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diff --git a/6009-h/6009-h.htm b/6009-h/6009-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cf2a5d8 --- /dev/null +++ b/6009-h/6009-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7439 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!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" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Valley of Vision, by Henry Van Dyke + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Valley of Vision, by Henry Van Dyke + +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 Valley of Vision + +Author: Henry Van Dyke + + +Release Date: July, 2004 [EBook #6009] +This file was first posted on October 16, 2002 +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VALLEY OF VISION *** + + + + +Text file produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE VALLEY OF VISION + </h1> + <h3> + A Book Of Romance <br /> <br /> And Some Half-Told Tales + </h3> + <h3> + <br /> + </h3> + <h2> + By Henry Van Dyke + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h5> + “Your old men shall dream dreams,<br /> Your young men shall see visions.” + </h5> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + TO MY CHILDREN <br /> <br /> AND CHILDREN'S CHILDREN <br /> <br /> WHO MAY + REMEMBER THESE TROUBLOUS TIMES <br /> WHEN WE ARE GONE ON NEW ADVENTURE + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE + </h2> + <p> + “Why do you choose such a title as <i>The Valley of Vision</i> for your + book,” said my friend; “do you mean that one can see farther from the + valley than from the mountain-top?” + </p> + <p> + This question set me thinking, as every honest question ought to do. Here + is the result of my thoughts, which you will take for what it is worth, if + you care to read the book. + </p> + <p> + The mountain-top is the place of outlook over the earth and the sea. But + it is in the valley of suffering, endurance, and self-sacrifice that the + deepest visions of the meaning of life come to us. + </p> + <p> + I take the outcome of this Twentieth Century War as a victory over the mad + illusion of world-dominion which the Germans saw from the peak of their + military power in 1914. The united force of the Allies has grown, through + valley-visions of right and justice and human kindness, into an + irresistible might before which the German “will to power” has gone down + in ruin. + </p> + <p> + There are some Half-Told Tales in the volume—fables, fantasies—mere + sketches, grave and gay, on the margin of the book of life, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Where more is meant than meets the ear.” + </pre> + <p> + Dreams have a part in most of the longer stories. That is because I + believe dreams have a part in real life. Some of them we remember as + vividly as any actual experience. These belong to the imperfect sleep. But + others we do not remember, because they are given to us in that perfect + sleep in which the soul is liberated, and goes visiting. Yet sometimes we + get a trace of them, by a happy chance, and often their influence remains + with us in that spiritual refreshment with which we awake from profound + slumber. This is the meaning of that verse in the old psalm: “He giveth to + His beloved in sleep.” + </p> + <p> + The final story in the book was written before the War of 1914 began, and + it has to do with the Light of the World, leading us through conflict and + suffering towards Peace. + </p> + <p> + AVALON, November 24, 1918. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_ILL"> ILLUSTRATIONS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> A REMEMBERED DREAM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ANTWERP ROAD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> A CITY OF REFUGE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> A SANCTUARY OF TREES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE KING'S HIGH WAY </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> <b>HALF-TOLD TALES</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE TRAITOR IN THE HOUSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> JUSTICE OF THE ELEMENTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> ASHES OF VENGEANCE </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> <b>THE BROKEN SOLDIER AND THE MAID OF FRANCE</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> I. THE MEETING AT THE SPRING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> II. THE GREEN CONFESSIONAL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> III. THE ABSOLVING DREAM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> IV. THE VICTORIOUS PENANCE </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> THE HEARING EAR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> SKETCHES OF QUEBEC </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> A CLASSIC INSTANCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> HALF-TOLD TALES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> THE NEW ERA AND CARRY ON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> THE PRIMITIVE AND HIS SANDALS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> DIANA AND THE LIONS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> THE HERO AND TIN SOLDIERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> SALVAGE POINT </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> <b>THE BOY OF NAZARETH DREAMS</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> I. THE JOURNEY TO THE CITY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> II. THE GILDED TEMPLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> III. HOW THE BOY WAS LOST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> IV. HOW THE BOY WENT HIS WAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> V. HOW THE BOY WAS FOUND </a> + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_ILL" id="link2H_ILL"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <b>ILLUSTRATIONS</b>(not included) + </p> + <p> + <br />The sails and smoke-stacks of great shift were visible, all passing + <br />out to sea <br /> <br />The cathedral spire... was swaying and rocking + in the air like the <br />mast of a ship at sea <br /> <br />All were + fugitives, anxious to be gone... and making no more speed <br />than a + creeping snail's pace of unutterable fatigue <br /> <br />"I will ask you to + choose between your old home and your new home <br />now” <br /> <br />"I'm + going to carry you in, 'spite of hell” <br /> <br />"I was a lumberjack” + <br /> <br />"I am going to become a virtuous peasant, a son of the soil, a + <br />primitive” <br /> <br />The Finding of Christ in the Temple <br /> <br /> + <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A REMEMBERED DREAM + </h2> + <p> + This is the story of a dream that came to me some five-and-twenty years + ago. It is as vivid in memory as anything that I have ever seen in the + outward world, as distinct as any experience through which I have ever + passed. Not all dreams are thus remembered. But some are. In the records + of the mind, where the inner chronicle of life is written, they are + intensely clear and veridical. I shall try to tell the story of this dream + with an absolute faithfulness, adding nothing and leaving nothing out, but + writing the narrative just as if the thing were real. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps it was. Who can say? + </p> + <p> + In the course of a journey, of the beginning and end of which I know + nothing, I had come to a great city, whose name, if it was ever told me, I + cannot recall. + </p> + <p> + It was evidently a very ancient place. The dwelling-houses and larger + buildings were gray and beautiful with age, and the streets wound in and + out among them wonderfully, like a maze. + </p> + <p> + This city lay beside a river or estuary—though that was something + that I did not find out until later, as you will see—and the newer + part of the town extended mainly on a wide, bare street running along a + kind of low cliff or embankment, where the basements of the small houses + on the water-side went down, below the level of the street, to the shore. + But the older part of the town was closely and intricately built, with + gabled roofs and heavy carved facades hanging over the narrow stone-paved + ways, which here and there led out suddenly into open squares. + </p> + <p> + It was in what appeared to be the largest and most important of these + squares that I was standing, a little before midnight. I had left my wife + and our little girl in the lodging which we had found, and walked out + alone to visit the sleeping town. + </p> + <p> + The night sky was clear, save for a few filmy clouds, which floated over + the face of the full moon, obscuring it for an instant, but never + completely hiding it—like veils in a shadow dance. The spire of the + great cathedral was silver filigree on the moonlit side, and on the other + side, black lace. The square was empty. But on the broad, shallow steps in + front of the main entrance of the cathedral two heroic figures were + seated. At first I thought they were statues. Then I perceived they were + alive, and talking earnestly together. + </p> + <p> + They were like Greek gods, very strong and beautiful, and naked but for + some slight drapery that fell snow-white around them. They glistened in + the moonlight. I could not hear what they were saying; yet I could see + that they were in a dispute which went to the very roots of life. + </p> + <p> + They resembled each other strangely in form and feature—like twin + brothers. But the face of one was noble, lofty, calm, full of a vast + regret and compassion. The face of the other was proud, resentful, drawn + with passion. He appeared to be accusing and renouncing his companion, + breaking away from an ancient friendship in a swift, implacable hatred. + But the companion seemed to plead with him, and lean toward him, and try + to draw him closer. + </p> + <p> + A strange fear and sorrow shook my heart. I felt that this mysterious + contest was something of immense importance; a secret, ominous strife; a + menace to the world. + </p> + <p> + Then the two figures stood up, marvellously alike in strength and beauty, + yet absolutely different in expression and bearing, the one serene and + benignant, the other fierce and threatening. The quiet one was still + pleading, with a hand laid upon the other's shoulder. But he shook it off, + and thrust his companion away with a proud, impatient gesture. + </p> + <p> + At last I heard him speak. + </p> + <p> + “I have done with you,” he cried. “I do not believe in you. I have no more + need of you. I renounce you. I will live without you. Away forever out of + my life!” + </p> + <p> + At this a look of ineffable sorrow and pity came upon the great + companion's face. + </p> + <p> + “You are free,” he answered. “I have only besought you, never constrained + you. Since you will have it so, I must leave you, now, to yourself.” + </p> + <p> + He rose into the air, still looking downward with wise eyes full of grief + and warning, until he vanished in silence beyond the thin clouds. + </p> + <p> + The other did not look up, but lifting his head with a defiant laugh, + shook his shoulders as if they were free of a burden. He strode swiftly + around the corner of the cathedral and disappeared among the deep shadows. + </p> + <p> + A sense of intolerable calamity fell upon me. I said to myself: + </p> + <p> + “That was Man! And the other was God! And they have parted!” + </p> + <p> + Then the multitude of bells hidden in the lace-work of the high tower + began to sound. It was not the aerial fluttering music of the carillon + that I remembered hearing long ago from the belfries of the Low Countries. + This was a confused and strident ringing, jangled and broken, full of + sudden tumults and discords, as if the tower were shaken and the bells + gave out their notes at hazard, in surprise and trepidation. + </p> + <p> + It stopped as suddenly as it began. The great bell of the hours struck + twelve. The windows of the cathedral glowed faintly with a light from + within. + </p> + <p> + “It is New Year's Eve,” I thought—although I knew perfectly well + that the time was late summer. I had seen that though the leaves on the + trees of the square were no longer fresh, they had not yet fallen. + </p> + <p> + I was certain that I must go into the cathedral. The western entrance was + shut. I hurried to the south side. The dark, low door of the transept was + open. I went in. The building was dimly lighted by huge candles which + flickered and smoked like torches. I noticed that one of them, fastened + against a pillar, was burning crooked, and the tallow ran down its side in + thick white tears. + </p> + <p> + The nave of the church was packed with a vast throng of people, all + standing, closely crowded together, like the undergrowth in a forest. The + rood-screen was open, or broken down, I could not tell which. The choir + was bare, like a clearing in the woods, and filled with blazing light. + </p> + <p> + On the high steps, with his back to the altar, stood Man, his face + gleaming with pride. + </p> + <p> + “I am the Lord!” he cried. “There is none above me! No law, no God! Man is + power. Man is the highest of all!” + </p> + <p> + A tremor of wonder and dismay, of excitement and division, shivered + through the crowd. Some covered their faces. Others stretched out their + hands. Others shook their fists in the air. A tumult of voices broke from + the multitude—voices of exultation, and anger, and horror, and + strife. + </p> + <p> + The floor of the cathedral was moved and lifted by a mysterious + ground-swell. The pillars trembled and wavered. The candles flared and + went out. The crowd, stricken dumb with a panic fear, rushed to the doors, + burst open the main entrance, and struggling in furious silence poured out + of the building. I was swept along with them, striving to keep on my feet. + </p> + <p> + One thought possessed me. I must get to my wife and child, save them, + bring them out of this accursed city. + </p> + <p> + As I hurried across the square I looked up at the cathedral spire. It was + swaying and rocking in the air like the mast of a ship at sea. The + lace-work fell from it in blocks of stone. The people rushed screaming + through the rain of death. Many were struck down, and lay where they fell. + </p> + <p> + I ran as fast as I could. But it was impossible to run far. Every street + and alley vomited men—all struggling together, fighting, shouting, + or shrieking, striking one another down, trampling over the fallen—a + hideous melee. There was an incessant rattling noise in the air, and + heavier peals as of thunder shook the houses. Here a wide rent yawned in a + wall—there a roof caved in—the windows fell into the street in + showers of broken glass. + </p> + <p> + How I got through this inferno I do not know. Buffeted and blinded, + stumbling and scrambling to my feet again, turning this way or that way to + avoid the thickest centres of the strife, oppressed and paralyzed by a + feeling of impotence that put an iron band around my heart, driven always + by the intense longing to reach my wife and child, somehow I had a sense + of struggling on. Then I came into a quieter quarter of the town, and ran + until I reached the lodging where I had left them. + </p> + <p> + They were waiting just inside the door, anxious and trembling. But I was + amazed to find them so little panic-stricken. The little girl had her doll + in her arms. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration with caption: The cathedral spire... was swaying and rocking + in the air like the mast of a ship at sea.} “What is it?” asked my wife. + “What must we do?” + </p> + <p> + “Come,” I cried. “Something frightful has happened here. I can't explain + now. We must get away at once. Come, quickly.” + </p> + <p> + Then I took a hand of each and we hastened through the streets, vaguely + steering away from the centre of the city. + </p> + <p> + Presently we came into that wide new street of mean houses, of which I + have already spoken. There were a few people in it, but they moved heavily + and feebly, as if some mortal illness lay upon them. Their faces were pale + and haggard with a helpless anxiety to escape more quickly. The houses + seemed half deserted. The shades were drawn, the doors closed. + </p> + <p> + But since it was all so quiet, I thought that we might find some temporary + shelter there. So I knocked at the door of a house where there was a dim + light behind the drawn shade in one of the windows. + </p> + <p> + After a while the door was opened by a woman who held the end of her shawl + across her mouth. All that I could see was the black sorrow of her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Go away,” she said slowly; “the plague is here. My children are dying of + it. You must not come in! Go away.” + </p> + <p> + So we hurried on through that plague-smitten street, burdened with a new + fear. Soon we saw a house on the riverside which looked absolutely empty. + The shades were up, the windows open, the door stood ajar. I hesitated; + plucked up courage; resolved that we must get to the waterside in some way + in order to escape from the net of death which encircled us. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” I said, “let us try to go down through this house. But cover your + mouths.” + </p> + <p> + We groped through the empty passageway, and down the basement-stair. The + thick cobwebs swept my face. I noted them with joy, for I thought they + proved that the house had been deserted for some time, and so perhaps it + might not be infected. + </p> + <p> + We descended into a room which seemed to have been the kitchen. There was + a stove dimly visible at one side, and an old broken kettle on the floor, + over which we stumbled. The back door was locked. But it swung outward as + I broke it open. We stood upon a narrow, dingy beach, where the small + waves were lapping. + </p> + <p> + By this time the “little day” had begun to whiten the eastern sky; a + pallid light was diffused; I could see westward down to the main harbor, + beside the heart of the city. The sails and smoke-stacks of great ships + were visible, all passing out to sea. I wished that we were there. + </p> + <p> + Here in front of us the water seemed shallower. It was probably only a + tributary or backwater of the main stream. But it was sprinkled with + smaller vessels—sloops, and yawls, and luggers—all filled with + people and slowly creeping seaward. + </p> + <p> + There was one little boat, quite near to us, which seemed to be waiting + for some one. There were some people on it, but it was not crowded. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” I said, “this is for us. We must wade out to it.” + </p> + <p> + So I took my wife by the hand, and the child in the other arm, and we went + into the water. Soon it came up to our knees, to our waists. + </p> + <p> + “Hurry,” shouted the old man at the tiller. “No time to spare!” + </p> + <p> + “Just a minute more,” I answered, “only one minute!” + </p> + <p> + That minute seemed like a year. The sail of the boat was shaking in the + wind. When it filled she must move away. We waded on, and at last I + grasped the gunwale of the boat. I lifted the child in and helped my wife + to climb over the side. They clung to me. The little vessel began to move + gently away. + </p> + <p> + “Get in,” cried the old man sharply; “get in quick.” + </p> + <p> + But I felt that I could not, I dared not. I let go of the boat. I cried + “Good-by,” and turned to wade ashore. + </p> + <p> + I was compelled to go back to the doomed city. I must know what would come + of the parting of Man from God! + </p> + <p> + The tide was running out more swiftly. The water swirled around my knees. + I awoke. + </p> + <p> + But the dream remained with me, just as I have told it to you. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANTWERP ROAD + </h2> + <h3> + {OCTOBER, 1914} + </h3> + <p> + Along the straight, glistening road, through a dim arcade of drooping + trees, a tunnel of faded green and gold, dripping with the misty rain of a + late October afternoon, a human tide was flowing, not swiftly, but slowly, + with the patient, pathetic slowness of weary feet, and numb brains, and + heavy hearts. + </p> + <p> + Yet they were in haste, all of these old men and women, fathers and + mothers, and little children; they were flying as fast as they could; + either away from something that they feared, or toward something that they + desired. + </p> + <p> + That was the strange thing—the tide on the road flowed in two + directions. + </p> + <p> + Some fled away from ruined homes to escape the perils of war. Some fled + back to ruined homes to escape the desolation of exile. But all were + fugitives, anxious to be gone, striving along the road one way or the + other, and making no more speed than a creeping snail's pace of + unutterable fatigue. I saw many separate things in the tide, and + remembered them without noting. + </p> + <p> + A boy straining to push a wheelbarrow with his pale mother in it, and his + two little sisters trudging at his side. A peasant with his two girls + driving their lean, dejected cows back to some unknown pasture. A bony + horse tugging at a wagon heaped high with bedding and household gear, on + top of which sat the wrinkled grandmother with the tiniest baby in her + arms, while the rest of the family stumbled alongside—and the cat + was curled up on the softest coverlet in the wagon. Two panting dogs, with + red tongues hanging out, and splayed feet clawing the road, tugging a + heavy-laden cart while the master pushed behind and the woman pulled in + the shafts. Strange, antique vehicles crammed with passengers. Couples and + groups and sometimes larger companies of foot-travellers. Now and then a + solitary man or woman, old and shabby, bundle on back, eyes on the road, + plodding through the mud and the mist, under the high archway of yellowing + leaves. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: All were fugitives, anxious to be gone, ... and making no + more speed than a creeping snail's pace of unutterable fatigue.} + </p> + <p> + All these distinct pictures I saw, yet it was all one vision—a + vision of humanity with its dumb companions in flight—infinitely + slow, painful, pitiful flight! + </p> + <p> + I saw no tears, I heard no cries of complaint. But beneath the numb and + patient haste on all those dazed faces I saw a question. + </p> + <p> + <i>“What have we done? Why has this thing come upon us and our children?”</i> + </p> + <p> + Somewhere I heard a trumpet blown. The brazen spikes on the helmets of a + little troop of German soldiers flashed for an instant, far down the + sloppy road. Through the humid dusk came the dull, distant booming of the + unseen guns of conquest in Flanders. + </p> + <p> + That was the only answer. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A CITY OF REFUGE + </h2> + <p> + In the dark autumn of 1914 the City sprang up almost in a night, as if by + enchantment. + </p> + <p> + It was white magic that called it into being—the deep, quiet, strong + impulse of compassion and protection that moved the motherly heart of + Holland when she saw the hundreds of thousands of Belgian fugitives + pouring out of their bleeding, ravaged land, and running, stumbling, + creeping on hands and knees, blindly, instinctively turning to her for + safety and help. + </p> + <p> + “Come to me,” she said, like a good woman who holds out her arms and + spreads her knees to make a lap for tired and frightened children, “come + to me. I will take care of you. You shall be safe with me.” + </p> + <p> + All doors were open. The little brick farmhouses and cottages with their + gayly painted window-shutters; the long rows of city houses with their + steep gables; the prim and placid country mansions set among their high + trees and formal flower-gardens—all kinds of dwellings, from the + poorest to the richest, welcomed these guests of sorrow and distress. Many + a humble family drained its savings-bank reservoir to keep the stream of + its hospitality flowing. Unused factories were turned into barracks. + Deserted summer hotels were filled up. Even empty greenhouses were adapted + to the need of human horticulture. All Holland was enrolled, formally or + informally, in a big <i>Comite voor Belgische Slachtoffers.</i> + </p> + <p> + But soon it was evident that the impromptu methods of generosity could not + meet the demands of the case. Private resources were exhausted. Poor + people could no longer feed and clothe their poorer guests. Families were + unhappily divided. In the huge flock of exiles driven out by the cruel + German Terror there were goats as well as sheep, and some of them + bewildered and shocked the orderly Dutch homes where they were sheltered, + by their nocturnal habits and negligible morals. Something had to be done + to bring order and system into the chaos of brotherly love. Otherwise the + neat Dutch mind which is so close to the Dutch heart could not rest in its + bed. This vast trouble which the evil of German militarism had thrust upon + a helpless folk must be helped out by a wise touch of military + organization, which is a good thing even for the most peaceful people. + </p> + <p> + So it was that the City of Refuge (and others like it) grew up swiftly in + the wilderness. + </p> + <p> + It stands in the heathland that slopes and rolls from the wooded hills of + Gelderland to the southern shore of the Zuider Zee—a sandy country + overgrown with scrub-oaks and pines and heather—yet very healthy and + well drained, and not unfertile under cultivation. You may see that in the + little neighbor-village, where the trees arch over the streets, and the + kitchen-gardens prosper, and the shrubs and flowers bloom abundantly. + </p> + <p> + The small houses and hotels of this tiny summer resort are of brick. It + has an old, well-established look; a place of relaxation with restraint, + not of ungirdled frivolity. The plain Dutch people love their holidays, + but they take them serenely and by rule: long walks and bicycle-rides, + placid and nourishing picnics in the woods or by the sea, afternoon + tea-parties in sheltered arbors. One of their favorite names for a + country-place is <i>Wel Teweden,</i> “perfectly contented.” + </p> + <p> + The commandant of the City of Refuge lives in one of the little brick + houses of the village. He is a portly, rosy old bachelor, with a curly + brown beard and a military bearing; a man of fine education and wide + experience, seasoned in colonial diplomacy. The ruling idea in his mind is + discipline, authority. His official speech is abrupt and final, the manner + of a martinet covering a heart full of kindness and generous impulses. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” he says, after a good breakfast, “I want you to see my camp. It is + not as fine and fancy as the later ones. But we built it in a hurry and we + had it ready on time.” + </p> + <p> + A short ride over a sandy road brings you to the city gate—an + opening in the wire enclosure of perhaps two or three square miles among + the dwarf pines and oaks. The guard-house is kept by a squad of Dutch + soldiers. But it is in no sense a prison-camp, for people are coming and + going freely all the time, and the only rules within are those of decency + and good order. + </p> + <p> + “Capacity, ten thousand,” says the commandant, sweeping his hand around + the open circle, “quite a city, <i>niet waar?</i> I will show you the + various arrangements.” + </p> + <p> + All the buildings are of wood, a mushroom city, but constructed with + intelligence to meet the needs of the sudden, helpless population. You + visit the big kitchen with its ever-simmering kettles; the dining-halls + with their long tables and benches; the schoolhouses full of lively, + irrepressible children; the wash-house where always talkative and jocose + laundresses are scrubbing and wringing the clothes; the sewing-rooms where + hundreds of women and girls are busy with garments and gossip; the chapel + where religious services are held by the devoted pastors; the + recreation-room which is the social centre of the city; the clothing + storerooms where you find several American girls working for love. + </p> + <p> + Then you go through the long family barracks where each family has a + separate cubicle, more or less neat and comfortable, sometimes prettily + decorated, according to the family taste and habit; the barracks for the + single men; the barracks for the single women; the two hospitals, one + general, the other for infectious diseases; and last of all, the house + where the half-dozen disorderly women are confined, surrounded by a double + fence of barbed wire and guarded by a sentry. + </p> + <p> + Poor, wretched creatures! You are sorry for them. Why not put the + disorderly men into a house of confinement, too? + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” says the commandant bluntly, “we find it easier and better to send + the disorderly men to jail or hospital in some near town. We are easier + with the women. I pity them. But they are full of poison. We can't let + them go loose in the camp for fear of infection.” + </p> + <p> + How many of the roots of human nature are uncovered in a place like this! + The branches and the foliage and the blossoms, too, are seen more clearly + in this air where all things are necessarily open and in common. + </p> + <p> + The men are generally less industrious than the women. But they work + willingly at the grading of roads and paths, the laying out and planting + of flower-beds, the construction of ornamental designs, of doubtful taste + but unquestionable sincerity. + </p> + <p> + You read the names which they have given to the different streets and + barracks, and the passageways between the cubicles, and you understand the + strong, instinctive love which binds them to their native Belgium. + “Antwerp Avenue,” “Louvain Avenue,” “Malines Street,” “Liege Street,” and + streets bearing the names of many ruined towns and villages of which you + have never heard, but which are forever dear to the hearts of these + exiles. The names of the hero-king, Albert, and of his brave consort, + Queen Elizabeth, are honored by inscriptions, and their pictures, cut + from, newspapers, decorate the schoolrooms and the little family cubicles. + </p> + <p> + The brutal power which reigns at Berlin may drive the Belgians out of + Belgium by terror and oppression. But it cannot drive Belgium out of the + hearts of the Belgians. While they live their country lives, and Albert is + still their King. + </p> + <p> + But think of the unnatural conditions into which these thousands of human + beings—yes, and hundreds of thousands like them, torn from their + homes, uprooted, dispersed, impoverished—are forced by this bitter, + cruel war. Think of the cold and ruined hearthstones, the scattered + families, the shelterless children, the desolate and broken hearts. This + is what Germany has inflicted upon mankind in order to realize her + robber-dream! + </p> + <p> + Yet the City of Refuge, being human, has its bright spots and its bits of + compensation. Here is one, out of many. + </p> + <p> + The chief nurse, a young Dutch lady of charming face and manners, serving + as a volunteer under the sacred sign of the Red Cross, comes in, one + morning, to make her report to the commandant. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he says, disguising in his big voice of command the warm + admiration which he feels for the lady, “what is the trouble to-day? Speak + up.