETTERS *** + +***** This file should be named 26523-h.htm or 26523-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/5/2/26523/ + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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