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, sir,” she answers calmly. “Everything is going on pretty well. + No new cases of measles—those in hospital improving. The only thing + that bothers me is the continual complaint about that Mrs. Van Orley—you + remember her, a thin, dark little person. She is melancholy and morose, + quarrels all the time, says some one has stolen her children. The people + near her in the barracks complain that she disturbs them at night, moans + and talks aloud in her sleep, jumps up and runs down the corridor laughing + or crying: 'Here they are!' They don't believe she ever had any children. + They think she is crazy and want her put out. But I don't agree with that. + I think she has had children, and now she has dreams.” + </p> + <p> + “Send her away,” growls the commandant; “send her to a sanatorium! This + camp is not a lunatic asylum.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” interposes the nurse in her most discreet voice, “she is really a + very nice woman. If you would allow me to take her on as a housemaid in + the general hospital, I think I could make something out of her; at least + I should like to try.” + </p> + <p> + “Have your own way,” says the commandant, relenting; “you always do. Now + tell me the next trouble. You have something more up your sleeve, I'm + sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Babies,” she replies demurely; “two babies from Amsterdam. Lost, somehow + or other, in the flight. No trace of their people. A family in Zaandam has + been taking care of them, but can't afford it any longer. So the Amsterdam + committee has sent them here.” + </p> + <p> + The commandant has listened, his cheeks growing redder and redder, his + eyes rounder and more prominent. He springs up and paces the floor in + wrath. + </p> + <p> + “Babies!” he cries stormily. “By all the gods, da—those + Amsterdammers! Excuse me, but this is too much. Do they think this is a + foundling asylum? or a nursing home? Babies! What in Heaven's name am I to + do with them? Babies! Where are those babies?” + </p> + <p> + “Just outside, and very nice babies indeed,” says the nurse, opening the + hall door and giving a soft call. + </p> + <p> + Enter a slim black-haired boy of about three and a half years and a plump + golden-haired girl about a year younger. They toddle to the nurse and + snuggle against her blue dress and white apron. + </p> + <p> + Smiling she guides them toward the commandant and says: “Here they are, + sir. How do you like them?” + </p> + <p> + That terrific personage has been suddenly transformed from haircloth into + silk. He beams, and pulling out his fat gold watch, coos like a hoarse + dove: “Look here, <i>kinderen</i>, come and hear the bells in my + tick-tock!” + </p> + <p> + Presently he has one of them leaning against the inside of each knee, + listening ardently to the watch. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of that!” he says. “What is your name, youngster?” + </p> + <p> + “Hendrik,” answers the boy, looking up. + </p> + <p> + “Hendrik <i>what?</i> You have another name, haven't you?” + </p> + <p> + The boy shakes his head and looks puzzled, as if the thought of two names + were too much for him. <i>“Hendrik,”</i> he repeats more clearly and + firmly. + </p> + <p> + “And what is her name?” asks the commandant, patting the little girl. + </p> + <p> + <i>“Sooss,”</i> answers the boy. “Mama say <i>'ickle angel.'</i> Hendrik + say <i>Sooss.”</i> + </p> + <p> + All effort to get any more information from the children was fruitless. + They were too small to remember much, and what they did remember was of + their own size—only very little things, of no importance except to + themselves. The commandant looks at the nurse quizzically. + </p> + <p> + “Now, miss, you have unloaded these vague babies on me. What do you + propose that I should do with them? Adopt them?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet, anyhow,” she answers, smiling broadly. “Let us take them up to + the camp. I'll bet we can find some one there to look after them. What do + you say, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” he sighs, “have your own way as usual! Just ring that bell + for the automobile, <i>als't-Ublieft.”</i> + </p> + <p> + In the busy sewing-room the two children are standing up on one of the + tables. The commandant has an arm around each of them, for they are a + little frightened by so much noise and so many eyes looking at them. The + chatter dies down, as he speaks in his gruff authoritative voice, but with + a twinkle in his eyes, rather like a middle-aged Santa Claus. + </p> + <p> + “Look here! I've got two fine babies.” + </p> + <p> + A titter runs through the room. + </p> + <p> + <i>“Ja, Men'eer,”</i> says one of the women, “congratulations! They are <i>lievelingen</i>—darlings!” + </p> + <p> + “Silence!” growls the commandant amiably. “None of your impudence, you + women. Look here! These two children—I want somebody to adopt them, + or at least to take care of them. I will pay for them. Their names are + Hendrik and—” + </p> + <p> + A commotion at the lower end of the room. A thin, dark little woman is + standing up, waving her piece of sewing like a flag, her big eyes flaming + with excitement. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” she cries, hurrying and stumbling forward through the crowd of + women and girls. “Oh, stop a minute! They are mine—I lost them—mine, + I tell you—lost—mine!” + </p> + <p> + She reaches the head of the table and flings her arms around the boy, + crying: “My Hendrik!” + </p> + <p> + The boy hesitates a second, startled by the sudden wildness of her caress. + Then he presses his hot little face in her neck. + </p> + <p> + <i>“Lieve moeder!”</i> he murmurs. “Where was you? I looked.” + </p> + <p> + But the thin, dark little woman has fainted dead away. + </p> + <p> + The rest we will leave, as the wise commandant does, to the chief nurse. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A SANCTUARY OF TREES + </h2> + <p> + The Baron d'Azan was old—older even than his seventy years. His age + showed by contrast as he walked among his trees. They were fresh and + flourishing, full of sap and vigor, though many of them had been born long + before him. + </p> + <p> + The tracts of forest which still belonged to his diminished estate were + crowded with the growths native to the foot-hills of the Ardennes. In the + park around the small chateau, built in a Belgian version of the First + Empire style, trees from many lands had been assembled by his father and + grandfather: drooping spruces from Norway, dark-pillared cypresses from + Italy, spreading cedars from Lebanon, trees of heaven from China, + fern-leaved gingkos from Japan, lofty tulip-trees and liquidambars from + America, and fantastic sylvan forms from islands of the Southern Ocean. + But the royal avenue of beeches! Well, I must tell you more about that, + else you can never feel the meaning of this story. + </p> + <p> + The love of trees was hereditary in the family and antedated their other + nobility. The founder of the house had begun life as the son of a forester + in Luxemburg. His name was Pol Staar. His fortune and title were the fruit + of contracts for horses and provisions which he made with the commissariat + of Napoleon I. in the days when the Netherlands were a French province. + But though Pol Staar's hands were callous and his manners plain, his + tastes were aristocratic. They had been formed young in the company of + great trees. + </p> + <p> + Therefore when he bought his estate of Azan (and took his title from it) + he built his chateau in a style which he considered complimentary to his + imperial patron, but he was careful also to include within his domain + large woodlands in which he could renew the allegiance of his youth. These + woodlands he cherished and improved, cutting with discretion, planting + with liberality, and rejoicing in the thought that trees like those which + had befriended his boyhood would give their friendly protection to his + heirs. These are traits of an aristocrat—attachment to the past, and + careful provision for posterity. It was in this spirit that Pol Staar, + first Baron d'Azan, planted in 1809 the broad avenue of beeches, leading + from the chateau straight across the park to the highroad. But he never + saw their glory, for he died when they were only twenty years old. + </p> + <p> + His son and successor was of a different timber and grain; less + aristocratic, more bourgeois—a rover, a gambler, a man of fashion. + He migrated from the gaming-tables at Spa to the Bourse at Paris, perching + at many clubs between and beyond, and making seasonal nests in several + places. This left him little time for the Chdteau d'Azan. But he came + there every spring and autumn, and showed the family fondness for trees in + his own fashion. He loved the forests so much that he ate them. He cut + with liberality and planted without discretion. But for the great avenue + of beeches he had a saving admiration. Not even to support the + gaming-table would he have allowed them to be felled. + </p> + <p> + When he turned the corner of his thirty-first year he had a sharp illness, + a temporary reformation, and brought home as his wife a very young lovely + actress from the ducal theatre at Saxe-Meiningen. She was a good girl, + deeply in love with her handsome husband, to whom she bore a son and heir + in the first year of their marriage. Not many moons thereafter the pleased + but restless father slid back into his old rounds again. The forest waned + and the debts waxed. Rumors of wild doings came from Spa and Aix, from + Homburg and Baden, from Trouville and Ostend. After four years of this the + young mother died, of no namable disease, unless you call it + heart-failure, and the boy was left to his grandmother's care and company + among the trees. + </p> + <p> + Every day when it was fair the old lady and the little lad took their + afternoon walk together in the beech-tree avenue, where the tips of the + branches now reached the road. At other times he roamed the outlying woods + and learned to know the birds and the little wild animals. When he was + twelve his grandmother died. After that he was left mainly to the + housekeeper, his tutors, and the few friends he could make among the + children of the neighborhood. + </p> + <p> + When he had finished his third year at the University of Louvain and + attained his majority, his father returned express-haste from somewhere in + Bohemia, to attend the coronation of Leopold II, that remarkable King of + Belgium and the Bourse. But by this time the gay Baron d'Azan had become + stout, the pillar of his neck seemed shorter because it was thicker, and + the rose in his bold cheek had the purplish tint of a crimson rambler. So + he died of an apoplexy during the festivities, and his son brought him + back to the Chateau d'Azan, and buried him there with due honor, and + mourned for him as was fitting. Thus Albert, third Baron d'Azan, entered + upon his inheritance. + </p> + <p> + It seemed, at first, to consist mainly of debts. These were paid by the + sale of the deforested lands and of certain detached woodlands. By the + same method, much as he disliked it, he made a modest provision of money + for continuing his education and beginning his travels. He knew that he + had much to learn of the world, and he was especially desirous of pursuing + his favorite study of botany, which a wise old priest at Louvain had + taught him to love. So he engaged an intelligent and faithful forester to + care for the trees and the estate, closed the house, and set forth on his + journeys. + </p> + <p> + They led him far and wide. In the course of them no doubt he studied other + things than botany. It may be that he sowed some of the wild oats with + which youth is endowed; but not in the gardens of others; nor with that + cold self-indulgence which transforms passionate impulse into sensual + habit. He had a permanent and regulative devotion to botanical research; + and that is a study which seems to promote modesty, tranquillity, and + steadiness of mind in its devotees, of whom the great Linnaeus is the + shining exemplar. Young Albert d'Azan sat at the feet of the best masters + in Europe and America. He crossed the western continent to observe the + oldest of living things, the giant Sequoias of California. He went to + Australasia and the Dutch East Indies and South America in search of new + ferns and orchids. He investigated the effect of ocean currents and of + tribal migrations in the distribution of trees. His botanical monographs + brought him renown among those who know, and he was elected a + corresponding member of many scientific societies. After twenty years of + voyaging he returned to port at Azan, richly laden with observation and + learning, and settled down among his trees to pursue his studies and write + his books. + </p> + <p> + The estate, under the forester's care, had improved a little and promised + a modest income. The house, though somewhat dilapidated, was easily made + livable. But the one thing that was full of glory and splendor, + triumphantly prosperous, was the great avenue of beeches. Their long, low + aisle of broad arches was complete. They shimmered with a pearly mist of + buds in early spring and later with luminous green of tender leafage. In + mid-summer they formed a wide, still stream of dark, unruffled verdure; in + autumn they were transmuted through glowing yellow into russet gold; in + winter their massy trunks were pillars of gray marble and the fan-tracery + of their rounded branches was delicately etched against the sky. + </p> + <p> + “Look at them,” the baron would say to the guests whom the fame of his + learning and the charm of his wide-ranging conversation often brought to + his house. “Those beeches were planted by my grandfather after the battle + of Wagram, when Napoleon whipped the Austrians. After that came the + Beresina and Leipsic and Waterloo and how many battles and wars of + furious, perishable men. Yet the trees live on peaceably, they unfold + their strength in beauty, they have not yet reached the summit of their grandeur. + We are all <i>parvenus</i> beside them.” + </p> + <p> + “If you had to choose,” asked the great sculptor Constantin Meunier one + day, “would you have your house or one of these trees struck by + lightning?” + </p> + <p> + “The house,” answered the botanist promptly, “for I could rebuild it in a + year; but to restore the tree would take three-quarters of a century.” + </p> + <p> + “Also,” said the sculptor, with a smile, “you might change the style of + your house with advantage, but the style of these trees you could never + improve.” + </p> + <p> + “But tell me,” he continued, “is it true, as they say, that lightning + never strikes a beech?” + </p> + <p> + “It is not entirely true,” replied the botanist, smiling in his turn, + “yet, like many ancient beliefs, it has some truth in it. There is + something in the texture of the beech that seems to resist electricity + better than other trees. It may be the fatness of the wood. Whatever it + is, I am glad of it, for it gives my trees a better chance.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be too secure,” said the sculptor, shaking his head. “There are + other tempests besides those in the clouds. When the next war comes in + western Europe Belgium will be the battle-field. Beech-wood is very good + to burn.” + </p> + <p> + “God forbid,” said the baron devoutly. “We have had peace for a quarter of + a century. Why should it not last?” + </p> + <p> + “Ask the wise men of the East,” replied the sculptor grimly. + </p> + <p> + When he was a little past fifty the baron married, with steadfast choice + and deep affection, the orphan daughter of a noble family of Hainault. She + was about half his age; of a tranquil, cheerful temper and a charm that + depended less on feature than on expression; a lover of music, books, and + a quiet life. She brought him a small dowry by which the chateau was + restored to comfort, and bore him two children, a boy and a girl, by whom + it was enlivened with natural gayety. The next twenty years were the + happiest that Albert d'Azan and his wife ever saw. The grand avenue of + beeches became to them the unconscious symbol of something settled and + serene, august, protective, sacred. + </p> + <p> + On a brilliant morning of early April, 1914, they had stepped out together + to drink the air. The beeches were in misty, silver bloom above them. All + around was peace and gladness. + </p> + <p> + “I want to tell you a dream I had last night,” he said, “a strange dream + about our beeches.” + </p> + <p> + “If it was sad,” she answered, “do not let the shadow of it fall on the + morning.” + </p> + <p> + “But it was not sad. It seemed rather to bring light and comfort. I + dreamed that I was dead and you had buried me at the foot of the largest + of the trees.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you call that not sad?” she interrupted reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + “It did not seem so. Wait a moment and you shall hear the way of it. At + first I felt only a deep quietness and repose, like one who has been in + pain and is very tired and lies down in the shade to sleep. Then I was + waking again and something was drawing me gently upward. I cannot exactly + explain it, but it was as if I were passing through the roots and the + trunk and the boughs of the beech-tree toward the upper air. There I saw + the light again and heard the birds singing and the wind rustling among + the leaves. How I saw and heard I cannot tell you, for there was no + remembrance of a body in my dream. Then suddenly my soul—I suppose + it was that—stood before God and He was asking me: 'How did you come + hither?' I answered, 'By Christ's way, by the way of a tree.' And He said + it was well, and that my work in heaven should be the care of the trees + growing by the river of life, and that sometimes I could go back to visit + my trees on earth, if I wished. That made me very glad, for I knew that so + I should see you and our children under the beeches. And while I was + wondering whether you would ever know that I was there, the dream + dissolved, and I saw the morning light on the tree-tops. What do you think + of my dream? Childish, wasn't it?” + </p> + <p> + She thought a little before she answered. + </p> + <p> + “It was natural enough, though vague. Of course we could not be buried at + the foot of the beech-tree unless Cardinal Mercier would permit a plot of + ground to be consecrated there. But come, it is time to go in to + breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + She seemed to dismiss the matter from her mind. Yet, as women so often do, + she kept all these sayings and pondered them in her heart. + </p> + <p> + The promise of spring passed into the sultry heat of summer. The + storm-cloud of the twentieth century blackened over Europe. The wise men + of Berlin made mad by pride, devoted the world not to the Prince of Peace + but to the lords of war. In the first week of August the fury of the + German invasion broke on Belgium. No one had dared to dream the terrors of + that tempest. It was like a return of the Dark Ages. Every home trembled. + The pillars of the tranquil house of Azan were shaken. + </p> + <p> + The daughter was away at school in England, and that was an unmixed + blessing. The son was a lieutenant in the Belgian army; and that was right + and glorious, but it was also a dreadful anxiety. The father and mother + were divided in mind, Whether to stay or take flight with their friends. + At last the father decided the hard question. + </p> + <p> + “It is our duty to stay. We cannot fight for our country, but we can + suffer with her. Our daughter is in safety; our son's danger we cannot and + would not prevent. How could we really live away from here, our home, our + trees? I went to consult the cardinal. He stays, and he advises us to do + so. He says that will be the best way to show our devotion. As Christians + we must endure the evil that we cannot prevent; but as Belgians our hearts + will never consent to it.” + </p> + <p> + That was their attitude as the tide of blood and tears drew nearer to + them, surrounded them, swept beyond them, engulfed the whole land. The + brutal massacres at Andenne and Dinant were so near that the news arrived + before the spilt blood was dry. The exceeding great and bitter cry of + anguish came to them from a score of neighboring villages, from a hundred + lonely farmhouses. The old botanist withered and faded daily; his wife + grew pale and gray. Yet they walked their <i>via crucis</i> together, and + kept their chosen course. + </p> + <p> + They fed the hungry and clothed the naked, helped the fugitives and + consoled the broken-hearted. They counselled their poor neighbors to good + order, and dissuaded the ignorant from the folly and peril of violence. + Toward the invading soldiery their conduct was beyond reproach. With no + false professions of friendship, they fulfilled the hard services which + were required of them. Their servants had been helped away at the + beginning of the trouble—all except the old forester and his wife, + who refused to leave. With their aid the house was kept open and many of + the conquerors lodged there and in the outbuildings. So good were the + quarters that a departing Saxon chalked on the gate-post the dubious + inscription: <i>“Gute Leute-nicht auspliin-dern.”</i> Thus the captives at + the Chateau d'Azan had a good name even among their enemies. The baron + received a military pass which enabled him to move quite freely about the + district on his errands of necessity and mercy, and the chateau became a + favorite billet for high-born officers. + </p> + <p> + In the second year of the war an evil chance brought two uninvited guests + of very high standing indeed—that is to say in the social ring of + Potsdam. Their names are well known. Let us call them Prince Barenberg and + Count Ludra. The first was a major, the second a captain. Their value as + warriors in the field had not proved equal to their prominence as + noblemen, so they were given duty in the rear. + </p> + <p> + They were vicious coxcombs of the first order. Their uniforms incased them + tightly. Like wasps they bent only at the waist. Their flat-topped caps + were worn with an aggressive slant, their swords jingled menacingly, their + hay-colored mustaches spoke arrogance in every upturned hair. When they + bowed it was a mockery; when they smiled it was a sneer. For the + comfortable quarters of the Chateau d'Azan they had a gross appreciation, + for the enforced hospitality of its owners an insolent condescension. They + took it as their due, and resented the silent protest underneath it. + </p> + <p> + “Excellent wine, Herr Baron,” said the prince, who, like his comrade, + drank profusely of the best in the cellar. “Your Rudesheimer Berg '94 is + <i>kolossal.</i> Very friendly of you to save it for us. We Germans know + good wine. What?” + </p> + <p> + “You have that reputation,” answered the baron. + </p> + <p> + “And say,” added the count, “let us have a couple of bottles more, dear + landlord. You can put it in the bill.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall do so,” said the baron gravely. “It shall be put in the bill with + other things.” + </p> + <p> + “But why,” drawled the prince, “does <i>la Baronne</i> never favor us with + her company? Still very attractive—musical probably—here is a + piano—want good German music—console homesickness.” + </p> + <p> + “Madame is indisposed,” answered the baron quietly, “but you may be sure + she regrets your absence from home.” + </p> + <p> + The officers looked at each other with half-tipsy, half-angry eyes. They + suspected a jest at their expense, but could not quite catch it. + </p> + <p> + “Impudence,” muttered the count, who was the sharper of the two when + sober. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said the prince, “it is only stupidity. These Walloons have no wit.” + </p> + <p> + “Come,” he added, turning to the baron, “we sing you a good song of + fatherland—show how <i>gemuthlich</i> we Germans are. You Belgians + have no word for that. What?” + </p> + <p> + He sat down to the piano and pounded out <i>“Deutschland ueber Alles,”</i> + singing the air in a raucous voice, while Ludra added a rumbling bass. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of that? All Germans can sing. <i>Gemuthlich.</i> + What?” + </p> + <p> + “You are right,” said the baron, with downcast eyes. “We Belgians have no + word for that. It is inexpressible—except in German. I bid you good + night.” + </p> + <p> + For nearly a fortnight this condition of affairs continued. The baron + endured it as best he could, obeying scrupulously the military regulations + which necessity laid upon him, and taking his revenge only in long + thoughts and words of polite sarcasm which he knew would not be + understood. The baroness worked hard at the housekeeping, often cooking + and cleaning with her own hands, and rejoicing secretly with her husband + over the rare news that came from their daughter in England, from their + boy at the front in West Flanders. Sometimes, when the coast was clear, + husband and wife walked together under the beech-trees and talked in low + tones of the time when the ravenous beast should no more go up on the + land. + </p> + <p> + The two noble officers performed their routine duties, found such + amusement as they could in neighboring villages and towns, drank deep at + night, and taxed their ingenuity to invent small ways of annoying their + hosts, for whom they felt the contemptuous dislike of the injurer for the + injured. They were careful, however, to keep their malice within certain + bounds, for they knew that the baron was in favor with the commandant of + the district. + </p> + <p> + One morning the baron and his wife, looking from their window in a wing of + the house, saw with surprise and horror a score or more of German soldiers + assembled beside the beech-avenue, with axes and saws, preparing to begin + work. + </p> + <p> + “What are they going to do there?” cried he in dismay, and hurried down to + the dining-room, where the officers sat at breakfast, giving orders to an + attentive corporal. + </p> + <p> + “A thousand pardons, Highness,” interrupted the baron; “forgive my haste. + But surely you are not going to cut down my avenue of beeches?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” said the prince, swinging around in his chair. “They are good + wood.” + </p> + <p> + “But, sir,” stammered the baron, trembling with excitement, “those trees—they + are an ancient heritage of the house—planted by my grandfather a + century ago—an old possession—spare them for their age.” + </p> + <p> + “You exaggerate,” sneered the prince. “They are not old. I have on my + hunting estate in Thuringia oaks five hundred years old. These trees of + yours are mere upstarts. Why shouldn't they be cut? What?” + </p> + <p> + “But they are very dear to us,” pleaded the baron earnestly. “We all love + them, my wife and children and I. To us they are sacred. It would be harsh + to take them from us.” + </p> + <p> + “Baron,” said the prince, with suave malice, “you miss the point. We + Germans are never harsh. But we are practical. My soldiers need exercise. + The camps need wood. Do you see? What?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” answered the poor baron, humbling himself in his devotion to + his trees. “Your Highness makes the point perfectly clear—the need + of exercise and wood. But there is plenty of good timber in the forest and + the park—much easier to cut. Cannot your men get their wood and + their exercise there, and spare my dearest trees?” + </p> + <p> + Ludra laughed unpleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “You do not yet understand us, dear landlord. We Germans are a + hard-working people, not like the lazy Belgians. The harder the work the + better we like it. The soldiers will have a fine time chopping down your + tough beeches.” + </p> + <p> + The slender old man drew himself up, his eyes flashed, he was driven to + bay. + </p> + <p> + “You shall not do this,” he cried. “It is an outrage, a sacrilege. I shall + appeal to the commandant. He will protect my rights.” + </p> + <p> + The officers looked at each other. Deaf to pity, they had keen ears for + danger. A reproof, perhaps a punishment from their superior would be most + unpleasant. They hesitated to face it. But they were too obstinate to give + up their malicious design altogether with a good grace. + </p> + <p> + “Military necessity,” growled the prince, “knows no private rights. I + advise you, baron, not to appeal to the commandant. It will be useless, + perhaps harmful.” + </p> + <p> + “Here, you,” he said gruffly, turning to the corporal, “carry out my + orders. Cut the two marked beeches by the gate. Then take your men into + the park and cut the biggest trees there. Report for further orders + to-morrow morning.” + </p> + <p> + The wooden-faced giant saluted, swung on his heels, and marched stiffly + out. The baron followed him quickly. + </p> + <p> + He knew that entreaties would be wasted on the corporal. How to get to the + commandant, that was the question? He would not be allowed to use the + telephone which was in the dining-room, nor the automobile which belonged + to the officers; nor one of their horses which were in his stable. The + only other beast left there was a small and very antique donkey which the + children used to drive. In a dilapidated go-cart, drawn by this pattering + nag, the baron made such haste as he could along twelve miles of stony + road to the district headquarters. There he told his story simply to the + commandant and begged protection for his beloved trees. + </p> + <p> + The old general was of a different type from the fire-eating dandies who + played the master at Azan. He listened courteously and gravely. There was + a picture in his mind of the old timbered house in the Hohe Venn, where he + had spent four years in retirement before the war called him back to the + colors. He thought of the tall lindens and the spreading chestnuts around + it and imagined how he should feel if he saw them falling under the axe. + </p> + <p> + Then he said to his petitioner: + </p> + <p> + “You have acted quite correctly, <i>Monsieur le Baron,</i> in bringing + this matter quietly to my attention. There is no military necessity for + the destruction of your fine trees. I shall put a stop to it at once.” + </p> + <p> + He called his aide-de-camp and gave some instructions in a low tone of + voice. When the aide came back from the telephone and reported, the + general frowned. + </p> + <p> + “It is unheard of,” he muttered, half to himself, “the way those titled + young fools go beyond their orders.” + </p> + <p> + Then he turned to his visitor. + </p> + <p> + “I am very sorry, <i>Monsieur le Baron,</i> but two of your beeches have + already fallen. It cannot be helped now. But there shall be no more of it, + I promise you. Those young officers are—they are—let us call + them overzealous. I will transfer them to another post to-morrow. The + German command appreciates the correct conduct of you and <i>Madame la + Baronne.</i> Is there anything more that I can do for you?” + </p> + <p> + “I thank your Excellency sincerely,” replied the baron. Then he hesitated + a moment, as if to weigh his words. “No, <i>Herr General,</i> I believe + there is nothing more—in which you can help me.” + </p> + <p> + The old soldier's eyelids flickered for an instant. “Then I bid you a very + good day,” he said, bowing. + </p> + <p> + The baron hurried home, to share the big good news with his wife. The + little bad news she knew already. Together they grieved over the two + fallen trees and rejoiced under the golden shadow of their untouched + companions. The officers had called for wine, and more wine, and yet more + wine, and were drinking deep and singing loud in the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + In the morning came an orderly with a despatch from headquarters, ordering + the prince and the count to duty in a dirty village of the coal region. + Their baggage was packed into the automobile, and they mounted their + horses and went away in a rage. + </p> + <p> + “You will be sorry for this, dumbhead,” growled the prince, scowling + fiercely. “Yes,” added Ludra, with a hateful grin, “we shall meet again, + dear landlord, and you will be sorry.” + </p> + <p> + Their host bowed and said nothing. + </p> + <p> + Some weeks later the princely automobile came to the door of the chateau. + The forester brought up word that the Prince Barenberg and the Count Ludra + were below with a message from headquarters; the commandant wished the + baron to come there immediately; the automobile was sent to bring him. He + made ready to go. His wife and his servant tried hard to dissuade him: it + was late, almost dark, and very cold—not likely the commandant had + sent for him—it might be all a trick of those officers—they + were hateful men—they would play some cruel prank for revenge. But + the old man was obstinate in his resolve; he must do what was required of + him, he must not even run the risk of slighting the commandant's wishes; + after all, no great harm could come to him. + </p> + <p> + When he reached the steps he saw the count in the front seat, beside the + chauffeur, grinning; and the prince's harsh voice, made soft as possible, + called from the shadowy interior of the car: + </p> + <p> + “Come in, baron. The general has sent for you in a hurry. We will take you + like lightning. How fine your beeches look against the sky. What?” + </p> + <p> + The old man stepped into the dusky car. It rolled down the long aisle, + between the smooth gray columns, beneath the fan-tracery of the low + arches, out on to the stony highway. Thus the tree-lover was taken from + his sanctuary. + </p> + <p> + He did not return the next day, nor the day after. His wife, tortured by + anxiety, went to the district headquarters. The commandant was away. The + aide could not enlighten her. There had been no message sent to the baron—that + was certain. Major Barenberg and Captain Ludra had been transferred to + another command. Unfortunately, nothing could be done except to report the + case. + </p> + <p> + The brave woman was not broken by her anguish, but raised to the height of + heroic devotion. She dedicated herself to the search for her husband. The + faithful forester, convinced that his master had been killed, was like a + slow, sure bloodhound on the track of the murderers. He got a trace of + them in a neighboring village, where their car had been seen to pass at + dusk on the fatal day. The officers were in it, but not the baron. The + forester got a stronger scent of them in a wine-house, where their + chauffeur had babbled mysteriously on the following day. The old woodsman + followed the trail with inexhaustible patience. + </p> + <p> + “I shall bring the master's body home,” he said to his mistress, “and God + will use me to avenge his murder.” + </p> + <p> + A few weeks later he found his master's corpse hidden in a hollow on the + edge of the forest, half-covered with broken branches, rotting leaves, and + melting snow. There were three bullets in the body. They had been fired at + close range. + </p> + <p> + The widow's heart, passing from the torture of uncertainty to the calm of + settled grief, had still a sacred duty to live for. She had not forgotten + her husband's dream. She went to the cardinal-archbishop to beg the + consecration of a little burial-plot at the foot of the greatest of the + beeches of Azan. That wise and brave prince of the church consented with + words of tender consolation, and promised his aid in the pursuit of the + criminals. + </p> + <p> + “Eminence,” she said, weeping, “you are very good to me. God will reward + you. He is just. He will repay. But my heart's desire is to follow my + husband's dream.” + </p> + <p> + So the body of the old botanist was brought back to the shadow of the + great beech-trees, and was buried there, like the bones of a martyr, + within the sanctuary. + </p> + <p> + Is this the end of the story? + </p> + <p> + Who can say? + </p> + <p> + It is written also, among the records of Belgium, that the faithful + forester disappeared mysteriously a few weeks later. His body was found in + the forest and laid near his master. + </p> + <p> + Another record tells of the trial of Prince Barenberg and Count Ludra + before a court martial, The count was sentenced to ten years of labor <i>on + his own estate.</i> The death-sentence of the prince was commuted to + imprisonment <i>in some unnamed place.</i> So far the story of German + justice. + </p> + <p> + But of the other kind of justice—the poetic, the Divine—the + record is not yet complete. + </p> + <p> + I know only that there is a fatherless girl working and praying in a + hospital in England, and a fatherless boy fighting and praying in the + muddy trenches near Ypres, and a lonely woman walking and praying under + certain great beech-trees at the Chateau d'Azan. The burden of their + prayer is the same. Night and day it rises to Him who will judge the world + in righteousness and before whose eyes the wicked shall not stand. + </p> + <p> + September, 1918. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE KING'S HIGH WAY + </h2> + <p> + In the last remnant of Belgium, a corner yet unconquered by the German + horde, I saw a tall young man walking among the dunes, between the sodden + lowland and the tumbling sea. + </p> + <p> + The hills where he trod were of sand heaped high by the western winds; and + the growth over them was wire-grass and thistles, bayberry and golden + broom and stunted pine, with many humble wild flowers—things of no + use, yet beautiful. + </p> + <p> + The sky above was gray; the northern sea was gray; the southern fields + were hazy gray over green; the smoke of shells bursting in the air was + gray. Gray was the skeleton of the ruined city in the distance; gray were + the shattered spires and walls of a dozen hamlets on the horizon; gray, + the eyes of the young man who walked in faded blue uniform, in the remnant + of Belgium. But there was an indomitable light in his eyes, by which I + knew that he was a King. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” I said, “I am sure that you are his Majesty, the King of Belgium.” + </p> + <p> + He bowed, and a pleasant smile relaxed his tired face. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon, monsieur,” he answered, “but you make the usual mistake in my + title. If I were only 'the King of Belgium,' you see, I should have but a + poor kingdom now—only this narrow strip of earth, perhaps four + hundred square miles of debris, just a <i>'pou sto,''</i> a place to stand, + enough to fight on, and if need be to die in.” + </p> + <p> + His hand swept around the half-circle of dull landscape visible southward + from the top of the loftiest dune, the <i>Hooge Blikker.</i> It was a land + of slow-winding streams and straight canals and flat fields, with here and + there a clump of woods or a slight rise of ground, but for the most part + level and monotonous, a checker-board landscape—stretching away + until the eyes rested on the low hills beyond Ypres. Now all the placid + charm of Flemish fertility as gone from the land—it was scarred and + marred and pitted. The shells and mines had torn holes in it; the trenches + and barbed-wire entanglements spread over it like a network of scars and + welts; the trees were smashed into kindling-wood; the farmhouses were + heaps of charred bricks; the shattered villages were like mouths full of + broken teeth. As the King looked round at all this, his face darkened and + the slight droop of his shoulders grew more marked. + </p> + <p> + “But, no,” he said, turning to me again, “that is not my kingdom. My real + title, monsieur, is <i>King of the Belgians.</i> It was for their honor, + for their liberty, that I was willing to lose my land and risk my crown. + While they live and hold true, I stand fast.” + </p> + <p> + Then ran swiftly through me the thought, of how the little Belgian army + had fought, how the Belgian people had suffered, rather than surrender the + independence of their country to the barbarians. The German cannonade was + roaring along the Yser a few miles away; the air trembled with the + overload of sound; but between the peals of thunder I could hear the brave + song of the skylark climbing his silver stairway of music, undismayed, + hopeful, unconquerable. I remembered how the word of this quiet man beside + whom I stood had been the inspiration and encouragement of his people + through the fierce conflict, the long agony: <i>“I have faith in our + destiny; a nation which defends itself does not perish; God will be with + us in that just cause.”</i> + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” I said, “you have a glorious kingdom which shall never be taken + away. But as for your land, the fates have been against you. How will you + ever get back to it? The Germans are strong as iron and they bar the way. + Will you make a peace with them and take what they have so often offered + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Never,” he answered calmly; “that is not the way home, it is the way to + dishonor. When God brings me back, my army and my Queen are going with me + to liberate our people. There is only one way that leads there—the + King's high way. Look, <i>monsieur,</i> you can see the beginning of it + down there. I hope you wish me well on that road, for I shall never take + another.” + </p> + <p> + So he bade me good afternoon very courteously and walked away among the + dunes to his little cottage at La Panne. + </p> + <p> + Looking down through the light haze of evening I saw a strip of the + straight white road leading eastward across the level land. At the + beginning of it there was a broken bridge; in places it seemed torn up by + shells; it disappeared in the violet dusk. But as I looked a vision came. + </p> + <p> + The bridge is restored, the road mended and built up, and on that highway + rides the King in his faded uniform with the Queen in white beside him. At + their approach ruined villages rejoice aloud and ancient towns break forth + into singing. + </p> + <p> + In Bruges the royal comrades stand beside the gigantic monument in the + centre of the Great Market, and above the shouting of the multitude the + music of the old belfry floats unheard. Ghent and Antwerp have put on + their glad raiment, and in their crooked streets and crowded squares joy + flows like a river surging as it goes. Into Brussels I see this man and + woman ride through a welcome that rises around them like the voice of many + waters—the welcome of those who have waited and suffered, the + welcome of those to whom liberty and honor were more dear than life. In + the <i>Grande Place,</i> the antique, carven, gabled houses are gay with + fluttering banners; the people delivered from the cruel invader sing + lustily the <i>Marseillaise</i> and the old songs of Belgium. + </p> + <p> + In the midst, Albert and Elizabeth sit quietly upon their horses. They + have come home. Not by the low road of cowardly surrender; not by the + crooked road of compromise and falsehood; not by the soft road of ease and + self-indulgence; but by the straight road of faith and courage and + self-sacrifice—the King's High Way. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HALF-TOLD TALES + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TRAITOR IN THE HOUSE + </h2> + <p> + The Guest, who came from beyond the lake, had lived in the house for years + and had the freedom of it, so that he had become quite like a member of + the family. He was friendly treated and well lodged. Indeed, some thought + he had the best room of all, for though it was in the wing, it was + spacious and well warmed, and had a side door, so that he could go in and + out freely by day or night. + </p> + <p> + It must be said that he had earned his living on the place, being + industrious and useful, a very handy man about the house; and the children + had a liking for him because he sang merry songs and told beautiful + fairy-tales. + </p> + <p> + So he was all the more surprised and aggrieved when the Master of the + house said to him one night, as they sat late by the fire: + </p> + <p> + “I suspect you.” + </p> + <p> + “But of what?” cried the Guest. + </p> + <p> + “Of caring more for the house that you came from than for the house that + you live in.” + </p> + <p> + “But you know I was at home there once,” said the Guest, “would you have + me forget that? Surely you will not deny me the freedom of my thoughts and + memories and fond feelings. Would you make me less than a man?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said the Master, “but I will ask you to choose between your old home + and your new home now. The house in which you lived formerly is become our + enemy—a nest of brigands and bloody men. They have killed a child of + ours on the highway. They threaten us to-night with an attack in force. + Tell me plainly where you stand.” + </p> + <p> + The Guest looked down his nose toward the smouldering embers of the fire. + He knocked out the dottle of his pipe on one of the andirons. Two fat + tears rolled down his cheeks; he was very sentimental. + </p> + <p> + “I am with you,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Good,” said the Master, “now let us make the house fast!” {Illustration + with caption: 'I will ask you to choose between your old home and your new + home now.'} + </p> + <p> + So they closed and barred the shutters and locked and bolted the front + door. + </p> + <p> + Then they lighted their bedroom candles and bade each other good night. + </p> + <p> + But as the Guest went along his dim corridor, the Master turned and + followed him very softly on tiptoe, watching. + </p> + <p> + Outside the house, in the darkness, there was a sound of many shuffling + feet and whispering voices. + </p> + <p> + When the Guest came to the side door he tried the latch, to see that it + was working freely. He moved the bolt, not forward into its socket, but + backward so that it should be no hindrance. In the window beside the + doorway he set his candle. So the house was ready for late-comers. + </p> + <p> + Then the Guest sighed a little. “They are my old friends,” he murmured, + “my dear old friends! I could not leave them out in the cold. I am not + responsible for what they do. Only I must my old affection prove.” So he + sighed again and turned softly to his bed. + </p> + <p> + But as he turned the Master stood before him and took him by the throat. + </p> + <p> + “Traitor!” he cried. “You would betray the innocent. Already your soul is + stained with my sleeping children's blood.” And with his hands he choked + the false Guest to death. + </p> + <p> + Then he shot the bolt of the side door, and barred the window, and called + the servants, and made ready to defend the house. + </p> + <p> + Great was the fighting that night. In the morning, when the robbers were + driven off, the false Guest was buried, outside the garden, in an unmarked + grave. + </p> + <p> + February 2, 1918. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JUSTICE OF THE ELEMENTS + </h2> + <p> + So the Criminal with a Crown came to the end of his resources. He had told + his last lie, but not even his servants would believe it. He had made his + last threat, but no living soul feared it. He had put forth his last + stroke of violence and cruelty, but it fell short. + </p> + <p> + When he saw his own image reflected in the eyes of men, and knew what he + had done to the world and what had come of his evil design, he was afraid, + and cried, “Let the Earth swallow me!” And the Earth opened, and swallowed + him. + </p> + <p> + But so great was the harm that he had wrought upon the Earth, and so + deeply had he drenched it with blood, that it could not contain him. So + the Earth opened again, and spewed him forth. + </p> + <p> + Then he cried, “Let the Sea hide me!” And the waves rolled over his head. + </p> + <p> + But the Sea, whereon he had wrought iniquity, and filled the depths + thereof with the bones of the innocent, could not endure him and threw him + up on the shore as refuse. + </p> + <p> + Then he cried, “Let the Air carry me away!” And the strong winds blew, and + lifted him up so that he felt exalted. + </p> + <p> + But the pure Air, wherein he had let loose the vultures of hate, dropping + death upon helpless women and harmless babes, found the burden and the + stench of him intolerable, and let him fall. + </p> + <p> + And as he was falling he cried, “Let the Fire give me a refuge!” So the + Fire, wherewith he had consumed the homes of men, rejoiced; and the flames + which he had compelled to do his will in wickedness leaped up as he drew + near. + </p> + <p> + “Welcome, old master!” roared the Fire. “Be my slave!” + </p> + <p> + Then he perceived that there was no hope for him in the justice of the + elements. And he said, “I will seek mercy of Him against whom I have most + offended.” + </p> + <p> + So he fled to the foot of the Great White Throne. And as he kneeled there, + broken and abased, the world was silent, waiting for the sentence of the + Judge of All. + </p> + <p> + August, 1918. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ASHES OF VENGEANCE + </h2> + <p> + Dun was a hard little city, proud and harsh; but impregnable because it + was built upon a high rock. The host of the Visigoths had besieged it for + months in vain. Then came a fugitive from the city, at midnight, to the + tent of Alaric, the Chief of the besiegers. + </p> + <p> + The man was haggard and torn. His eyes were wild, his hands trembling. The + Chief held and steadied him with a look. + </p> + <p> + “Who are you?” he asked. “Your name, the purpose that brings you here?” + </p> + <p> + “My name,” said the man, “is the Avenger. For thirty years I have lived in + Dun, and the people have been unjust and cruel to me. They persecuted my + family, because they hated me. My wife died of a broken heart, my children + of starvation. I have just escaped from the prison of Dun, and come to + tell you how the city may be taken. There is a secret pathway, a hidden + entrance. I know it and can reveal it to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Good,” said the Chief, measuring the man with tranquil eyes, “but what is + your price?” + </p> + <p> + “Vengeance,” said the man, “I ask only the right to revenge my sufferings + upon those who have inflicted them, when you have taken the city.” + </p> + <p> + Alaric bent his head and was silent for a moment. “It is a fair price,” he + said, “and I will pay it. Tell me the way to take the city, and I will + leave at your command a troop of soldiers sufficient to work your will on + it afterward.” + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + The trumpet sounded the capture of the city in the morning. The Avenger, + waking late from his troubled sleep, led his soldiers through the open + gate. + </p> + <p> + It was like a city of the dead, and the bodies of those who had been + killed in the last defense, lay where they had fallen. Empty and silent + were the streets where lie had so often walked in humiliation. Gone were + the familiar faces that had frowned on him and mocked him. The houses at + whose doors he had often knocked were vacant. His wrath sank within him, + and the arrow of solitude pierced him to the heart. + </p> + <p> + Then he came to the belfry, and there was the bell-ringer, one of the + worst of his ancient persecutors, standing at the entrance of the tower. + </p> + <p> + “Why are you here?” said the Avenger. + </p> + <p> + “By the orders of King Alaric,” answered the bell-ringer, “to ring the + bells when peace comes to the city.” + </p> + <p> + “Ring now,” said the Avenger, “ring now!” + </p> + <p> + Then, at the sound of the bells, the people who had concealed themselves + at Alaric's command came trooping forth from the cellars and caves where + they had been hiding,—old men and women and children, a motley + throng of sufferers. + </p> + <p> + The Avenger looked at them and the tears ran down his cheeks, because he + remembered. + </p> + <p> + “Listen,” he said, “don't be afraid. These soldiers are going on to join + their army. You have done me great wrong. But the fire of hatred is burnt + out, and in the ashes of vengeance we are going to plant the seeds of + peace.” + </p> + <p> + December, 1918. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BROKEN SOLDIER AND THE MAID OF FRANCE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I. THE MEETING AT THE SPRING + </h2> + <p> + Along the old Roman road that crosses the rolling hills from the upper + waters of the Marne to the Meuse a soldier of France was passing in the + night. + </p> + <p> + In the broader pools of summer moonlight he showed as a hale and husky + fellow of about thirty years, with dark hair and eyes and a handsome, + downcast face. His uniform was faded and dusty; not a trace of the horizon + blue was left, only a gray shadow. He had no knapsack on his back, no gun + on his shoulder. Wearily and doggedly he plodded his way, without eyes for + the veiled beauty of the sleeping country. The quick, firm military step + was gone. He trudged like a tramp, choosing always the darker side of the + road. + </p> + <p> + He was a figure of flight, a broken soldier. + </p> + <p> + Presently the road led him into a thick forest of oaks and beeches, and so + to the crest of a hill overlooking a long open valley with wooded heights + beyond. Below him was the pointed spire of some temple or shrine, lying at + the edge of the wood, with no houses near it. Farther down he could see a + cluster of white houses with the tower of a church in the centre. Other + villages were dimly visible up and down the valley on either slope. The + cattle were lowing from the barnyards. The cocks crowed for the dawn. + Already the moon had sunk behind the western trees. But the valley was + still bathed in its misty, vanishing light. Over the eastern ridge the + gray glimmer of the little day was rising, faintly tinged with rose. It + was time for the broken soldier to seek his covert and rest till night + returned. + </p> + <p> + So he stepped aside from the road and found a little dell thick with + underwoods, and in it a clear spring gurgling among the ferns and mosses. + Around the opening grew wild gooseberries and golden broom and a few tall + spires of purple foxglove. He drew off his dusty boots and socks and + bathed his feet in a small pool, drying them with fern leaves. Then he + took a slice of bread and a piece of cheese from his pocket and made his + breakfast. Going to the edge of the thicket, he parted the branches and + peered out over the vale. + </p> + <p> + Its eaves sloped gently to the level floor where the river loitered in + loops and curves. The sun was just topping the eastern hills; the heads of + the trees were dark against a primrose sky. + </p> + <p> + In the fields the hay had been cut and gathered. The aftermath was already + greening the moist places. Cattle and sheep sauntered out to pasture. A + thin silvery mist floated here and there, spreading in broad sheets over + the wet ground and shredding into filmy scarves and ribbons as the breeze + caught it among the pollard willows and poplars on the border of the + stream. Far away the water glittered where the river made a sudden bend or + a long smooth reach. It was like the flashing of distant shields. Overhead + a few white clouds climbed up from the north. The rolling ridges, one + after another, enfolded the valley as far as eye could see; dark green set + in pale green, with here and there an arm of forest running down on a + sharp promontory to meet and turn the meandering stream. + </p> + <p> + “It must be the valley of the Meuse,” said the soldier. “My faith, but + France is beautiful and tranquil here!” + </p> + <p> + The northerly wind was rising. The clouds climbed more swiftly. The + poplars shimmered, the willows glistened, the veils of mist vanished. From + very far away there came a rumbling thunder, heavy, insistent, continuous, + punctuated with louder crashes. + </p> + <p> + “It is the guns,” muttered the soldier, shivering. “It is the guns around + Verdun! Those damned Boches!” + </p> + <p> + He turned back into the thicket and dropped among the ferns beside the + spring. Stretching himself with a gesture of abandon, he pillowed his face + on his crossed arms to sleep. + </p> + <p> + A rustling in the bushes roused him. He sprang to his feet quickly. It was + a priest, clad in a dusty cassock, his long black beard streaked with + gray. He came slowly treading up beside the trickling rivulet, carrying a + bag on a stick over his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Good morning, my son,” he said. “You have chosen a pleasant spot to + rest.” + </p> + <p> + The soldier, startled, but not forgetting his manners learned from + boyhood, stood up and lifted his hand to take off his cap. It was already + lying on the ground. “Good morning, Father,” he answered, “I did not + choose the place, but stumbled on it by chance. It is pleasant enough, for + I am very tired and have need of sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “No doubt,” said the priest. “I can see that you look weary, and I beg you + to pardon me if I have interrupted your repose. But why do you say you + came here 'by chance'? If you are a good Christian you know that nothing + is by chance. All is ordered and designed by Providence.” + </p> + <p> + “So they told me in church long ago,” said the soldier coldly; “but now it + does not seem so true—at least not with me.” + </p> + <p> + The first feeling of friendliness and respect into which he had been + surprised was passing. He had fallen back into the mood of his journey—mistrust, + secrecy, resentment. + </p> + <p> + The priest caught the tone. His gray eyes under their bushy brows looked + kindly but searchingly at the soldier and smiled a little. He set down his + bag and leaned on his stick. “Well,” he said, “I can tell you one thing, + my son. At all events it was not chance that brought me here. I came with + a purpose.” + </p> + <p> + The soldier started a little, stung by suspicion. “What then,” he cried, + roughly, “were you looking for me? What do you know of me? What is this + talk of chance and purpose?” + </p> + <p> + “Come, come,” said the priest, his smile spreading from his eyes to his + lips, “do not be angry. I assure you that I know nothing of you whatever, + not even your name nor why you are here. When I said that I came with a + purpose I meant only that a certain thought, a wish, led me to this spot. + Let us sit together awhile beside the spring and make better + acquaintance.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not desire it,” said the soldier, with a frown. + </p> + <p> + “But you will not refuse it?” queried the priest gently. “It is not good + to refuse the request of one old enough to be your father. Look, I have + here some excellent tobacco and cigarette-papers. Let us sit down and + smoke together. I will tell you who I am and the purpose that brought me + here.” + </p> + <p> + The soldier yielded grudgingly, not knowing what else to do. They sat down + on a mossy bank beside the spring, and while the blue smoke of their + cigarettes went drifting under the little trees the priest began: + </p> + <p> + “My name is Antoine Courcy. I am the cure of Darney, a village among the + Reaping Hook Hills, a few leagues south from here. For twenty-five years I + have reaped the harvest of heaven in that blessed little field. I am sorry + to leave it. But now this war, this great battle for freedom and the life + of France, calls me. It is a divine vocation. France has need of all her + sons to-day, even the old ones. I cannot keep the love of God in my heart + unless I follow the love of country in my life. My younger brother, who + used to be the priest of the next parish to mine, was in the army. He has + fallen. I am going to replace him. I am on my way to join the troops—as + a chaplain, if they will; if not, then as a private. I must get into the + army of France or be left out of the host of heaven.” + </p> + <p> + The soldier had turned his face away and was plucking the lobes from a + frond of fern. “A brave resolve, Father,” he said, with an ironic note. + “But you have not yet told me what brings you off your road, to this + place.” + </p> + <p> + “I will tell you,” replied the priest eagerly; “it is the love of Jeanne + d'Arc, the Maid who saved France long ago. You know about her?” + </p> + <p> + “A little,” nodded the soldier. “I have learned in the school. She was a + famous saint.” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet a saint,” said the priest earnestly; “the Pope has not yet + pronounced her a saint. But it will be done soon. Already he has declared + her among the Blessed Ones. To me she is the most blessed of all. She + never thought of herself or of a saint's crown. She gave her life entire + for France. And this is the place that she came from! Think of that—right + here!” + </p> + <p> + “I did not know that,” said the soldier. + </p> + <p> + “But yes,” the priest went on, kindling. “I tell you it was here that the + Maid of France received her visions and set out to her work. You see that + village below us—look out through the branches—that is + Domremy, where she was born. That spire just at the edge of the wood—you + saw that? It is the basilica they have built to her memory. It is full of + pictures of her. It stands where the old beech-tree, 'Fair May,' used to + grow. There she heard the voices and saw the saints who sent her on her + mission. And this is the Gooseberry Spring, the Well of the Good Fairies. + Here she came with the other children, at the festival of the + well-dressing, to spread their garlands around it, and sing, and cat their + supper on the green. Heavenly voices spoke to her, but the others did not + hear them. Often did she drink of this water. It became a fountain of life + springing up in her heart. I have come to drink at the same source. It + will strengthen me as a sacrament. Come, son, let us take it together as + we go to our duty in battle!” + </p> + <p> + Father Courcy stood up and opened his old black bag. He took out a small + metal cup. He filled it carefully at the spring. He made the sign of the + cross over it. + </p> + <p> + “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he murmured, + “blessed and holy is this water.” Then he held the cup toward the soldier. + “Come, let us share it and make our vows together.” + </p> + <p> + The bright drops trembled and fell from the bottom of the cup. The soldier + sat still, his head in his hands. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he answered heavily, “I cannot take it. I am not worthy. Can a man + take a sacrament without confessing his sins?” + </p> + <p> + Father Courcy looked at him with pitying eyes. “I see,” he said slowly; “I + see, my son. You have a burden on your heart. Well, I will stay with you + and try to lift it. But first I shall make my own vow.” + </p> + <p> + He raised the cup toward the sky. A tiny brown wren sang canticles of + rapture in the thicket. A great light came into the priest's face—a + sun-ray from the east, far beyond the treetops. + </p> + <p> + “Blessed Jeanne d'Arc, I drink from thy fountain in thy name. I vow my + life to thy cause. Aid me, aid this my son, to fight valiantly for freedom + and for France. In the name of God, Amen.” + </p> + <p> + The soldier looked up at him. Wonder, admiration, and shame were + struggling in the look. Father Courcy wiped the empty cup carefully and + put it back in his bag. Then he sat down beside the soldier, laying a + fatherly hand on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Now, my son, you shall tell me what is on your heart.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. THE GREEN CONFESSIONAL + </h2> + <p> + For a long time the soldier remained silent. His head was bowed. His + shoulders drooped. His hands trembled between his knees. He was wrestling + with himself. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he cried, at last, “I cannot, I dare not tell you. Unless, perhaps”—his + voice faltered—“you could receive it under the seal of confession? + But no. How could you do that? Here in the green woods? In the open air, + beside a spring? Here is no confessional.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” asked Father Courcy. “It is a good place, a holy place. Heaven + is over our heads and very near. I will receive your confession here.” + </p> + <p> + The soldier knelt among the flowers. The priest pronounced the sacred + words. The soldier began his confession: + </p> + <p> + “I, Pierre Duval, a great sinner, confess my fault, my most grievous + fault, and pray for pardon.” He stopped for a moment and then continued, + “But first I must tell you, Father, just who I am and where I come from + and what brings me here.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on, Pierre Duval, go on. That is what I am waiting to hear. Be simple + and very frank.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, I am from the parish of Laucourt, in the pleasant country of + the Barrois not far from Bar-sur-Aube. My word, but that is a pretty land, + full of orchards and berry-gardens! Our old farm there is one of the + prettiest and one of the best, though it is small. It was hard to leave it + when the call to the colors came, two years ago. But I was glad to go. My + heart was high and strong for France. I was in the Nth Infantry, We were + in the centre division under General Foch at the battle of the Marne. <i>Fichtre!</i> + but that was fierce fighting! And what a general! He did not know how to + spell 'defeat.' He wrote it 'victory.' Four times we went across that + cursed Marsh of St.-Gond. The dried mud was trampled full of dead bodies. + The trickling streams of water ran red. Four times we were thrown back by + the boches. You would have thought that was enough. But the general did + not think so. We went over again on the fifth day, and that time we + stayed. The Germans could not stand against us. They broke and ran. The + roads where we chased them were full of empty wine-bottles. In one village + we caught three officers and a dozen men dead drunk. <i>Bigre!</i> what a + fine joke!” + </p> + <p> + Pierre, leaning back upon his heels, was losing himself in his recital. + His face lighted up, his hands were waving. Father Courcy bent forward + with shining eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Continue,” he cried. “This is a beautiful confession—no sin yet. + Continue, Pierre.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, after that we were fighting here and there, on the Aisne, on + the Ailette, everywhere. Always the same story—Germans rolling down + on us in flood, green-gray waves. But the foam on them was fire and steel. + The shells of the barrage swept us like hailstones. We waited, waited in + our trenches, till the green-gray mob was near enough. Then the word came. + <i>Sapristi!</i> We let loose with mitrailleuse, rifle, field-gun, + everything that would throw death. It did not seem like fighting with men. + It was like trying to stop a monstrous thing, a huge, terrible mass that + was rushing on to overwhelm us. The waves tumbled and broke before they + reached us. Sometimes they fell flat. Sometimes they turned and rushed the + other way. It was wild, wild, like a change of the wind and tide in a + storm, everything torn and confused. Then perhaps the word came to go over + the top and at them. That was furious. That was fighting with men, for + sure—bayonet, revolver, rifle-butt, knife, anything that would kill. + Often I sickened at the blood and the horror of it. But something inside + of me shouted: 'Fight on! It is for France. It is for “L'Alouette” thy + farm; for thy wife, thy little ones. Will you let them be ruined by those + beasts of Germans? What are they doing here on French soil? Brigands, + butchers, apaches! Drive them out; and if they will not go, kill them so + they can do no more shameful deeds. Fight on!' So I killed all I could.” + </p> + <p> + The priest nodded his head grimly. “You were right, Pierre; your voice + spoke true. It was a dreadful duty that you were doing. The Gospel tells + us if we are smitten on one cheek we must turn the other. But it does not + tell us to turn the cheek of a little child, of the woman we love, the + country we belong to. No! that would be disgraceful, wicked, un-Christian. + It would be to betray the innocent! Continue, my son.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” Pierre went on, his voice deepening and his face growing + more tense, “then we were sent to Verdun. That was the hottest place of + all. It was at the top of the big German drive. The whole sea rushed and + fell on us—big guns, little guns, poison-gas, hand-grenades, liquid + fire, bayonets, knives, and trench-clubs. Fort after fort went down. The + whole pack of hell was loose and raging. I thought of that crazy, chinless + Crown Prince sitting in his safe little cottage hidden in the woods + somewhere—they say he had flowers and vines planted around it—drinking + stolen champagne and sicking on his dogs of death. He was in no danger. I + cursed him in my heart, that blood-lord! The shells rained on Verdun. The + houses were riddled; the cathedral was pierced in a dozen places; a + hundred fires broke out. The old citadel held good. The outer forts to the + north and east were taken. Only the last ring was left. We common soldiers + did not know much about what was happening. The big battle was beyond our + horizon. But that General Petain, he knew it all. Ah, that is a wise man, + I can tell you! He sent us to this place or that place where the defense + was most needed. We went gladly, without fear or holding back. We were + resolute that those mad dogs should not get through. <i>'They shall not + pass'!</i> And they did not pass!” + </p> + <p> + “Glorious!” cried the priest, drinking the story in. “And you, Pierre? + Where were you, what were you doing?” + </p> + <p> + “I was at Douaumont, that fort on the highest hill of all. The Germans + took it. It cost them ten thousand men. The ground around it was like a + wood-yard piled with logs. The big shell-holes were full of corpses. There + were a few of us that got away. Then our company was sent to hold the + third redoubt on the slope in front of Port de Vaux. Perhaps you have + heard of that redoubt. That was a bitter job. But we held it many days and + nights. The boches pounded us from Douaumont and from the village of Vaux. + They sent wave after wave up the slope to drive us out. But we stuck to + it. That ravine of La Caillette was a boiling caldron of men. It bubbled + over with smoke and fire. Once, when their second wave had broken just in + front of us, we went out to hurry the fragments down the hill. Then the + guns from Douaumont and the village of Vaux hammered us. Our men fell like + ninepins. Our lieutenant called to us to turn back. Just then a shell tore + away his right leg at the knee. It hung by the skin and tendons. He was a + brave lad. I could not leave him to die there. So I hoisted him on my + back. Three shots struck me. They felt just like hard blows from a heavy + fist. One of them made my left arm powerless. I sank my teeth in the + sleeve of my lieutenant's coat as it hung over my shoulder. I must not let + him fall off my back. Somehow—God knows how—I gritted through + to our redoubt. They took my lieutenant from my shoulders. And then the + light went out.” + </p> + <p> + The priest leaned forward, his hands stretched out around the soldier. + “But you are a hero,” he cried. “Let me embrace you!” + </p> + <p> + The soldier drew back, shaking his head sadly. “No,” he said, his voice + breaking—“no, my Father, you must not embrace me now. I may have + been a brave man once. But now I am a coward. Let me tell you everything. + My wounds were bad, but not desperate. The <i>brancardiers</i> carried me + down to Verdun, at night I suppose, but I was unconscious; and so to the + hospital at Vaudelaincourt. There were days and nights of blankness mixed + with pain. Then I came to my senses and had rest. It was wonderful. I + thought that I had died and gone to heaven. Would God it had been so! Then + I should have been with my lieutenant. They told me he had passed away in + the redoubt. But that hospital was beautiful, so clean and quiet and + friendly. Those white nurses were angels. They handled me like a baby. I + would have liked to stay there. I had no desire to get better. But I did. + One day several officers visited the hospital. They came to my cot, where + I was sitting up. The highest of them brought out a Cross of War and + pinned it on the breast of my nightshirt. 'There,' he said, 'you are + decorated, Pierre Duval! You are one of the heroes of France. You are soon + going to be perfectly well and to fight again bravely for your country.' I + thanked him, but I knew better. My body might get perfectly well, but + something in my soul was broken. It was worn out. The thin spring had + snapped. I could never fight again. Any loud noise made me shake all over. + I knew that I could never face a battle—impossible! I should + certainly lose my nerve and run away. It is a damned feeling, that broken + something inside of one. I can't describe it.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre stopped for a moment and moistened his dry lips with the tip of his + tongue. + </p> + <p> + “I know,” said Father Courcy. “I understand perfectly what you want to + say. It was like being lost and thinking that nothing could save you; a + feeling that is piercing and dull at the same time, like a heavy weight + pressing on you with sharp stabs in it. It was what they call shell-shock, + a terrible thing. Sometimes it drives men crazy for a while. But the + doctors know what to do for that malady. It passes. You got over it.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered Pierre, “the doctors may not have known that I had it. At + all events, they did not know what to do for it. It did not pass. It grew + worse. But I hid it, talking very little, never telling anybody how I + felt. They said I was depressed and needed cheering up. All the while + there was that black snake coiled around my heart, squeezing tighter and + tighter. But my body grew stronger every day. The wounds were all healed. + I was walking around. In July the doctor-in-chief sent for me to his + office. He said: 'You are cured, Pierre Duval, but you are not yet fit to + fight. You are low in your mind. You need cheering up. You are to have a + month's furlough and repose. You shall go home to your farm. How is it + that you call it?' I suppose I had been babbling about it in my sleep and + one of the nurses had told him. He was always that way, that little Doctor + Roselly, taking an interest in the men, talking with them and acting + friendly. I said the farm was called <i>'L'Alouette''</i>—rather a + foolish name. 'Not, at all,' he answered; 'it is a fine name, with the + song of a bird in it. Well, you are going back to <i>“L'Alouette”</i> to + hear the lark sing for a month, to kiss your wife and your children, to + pick gooseberries and currants. Eh, my boy, what do you think of that? + Then, when the month is over, you will be a new man. You will be ready to + fight again at Verdun. Remember they have not passed and they shall not + pass! Good luck to you, Pierre Duval.' So I went back to the farm as fast + as I could go.” + </p> + <p> + He was silent for a few moments, letting his thoughts wander through the + pleasant paths of that little garden of repose. His eyes were dreaming, + his lips almost smiled. + </p> + <p> + “It was sweet at <i>'L'Alouette,''</i> very sweet, Father. The farm was in + pretty good order and the kitchen-garden was all right, though, the + flowers had been a little neglected. You see, my wife, Josephine, she is a + very clever woman. She had kept up the things that were the most + necessary. She had hired one of the old neighbors and a couple of boys to + help her with the ploughing and planting. The harvest she sold as it + stood. Our yoke of cream-colored oxen and the roan horse were in good + condition. Little Pierrot, who is five, and little Josette, who is three, + were as brown as berries. They hugged me almost to death. But it was + Josephine herself who was the best of all. She is only twenty-six, Father, + and so beautiful still, with her long chestnut hair and her eyes like + stones shining under the waters of a brook. I tell you it was good to get + her in my arms again and feel her lips on mine. And to wake in the early + morning, while the birds were singing, and see her face beside me on the + white pillow, sleeping like a child, that was a little bit of Paradise. + But I do wrong to tell you of all this, Father.” + </p> + <p> + “Proceed, my big boy,” nodded the priest. “You are saying nothing wrong. I + was a man before I was a priest. It is all natural, what you are saying, + and all according to God's law—no sin in it. Proceed. Did your + happiness do you good?” Pierre shook his head doubtfully. The look of + dejection came back to his face. He frowned as if something puzzled and + hurt him. “Yes and no. That is the strange thing. It made me thankful—that + goes without saying. But it did not make me any stronger in my heart. + Perhaps it was too sweet. I thought too much of it. I could not bear to + think of anything else. The idea of the war was hateful, horrible, + disgusting. The noise and the dirt of it, the mud in the autumn and the + bitter cold in the winter, the rats and the lice in the dugouts, And then + the fury of the charge, and the everlasting killing, killing, or being + killed! The danger had seemed little or nothing to me when I was there. + But at a distance it was frightful, unendurable. I knew that I could never + stand up to it again. Besides, already I had done my share—enough + for two or three men. Why must I go back into that hell? It was not fair. + Life was too dear to be risking it all the time. I could not endure it. + France? France? Of course I love France. But my farm and my life with + Josephine and the children mean more to me. The thing that made me a good + soldier is broken inside me. It is beyond mending.” + </p> + <p> + His voice sank lower and lower. Father Courcy looked at him gravely. + </p> + <p> + “But your farm is a part of France. You belong to France. He that saveth + his life shall lose it!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, I know. But my farm is such a small part of France. I am only + one man. What difference does one man make, except to himself? Moreover, I + had done my part, that was certain. Twenty times, really, my life had been + lost. Why must I throw it away again? Listen, Father. There is a village + in the Vosges, near the Swiss border, where a relative of mine lives. If I + could get to him he would take me in and give me some other clothes and + help me over the frontier into Switzerland. There I could change my name + and find work until the war is over. That was my plan. So I set out on my + journey, following the less-travelled roads, tramping by night and + sleeping by day. Thus I came to this spring at the same time as you by + chance, by pure chance. Do you see?” + </p> + <p> + Father Courcy looked very stern and seemed about to speak in anger. Then + he shook his head, and said quietly: “No, I do not see that at all. It + remains to be seen whether it was by chance. But tell me more about your + sin. Did you let your wife, Josephine, know what you were going to do? Did + you tell her good-by, parting for Switzerland?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, no! I did not dare. She would never have forgiven me. So I slipped + down to the post-office at Bar-sur-Aube and stole a telegraph blank. It + was ten days before my furlough was out. I wrote a message to myself + calling me back to the colors at once. I showed it to her. Then I said + good-by. I wept. She did not cry one tear. Her eyes were stars. She + embraced me a dozen times. She lifted up each of the children to hug me. + Then she cried: 'Go now, my brave man. Fight well. Drive the damned boches + out. It is for us and for France. God protect you. <i>Au revoir!''</i> I + went down the road silent. I felt like a dog. But I could not help it.” + </p> + <p> + “And you were a dog,” said the priest sternly. “That is what you were, and + what you remain unless you can learn to help it. You lied to your wife. + You forged; you tricked her who trusted you. You have done the thing which + you yourself say she would never forgive. If she loves you and prays for + you now, you have stolen that love and that prayer. You are a thief. A + true daughter of France could never love a coward to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, I know,” sobbed Pierre, burying his face in the weeds. “Yet I did + it partly for her, and I could not do otherwise.” + </p> + <p> + “Very little for her, and a hundred times for yourself,” said the priest + indignantly. “Be honest. If there was a little bit of love for her, it was + the kind of love she did not want. She would spit upon it. If you are + going to Switzerland now you are leaving her forever. You can never go + back to Josephine again. You are a deserter. She would cast you out, + coward!” + </p> + <p> + The broken soldier lay very still, almost as if he were dead. Then he rose + slowly to his feet, with a pale, set face. He put his hand behind his back + and drew out a revolver. “It is true,” he said slowly, “I am a coward. But + not altogether such a coward as you think, Father. It is not merely death + that I fear. I could face that, I think. Here, take this pistol and shoot + me now! No one will know. You can say you shot a deserter, or that I + attacked you. Shoot me now, Father, and let me out of this trouble.” + </p> + <p> + Father Courcy looked at him with amazement. Then he took the pistol, + uncocked it cautiously, and dropped it behind him. He turned to Pierre and + regarded him curiously. “Go on with your confession, Pierre. Tell me about + this strange kind of cowardice which can face death.” + </p> + <p> + The soldier dropped on his knees again, and went on in a low, shaken + voice: “It is this, Father. By my broken soul, this is the very root of + it. I am afraid of fear.” + </p> + <p> + The priest thought for an instant. “But that is not reasonable, Pierre. It + is nonsense. Fear cannot hurt you. If you fight it you can conquer it. At + least you can disregard it, march through it, as if it were not there.” + </p> + <p> + “Not this fear,” argued the soldier, with a peasant's obstinacy. “This is + something very big and dreadful. It has no shape, but a dead-white face + and red, blazing eyes full of hate and scorn. I have seen it in the dark. + It is stronger than I am. Since something is broken inside of me, I know I + can never conquer it. No, it would wrap its shapeless arms around me and + stab me to the heart with its fiery eyes. I should turn and run in the + middle of the battle. I should trample on my wounded comrades. I should be + shot in the back and die in disgrace. O my God! my God! who can save me + from this? It is horrible. I cannot bear it.” + </p> + <p> + The priest laid his hand gently on Pierre's quivering shoulder. “Courage, + my son!” + </p> + <p> + “I have none.” + </p> + <p> + “Then say to yourself that fear is nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be a lie. This fear is real.” + </p> + <p> + “Then cease to tremble at it; kill it.” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible. I am afraid of fear.” + </p> + <p> + “Then carry it as your burden, your cross. Take it back to Verdun with + you.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare not. It would poison the others. It would bring me to dishonor.” + </p> + <p> + “Pray to God for help.” + </p> + <p> + “He will not answer me. I am a wicked man. Father, I have made my + confession. Will you give me a penance and absolve me?” + </p> + <p> + “Promise to go back to the army and fight as well as you can.” + </p> + <p> + “Alas! that is what I cannot do. My mind is shaken to pieces. Whither + shall I turn? I can decide nothing. I am broken. I repent of my great sin. + Father, for the love of God, speak the word of absolution.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre lay on his face, motionless, his arms stretched out. The priest + rose and went to the spring. He scooped up a few drops in the hollow of + his hand. He sprinkled it like holy water upon the soldier's head. A + couple of tears fell with it. + </p> + <p> + “God have pity on you, my son, and bring you back to yourself. The word of + absolution is not for me to speak while you think of forsaking France. Put + that thought away from you, do penance for it, and you will be absolved + from your great sin.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre turned over and lay looking up at the priest's face and at the blue + sky with white cloude drifting across it. He sighed. “Ah, if that could + only be! But I have not the strength. It is impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “All things are possible to him that believeth. Strength will come. + Perhaps Jeanne d'Arc herself will help you.” + </p> + <p> + “She would never speak to a man like me. She is a great saint, very high + in heaven.” + </p> + <p> + “She was a farmer's lass, a peasant like yourself. She would speak to you, + gladly and kindly, if you saw her, and in your own language, too. Trust + her.” + </p> + <p> + “But I do not know enough about her.” + </p> + <p> + “Listen, Pierre. I have thought for you. I will appoint the first part of + your penance. You shall take the risk of being recognized and caught. You + shall go down to the village and visit the places that belong to her—her + basilica, her house, her church. Then you shall come back here and wait + until you know—until you surely know what you must do. Will you + promise this?” + </p> + <p> + Pierre had risen and looked up at the priest with tear-stained face. But + his eyes were quieter. “Yes, Father, I can promise you this much + faithfully.” + </p> + <p> + “Now I must go my way. Farewell, my son. Peace in war be with you.” He + held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + Pierre took it reverently. “And with you, Father,” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III. THE ABSOLVING DREAM + </h2> + <p> + Antoine Courcy was one of those who are fitted and trained by nature for + the cure of souls. If you had spoken to him of psychiatry he would not + have understood you. The long word would have been Greek to him. But the + thing itself he knew well. The preliminary penance which he laid upon + Pierre Duval was remedial. It belonged to the true healing art which works + first in the spirit. + </p> + <p> + When the broken soldier went down the hill, in the blaze of the + mid-morning sunlight, toward Domremy, there was much misgiving and + confusion in his thoughts. He did not comprehend why he was going, except + that he had promised. He was not sure that some one might not know him, or + perhaps out of mere curiosity stop him and question him. It was a + reluctant journey. + </p> + <p> + Yet it was in effect an unconscious pilgrimage to the one health-resort + that his soul needed. For Domremy and the region round about are saturated + with the most beautiful story of France. The life of Jeanne d'Arc, simple + and mysterious, humble and glorious, most human and most heavenly, flows + under that place like a hidden stream, rising at every turn in springs and + fountains. The poor little village lives in and for her memory. Her + presence haunts the ridges and the woods, treads the green pastures, + follows the white road beside the river, and breathes in the never-resting + valley-wind that marries the flowers in June and spreads their seed in + August. + </p> + <p> + At the small basilica built to her memory on the place where her old + beech-tree, “Fair May,” used to stand, there was an ancient caretaker who + explained to Pierre the pictures from the life of the Maid with which the + walls are decorated. They are stiff and conventional, but the old man + found them wonderful and told with zest the story of <i>La Pucelle</i>—how + she saw her first vision; how she recognized the Dauphin in his palace at + Chinon; how she broke the siege of Orleans; how she saw Charles crowned in + the cathedral at Rheims; how she was burned at the stake in Rouen. But + they could not kill her soul. She saved France. + </p> + <p> + In the village church there was a priest from the border of Alsace, also a + pilgrim like Pierre, but one who knew the shrine better. He showed the + difference between the new and the old parts of the building. Certain + things the Maid herself had seen and touched. + </p> + <p> + “Here is the old holy-water basin, an antique, broken column hollowed out + on top. Here her fingers must have rested often. Before this ancient + statue of St. Michel she must have often knelt to say her prayers. The + cure of the parish was a friend of hers and loved to talk with her. She + was a good girl, devout and obedient, not learned, but a holy and great + soul. She saved France.” + </p> + <p> + In the house where she was born and passed her childhood a crippled old + woman was custodian. It was a humble dwelling of plastered stone standing + between two tall fir-trees, with ivy growing over the walls, lilies and + hollyhocks blooming in the garden. Pierre found it not half so good a + house as <i>“L'Alouette.”</i> But to the custodian it was more precious + than a palace. In this upper room with its low mullioned window the Maid + began her life. Here, in the larger room below, is the kneeling statue + which the Princess Marie d'Orleans made of her. Here, to the right, under + the sloping roof, with its worm-eaten beams, she slept and prayed and + worked. + </p> + <p> + “See, here is the bread-board between two timbers where she cut the bread + for the <i>croute au pot.</i> From this small window she looked at night + and saw the sanctuary light burning in the church. Here, also, as well as + in the garden and in the woods, her heavenly voices spoke to her and told + her what she must do for her king and her country. She was not afraid or + ashamed, though she lived in so small a house. Here in this very room she + braided her hair and put on her red dress, and set forth on foot for her + visit to Robert de Baudricourt at Vaucouleurs. He was a rough man and at + first he received her roughly. But at last she convinced him. He gave her + a horse and arms and sent her to the king. She saved France.” + </p> + <p> + At the rustic inn Pierre ate thick slices of dark bread and drank a stoup + of thin red wine at noon. He sat at a bare table in the corner of the + room. Behind him, at a table covered with a white cloth, two captains on + furlough had already made their breakfast. They also were pilgrims, drawn + to Domremy by the love of Jeanne d'Arc. They talked of nothing else but of + her. Yet their points of view were absolutely different. + </p> + <p> + One of them, the younger, was short and swarthy, a Savoyard, the son of an + Italian doctor at St. Jean de Maurienne. He was a sceptic; he believed in + Jeanne, but not in the legends about her. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you,” said he eagerly, “she was one of the greatest among women. + But all that about her 'voices' was illusion. The priests suggested it. + She had hallucinations. Remember her age when they began—just + thirteen. She was clever and strong; doubtless she was pretty; certainly + she was very courageous. She was only a girl. But she had a big, brave + idea which possessed her—the liberation of her country. Pure? Yes. I + am sure she was virtuous. Otherwise the troops would not have followed and + obeyed her as they did. Soldiers are very quick about those things. They + recognize and respect an honest woman. Several men were in love with her, + I think. But she was <i>une nature froide.</i> The only thing that moved + her was her big, brave idea—to save France. The Maid was a mother, + but not of a mortal child. Her offspring was the patriotism of France.” + </p> + <p> + The other captain was a man of middle age, from Lyons, the son of an + architect. He was tall and pale and his large brown eyes had the + tranquillity of a devout faith in them. He argued with quiet tenacity for + his convictions. + </p> + <p> + “You are right to believe in her,” said he, “but I think you are mistaken + to deny her 'voices.' They were as real as anything in her life. You + credit her when she says that she was born here, that she went to Chinon + and saw the king, that delivered Orleans. Why not credit her when she says + she heard God and the saints speaking to her? The proof of it was in what + she did. Have you read the story of her trial? How clear and steady her + answers were! The judges could not shake her. Yet at any moment she could + have saved her life by denying the 'voices.' It was because she knew, + because she was sure, that she could not deny. Her vision was a part of + her real life. She was the mother of French patriotism—yes. But she + was also the daughter of true faith. That was her power.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said the younger man, “she sacrificed herself and she saved + France. That was the great thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the elder man, stretching his hand across the table to clasp + the hand of his companion, “there is nothing greater than that. If we do + that, God will forgive us all.” + </p> + <p> + They put on their caps to go. Pierre rose and stood at attention. They + returned his salute with a friendly smile and passed out. + </p> + <p> + After a few moments he finished his bread and wine, paid his score, and + followed them. He watched them going down the village street toward the + railway station. Then he turned and walked slowly back to the spring in + the dell. + </p> + <p> + The afternoon was hot, in spite of the steady breeze which came out of the + north. The air felt as if it had passed through a furnace. The low, + continuous thunder of the guns rolled up from Verdun, with now and then a + sharper clap from St. Mihiel. + </p> + <p> + Pierre was very tired. His head was heavy, his heart troubled. He lay down + among the ferns, looking idly at the foxglove spires above him and turning + over in his mind the things he had heard and seen at Domremy. Presently he + fell into a profound sleep. + </p> + <p> + How long it was he could not tell, but suddenly he became aware of some + one near him. He sprang up. A girl was standing beside the spring. + </p> + <p> + She wore a bright-red dress and her feet were bare. Her black hair hung + down her back. Her eyes were the color of a topaz. Her form was tall and + straight. She carried a distaff under her arm and looked as if she had + just come from following the sheep. + </p> + <p> + “Good day, shepherdess,” said Pierre. Then a strange thought struck him, + and he fell on his knees. “Pardon, lady,” he stammered. “Forgive my + rudeness. You are of the high society of heaven, a saint. You are called + Jeanne d'Arc?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded and smiled. “That is my name,” said she. “Sometimes they call + me <i>La Pucelle</i>, or the Maid of France. But you were right, I am a + shepherdess, too. I have kept my father's sheep in the fields down there, + and spun from the distaff while I watched them. I know how to sew and spin + as well as any girl in the Barrois or Lorraine. Will you not stand up and + talk with me?” + </p> + <p> + Pierre rose, still abashed and confused. He did not quite understand how + to take this strange experience—too simple for a heavenly + apparition, too real for a common dream. “Well, then,” said he, “if you + are a shepherdess, why are you here? There are no sheep here.” + </p> + <p> + “But yes. You are one of mine. I have come here to seek you.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know me, then? How can I be one of yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you are a soldier of France and you are in trouble.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre's head drooped. “A broken soldier,” he muttered, “not fit to speak + to you. I am running away because I am afraid of fear.” + </p> + <p> + She threw back her head and laughed. “You speak very bad French. There is + no such thing as being afraid of fear. For if you are afraid of it, you + hate it. If you hate it, you will have nothing to do with it. And if you + have nothing to do with it, it cannot touch you; it is nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “But for you, a saint, it is easy to say that. You had no fear when you + fought. You knew you would not be killed.” + </p> + <p> + “I was no more sure of that than the other soldiers. Besides, when they + bound me to the stake at Rouen and kindled the fire around me I knew very + well that I should be killed. But there was no fear in it. Only peace.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you were strong, a warrior born. You were not wounded and broken.” + </p> + <p> + “Four times I was wounded,” she answered gravely. “At Orleans a bolt went + through my right shoulder. At Paris a lance tore my thigh. I never saw the + blood of Frenchmen flow without feeling my heart stand still. I was not a + warrior born. I knew not how to ride or fight. But I did it. What we must + needs do that we can do. Soldier, do not look on the ground. Look up.” + </p> + <p> + Then a strange thing took place before his eyes. A wondrous radiance, a + mist of light, enveloped and hid the shepherdess. When it melted she was + clad in shining armor, sitting on a white horse, and lifting a bare sword + in her left hand. + </p> + <p> + “God commands you,” she cried. “It is for France. Be of good cheer. Do not + retreat. The fort will soon be yours!” + </p> + <p> + How should Pierre know that this was the cry with which the Maid had + rallied her broken men at Orleans when the fort of <i>Les Tourelles</i> + fell? What he did know was that something seemed to spring up within him + to answer that call. He felt that he would rather die than desert such a + leader. + </p> + <p> + The figure on the horse turned away as if to go. + </p> + <p> + “Do not leave me,” he cried, stretching out his hands to her. “Stay with + me. I will obey you joyfully.” + </p> + <p> + She turned again and looked at him very earnestly. Her eyes shone deep + into his heart. “Here I cannot stay,” answered a low, sweet, womanly + voice. “It is late, and my other children need me.” + </p> + <p> + “But forgiveness? Can you give that to me—a coward?” + </p> + <p> + “You are no coward. Your only fault was to doubt a brave man.” + </p> + <p> + “And my wife? May I go back and tell her?” + </p> + <p> + “No, surely. Would you make her hear slander of the man she loves? Be what + she believes you and she will be satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + “And the absolution, the word of peace? Will you speak that to me?” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes shone more clearly; the voice sounded sweeter and steadier than + ever. “After the penance comes the absolution. You will find peace only at + the lance's point. Son of France, go, go, go! I will help you. Go hardily + to Verdun.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre sprang forward after the receding figure, tried to clasp the knee, + the foot of the Maid. As he fell to the ground something sharp pierced his + hand. It must be her spur, thought he. + </p> + <p> + Then he was aware that his eyes were shut. He opened them and looked at + his hand carefully. There was only a scratch on it, and a tiny drop of + blood. He had torn it on the thorns of the wild gooseberry-bushes. + </p> + <p> + His head lay close to the clear pool of the spring. He buried his face in + it and drank deep. Then he sprang up, shaking the drops from his mustache, + found his cap and pistol, and hurried up the glen toward the old Roman + road. + </p> + <p> + “No more of that damned foolishness about Switzerland,” he said, aloud. “I + belong to France. I am going with the other boys to save her. I was born + for that.” He took off his cap and stood still for a moment. He spoke as + if he were taking an oath. “By Jeanne d'Arc!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV. THE VICTORIOUS PENANCE + </h2> + <p> + It never occurred to Pierre Duval, as he trudged those long kilometres + toward the front, that he was doing a penance. + </p> + <p> + The joy of a mind made up is a potent cordial. + </p> + <p> + The greetings of comrades on the road put gladness into his heart and + strength into his legs. + </p> + <p> + It was a hot and dusty journey, and a sober one. But it was not a sad one. + He was going toward that for which he was born. He was doing that which + France asked of him, that which God told him to do. Josephine would be + glad and proud of him. He would never be ashamed to meet her eyes. As he + went, alone or in company with others, he whistled and sang a bit. He + thought of <i>“L'Alouette”</i> a good deal. But not too much. He thought + also of the forts of Douaumont and Vaux. + </p> + <p> + <i>“Dame!”</i> he cried to himself. “If I could help to win them back + again! That would be fine! How sick that would make those cursed boches + and their knock-kneed Crown Prince!” + </p> + <p> + At the little village of the headquarters behind Verdun he found many old + friends and companions. They greeted him with cheerful irony. + </p> + <p> + “Behold the prodigal! You took your time about coming back, didn't you? + Was the hospital to your taste, the nurses pretty? How is the wife? Any + more children? How goes it, old man?” + </p> + <p> + “No more children yet,” he answered, grinning; “but all goes well. I have + come back from a far country, but I find the pigs are still grunting. What + have you done to our old cook?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing at all,” was the joyous reply. “He tried to swim in his own soup + and he was drowned.” + </p> + <p> + When Pierre reported to the officer of the day, that busy functionary + consulted the record. + </p> + <p> + “You are a day ahead of your time, Pierre Duval,” he said, frowning + slightly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” answered the soldier. “It costs less to be a day ahead than a + day too late.” + </p> + <p> + “That is well,” said the officer, smiling in his red beard. “You will + report to-morrow to your regiment at the citadel. You have a new colonel, + but the regiment is busy in the old way.” + </p> + <p> + As Pierre saluted and turned to go out his eye caught the look of a + general officer who stood near, watching. He was a square, alert, vigorous + man, his face bronzed by the suns of many African campaigns, his eyes full + of intelligence, humor, and courage. It was Guillaumat, the new commander + of the Army of Verdun. + </p> + <p> + “You are prompt, my son,” said he pleasantly, “but you must remember not + to be in a hurry. You have been in hospital. Are you well again? Nothing + broken?” + </p> + <p> + “Something was broken, my General,” responded the soldier gravely, “but it + is mended.” + </p> + <p> + “Good!” said the general. “Now for the front, to beat the Germans at their + own game. We shall get them. It may be long, but we shall get them!” + </p> + <p> + That was the autumn of the offensive of 1916, by which the French retook, + in ten days, what it had cost the Germans many months to gain. + </p> + <p> + Pierre was there in that glorious charge at the end of October which + carried the heights of Douaumont and took six thousand prisoners. He was + there at the recapture of the Fort de Vaux which the Germans evacuated in + the first week of November. In the last rush up the slope, where he had + fought long ago, a stray shell, an inscrutable messenger of fate, coming + from far away, no one knows whence, caught him and ripped him horribly + across the body. + </p> + <p> + It was a desperate mass of wounds. But the men of his squad loved their + corporal. He still breathed. They saw to it that he was carried back to + the little transit hospital just behind the Fort de Souville. + </p> + <p> + It was a rude hut of logs, covered with sand-bags, on the slope of the + hill. The ruined woods around it were still falling to the crash of + far-thrown shells. In the close, dim shelter of the inner room Pierre came + to himself. + </p> + <p> + He looked up into the face of Father Courcy. A light of recognition and + gratitude flickered in his eyes. It was like finding an old friend in the + dark. + </p> + <p> + “Welcome!—But the fort?” he gasped. + </p> + <p> + “It is ours,” said the priest. + </p> + <p> + Something like a smile passed over the face of Pierre. He could not speak + for a long time. The blood in his throat choked him. At last he whispered: + </p> + <p> + “Tell Josephine—love.” + </p> + <p> + Father Courcy bowed his head and took Pierre's hand. “Surely,” he said. + “But now, my dear son Pierre, I must prepare you—” + </p> + <p> + The struggling voice from the cot broke in, whispering slowly, with long + intervals: “Not necessary.... I know already.... The penance. ... + France.... Jeanned'Arc.... It is done.” + </p> + <p> + A few drops of blood gushed from the corner of his mouth. The look of + peace that often comes to those who die of gunshot wounds settled on his + face. His eyes grew still as the priest laid the sacred wafer on his lips. + The broken soldier was made whole. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HEARING EAR + </h2> + <p> + There were three American boys from the region of Philadelphia in the + dugout, “Somewhere in France”; and they found it a snug habitation, + considering the circumstances. + </p> + <p> + The central heating system—a round sheet-iron stove, little larger + than a “topper” hat—sent out incredible quantities of acrid smoke at + such times as the rusty stovepipe refused to draw. But on cold nights and + frosty mornings the refractory thing was a distinct consolation. The + ceiling of the apartment lacked finish. When wet it dropped mud; when dry, + dust. But it had the merit of being twenty feet thick—enough to stop + any German shell except a “Jack Johnson” full of high explosive. The beds + were elegantly excavated in the wall, and by a slight forward inclination + of the body you could use them as <i>fauteuils</i>. The rats approved of + them highly. + </p> + <p> + There were two flights of ladder-stairs leading down from the trench into + the dugout, and the holes at the top which served as vestibules were three + or four yards apart. It was a comfort to think of this architectural + design; for if the explosion of a big shell blocked up one of the + entrances, the other would probably remain open, and you would not be + caught in a trap with the other rats. + </p> + <p> + The main ornament of the <i>salon</i> was a neat but not gaudy + biscuit-box. The top of it was a centre-table, illuminated by a single, + guttering candle; the interior was a “combination” wardrobe and sideboard. + Around this simple but satisfying piece of furniture the three transient + tenants of the dugout had just played a game of dummy bridge, and now sat + smoking and bickering as peacefully as if they were in a college club-room + in America. The night on the front was what the French call <i>“relativement + calme.”</i> Sporadic explosions above punctuated but did not interrupt the + debate, which eddied about the high theme of Education—with a + capital “E”—and the particular point of dispute was the study of + languages. + </p> + <p> + “Everything is going to change after the war,” said Phipps-Herrick, a big + Harvard man from Bryn Mawr and a member of the Unsocial Socialists' Club. + “We are going to make a new world. Must have a new education. Sweep away + all the old stuff—languages, grammar, literature, philosophy, + history, and all that. Put in something modern and practical. Montessori + system for the little kids. Vocational training for the bigger ones. Teach + them to make a living. Then organize them politically and economically. + You can do what you like, then, with England, France, and America + together. Germany will be shut out. Why study German? From a practical + point of view, I ask you, why?” + </p> + <p> + “Didn't you take it at Harvard?” sarcastically drawled Rosenlaube, a + Princeton man from Rittenhouse Square. (His grandfather was born at + Frankfort-on-the-Main, but his mother was a Biddle, and he had penetrated + about an inch into the American diplomatic service when the war summoned + him to a more serious duty.) “I understood that all you Harvard men were + strong on modern languages, especially German.” + </p> + <p> + Phipps-Herrick grunted. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly I took it. It was supposed to be a soft-snap course. What do + you think we go to Harvard for? But that little beast, Professor von Buch, + gave me a cold forty-minus on examination. So I dropped it, and thank God + I've forgotten the little I ever knew of German! It will be absolutely + useless in the new world.” + </p> + <p> + “Right you are,” said Rosenlaube. “My grandfather used to speak it when he + was angry—a sloppy, slushy language, extremely ugly. At Princeton, + you know, we stand by the classics, Latin and Greek, the real thing in + languages. You ought to hear Dean Andy West talk about that. Of course a + fellow forgets his Virgil and his Homer when he gets out in the world. + But, then, he's had the benefit of them; they've given him real culture + and literature. There's nothing outside of the classics, except perhaps a + few things in French and Italian. Thank God I never studied German!” + </p> + <p> + The third man, who had kept silence up to this point, now gently butted + in. It was little Phil Mitchell, of Overbrook, a University of + Pennsylvania man, who had been stopped in his junior year by a financial + catastrophe in the family, and had gone out to Idaho to earn his living as + third assistant bookkeeper in a big mining concern. He took a few real + books with him, besides those that he was to “keep.” Double entry was his + business; reading, his recreation; thinking, his vocation. From all this + the great war called him as with a trumpet. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, you fellows,” he said quietly, “in spite of this war and all + the rest of it, there are some good things in German.” + </p> + <p> + “What,” they cried, “you, a fire-eater, stand up for the Kaiser and his + language? Damn him!” + </p> + <p> + “With all my heart,” assented Mitchell. “But the language isn't his. It + existed a long while before he was born. It isn't very pretty, I'll admit. + But there are lots of fine things in it. Kant and Lessing, Goethe and + Schiller and Heine—they all loved liberty and made it shine out in + their work. Do you mean to say that I must give them up and throw my + German overboard because these modern Potsdammers have acted like brutes?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” cried Phipps-Herrick and Rosenlaube, nodding at each other, “that's + what we mean, and that's what America means. The German language must go!” + </p> + <p> + “Look here,” said Phipps-Herrick, “you admit that modern education must be + useful? Well, there won't be any more use for German, because we are going + to shut Germany out of the international trades-union. She has betrayed + the principles of the new era. We are going to boycott her.” + </p> + <p> + “Won't that be rather difficult?” queried Mitchell, shaking his head. + “Seventy or eighty million people—hard to shut them out of the + world, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, dear Phil,” drawled Rosenlaube; “it will be easy enough. But I + don't agree with Phipps-Herrick about the reason or method. We are going + to have a new era after the war. But it will not be a utilitarian age. It + will be a return to beauty and form and culture—not with a 'k.' + First of all, we are going to kill a great many Germans. Then we are going + to Berlin to knock down all the ugly statues in the <i>Sieges-Allee</i> + and smash the parvenu German Empire. Then we shall have a new age on + classic lines. People will still use French and English and Italian + because there is some beauty in those languages. But nobody outside of + Germany will speak or read German. It is a barbarous tongue—shapeless + and hideous—used by barbarians who gobble and snort when they talk. + Sorry for Kant and Goethe and Heine and all that crowd, but their time is + up; they've got to go out with their beastly language!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Phipps-Herrick, “out with them, bag and baggage. Think what + the German spies and propagandists have done in America. Schools full of + pacifist and pro-German teachers; text-books full of praise of the German + Empire and the Hohenzollern Highbinders; newspapers full of treason, + printed in the German language. Why, it's only a piece of self-defense to + clean it all out, root and branch. No more German taught or spoken, + printed or read, in the United States. Forget it! Twenty-three for the Hun + language!” + </p> + <p> + “Noble,” gently murmured Mitchell, shaking his head again; “very noble! + But not very easy and perhaps not entirely wise. Why should I throw away + something that has been useful to me, and may be again? Why forget the + little German that I know and burn my Goethe and refuse to listen to + Beethoven's music? I won't do it, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “Our little friend is a concealed Kaiserite,” said Rosenlaube. “He wants + to Germanize America.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Rosy,” said Mitchell, thoughtfully running his hand over some nicks + on the butt of his rifle in the corner; “you know I'm not a Kaiserite of + any kind. I've got seven scored against him already, and I'm going to get + some more. But the language question seems to me different. Cut out the + German newspapers and the German schools in America by all means! No more + teaching of the primary branches in any language but English! Make it + absolutely necessary for everybody in the U. S. A. to learn the language + of the country the first thing. Then in the high schools and universities + let German be studied like any other foreign language, by those who want + it—chemists, and philosophers, and historians, and electrical + engineers, and so on. We could censor the text-books and keep out all + complimentary allusions to the Hohenzollern family.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, shut up, Phil,” growled Phipps-Herrick. “You're too soft, you old + easy-mark! You don't go half far enough. We may not decide to exterminate + the Hun race in Europe. But we have decided to exterminate their language + in America.” + </p> + <p> + His hand was groping inside the biscuit-box. He pulled out a little + ditty-bag and carefully extracted a bit of newspaper. + </p> + <p> + “Listen to this, you fellows. This is from the National Obscurity Society. + You know a chap with a German name is president of it, but he's a real + patriot, hundred per cent, not fifty-fifty, Philly. 'The following States + have abolished the teaching of German: Massachusetts, Connecticut, New + York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, Georgia, Mississippi, + Indiana, Ohio, Illinois, Nebraska, Missouri, Kansas, Iowa, Arkansas, + Arizona, Colorado, Montana, California, and Oregon.' <i>Abolished</i>, + mind you! What do you think of that?” + </p> + <p> + “Most excellent Phippick,” nodded Rosenlaube, “I opine, as Horace said to + Cicero, 'That's the stuff,' or words to that effect. What saith the + senator from Mitchellville?” + </p> + <p> + “Noble,” grinned Phil, “unmistakably noble! Those Obscurity fellows are a + fiery lot. It reminds me that during the late war with Spain, when I was a + little, tiny boy, but brimful of ferocity, I refused to eat my favorite + dessert because it was called <i>Spanish</i> cream. I felt sure at the + time that my heroic conduct was of distinct assistance to Dewey in the + battle of Manila Bay.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” said Phipps-Herrick, grabbing him by the shoulders and + shaking him good-humoredly, “you murderous little pacifist with seven + nicks on your gun, will you give up your German? Will you forget it?” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell chuckled and shook his head, + </p> + <p> + “As far as requisite under military orders. But no further, not by a—” + </p> + <p> + A pair of muddy boots was heard and seen descending one of the ladders, + followed by the manly and still rather neat form of Lieutenant Barker + Bunn, a Cornell man from West Philadelphia. The three men sprang to their + feet and saluted smartly, for the lieutenant was very stiff about all the + preliminary forms. + </p> + <p> + “Too loud talking here,” he said gruffly. “I heard you before I came down. + Who is here? Oh, I see, Sergeant Phipps-Herrick, Privates Rosenlaube and + Mitchell. It's your turn to go out on listening post to-night, sergeant. + Twelve sharp, stay three hours, go as far as you can, come back and + report, take Mitchell or Rosenlaube with you. Captain's orders.” + </p> + <p> + The sergeant saluted again, and the two men looked at each other. + </p> + <p> + “Why not both of us, sir?” said Mitchell. + </p> + <p> + The lieutenant regarded him with some surprise. Listening post is not a + detail passionately desired by the men. It is always dirty, frequently + dangerous, generally obscure, and often fatal. Hence there is no keen + competition for it. + </p> + <p> + “Two is the usual number for a listening post,” said Barker Bunn + thoughtfully. “But there is no regulation about it, and the captain did + not specify any number. Well, yes, I suppose you can all three go, if you + are set on it. In fact, I give the order to that effect.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir,” said Rosenlaube and Mitchell. Phipps-Herrick, feeling + that the strict etiquette of the preliminaries had been fully observed and + the time to be human had come, held out a box of “Fierce Fairies.” + </p> + <p> + “Have a cigarette, Bunn, and take a chair, do. Time for a little talk this + quiet night? Tell us what's doing up above.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing particular,” said Barker Bunn, lighting and relaxing. “But the + old man has a hunch that the Fritzies are grubbing a mine—a corker—to + get our goat. Hence this business of ears forward. The old man thinks the + Fritzies have a strong grouch against this little alley, and since they + couldn't take it top side last week they're going to try to bust it out + bottom side with a big bang some day soon. Maybe so—maybe just + greens—but, anyway, you've got to go on the Q. T. with this job—no + noise, don't even whisper unless you have to; just listen for all you're + worth. P'r'aps you'll hear that little tap-tap-tapping that tells where + Fritzie Mole is at work. Then if you come back and tell the old man where + it is, he'll give you all the cigarettes you want. But say, do you want me + to give you a pointer on the way to go, the method of procedure, as the + old man would call it?” + </p> + <p> + They agreed that they were thirsting for information and instruction. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's this way,” continued Barker Bunn. “You know I had a bit of + experience in listening post while I was with the Canadians down around + 'Wipers'; and I noticed that most of the troubles came from a bad method + of procedure. Fellows went out any old way; followed each other in the + dark, and then hunted for each other and came to grief; all those kind of + silly fumbles. Now, what you need is <i>formation</i>—see? Must have + some sort of formation for advance. Must keep in touch. For two men a + tandem is right. For three men, what you want is a spike-team—middle + man crawls ahead, other men follow on each side just near enough to touch + his left heel with right hand and right heel with left hand—a + triangle, see? Keep touching once every thirty seconds. If you miss it, + leader crawls back, side men crawl in, sure to meet, nobody gets lost. Go + as far <i>as</i> you can, then spread out like a fan, fold together <i>when</i> + you can, come back <i>if</i> you can—that's the way to cover the + most possible ground on a listening post. Do you get me?” + </p> + <p> + “We get you,” they nodded. “It's a wonderful scheme.” And Rosenlaube added + in his most impressive literary manner: “Plato, it <i>must</i> be so, thou + reasonest well.” + </p> + <p> + “But tell me,” said the lieutenant, “what were you fellows chattering + about so loud when I came down?” + </p> + <p> + So they told him, and, according to the habit of college boys, they + skirmished over the ground of debate again, and Barker Bunn vigorously + supported the majority opinion, and Mitchell was left in a hopeless + minority of one, clinging obstinately to his faith that there had been, + and still might be, some use for the German language. + </p> + <p> + Midnight came, and with it the return of the lieutenant's official manner. + He saw the trio slide over the top, one by one, vanishing in the starless + dark. “Good luck going and coming,” he whispered; and it sounded almost + like an unofficial prayer. + </p> + <p> + In single file they crept through the prepared opening in the barbed-wire + entanglement, and so out into No Man's Land, where they took up their + spike-team formation. Phipps-Herrick was the leader, the other men were + the wheelers. They had agreed on a code of silent signals: One kick with + the heel or one pinch with the hand meant “stop”; two meant “back”; three + meant “get together.” They carried no rifles, because the rifle is an + awkward tool for a noiseless crawler to lug. But each man had a big + trench-knife and a pair of automatic pistols, with plenty of ammunition. + </p> + <p> + The space between the two front lines of barbed wire in this region was + not more than four or five hundred yards. In the murk of that unstarred, + drizzling night, where every inch must be felt out, it seemed like a vast, + horrible territory. There was nothing monotonous about it but the + blackness of darkness. To the touch it was a <i>paysage accidente</i>, a + landscape full of surprises. Dead bodies were sprinkled over it. It was + pockmarked with small shell-holes and pitted with large craters, many of + them full of water, all slimy with mud. Phipps-Herrick nearly slipped into + one of the deepest, but a lively kick warned his followers of the danger, + and they pulled him back by the heels. + </p> + <p> + Now and then a star-shell looped across the spongy sky, casting a lurid + illumination over the ghastly field. When the three travellers caught the + soft swish of its ascent, they “froze”—motionless as a shamming + 'possum—mimicking death among the dead. + </p> + <p> + It was a long, slow, silent, revolting crawl. Sounds which did not concern + them were plenty—distant cannonade, shells exploding here and there, + scattered rifle-shots. All these they unconsciously eliminated, listening + for something else, ears pressed to the ground wherever they could find a + comparatively dry spot. From their point of hearing the night was still as + the grave—no subterranean tapping and scraping could they hear + anywhere under the sea of mud. + </p> + <p> + Once Rosenlaube caught a faint metallic sound, and signalled through + Phipps-Herrick's left leg to Mitchell's left arm, “Stop!” All three + listened tensely. They crawled toward the faint noise. It was made by a + loose end of wire swaying in the night-wind and tapping on a broken + helmet. + </p> + <p> + They were getting close to the German barbed wire. The leader had swung + around to the west, following what he judged to be the line of the front + trench, perhaps forty yards away. He was determined to hear something + before he went back. And he did! + </p> + <p> + Just as he had made up his mind to call up the other fellows for the final + spreadout in fan formation, his groping right hand touched something round + and smooth and hard. It seemed to be made fast to a string or wire, but he + pulled it toward him and gave the “stop” signal to his followers. + </p> + <p> + The thing he had picked up was a telephone receiver. How it came to be + there he did not know. Perhaps a German listening post had carried it out + last night, in order to receive directions from the trench; perhaps the + mining party—man killed, receiver dropped, wire connection not cut, + or tangled up with other wires—who can tell? One thing is sure—here + is the receiver, faintly buzzing. Phipps-Herrick joyfully puts it to his + ear. He hears a voice and words, but it is all gibberish to him. With a + look of desperation on his face he gives the “get together” signal. + </p> + <p> + Rosenlaube crawls up first and takes hold of the cylinder, puts it to his + ear. He hears the sound, but it says absolutely nothing to him. It is like + being at the door of the secret of the universe and unable to get over the + threshold. + </p> + <p> + Then comes Mitchell, slowly, a little lame, and almost “all in.” + Phipps-Herrick thrusts the receiver into his hand. As he listens a + beatific expression spreads over his face. It lasts a long time, and then + he lays down the cylinder with a sigh. + </p> + <p> + The three heads are close together, and Mitchell whispers under his + breath: + </p> + <p> + “Got 'em—got the whole thing—line of mine changed—raiders + coming out now—twelve men—rough on us, but if we can get back + to our alley we've got 'em! Crawl home quick.” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration with caption: “I'm going to carry you in, spite of hell"} + </p> + <p> + They crawled together in a bunch, formation ignored. Presently steps + sounded near them. A swift light swept the hole where they crouched, a + volley of rifle-shots crashed into it. The Americans answered with their + pistols, and saw three or four of the dark forms on the edge of the hole + topple over. The rest disappeared. But Rosenlaube had a rifle-ball through + his right hip and another through his shoulder. Mitchell and + Phipps-Herrick started to carry him. + </p> + <p> + “Drop it,” he whispered. “I'm safe here till dawn—you get home, + quick! Specially Phil. He's the one that counts. Cut away, boys!” + </p> + <p> + Meantime the American trench had opened fire and the German trench + answered. The still night broke into a tempest of noise. A bullet or a bit + of shell caught Mitchell in the knee and crumpled him up. Phipps-Herrick + lifted him on his back and stood up. + </p> + <p> + “Come on,” he said, “you little cuss. You're the only one that has the + stuff we went out after. I'm going to carry you in, 'spite of hell.” + </p> + <p> + And he did it. + </p> + <p> + Mitchell told the full story of the change in the direction of the German + mine and the plan of the next assault, as he had heard it through that + lost receiver. The captain said it was information of the highest value. + It counted up to a couple of hundred German prisoners and three + machine-guns in the next two days. + </p> + <p> + Rosenlaube, still alive, was brought in just before daybreak by a + volunteer rescue-party under the guidance of Phipps-Herrick. All three + were cited in the despatches. Phipps-Herrick in due time received the + Distinguished Service Cross for gallantry on the field. But Mitchell had + the surplus satisfaction of the hearing ear. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, old man,” Rosenlaube said to him as they lay side by side in + the hospital, “'member our talk in the dugout just before our big night? + Well, I allow there was something in what you said. There are times when + it is a good thing to know a bit of that barbarous German language. And + you never can tell when one of those times may hit you.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SKETCHES OF QUEBEC + </h2> + <p> + If you love a certain country, for its natural beauty, or for the friends + you have made there, or for the happy days you have passed within its + borders, you are troubled and distressed when that country comes under + criticism, suspicion, and reproach. + </p> + <p> + It is just as it would be if a woman who had been very kind to you and had + done you a great deal of good were accused of some unworthiness. You would + refuse to believe it. You would insist on understanding before you + pronounced judgment. Memories would ask to be heard. + </p> + <p> + That is what I feel in regard to French Canada, the province of Quebec, + where I have had so many joyful times, and found so many true comrades + among the <i>voyageurs</i>, the <i>habitants</i>, and the <i>coureurs de + bois.</i> + </p> + <p> + People are saying now that Quebec is not loyal, not brave, not patriotic + in this war for freedom and humanity. + </p> + <p> + Even if the accusation were true, of course it would not spoil the big + woods, the rushing rivers, the sparkling lakes, the friendly mountains of + French Canada. But all the same, it hurts me to hear such a charge against + my friends of the forest. + </p> + <p> + Do you mean to tell me that Francois and Ferdinand and Louis and Jean and + Eugene and Iside are not true men? Do you mean to tell me that these + lumbermen who steer big logs down steep places, these trappers who brave + the death-cold grip of Winter, these canoe-men who shout for joy as they + run the foaming rapids,—do you mean to tell me that they have no + courage? + </p> + <p> + I am not ready to credit that. I want to hear what they have to say for + themselves. And in listening for that testimony certain little + remembrances come to me—not an argument—only a few sketches on + the wall. Here they are. Take them for what they are worth. + </p> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <h3> + LA GRANDE DECHARGE + </h3> + <p> + September, 1894 + </p> + <p> + In one of the long stillwaters of the mighty stream that rushes from <i>Lac + Saint Jean</i> to make the Saguenay—below the <i>Ile Maligne</i> and + above the cataract of Chicoutimi—two birch-bark canoes are floating + quietly, descending with rhythmic strokes of the paddle, through the + luminous northern twilight. + </p> + <p> + The chief guide, Jean Morel, is a <i>coureur de bois</i> of the old type—broad-shouldered, + red-bearded, a fearless canoeman, a good hunter and fisherman—simple + of speech and deep of heart: a good man to trust in the rapids. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, Jean,” I ask in the comfortable leisure of our voyage which + conduces to pipe-smoking and conversation, “tell me, are you a Frenchman + or an Englishman?” + </p> + <p> + “Not the one, nor the other,” answers Jean in his old-fashioned <i>patois.</i> + “M'sieu' knows I am French-Canadian.” + </p> + <p> + A remarkable answer, when you come to think of it; for it claims a + nationality which has never existed, and is not likely to exist, except in + a dream. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” I say, following my impulse of psychological curiosity, of + which Jean is sublimely ignorant, “suppose a war should come between + France and England. On which side would you fight?” + </p> + <p> + Jean knocks the dottle out of his pipe, refills and relights. Then, + between the even strokes of his paddle, he makes this extraordinary reply: + </p> + <p> + <i>“M'sieu, I suppose my body would march under the flag of England. But + my heart would march under the flag of France.”</i> + </p> + <p> + Good old Jean Morel! You had no premonition of this glorious war in which + the Tricolor and the Union Jack would advance together against the + ravening black eagle of Germany, and the Stars and Stripes would join + them. + </p> + <p> + How should you know anything about it? Your log cabin was your capitol. + Your little family was your council of state. Even the rest of us, proud + of our university culture, were too blind, in those late Victorian days, + to see the looming menace of Prussian paganism and the conquer-lust of the + Hohenzollerns, which has plunged the whole world in war. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <h3> + OXFORD + </h3> + <p> + February, 1917 + </p> + <p> + The “Schools” building, though modern, is one of the stateliest on the + Main Street. Here, in old peaceful times, the university examinations used + to be held. Now it is transformed into a hospital for the wounded men from + the fighting front of freedom. + </p> + <p> + Sir William Osier, Canadian, and world-renowned physician, is my guide, an + old friend in Baltimore, now Regius Professor of Medicine in Oxford. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” he says, “I want you to see an example of the Carrel treatment of + wounds.” + </p> + <p> + The patient is sitting up in bed—a fine young fellow about twenty + years old. A shrapnel-shell, somewhere in France, passed over his head and + burst just behind him. His bare back is a mass of scars. The healing fluid + is being pumped in through the shattered elbow of his right arm, not yet + out of danger. + </p> + <p> + “Does it hurt,” I ask. + </p> + <p> + “Not much,” he answers, trying to smile, “at least not too much, M'sieu'.” + </p> + <p> + The accent of French Canada is unmistakable. I talk to him in his own + dialect. + </p> + <p> + “What part of Quebec do you come from?” + </p> + <p> + “From <i>Trois Rivieres,</i> M'sieu', or rather from a country back of + that, the Saint Maurice River.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it well—often hunted there. But what made you go to the + war?” + </p> + <p> + “I heard that England fought to save France from the damned Germans. That + was enough, M'sieu', to make me march. Besides, I always liked to fight.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you do before you became a soldier?” + </p> + <p> + “I was a lumberjack.” + </p> + <p> + (What he really said was, <i>“J'allais en chantier,”</i> “I went in the + shanty.” If he had spoken in classic French he would have said, <i>“J'etais + bucheron.”</i> How it brought back the smell of the big spruce forest to + hear that word <i>chantier</i>, in Oxford!) + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: “I was a lumberjack."} + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, I suppose you will return to the wood-cutting again, when + this war is over.” + </p> + <p> + “But no, M'sieu', how can I, with this good-for-nothing arm? I shall never + be capable of swinging the axe again.” + </p> + <p> + “But you could be the cook, perfectly. And you know the cook gets the best + pay in the whole shanty.” + </p> + <p> + His face lights up a little. + </p> + <p> + “Truly,” he replies; “I never thought of that, but it is true. I have seen + a bit of cooking at the front and learned some things. I might take up + that end of the job. <i>But anyway, Im glad I went to the war.”</i> + </p> + <p> + So we say good-by—<i>“bonne chance!”</i> + </p> + <p> + Since that day the good physician who guided me through the hospital has + borne without a murmur the greatest of all sacrifices—the loss of + his only son, a brave and lovely boy, killed in action against the + thievish, brutal German hordes. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + SAINTE MARGUERITE August, 1917 + </p> + <p> + The wild little river <i>Sainte Marguerite</i> runs joyously among the + mountains and the green woods, back of the Saguenay, singing the same old + song of liberty and obedience to law, as if the world had never been vexed + and tortured by the madness of war-lords. + </p> + <p> + A tired man who has a brief furlough from active service is lucky if he + can spend it among the big trees and beside a flowing stream. The trees + are ministers of peace. The stream is full of courage and adventure as it + rushes toward the big sea. + </p> + <p> + We are coming back to camp from the morning's fishing, with a brace of + good salmon in the canoe. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, Iside,” I ask of the wiry little bowman, the best hunter and + fisher on the river, “why is it that you are not at the war?” + </p> + <p> + “But, M'sieu', I am too old. A father of family—almost a grandfather—the + war is not for men of that age. Besides, it does not concern us here in + Quebec.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? It concerns the whole world. Who told you that it does not + concern you?” + </p> + <p> + “The priest at our village of <i>Sacre Coeur,</i> M'sieu'. He says that it + is only right and needful for a good Christian to fight in defense of his + home and his church. Let those Germans attack us here, <i>chez nous</i>, + and you shall see how the men of <i>Sacre Coeur</i> will stand up and + fight.” + </p> + <p> + It was an amazing revelation of a state of mind, absolutely simple, + perfectly sincere, and strictly imprisoned by the limitations of its only + recognized teacher. + </p> + <p> + “But suppose, Iside, that England and France should be beaten down by + Germany, over there. What would happen to French Canada? Do you think you + could stand alone then, to defend your home and your church? Are you big + enough, you French-Canadians?” + </p> + <p> + “M'sieu', I have never thought of that. Perhaps we have more than a + million people—many of them children, for you understand we + French-Canadians have large families—but of course the children + could not fight. Still, we should not like to have them subject to a + German Emperor. We would fight against that, if the war came to us here on + our own soil.” + </p> + <p> + “But don't you see that the only way to keep it from coming to you on your + own soil is to fight against it over there? Hasn't the English Government + given you all your liberties, for home and church?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, M'sieu', especially since Sir Wilfred Laurier. Ah, that is a great + man! A true French-Canadian!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, you know that he is against Germany. You know he believes the + freedom of Canada depends on the defeat of Germany, over there, on the + other side of the sea. You would not like a German Canada, would you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all, M'sieu', that would be intolerable. But I have never thought + of that.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, think of it now, will you? And tell your priest to think of it, + too. He is a Christian. The things we are fighting for belong to + Christianity—justice, liberty, humanity. Tell him that, and tell him + also some of the things which the Germans did to the Christian people in + Belgium and Northern France. I will narrate them to you later.” + </p> + <p> + “M'sieu',” says Iside, dipping his paddle deeper as we round the sharp + corner of a rock, “I shall remember all that you tell me, and I shall tell + it again to our priest. You know we have few newspapers here. Most of us + could not read them, anyway. I am not well convinced that we yet + comprehend, here in French Canada, the meaning of this war. But we shall + endeavor to comprehend it better. And when we comprehend, we shall be + ready to do our duty—you can trust yourself to the men of <i>Sacre + Coeur</i> for that. We love peace—we all about here <i>(nous autres + d'icite)—but we can fight like the devil when we know it is for a + good cause—liberty, for example.</i> Meanwhile would M'sieu' like to + stop at the pool <i>'La Pinette''</i> on the way down and try a couple of + casts? There was a big salmon rising there yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + That very evening a runner comes up the river, through the woods, to tell + Iside and Eugene, who are Selectmen of the community of <i>Sacre Coeur,</i> + that they must come down to the village for an important meeting at ten + o'clock the next morning. + </p> + <p> + So they set off, quite as a matter of course, for their thirty-five mile + tramp through the forest in the dark. They are good citizens, as well as + good woodsmen, you understand. On the second day they are back again at + their work in the canoe. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Iside,” I ask, “how was it with the meeting yesterday? All + correct?” + </p> + <p> + “All correct, M'sieu'. It was an affair of a new schoolhouse. We are going + to build it. All goes well. We are beginning to comprehend. Quebec is a + large corner of the world. But it is only a corner, after all, we can see + that. And those damned Germans who do such terrible things in France, we + do not love them at all, no matter what the priest may say about Christian + charity. They are Protestants, M'sieu', is it not?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I answer, hiding a smile with a large puff of smoke, “some of them + call themselves Protestants and some call themselves Catholics. But it + seems to me they are all infidels, heathen—judging by what they do. + That is the real proof.” + </p> + <p> + <i>“C'est b'en vrai, M'sieu',</i>” says Iside. “It is the conduct that + shows the Christian.” + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + BELOW CAPE DIAMOND March, 1818 + </p> + <p> + The famous citadel of Quebec stands on top of the steep hill that + dominates the junction of the Saint Charles River with the Saint Lawrence. + That is Cape Diamond—a natural stronghold. Indians and French, and + British, and Americans have fought for that coign of vantage. For a + century and a half the Union Jack has floated there, and under its fair + protection the Province of Quebec, keeping its quaint old language and + peasant customs, has become an important part of the British Empire. + </p> + <p> + The Upper Town, on the high shoulders of Cape Diamond, with its government + buildings, convents, hospitals, showy new shops, and ancient gardens, its + archiepiscopal palace, trim theological seminary, huge castle-like hotel, + and placid ramparts dominating the <i>Ile d'Orleans</i> with rows of + antiquated, harmless cannon around which the children play—the Upper + Town belongs distinctly to the citadel. The garrison is in evidence here. + A regimental band plays in the kiosk on Dufferin Terrace on summer + evenings. There is a good mixture of khaki in the coloring of the street + crowd, and many wounded soldiers are seen, invalided home from the front. + They are all very proud of the glorious record that Canada has made in the + battle for freedom. Most of them, it seems to me, are from + English-speaking families. But by no means all. There are many of + unmistakable French-Canadian stock; and they tell me proudly of the + notable bravery of a certain regiment which was formed early from + volunteers of their own people—hunters, woodsmen, farmers, guides. + The war does not seem very far away, up here in the region of the citadel. + </p> + <p> + The Lower Town, with its narrow streets, little shops, gray stone + warehouses, dingy tenements, and old-fashioned markets, is quite a + different place. It belongs to the slow rivers on whose banks it drowses + and dreams. The once prosperous lumberyards are half empty now. The + shipping along the wharfs has been dwindling for many years. The northern + winter puts a quietus on the waterside. Troops, munitions, supplies, must + go down by rail to an ice-free port. The white river-boats are all laid + up. But a way is kept open across the river to Levis, and the sturdy, + snub-nosed little ice-breaking ferry-boats buffet back and forth almost + without interruption. There is a plenty of nothing to do, now, in the + Lower Town; pipe-smoking and heated discussion of parish politics are + incessant; an inconsiderate quantity of bad liquor is imbibed, <i>pour + faire passer le temps.</i> + </p> + <p> + Suddenly—if anything can be said to happen suddenly in Quebec—bad + news comes from the Lower Town. A riot has broken out, an insurrection of + the French-Canadians against the new military service act, an armed + resistance to the draft. Windows have been smashed, shops looted. A mob, + not very large perhaps, but extremely noisy, has marched up the steep + curve of Mountain Hill Street, into the Upper Town. Shots have been + exchanged. People have been killed. The revolution in Quebec has begun. + </p> + <p> + That is the disquieting rumor which comes to us, carefully spread and + magnified by those agencies which have an interest in preventing, or at + least obstructing the righteous punishment of the German criminals in this + war. Can it possibly be true? Have the French-Canadians gone crazy, as the + Irish did in 1916, under the lunatic incantations of the Sinn-Feiners? Are + they also people without a country, playing blindly into the hands of the + Prussian gang who have set out to subjugate the world? + </p> + <p> + No! This riot in the old city is not an expression of the spirit of French + Canada at all. It is only a shrewdly stupid trick in local politics, + planned and staged by small-minded and loud-voiced politicians who are + trying to keep their hold upon the province. The so-called revolutionists + are either imported loafers and trouble-makers, or else they are drawn + from that class of “hooligans” who have always made a noise around the + Quebec hotels at night. They shout much: they swear abominably: but they + have no real fight in them. They can be hired and used—up to a + certain point—but beyond that they are worthless. It is a waste of + money to employ them. The trouble below Cape Diamond froths up and goes + down as quickly as the effervescence on a bottle of ginger beer. Before + you can find out what it is all about, it is all over. It has not even + touched the real French-Canadians, the men of the forests and the farms. + They are loyal by nature, and slow by temperament. You have got to give + them time, and light. + </p> + <p> + What is happening in Quebec now? Just what ought to happen. The draft is + going forward smoothly and steadily, without resistance. Sons of the best + French-Canadian families are volunteering for the war. Recruits from Laval + University are coming in, stirred perhaps by the knowledge that forty + thousand Catholic priests in France have entered the army which fights + against the Prussian paganism. + </p> + <p> + The petty politicians who have sought to serve their own ends by putting + forward the mad notion of secession and an independent “Republic of + Quebec” have gone to cover under a storm of ridicule and indignation. M. + Bourassa's iridescent dream of French-Canadian nationalism has disappeared + like a soap-bubble. M. Francoeur's motion in the Quebec legislature, + carrying a vague hint that the province might withdraw from the Dominion + if the other provinces were not particularly nice to it, was snowed under + by an overwhelming vote. The patriotic and eloquent speech of the + provincial Premier, M. Gouin, was received with every sign of approval. + The political cinema has shown its latest film, and the title is evidently + <i>“Fidelite de Quebec.”</i> + </p> + <p> + Meantime a Catholic missioner has been in the province. The visit of + Archbishop Mathieu of Saskatchewan was probably made on the invitation, + certainly with the consent, of the hierarchy of Quebec. That intelligent + and fearless preacher brought with him a clear and ringing gospel, a call + to all Christian folk to stand up together and “resist even unto blood, + striving against sin”—the sin of the German war-lords who have + plunged the world in agony to enforce their heresy that Might makes Right. + </p> + <p> + Such a message, at this time, must be of inestimable value to the humble + and devout people of the province, attached as they are to their church, + and looking patiently to her for guidance. The parish priests, devoted to + their lonely tasks in obscure hamlets, may get a new and broader + inspiration from it. They may have a vision of the ashes of Louvain + University, the ruin of Rheims Cathedral, wrought by ruthless German + hands. Then the church in Quebec will measure up to the church in Belgium + and in France. Then the village cure will say to his young men: “Go! + Fight! It is for the glory of God and the good of the world. It is for the + Christian religion and the life of free Canada.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” says the gentle reader, of a sociological turn of mind, who + has followed me thus far, “what have you got to say about the big + political problem of Quebec? Is a French-speaking province a safe factor + in the Dominion of Canada, in the British Empire? Why was Quebec so late + in coming into this world war against Germany?” + </p> + <p> + Dear man, I have nothing whatever to say about what you call the big + political problem of Quebec. I told you that at the beginning. That is a + question for Canada and Great Britain to settle. The British colonial + policy has always been one of the greatest liberality and fairness, except + perhaps in that last quarter of the eighteenth century, when the madness + of a German king and his ministers in England forced the United States to + break away from her, and form the republic which has now become her most + powerful friend. + </p> + <p> + The perpetuation of a double language within a state, an <i>enclave</i>, + undoubtedly carries with it an element of inconvenience and possibly of + danger. Yet Belgium is bilingual and Switzerland is quadrilingual. If any + tongue other than that of the central government is to be admitted, what + could be better than French—the language of culture, which has + spoken the large words, <i>liberte, egalite, fraternite?</i> The native + dialect of French Canada is a quaint and delightful thing—an + eighteenth-century vocabulary with pepper and salt from the speech of the + woodsmen and hunters. I should be sorry if it had to fade out. But + evidently that is a question for Canada to decide. She has been a + bilingual country for a long time. I see no reason why the experiment + should not be carried on. + </p> + <p> + Quebec has been rather slow in waking up to the meaning of this war for + world-freedom. But she has been very little slower than some of the United + States, after all. + </p> + <p> + The Church? Well, the influence of the Church always has depended and + always must depend upon the quality of her ministers. In France, in + Belgium, they have not fallen short of their high duty. The Archbishop of + Saskatchewan, who came to Quebec, preached a clear gospel of + self-sacrifice for a righteous cause. + </p> + <p> + But the plain people of Quebec—the <i>voyageurs</i>, the <i>habitants</i>, + my old friends in the back districts—that is what I am thinking + about. I am sure they are all right. They are very simple, old-fashioned, + childish, if you like; but there is no pacifist or pro-German virus among + them. If their parochial politicians will let them alone, if their priests + will speak to them as prophets of the God of Righteousness, they will show + their mettle. They will prove their right to be counted among the free + peoples of the world who are willing to defend peace with arms. + </p> + <p> + That is what I expect to find if I ever get back to my canoemen on the <i>Sainte + Marguerite</i> again. + </p> + <p> + SYLVANORA, July 10, 1918. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A CLASSIC INSTANCE + </h2> + <p> + “Latin and Greek are dead,” said Hardman, lean, eager, absolute, a fanatic + of modernity. “They have been a long while dying, and this war has + finished them. We see now that they are useless in the modern world. + Nobody is going to waste time in studying them. Education must be direct + and scientific. Train men for efficiency and prepare them for defense. + Otherwise they will have no chance of making a living or of keeping what + they make. Your classics are musty and rusty and fusty. <i>Heraus mit——”</i> + </p> + <p> + He checked himself suddenly, with as near a blush as his sallow skin could + show. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me,” he stammered; “bad habit, contracted when I was a student at + Kiel—only place where they really understood metallurgy.” + </p> + <p> + Professor John De Vries, round, rosy, white-haired, steeped in the mellow + lore of ancient history, puffed his cigar and smiled that benignant smile + with which he was accustomed joyfully to enter a duel of wits. Many such + conflicts had enlivened that low-ceilinged book-room of his at Calvinton. + </p> + <p> + “You are excused, my dear Hardman,” he said, “especially because you have + just given us a valuable illustration of the truth that language and the + study of language have a profound influence upon thought. The tongue which + you inadvertently used belongs to the country that bred the theory of + education which you advocate. The theory is as crude and imperfect as the + German language itself. And that is saying a great deal.” + </p> + <p> + Young Richard De Vries, the professor's favorite nephew and adopted son, + whose chief interest was athletics, but who had a very pretty side taste + for verbal bouts, was sitting with the older men before a cheerful fire of + logs in the chilly spring of 1917. He tucked one leg comfortably + underneath him and leaned forward in his chair, lighting a fresh + cigarette. He foresaw a brisk encounter, and was delighted, as one who + watches from the side-lines the opening of a lively game. + </p> + <p> + “Well played, sir,” he ejaculated; “well played, indeed. Score one for + you, Uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “The approbation of the young is the consolation of the aged,” murmured + the professor sententiously, as if it were a quotation from Plutarch. “But + let us hear what our friend Hardman has to say about the German language + and the Germanic theory of education. It is his turn.” + </p> + <p> + “I throw you in the German language,” answered Hardman, rather tartly. “I + don't profess to admire it or defend it. But nobody can deny its utility + for the things that are taught in it. You can learn more science from half + a dozen recent German books than from a whole library of Latin and Greek. + Besides, you must admit that the Germans are great classical scholars + too.” + </p> + <p> + “Rather neat,” commented Dick; “you touched him there, Mr. Hardman. Now, + Uncle!” + </p> + <p> + “I do not admit,” said the professor firmly, “that the Germans are great + classical scholars. They are great students, that is all. The difference + is immense. Far be it from me to deny the value of the patient and + laborious researches of the Germans in the grammar and syntax of the + ancient languages and in archaeology. They are painstaking to a painful + degree. They gather facts as bees gather pollen, indefatigably. But when + it comes to making honey they go dry. They cannot interpret, they can only + instruct. They do not comprehend, they only classify. Name me one recent + German book of classical interpretation to compare in sweetness and light + with Jowett's 'Dialogues of Plato' or Butcher's 'Some Aspects of the Greek + Genius' or Croiset's 'Histoire de la Litterature Grecque.' You can't do + it,” he ended, with a note of triumph. + </p> + <p> + “Of course not,” replied Hardman sharply. “I never claimed to know + anything about classical literature or scholarship. My point at the + beginning—you have cleverly led the discussion away from it, like + one of your old sophists—the point I made was that Greek and Latin + are dead languages, and therefore practically worthless in the modern + world. Let us go back to that and discuss it fairly and leave the Germans + out.” + </p> + <p> + “But that, my dear fellow, is precisely what you cannot do. It is partly + because they have insisted on treating Latin and Greek as dead that the + Germans have become what they are—spectacled barbarians, learned + Huns, veneered Vandals. In older times it was not so bad. They had some + perception of the everlasting current of life in the classics. When the + Latin spirit touched them for a while, they acquired a sense of form, they + produced some literature that was good—Lessing, Herder, Goethe, + Schiller. But it was a brief illumination, and the darkness that followed + it was deeper than ever. Who are their foremost writers to-day? The + Hauptmanns and the Sudermanns, gropers in obscurity, violent + sentimentalists, 'bigots to laxness,' Dr. Johnson would have called them. + Their world is a moral and artistic chaos agitated by spasms of hysteria. + Their work is a mass of decay touched with gleams of phosphorescence. The + Romans would have called it <i>immunditia</i>. What is your new American + word for that kind of thing, Richard? I heard you use it the other day.” + </p> + <p> + “Punk,” responded Dick promptly. “Sometimes, if it's very sickening, we + call it pink punk.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” interrupted Hardman impatiently. “Say what you like about + Hauptmann and Sudermann. They are no friends of mine. Be as ferocious with + them as you please. But you surely do not mean to claim that the right + kind of study and understanding of the classics could have had any + practical influence on the German character, or any value in saving the + German Empire from its horrible blunders.” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely that is what I do mean.” + </p> + <p> + “But how?” + </p> + <p> + “Through the mind, <i>animus</i>, the intelligent directing spirit which + guides human conduct in all who have passed beyond the stage of mere + barbarism.” + </p> + <p> + “You exaggerate the part played by what you call the mind. Human conduct + is mainly a matter of heredity and environment. Most of it is determined + by instinct, impulse, and habit.” + </p> + <p> + “Granted, for the sake of argument. But may there not be a mental as well + as a physical inheritance, an environment of thought as well as of bodily + circumstances?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps so. Yes, I suppose that is true to a certain extent.” + </p> + <p> + “A poor phrase, my dear Hardman; but let it pass. Will you admit that + there may be habits of thinking and feeling as well as habits of doing and + making things?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “And do you recognize a difference between bad habits and good habits?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “And you agree that this difference exists both in mental and in physical + affairs? For example, you would call the foreman of a machine-shop who + directed his work in accordance with the natural laws of his material and + of his steam or electric power a man of good habits, would you not?” + </p> + <p> + “Undoubtedly.” + </p> + <p> + “And you would not deny him this name, but would rather emphasize it, if + in addition he had the habit of paying regard to the moral and social laws + which condition the welfare and efficiency of his workmen; for example, + self-control, cheerfulness, honesty, fair play, honor, human kindness, and + so on. If he taught these things, not only by word but by deed, you would + call him an excellent foreman, would you not?” + </p> + <p> + “Without a question. That machine-shop would be a great success, a model.” + </p> + <p> + “But suppose your foreman had none of these good mental and moral habits. + Suppose he was proud, overbearing, dishonest, unfair, and cruel. Do you + not believe he would have a bad influence upon his men? Would not the + shop, no matter what kind of work it turned out, become a nest of evil and + a menace to its neighbors?” + </p> + <p> + “It surely would.” + </p> + <p> + “What, then, would you do with the foreman?” + </p> + <p> + “I would try to teach him better. If that failed, I would discharge him.” + </p> + <p> + “In what method and by what means would you endeavor to teach him?” + </p> + <p> + “By all the means that I could command. By precept and by example, by + warning him of his faults and by showing him better ways, by wholesome + books and good company.” + </p> + <p> + “And if he refused to learn; if he remained obstinate; if he mocked you + and called you a hypocrite; if he claimed that his way was the best, in + fact the only way, divinely inspired, and therefore beyond all criticism, + then you would throw him out?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, and quickly! I should regard him as morally insane, and try my + best to put him where he could do no more harm. But tell me why this + protracted imitation of Socrates? Where are you trying to lead me? Do you + want me to say that the German Kaiser is a very bad foreman of his shop; + that he has got it into a horrible mess and made it despised and hated by + all the other shops; that he ought to be put out? If that is your point, I + am with you in advance.” + </p> + <p> + “Right you are!” cried Dick joyously. “Can the Kaiser! We all agree to + that. And here the bout ends, with honors for both sides, and a special + prize for the Governor.” + </p> + <p> + The professor smiled, recognizing in the name more affection than + disrespect. He leaned forward in his chair, lighting a fresh cigar with + gusto. + </p> + <p> + “Not yet,” he said, “O too enthusiastic youth! Our friend here has not yet + come to the point at which I was aiming. The application of my remarks to + the Kaiser—whom I regard as a gifted paranoiac—is altogether + too personal and limited. I was thinking of something larger and more + important. Do you give me leave to develop the idea?” + </p> + <p> + “Fire away, sir,” said Dick. + </p> + <p> + Hardman nodded his assent. “I should like very much to hear in what + possible way you connect the misconduct of Germany, which I admit, with + your idea of the present value of classical study, which I question.” + </p> + <p> + “In this way,” said the professor earnestly. “Germany has been living for + fifty years with a closed mind. Oh, I grant you it was an active mind, + scientific, laborious, immensely patient. But it was an ingrowing mind. + Sure of its own superiority, it took no counsel with antiquity and scorned + the advice of its neighbors. It was intent on producing something entirely + new and all its own—a purely German <i>Kultur</i>, independent of + the past, and irresponsible to any laws except those of Germany's + interests and needs. Hence it fell into bad habits of thought and feeling, + got into trouble, and brought infinite trouble upon the world.” + </p> + <p> + “And do you claim,” interrupted Hardman, “that this would have been + prevented by reading the classics? Would that have been the only and + efficient cure for Germany's disease? Rather a large claim, that!” + </p> + <p> + “Much too large,” replied the professor. “I did not make it. In the first + place, it may be that Germany's trouble had gone beyond any cure but the + knife. In the second place, I regard the intelligent reading of the Bible + and the vital apprehension of the real spirit of Christianity as the best + of all cures for mental and moral ills. All that I claim for the classics—the + works of the greatest of the Greek and Roman writers—is that they + have in them a certain remedial and sanitary quality. They contain noble + thoughts in noble forms. They show the strength of self-restraint. They + breathe the air of clearness and candor. They set forth ideals of + character and conduct which are elevating. They also disclose the weakness + and the ugliness of things mean and base. They have the broad and generous + spirit of the true <i>literae humaniores.</i> They reveal the springs of + civilization and lead us— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'To the glory that was Greece, + To the grandeur that was Rome.' +</pre> + <p> + Now these are precisely the remedies 'indicated,' as the physicians say, + for the cure, or at least the mitigation, of the specific bad habits which + finally caused the madness of Germany.” + </p> + <p> + “Please tell us, sir,” asked Dick gravely, “how you mean us to take that. + Do you really think it would have done any good to those brutes who + ravaged Belgium and outraged France to read Tacitus or Virgil or the Greek + tragedies? They couldn't have done it, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably not,” answered the professor, while Hardman sat staring intently + into the fire, “probably not. But suppose the leaders and guides of + Germany (her masters, in effect, who moulded and <i>kultured</i> the + people to serve their nefarious purpose of dominating the world by + violence), suppose these masters had really known the meaning and felt the + truth of the Greek tragedies, which unveil reckless arrogance—<i>Hybris</i>—as + the fatal sin, hateful to the gods and doomed to an inevitable Nemesis. + Might not this truth, filtering through the masters to the people, have + led them to the abatement of the ruinous pride which sent Germany out to + subjugate the other nations in 1914? The egregious General von der Goltz + voiced the insane arrogance which made this war when he said, 'The + nineteenth century saw a German Empire, the twentieth shall see a German + world.' + </p> + <p> + “Or suppose the Teutonic teachers and pastors had read with understanding + and taken to heart the passages of Csesar in which he curtly describes the + violent and thievish qualities of the ancient Germans—how they + spread desolation around them to protect their borders, and encouraged + their young men in brigandage in order to keep them in practice. Might not + these plain lessons have been used as a warning to the people of modern + Germany to discourage their predatory propensities and their habits of + devastation and to hold them back from their relapse into the <i>Schrecklichkeit</i> + of savage warfare? George Meredith says a good thing in 'Diana of the + Crossways': 'Before you can civilize a man, you must first de-barbarize + him.' That is the trouble with the Germans, especially their leaders and + masters. They have never gotten rid of their fundamental barbarism, the + idolatry of might above right. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They have only put on a varnish of civilization. + It cracks and peels off in the heat. +</pre> + <p> + “Take one more illustration. Suppose these German thought-masters and + war-lords had really understood and assimilated the true greatness of the + conception of the old Roman Empire as it is shown, let us say, by Virgil. + You remember that splendid passage in the Sixth Book of the AEneid where + the Romans are called to remember that it is their mission 'to crown Peace + with Law, to spare the humbled, and to subdue and tame the proud.' Might + not sucn a noble doctrine have detached the Germans a little from their + blind devotion to the Hohenzollern-Hollweg conception of the modern + pinchbeck German Empire—a predatory state, greedy to gain new + territory but incapable of ruling it when gained, scornful of the rights + of smaller peoples, oppressing them when subjugated, as she has oppressed + Poland and Schleswig-Holstein and Alsace-Lorraine, a clumsy and + exterminating tyrant in her own colonies, as she has shown herself in East + and West Africa? I tell you that a vital perception of what the Roman + Empire really meant in its palmy days might have been good medicine for + Germany. It might have taught her to make herself fit for power before + seeking to grasp it.” + </p> + <p> + “Granted, granted,” broke in Hardman, impatiently poking the fire. “You + can't say anything about Germany too severe to suit me. Whatever she + needed to keep her from committing the criminal blunder of this war, it is + certain that she did not get it. The blunder was made and the price must + be paid. But what I say now, as I said at the beginning, is that Latin and + Greek are dead languages. For us, for the future, for the competitions of + the modern industrial and social era, the classics are no good. For a few + ornamental persons a knowledge of them may be a pleasing accomplishment. + But they are luxuries, not necessaries. They belong to a bygone age. They + have nothing to tell us about the things we most need to know—chemistry + and physics, engineering and intensive agriculture, the discovery of new + forms and applications of power, the organization of labor and the + distribution of wealth, the development of mechanical skill and the + increase of production—these are the things that we must study. I + say they are the only things that will count for success in the new + democracy.” + </p> + <p> + “That is what <i>you</i> say,” replied Professor De Vries dryly. “But the + wisest men of the world have said something very different. No democracy + ever has survived, or ever will survive, without an aristocracy at the + heart of it. Not an aristocracy of birth and privilege, but one of worth + and intelligence; not a band of hereditary lords, but a company of + well-chosen leaders. Their value will depend not so much upon their + technical knowledge and skill as upon the breadth of their mind, the + clearness of their thought, the loftiness of their motives, the balance of + their judgment, and the strength of their devotion to duty. For the + cultivation of these things I say—pardon the apparent contradiction + of what <i>you</i> said—I say the study of the classics has been and + still is of the greatest value.” + </p> + <p> + “What did George Washington know about the classics?” Hardman interrupted + sharply. “He was one of your aristocrats of democracy, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “He was,” answered the professor blandly, “and he knew more about the + classics than, I fear, you do, my dear Hardman. At all events, he + understood what was meant when he was called 'the Cincinnatus of the West'—and + he lived up to the ideal, otherwise we should have had no American + Republic. + </p> + <p> + “But let us not drop to personalities. What I maintain is that Latin and + Greek are not dead languages, because they still convey living thoughts. + The real success of a democracy—the production of a finer manhood—depends + less upon mechanics than upon morale. For that the teachings of the + classics are excellent. They have a bracing and a steadying quality. They + instil a sense of order and they inspire a sense of admiration, both of + which are needed by the people—especially the plain people—of + a sane democracy. The classics are fresher, younger, more vital and + encouraging than most modern books. They have lessons for us to-day—believe + me—great words for the present crisis and the pressing duty of the + hour.” + </p> + <p> + “Give us an example,” said Dick; “something classic to fit this war.” + </p> + <p> + “I have one at hand,” responded the professor promptly. He went to the + book-shelves and pulled out a small brown volume with a slip of paper in + it. He opened the book at the marked place. “It is from the Eighth Satire + of Juvenal, beginning at line 79. I will read the Latin first, and + afterward a little version which I made the other day.” + </p> + <p> + The old man rolled the lines out in his sonorous voice, almost chanting: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'Esto bonus miles, tutor bonus, arbiter idem + Integer; ambiguae si quando citabere testis + Incertaeque rei, Phalaris licet imperet ut sis + Falsus et admoto dictet periuria tauro, + <i>Summum crede nefas, animam praeferre pudori + Et propter vitam vivendi perdere causas.'”</i> +</pre> + <p> + “Please to translate, sir,” said Dick, copying exactly the professor's + classroom phrase and manner. + </p> + <p> + “To gratify my nephew,” said the professor, nodding and winking at + Hardman. “But, understand, this is not a real translation. It is only a + paraphrase. Here it is: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Be a good soldier, and a guardian just; + Likewise an upright judge. Let no one thrust + You in a dubious cause to testify, + Through fear of tyrant's vengeance, to a lie. + Count it a baseness if your soul prefer + Safety above what Honor asks of her: + And hold it manly life itself to give, + Rather than lose the things for which we live. +</pre> + <p> + It is not half as good as the Latin. But it gives the meaning. How do you + like it, Richard?” + </p> + <p> + “Fine!” answered the young man quickly; “especially the last lines. They + are great.” He hesitated slightly, and then went on. “Perhaps I ought to + tell you now, sir, that I have signed up and got my papers for the + training-school at Madison Barracks. I hope you will not be angry with + me.” + </p> + <p> + The old man put both hands on the lad's shoulders and looked at him with a + suspicious moisture in his eyes. He swallowed hard a couple of times. You + could see the big Adam's apple moving up and down in his wrinkled throat. + </p> + <p> + “Angry!” he cried. “Why, boy, I love you for it.” + </p> + <p> + Hardman, who was a thoroughly good fellow at heart, held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Good for you, Dick! But I must be going now. I am putting up at the Ivy. + Will you walk up with me? I'd like to have a word with you.” + </p> + <p> + The two men walked in silence along the shady, moon-flecked streets of the + tranquil old university town. Then the elder one spoke. + </p> + <p> + “You have done the right thing, I am sure. That officers' training-school + is a good place to get a practical education. When you are through, how + would you like to have a post in the Ordnance Department at Washington? I + have some influence there and believe I could get you in without + difficulty.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks, a lot,” answered the lad modestly. “You're awfully kind. But, if + you don't mind my saying so, I think I'd rather have service at the front—that + is, if I can qualify for it.” + </p> + <p> + There was another long silence before Hardman spoke again, with an + apparent change of subject: + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would tell me what you really think of your uncle's views on + the classics, you and the other fellows of your age in the university.” + </p> + <p> + Dick hesitated a moment before he replied: + </p> + <p> + “Well, personally, you know, I believe what Uncle says is usually about + right. He has the habit of it. But I allow when he gets on his hobby he + rides rather hard. Most of the other fellows have given up the classics—they + like the modern-language course with sciences better—perhaps it's + softer. They say not; but I know the classics are hard enough. I flunked + out on my Greek exam junior year. So, you see, I'm not a very good judge. + But, anyhow, wasn't the bit he read us from Juvenal simply fine? And + didn't he read it well? I've felt that a hundred times, but never knew how + to say it.” + </p> + <p> + It was in the early fall of 1918, more than a year later, that Hardman + came once more into the familiar library at Calvinton. He had read the + casualty list of the last week of August and came to condole with his + friend De Vries. + </p> + <p> + The old man sat in the twilight of the tranquil book-lined room, leaning + back in his armchair, with an open letter on the table before him. He gave + his hand cordially to Hardman and thanked him for his sympathetic words. + He talked quietly and naturally about Dick, and confessed how much he + should miss the boy—as it were, his only son. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said quietly. “I am going to be lonely, but I am not forsaken. I + shall be sad sometimes, but never sorry—always proud of my boy. + Would you like to see this letter? It is the last that he wrote.” + </p> + <p> + It was a young, simple letter, full of cheerful joking and personal + details and words of affection which the shy lad would never have spoken + face to face. At the end he wrote: + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear Governor, this is a rough life, and some parts are not easy to + bear. But I want you to know that I was never happier in all my days. I + know that we are fighting for a good cause, justice, and freedom, and a + world made clean from this beastly German militarism. The things that the + Germans have done to France and Belgium must be stopped, and they must + never be done again. We want a decent world to live in, and we are going + to have it, no matter what it costs. Of course I should like to live + through it all, if I can do it with honor. But a man never can tell what + is going to happen. And I certainly would rather give up my life than the + things we are fighting for—the things you taught me to believe are + according to the will of God. So good-night for the present, Uncle, and + sleep well. + </p> + <p> + “Your loving nephew and son, + </p> + <h3> + “DICK.” + </h3> + <p> + Hardman's hand shook a little as he laid the paper on the table. + </p> + <p> + “It is a beautiful letter,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” nodded the old professor, putting his hand upon it; “it is a + classic; very clear and simple and high-minded. The German Crown Prince + says our American soldiers do not know what they are fighting for. But + Richard knew. It was to defend 'the things for which we live' that he + gladly gave his life.” + </p> + <p> + September, 1918. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HALF-TOLD TALES + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE NEW ERA AND CARRY ON + </h2> + <p> + The Commandant of the Marine Hospital was at his desk, working hard, when + the door of the room was flung open and the Officer of the Day rushed in. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” he exploded, “the New Era has come.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely, Mr. Corker,” answered the Commandant. “It has been coming + continually since the world began. But is that any reason why you should + enter without knocking, and with your coat covered with bread-crumbs and + cigarette-ashes?” + </p> + <p> + So the Officer of the Day went outside, brushed his coat, knocked at the + door, and awaited orders. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Corker,” said the Commandant, “have the kindness to bring me your + report on the condition of yesterday's cases, and let me know what + operations are indicated for to-day. Good morning. Orderly, my compliments + to the Executive Officer, and I wish to see him at once.” + </p> + <p> + When the Executive Officer arrived, he began: + </p> + <p> + “Sir, the New Era—” + </p> + <p> + “Quite so, Mr. Greel, but you understand this Hospital has to carry on as + required in any kind of an era. How many patients did we receive + yesterday? Good. Have we enough bedding and provisions? Bad. Attend to it + immediately, and let me know the result of your efforts to remedy a + situation which should never have arisen. The Navy cannot be run on hot + air.” + </p> + <p> + As the Executive Officer went out he held the door open for the Head Nurse + to pass in. She was a fine, upstanding creature, tremulous with emotion. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Doctor,” she cried, “I simply must tell you about the New Era. Woman + Suffrage is going to save the world.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope so, Miss Dooby, it certainly needs saving. Meantime how are things + in the pneumonia ward?” + </p> + <p> + “Two deaths last night, sir, three new cases this morning. Oxygen is + running short: no beef-tea or milk. Five of my nurses have gone to attend + conventions of woman—” + </p> + <p> + “Slackers,” interrupted the Commandant. “Put them on report for leaving + the ship without permission. I shall attend to their cases. Fill their + places from the volunteer list. Be so good as to send the head steward + here immediately.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm very sorry, Sir,” said the steward, “but ye see it's just this way. + The mess-boys was holdin' a New Era mass-meetin', and the cook he forgot—” + </p> + <p> + “Milk and beef-tea!” growled the Commandant as if they were swear-words. + “What the devil is this new influenza that has struck the hospital? + Steward, you will provide what the head nurse requires at once. Orderly, + my cap, and call Mr. Greel to accompany me on inspection.” + </p> + <p> + In the galley the fires were out, the ovens cold, the soup-kettles empty, + and all the cooks, dish-washers, and scrubbers were absorbing the + eloquence of the third assistant pie-maker, who stood on an empty + biscuit-box and explained the glories of the one-hour day in the New Era. + </p> + <p> + '“Ten<i>shun!</i>” yelled the Orderly, and the force of habit brought the + men up, stiff and silent. The Commandant looked around the circle, + grinning. + </p> + <p> + “My word!” he cried, “what a beautiful sight! What do you think this is—a + blooming debating society? Wrong! It's a hospital, with near a thousand + sick and wounded to take care of. And it's going to be done, see? And + you're going to help do it, see? No work—no pay and no food! Neglect + of orders means extra duty and no liberty—perhaps a couple of + twenty-four-hour days in the brig. That's the rule in all eras, see? Now + get busy, all of you. Chow at twelve as usual. Carry on, men.” + </p> + <p> + “Aye, aye, sir,” they answered cheerily, for they were weary of the third + assistant pie-maker's brand of talk and felt the pangs of healthy hunger. + </p> + <p> + Then came the second engineer, out of breath with running, followed by two + or three helpers. + </p> + <p> + “Fire, captain,” he gasped, “fire in the fuel-room—awful blaze—started + in the wood box—cigarette—we were just settin' round talkin' + over what we were goin' to do in the New Era, an' the first thing we knew + it was burnin' like—” + </p> + <p> + “The New Era,” snapped the Commandant, “and be damned to it! Sound the + fire-call. All hands to quarters. Lead along the hose. Follow me,” he + cried, hurrying forward through the gathering smoke, “this ship must be + saved.” + </p> + <p> + And so it was—strictly in conformity with the old laws that fire + burns, water quenches, and every man must do his duty promptly. On these + ancient principles, and others equally venerable, the hospital carried on + its good work. But the Commandant made one new rule. It cost five dollars + to mention the New Era within its walls. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PRIMITIVE AND HIS SANDALS + </h2> + <p> + “I am sick of all this,” said the Great Author, sweeping his hand over the + silver-laden dinner-table. He seemed to include in his gesture the whole + house and the broad estate surrounding it. “It bores me, and I don't + believe it can be right.” + </p> + <p> + His wife, at the other end of the table, shining in her low-necked dress + with diamonds on her breast and in her hair, leaned forward anxiously, + knowing her husband's temperament. + </p> + <p> + “But, Nicholas,” she said, “what do you mean? You have earned all this by + your work as a writer. You are the greatest man in the country. You are + entitled to a fine house and a large estate.” + </p> + <p> + He gravely nodded his big head with its flamboyant locks, and lit a fresh + cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “Quite right, my dear,” said he, “you are always right on practical + affairs. But, you see, this is an artistic affair. My books are realistic + and radical. They teach the doctrine of the universal level, that no man + can be above other men. They have made poverty, perhaps not exactly + popular, but at least romantic. My villains are always rich and my heroes + poor. The people like this; but it is rather a strain to believe it and + keep on believing it. If my work is to hold the public it must have + illustrations—moving pictures, you know! Something in character! + Nobody else can do that as well as I can. It will be better than many + advertisements. I am going to become a virtuous peasant, a son of the + soil, a primitive.” + </p> + <p> + His wife laughed, with a slight nervous tremor in her voice. She knew her + husband's temperament, to be sure, but she never knew just how far it + would carry him. + </p> + <p> + “I think you must be a little crazy, Nicholas,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Alexandra,” he answered, “thank you for the temperate + flattery. Evidently you have heard the old proverb about genius and + madness. But why not make the compliment complete and say 'absolutely + crazy'?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she replied, “because I do not understand just what you propose to + do. Are you going to impoverish yourself and the whole family? Are you + thinking of turning over your farms to these stupid peasants who will let + them go to rack and ruin? Will you give your property to the village + council who will drink it up in a month? You know how much money Peter + needs; he is a member of twelve first-class clubs. And Olga's husband is + not earning much. Are you going to starve your children and grandchildren + for the sake of an idea of consistency in art?” + </p> + <p> + The Great Author was now standing in front of the fireplace, warming + himself and filling a pipe. The flames behind him made an aureole in his + extravagant white hair and beard. He smiled and puffed slowly at his pipe. + At last he answered. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, you go too fast and too far. You know I am enthusiastic, but + have you ever known me to be silly? It would be wrong to make you and the + children suffer. I have no right to do that.” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: I am going to become a virtuous peasant, a son of the soil, + a primitive} + </p> + <p> + She nodded her head emphatically, and a look of comprehension spread over + her face. “Suppose,” he continued, “suppose that I should make over the + real estate and farms to you—you are an excellent manager. And + suppose that I should put the personal estate, including copyrights, into + a trust, the income to be paid to you and the children. You would take + care of me while I became a primitive, wouldn't you?” + </p> + <p> + “I would,” she answered, “you know I would. But think how uncomfortable it + will be for you. While we are living in luxury, you—” + </p> + <p> + “Don't worry about that,” he interrupted with a laugh. “I shall have all + the luxury I want: flannel shirts, loose around the neck, instead of these + infernal stiff collars; velveteen trousers and jacket instead of this + waiter's uniform; and I shall go barefoot when the weather is suitable—do + you understand? Barefoot in the summer grass—it will be immense.” + </p> + <p> + “But your food,” she asked, “how will you manage that on a primitive + basis?” + </p> + <p> + “You will manage it,” he replied, “you know I have always preferred + beefsteak and onions to any French dish. Champagne does not agree with me. + I'd rather have a glass of the straight stuff, without any gas in it.” + </p> + <p> + “But your sleeping arrangements,” she murmured, “are you going to leave + the house? Our bedroom is not exactly primitive.” + </p> + <p> + “No fear of it,” he answered. “There is a little room beyond your + bathroom. Put an iron cot in there, with a soft mattress, linen sheets, + and light blankets. I'll do my morning wash at the pump in the yard, for + the sake of the picture. When I want a bath you'll leave the door of the + room open if you are not actually in the tub.” + </p> + <p> + “Nicholas,” she said, with a Mona Lisa smile, “for an author you have a + very clever way of putting things. But suppose we have guests at the + house, you can't come to dinner in dirty clothes and with bare feet.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not,” he answered. “I shall put on clean flannels, clean + velveteens, and sandals.” + </p> + <p> + “Sandals,” she murmured, “sandals for dinner are simply wonderful. Do you + think I could—” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all, my dear,” said the Great Author firmly. “Your present style + of dress becomes you amazingly. I am the only one who has to do the + primitive.” + </p> + <p> + So the arrangements were completed. The interviewers who came to the house + described the Great Author in his loose flannels and velveteens, with bare + feet, returning from labor in the fields. The moving pictures were full of + him. But the sandals did not appear. There were no flash-lights permitted + at the part-primitive dinner-table. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DIANA AND THE LIONS + </h2> + <p> + In the darkest hour before the dawn, Diana floated away from her Garden + Tower and came down between the Lions on the Library Steps. + </p> + <p> + At first, she did not know they were Lions. She thought they were Cats, + and so she was afraid. For she was very lightly clad; and (except in + Egypt) Cats are terrible to undomesticated goddesses. Diana shivered as + she strung her bow for defense. She felt that she was divine, but she knew + that she had cold feet. + </p> + <p> + In truth, the Library Steps were wet and glistening, for there had been a + shower after midnight. But now the gibbous moon was giving a silent + imitation of an arc-light high in the western heaven. Her beams + silver-plated the weird architecture of the shrines of Commerce which face + the great Temple dedicated to the Three Muses of New York—Astor, + Lenox, and Tilden. + </p> + <p> + But on the awful animals guarding the steps the light was florid, like a + flush of sunburn discovered by the ablution of a warranted complexion + cream. They were wonderfully pink, and Diana hastened to draw an arrow + from her quiver, for it seemed to her as if her feline neighbors were + beginning to glow with rage. + </p> + <p> + “Do not shoot,” said the ruddier one; “we are not angry, we are only + blushing.” And he glanced at her costume. + </p> + <p> + Diana was astonished to hear a masculine voice utter such a modest + sentiment. But being a woman, she knew that the first word does not count. + </p> + <p> + “Cats never blush,” she answered boldly, “no matter how big they are.” + </p> + <p> + “But we are not Cats,” they cried, ramping suddenly like crests on a + millionaire's note-paper. “We are Lions!” + </p> + <p> + Diana smiled at this, for now she felt safe, remembering that when a male + begins to boast he is not dangerous. + </p> + <p> + “Roar a little for me, please,” she said, laying down her unconcealed + weapon. + </p> + <p> + “Impossible,” said the Northern Lion, “a city ordinance forbids + unnecessary noise.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense!” interrupted the Southern Lion. “Who would not break a law to + oblige a lady?” + </p> + <p> + “Let us compromise,” said the Northern Lion, “and give her our + reproduction of an automobile horn.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said the Southern Lion, “we will give her our automatic record of a + Book-Advertisement; it is louder.” + </p> + <p> + Then Diana trembled, indeed. But she bravely continued smiling, and said: + “Thank you a thousand times for doing it once! And now please tell me what + kind of Lions you are.” + </p> + <p> + “Literary Lions,” was their prompt and unanimous reply. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” she cried, clapping her hands with a charming gesture, “how glad I + am to meet you! I have been in New York more than twenty years and never + seen any one like you before! Come and sit beside me and talk.” + </p> + <p> + The Lions looked at each other rather sheepishly, and glanced up and down + the street, as if fearing the approach of a city ordinance. But there was + no one in sight except Diana, so they shook their literary locks into a + becoming disorder and sat on the steps with her, purring gently. + </p> + <p> + “Now tell me,” she said, “who you are.” + </p> + <p> + If she had been less beautiful they would have resented this. But, as it + was, they looked sorry, and asked her if she had never read “Who's Who in + America”? She shook her head, and admitted that she had not read it all + through. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said her neighbor on the south, “this is rather an offhand <i>soiree,</i> + and we may as well cut out proper names. But I will put you wise to the + fact that I am the Magazine Lion. I got away from Roosevelt in Africa. He + called me 'Mucky,' and I made tracks. Here he cannot hurt me, for they + will never let that man do anything in good old New York, not even touch a + Tiger.” + </p> + <p> + “And I,” said her neighbor on the north, “I am the Academic Lion, of whom + you must have heard. My character is noted for its concealed sweetness, + and my style leaves nothing to be hoped for. I am literally a man of + letters, for I have seventeen degrees. Usually I look literary-lean and + nobly dissatisfied, but yesterday I swallowed a British Female Novelist by + accident, and that accounts for my inartistic air of cheerfulness. I won + my splendid reputation by telling other Lions how they ought to have done + their little tricks. But now, tired of that, I have gone into politics. + This is my first public office.” + </p> + <p> + Diana was somewhat confused and benumbed by these personally conducted + biographies, but she was too well-bred not to appear interested. + </p> + <p> + “How lovely,” she murmured, “to sit between two such Great Personages! I + wonder what brought poor little Me to such an honor. And, by the way, how + do you happen to be just here? What is this beautiful building behind you? + Is it your Palace?” + </p> + <p> + “It is a Library,” said the Academic Lion, with a superior tone. + </p> + <p> + “The biggest book-heap in America,” said the Magazine Lion in his vivid + way. “We have them all beaten to a finish—except the old junk-shop + down in Washington.” + </p> + <p> + “You forget Boston,” said the Academic Lion. + </p> + <p> + “Who wouldn't?” growled the Magazine Lion. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to tell me,” asked Diana, with her most engaging and + sprightly air, “that this splendid place is a Library, all full of books, + and that you are its most prominent figures, its figureheads, so to speak? + How interesting! I have travelled a great deal—under the name of + Pasht or Bast, in Egypt, where the Cats liked me; and under the name of + Artemis in Greece; and under my own name in Italy. Believe me, I have seen + all things that the moon shines upon. But I do not remember having seen + Lions on a Library before. How original! How appropriate! How suggestive! + But what does it suggest? What are you here for?” + </p> + <p> + “For educational purposes,” said the Academic Lion. + </p> + <p> + “To catch the eye,” said the Magazine Lion, “same as head-lines in a + newspaper.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” exclaimed Diana. “You are here to keep the people from getting at + the books? How modern!” + </p> + <p> + This remark made the Academic Lion look like a Sphinx, as if he knew + something but did not want to tell. But the Magazine Lion was distinctly + flattered. + </p> + <p> + “Right you are,” said he cheerfully, “or next door to it. We don't propose + to keep the people out, only the authors. Why, when this place was + publicly opened there was not a single author in the exhibit, except John + Bigelow.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you not keep him out?” asked Diana. + </p> + <p> + “We were not on the spot, then,” said the Lion. “Besides, there are some + things that even a Lion does not dare to do.” + </p> + <p> + “But I do not understand,” said Diana, “precisely why authors should be + kept away from a library.” + </p> + <p> + The Magazine Lion laughed. “Silly little thing!” he said, with a + fascinating tone of virile condescension. “An author's business is to + write books, not to read them. If he reads, he grows intelligent and + thoughtful and careful about his work. Those old books spoil him for the + modern market. But if he just goes ahead and writes whatever comes into + his head, he can do it with a bang, and everybody sits up and pays + attention. That's the only way to be original. See?” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me,” broke in the Academic Lion, “but you go too far, brother. + Authors should be encouraged to read, but only under critical guidance and + professorial direction. Otherwise they will not be able to classify the + books, and tabulate their writers, and know which ones to admire and + praise. How can you expect a mere author to comprehend the faulty method + of Shakespeare, or the ethical commonplaceness of Dickens and Thackeray, + or the vital Ibsenism of Bernard Shaw and the other near-Ibsens, without + assistance?” + </p> + <p> + “But the other people,” asked Diana, “what is going to happen to them if + you let them go in free and browse among the books?” + </p> + <p> + “They are less important,” answered the Academic Lion. “Besides we expect + soon to establish a cranial, neurological, and psychopathic examination + which will determine the subliminal, temperamental needs of every + applicant. Then we classify the readers in groups, and the books in lists, + and the whole thing works with automatic precision.” + </p> + <p> + “And I am going to make the book-lists!” said the Magazine Lion, + ecstatically wagging his tail, and half-unconsciously putting his paw + around the lady's waist in a spirit of pure comradeship. + </p> + <p> + But she gently slipped away, stood up, and gracefully covered a yawn with + her hand. + </p> + <p> + “I am ever so much obliged to you Literary Lions for not eating me,” said + she. “Probably I should have disagreed with you even more than your + conversation has with me. I am quite sleepy. And the moon has almost + disappeared. I must be going where I can bid it good night.” + </p> + <p> + So Diana rose, with shining limbs, above the housetops, and vanished + toward her Garden Tower. The Lions looked disconcerted. “Old-fashioned, + Victorian prude!” said one, “Brazen hussy!” said the other. And they + climbed back on their Pedestals, resuming their supercilious expression. + There I suppose they will stay, no matter what Diana may think of them. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HERO AND TIN SOLDIERS + </h2> + <p> + On December twenty-fifth, 1918, that little white house in the park was + certainly the happiest dwelling in Calvinton. It was simply running over + with Christmas. + </p> + <p> + You see, there had come to it a most wonderful present, a surprise full of + tears and laughter. Captain Walter Mayne reached home on Christmas Eve. + </p> + <p> + For a while they had thought that he would never come back at all. News + had been received that he was grievously wounded in France—shot to + pieces, in effect, leading his men near Chateau-Thierry. His life hung on + the ragged edge of those wounds. But his wife Katharine always believed + that he would pull through. So he did. But he was lacking a leg, his right + arm was knocked out of commission for the present, and various other <i>souvenirs + de la grande guerre</i> were inscribed upon his body. + </p> + <p> + Then word arrived that he was coming on a transport, with other wounded, + to be patched up in a hospital on Staten Island. So his wife Katharine + smiled her way through innumerable entanglements of red tape and went to + nurse him. Then she set her steady hand to pull all the wires necessary to + get him discharged and sent home. Christmas was in her heart and she would + not be denied. So it came to pass that the one-legged Hero was in his own + house on the happy day, and joy was bubbling all around him. + </p> + <p> + When the old Pastor entered, late in the afternoon, the Christmas-tree was + twinkling with lights, the children swarming and buzzing all over the + place, so that he was dazed for a moment. There were Walter's mother and + his aunt and his sisters-in-law, boys and girls of various sizes, and a + jubilant and entrancing baby. The Pastor took it all in, and was glad of + it, but his mind was on the Hero. + </p> + <p> + Katharine, who always understood everything, whispered softly: “Walter is + waiting to see you, Doctor. He is in his study, just across the hall.” + </p> + <p> + <i>Waiting?</i> Well, what can a man whose right leg has been cut off + above the knee, and who has not yet been able to get an artificial one—what + can he do but wait? + </p> + <p> + The room was rather dimly lighted; brilliance is not good for the eyes of + the wounded. Walter was in a long chair in the corner; his face was + bronzed, drawn and lined a little by suffering; but steady and cheerful as + ever, with the eager look which had made his students listen to him when + he talked to them about English literature. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Walter,” said the Pastor, “my dear boy, we are so glad to have + you home with us again. We are very proud of you. You are our Hero.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Walter, “it is mighty good to be home again. But there + is no hero business about it. I only did what all the other Americans who + went over there did—fought my—excuse me, my best, against the + beastly Germans.” + </p> + <p> + “But your leg,” said the Pastor impulsively, “it is gone. Aren't you angry + about that?” + </p> + <p> + Walter was silent for a moment. Then he answered. + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't think angry is the right word. You remember that story about + Nathan Hale in the Revolution—'I only regret that I have but one + life to give to my country.' Well, I'm glad that I had two legs to give + for my country, and particularly glad that she only needed one of them.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me a bit about the fighting,” said the Pastor, “I want to know what + it was like—the hero-touch—you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Not for me,” said Walter, “and certainly not now. Later on I can tell you + something, perhaps. But this is Christmas Day. And war? Well, Doctor, + believe me, war is a horrible thing, full of grime and pain, madness, + agony, hell—a thing that ought not to be. I have fought alongside of + the other fellows to put an end to it, and now—” + </p> + <p> + The door swung open, and Sammy, the eldest son of the house, pranced in. + </p> + <p> + “Look, Daddy,” he cried, “see what Aunt Emily has sent me for Christmas—a + big box of tin soldiers!” + </p> + <p> + Mayne smiled as the little boy carefully laid the box on his knee; but + there was a shadow of pain in his eyes, and he closed them for a few + seconds, as if his mind were going back, somewhere, far away. Then he + spoke, tenderly, but with a grave voice. + </p> + <p> + “That's fine, sonny—all those tin soldiers. But don't you think they + ought to belong to me? You have lots of other toys, you know. Would you + give the soldiers to me?” + </p> + <p> + The child looked up at him, puzzled for a moment; then a flash of + comprehension passed over his face, and he nodded valiantly. + </p> + <p> + “Sure, Father,” he said, “You're the Captain. Keep the soldiers. I'll play + with the other toys,” and he skipped out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Mayne's look followed him with love. Then he turned to the old Pastor and + a strange expression came into his face, half whimsical and half grim. + </p> + <p> + “Doctor,” he said, “will you do me a favor? Poke up that fire till it + blazes. That's right. Now lay this box in the hottest part of the flames. + That's right. It will soon be gone.” + </p> + <p> + The elder man did what was asked, with an air of slight bewilderment, as + one humors the fancies of an invalid. He wondered whether Mayne's fever + had quite left him. He watched the fire bulging the lid and catching round + the edges of the box. Then he heard Mayne's voice behind him, speaking + very quietly. + </p> + <p> + “If ever I find my little boy <i>playing with tin soldiers,</i> I shall + spank him well. No, that wouldn't be quite fair, would it? But I shall + tell him why he must not do it, and <i>I shall make him understand that + it's an impossible thing.”</i> + </p> + <p> + Then the old Pastor comprehended. There was no touch of fever. The + one-legged Hero had come home from the wars completely well and sound in + mind. So the two men sat together in love by the Christmas fire, and saw + the tin soldiers melt away. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SALVAGE POINT + </h2> + <p> + The Hermanns built their house at the very end of the island, five or six + miles from the more or less violently rustic “summer-cottages” which + adorned the hills and bluffs around the native village of Winterport. + </p> + <p> + There was a long point running out to the southward at the mouth of the + great bay, rough and rocky for the most part, with little woods of pointed + firs on it, some acres of pasture, and a few pockets of fertile soil lying + between the stony ridges. A yellow farmhouse, with a red barn beside it, + had nestled for near a hundred years in one of these hollows, buying + shelter from the winter winds at the cost of an outlook over sea and + shore. + </p> + <p> + It was a large price to pay. The view from the summit of the little hill a + few hundred yards away was superb—a wonder even on that wonderful + coast of Maine where mountain and sea meet together, forest and flood kiss + each other. + </p> + <p> + But I suppose the old Yankee farmer knew what he wanted when he paid the + price and snuggled his house in the hollow. I am certain the Hermanns knew + what they wanted when they bought the whole point and perched their house + on the very top of the hill, where all the winds of heaven might visit it + as roughly as they pleased, but where nothing could rob the outlook of its + ever-changing splendor and mystery, its fluent wonder and abiding charm. + </p> + <p> + You see, the Hermanns knew what they wanted because they had come through + a lot of trouble. I met them when they were young—no matter how many + years ago—when they were in the thick of it. + </p> + <p> + Alice Mackaye and Will Hermann had the rare luck to fall in love—a + very real and great love—when they were in their early twenties. You + would think that extraordinary piece of good fortune would have been + enough to set them up for life, wouldn't you? But no. There was an + Obstacle. And that Obstacle came very near wrecking them both. + </p> + <p> + Will Hermann was an artist and the son of an artist. The love of beauty + ran in his blood. Otherwise he was poor. He earned a decent living by his + painting, but each year's living depended on each year's work. Hence he + was in the proletarian class. + </p> + <p> + Alice Mackaye, on the other hand, belonged to the capitalist class. I say + “belonged,” because that is precisely the word to describe her situation. + Her father was a millionaire sugar-merchant, who lived in an ugly palace + near Morristown, New Jersey, and was accustomed to have his own way in + that and other States. He was the Obstacle. + </p> + <p> + He was a florid, handsome old Scotchman, orthodox in religion, shrewd in + business, correct in conduct, but with no more sentiment than a hard-shell + crab, and obstinate as the devil. His fixed idea was that none of his + daughters should ever be carried off by a fortune-hunter. The two older + girls apparently escaped this danger by making fairly wealthy matches. But + Alice—come away! why should she take up with this impecunious + painter? He was good-looking and had the gift of the gab, but what was + that worth? If he would come into the sugar-business, where a place was + waiting for him, and make good there, it would be all right. Otherwise, + the affair must be broken off, absolutely, finally, and forever. From this + you can see that the Obstacle was not bad-hearted, but only pig-headed. + </p> + <p> + Well, for five or six years things drifted rather miserably along this + way. Will Hermann was forbidden the house at Morristown. Alice was + practically a captive; her correspondence was censored. But of course, + even before Marconi, wireless communication in matters of this kind has + always been possible. + </p> + <p> + The trouble was that the state of affairs between them, while + conventionally correct, was thoroughly unnatural and full of peril. Alice, + a very good girl, obedient and tractable, was in danger of becoming a + recalcitrant and sour old maid. Will, a healthy and normal young man, with + no bad habits, was in danger of being driven to them by the emptiness and + exasperation of his mind. The worst of it all was that both of the young + people were, in accordance with a well-known law of nature, growing older + with what seemed to them a frightful and unreasonable rapidity. The years + crawled like snails. But the sum of them rose by leaps and bounds to an + appalling total. Alice found two grey hairs in her red-gold locks. Will + had to use glasses for reading fine print at night. From their point of + view, decrepitude, senility, dotage stared them in the face, while the + bright voyage of life which they were resolved to make only together, was + threatened with shipwreck among the shoals of interminable delay. + </p> + <p> + It was at this juncture of affairs that they came to me, as fine-looking a + young couple as ever I saw. They were good, as mortals go; they were loyal + and upright, they wanted no scandal, no rumpus in the family, no trouble + or pain for anybody else; but they wanted to belong to each other much + more than they wanted to belong to any class, artistic, proletarian, or + capitalist. And they were desperate because of the pertinacity of the + Obstacle, whom they both respected fully as much as he deserved. + </p> + <p> + When they had stated their case, I made my answer. + </p> + <p> + “So far as I can see, the salvage of your ship of love depends entirely on + yourselves. Mr. Hermann is not after a fortune, he only wants his girl; is + that so? {Hermann nodded vigorously.} And Miss Mackaye does not care about + being supported in the manner of living to which she has been accustomed; + she only wants to live with the man whom she has chosen; is that so? + {Alice blushed and nodded.} Well, then, why shouldn't you lay your course + and sail ahead together? You are both of age, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + They smiled at each other. “Yes, and a little over.” + </p> + <p> + “But my father!” said Alice. “You know I honor him, and I can never deny + his authority over me.” + </p> + <p> + Here was the turn of the talk, the critical moment, the point where the + chosen counsellor had to fall back upon the ultimate reality of his faith. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I said, “you are absolutely correct, dear daughter, in your + feeling toward your father. He has earned his money and has a right to + dispose of it as he will. But, you know, there is a statute of limitations + in regard to the authority of parents over the <i>lives</i> of their + children. You have passed the limitation. What do you want to do?” + </p> + <p> + “To be married to Will Hermann,” she said, “for better for worse, for + richer for poorer, I don't care. But I don't want a family quarrel, a + runaway match, all that horrid newspaper talk.” Here she was evidently a + little excited and on the verge of tears. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not,” I hastened to reassure her, “you can't possibly have a + runaway match, because there is nothing for you to run away from. There is + not a single duty in your father's house which you have not fulfilled, and + of which your sisters can not now relieve you. There is no authority in + the world which has the right to command the sacrifice of your life to + another's judgment. There is only one thing that stands in your way, and + that is your claim on a large inheritance. I understand you are quite + willing to let that go. You are not even 'running away' from it—that + is not the word—you are ready to <i>jettison</i> it.” + </p> + <p> + She looked puzzled, and murmured; “I don't exactly understand what that + means.” + </p> + <p> + “To jettison,” I said, in that learned and dispassionate manner which is + sometimes useful in relieving an emotional situation, “is a seafaring + phrase. It means throwing overboard a part or the whole of a cargo in + order to save the ship. As far as I can see that is the question which is + up to you and your best friend at the present moment. Are you prepared to + jettison the claim on a big fortune for the sake of making your voyage of + life together?” + </p> + <p> + They looked at each other and a kind of radiance spread over their faces. + “Surely,” they answered with one voice. “But how can the marriage be + arranged,” asked Alice, “without a row in the family?” + </p> + <p> + “Very easily,” I answered. “Both of you are over age, though you don't + look it. Our good lawyer friend Harrison will help you to get the license. + Fix your day for the wedding, neither secret nor notorious; invite anybody + you like, and come to me on the day you have chosen. The arrangements will + be made. You shall be married, all right.” + </p> + <p> + So they came, and I married them, and it was a very good job. + </p> + <p> + They had some years of difficulty and uncertainty during which I caught + brief glimpses of them now and then, always cheerful and happy together. + In the course of time the Obstacle, being not at all bad-hearted but only + pig-headed, probably relented a little, and finally was gathered to his + fathers, according to the common lot of man. The older sisters behaved + very well about the inheritance, and Alice was not left portionless. She + brought three fine boys into the world. The house on Salvage Point was + built by her and Will together. + </p> + <p> + It was there that I spent a day with them, in the summer of 1918, after + many years during which we had not met. I was on naval duty, with + Commander Kidd, of a certain station on the Maine coast. By invitation we + put in with the motorboat S.P. 297, at Salvage Point. So it was that I met + my old friends again, and knew what had become of their barque of love + which I had helped to save from shipwreck. + </p> + <p> + The house on the peak of the hill was just what it ought to be; not + aggressively rustic, not obtrusively classic—white pillars in front + of it, and a terrace, but nothing dominating—it had the air of a + very large and habitable lighthouse. + </p> + <p> + The extraordinary thing was the arrangement of the grounds. At every point + one came upon some reminder of salvage. On the glorious August day when I + was there, shipwreck seemed impossible: the Southern Way which opened to + the Ocean was dancing with gay waves; the blue mountains of Maine were + tranquil on the horizon. + </p> + <p> + “But you see,” said Will Hermann, “this is really rather a dangerous + point, though it is so beautiful. It is the gateway of the open sea, and + there are three big ledges across it. A ship that has lost her bearings a + little, or is driving in through thick weather, easily comes to grief. But + there is not often a loss of life, only the ship goes to pieces. And we + save the pieces.” + </p> + <p> + It was true. There was a terrace west of the house, with a balustrade made + of the taffrail of a wrecked brigantine. The gateway to the garden was the + door of an old wheel-house. There was a pergola constructed from the + timbers of a four-masted schooner that had broken up on the third ledge. + The bow of the sloop <i>Christabel,</i> with the name still painted on it, + was just outside the garden-gate. Everywhere you saw old anchor-bits, and + rudder-posts, and knees, all silver-greyed by the weather, and fitted in + to the <i>decor</i> of the place. + </p> + <p> + The prettiest thing of all was a crow's-nest from a wrecked brigantine, + perched on the highest point of the hill, and looking out over the + marvellous panorama of sea and shore, island and mountain. Here we sat, + after a hearty luncheon with Alice and her three boys and half-a-dozen + others who were with them in a kind of summer camp-school; and while we + smoked our pipes, Will Hermann told this story. + </p> + <p> + “You see, Alice and I have a mania for things that have been salvaged. We + don't like the idea of the wrecks, of course. But they would happen any + way, whether we were here or not. And since that is so, we like to live + here on the point and help save what we can. Sometimes we get a chance to + do something for the crews of the little ships that come ashore—hot + supper and dry clothes and so forth. But the most interesting salvage case + that we ever had on the point was one in which there was really no wreck + at all. + </p> + <p> + “It was a bright September afternoon ten years ago—one of those + silver-blue days when there is a little quivering haze in the air + everywhere, but no fog. We were sitting up here and looking out to sea. + Just beyond the end of Dunker Rock a large motor-boat came in sight + through the haze. She was about sixty feet long, with a low cabin forward, + a cockpit aft, and a raised place for the steersman amidship—a + good-looking craft, and evidently very speedy. She carried no flag or + pennant. She came driving on, full tilt, straight toward us. We supposed + of course she would turn east through the narrow channel to Winterport, or + sheer off to the west into the Southern Way and go up the bay. But not a + point did she swerve. Steady on she came, toward the three big ledges that + lie out there beyond that bit of shingly beach at the end of the point. + </p> + <p> + “'I can't see any helmsman,' said Alice, 'those people must be asleep or + crazy. Give them a hail through the megaphone. Perhaps you can make them + hear.' + </p> + <p> + “So I yelled at the top of my lungs, and Alice waved her jersey. We might + as well have hailed a comet. That boat ran straight for the ledges as if + she meant to hurdle them. She came near doing it, too. Over the first she + scraped, as if her heel had hit it. Over the second she shivered, hanging + there for a second till a wave lifted her. On the third she bumped hard + and checked her way for a moment, but the engine kept going, and finally + she got herself over somehow and ran head on to the beach. + </p> + <p> + “Of course we were excited, and everybody hurried down to see what this + crazy performance meant. There was not a creature on the boat, alive or + dead. + </p> + <p> + “Everything was shipshape. The little craft had evidently been used for + fishing. There were rough men's clothes on board, rubber boots and + oilskins, fresh water and provisions, blankets in the cabin, fishing-lines + and bait in the cockpit, gasolene in the tanks—a nice little outfit, + all complete, and no one to run it. + </p> + <p> + “Where had she come from? There were no names on bow or stern, no papers + in the cabin. Who had started her on this crazy voyage? How did she get + away from them? Had they perhaps abandoned her and cast her adrift for + some mysterious reason? Undoubtedly there were men—apparently three—on + board when she set out. What had happened to them? A drunken quarrel? Or + possibly one of the men had fallen overboard; the others had jumped in to + save him; the engine had started up and the boat left them all in the + lurch. Perhaps one or all of them may have had some reason for wanting to + 'disappear without a trace,' so they hit upon the plan of going ashore at + some lonely place and turning the boat loose to wreck herself. That would + have been a stupid scheme of course, but not too stupid to be human. + </p> + <p> + “It was just a little piece of sea mystery to which we had no clew. So we + debated it for an hour, and then set about the more important work of + salvaging the stranded derelict. Fortunately she went ashore near the last + of the ebb, and now lay comfortably in the mud, apparently little damaged + except for some long scratches on her side, and a broken blade in her + propeller. We dug away the mud at bow and stern, made fast a tow-line, and + when the tide came in my small cruiser pulled her off easily. In the + morning the mysterious stranger lay at anchor in the cove round the + corner, as quiet as a China duck. + </p> + <p> + “Of course we advertised in the coast newspapers, giving a description of + the boat—'came ashore,' etc. + </p> + <p> + “Three days later a boy about thirteen years old turned up at Winterport. + He came from a village at the northeast corner of the bay forty miles + away. He guessed the boat was his father's, but couldn't say for sure + until he had seen it. So he came down to the point and identified it + beyond a doubt. He told his story very simply. + </p> + <p> + “The boat belonged to his father, who was a widow-man with only one child. + He used the boat for fishing, and sometimes he took Johnny with him, + sometimes not. On the trips without the boy he used to stay out longer, + sometimes a week or ten days. About a week ago he had started out on one + of these trips with two other men. They had a dory in tow. They hadn't + come back. Johnny had seen the piece in the paper. Here was the boat, for + sure, but no dory. As for the rest of the story—well, that was all + that Johnny had to tell us about it—the mystery was as far away as + ever. + </p> + <p> + “He was a fine, sturdy little chap, with tanned face and clear blue eyes. + He was rather shaken by his experience, of course, but he wouldn't cry—not + for the world. We were glad to take him in for the night, while we + verified his story by telegraph. It seemed the boat was practically his + only inheritance, and the first question he asked, after we had gone over + it, was how much we wanted him to pay for salvage. + </p> + <p> + “'Just one cent,' said Alice, taking the words out of my mouth, 'and what + is more, we are going to have her repaired for you. She isn't much hurt.' + So the boy stammered out the best kind of a 'thank you' that he could + manage, and the look in his eyes made up for the lack of words. That was + the time that he came nearest to crying. But Alice saved him by asking + what he was going to do with the boat. + </p> + <p> + “He had an idea that he could run her himself, perhaps with another man to + help him, for fishing in the fall, and for pleasure parties in the summer. + He didn't want to cut loose from home altogether and sell the boat. + Perhaps Dad might come back, some day, or send a letter. Anyway Johnny + wanted to stay by a seafaring life. + </p> + <p> + “So we arranged the repairs and all that, and got a man to help on the + homeward trip, and after a few days Johnny sailed off with his patrimony. + That is what Alice and I consider our neatest job of salvage.” + </p> + <p> + “Did it work all right?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Finely,” said Will Hermann, “like a charm.” + </p> + <p> + “And where is the lad now?” + </p> + <p> + “Bo'sun's mate on a certain destroyer somewhere off the coast of France, + fighting in the U. S. Navee.” + </p> + <p> + “And the father?” I inquired, being one of those old-fashioned persons who + like all the loose ends of a story to be tied up. “Was anything ever heard + of him?” + </p> + <p> + “That,” answered my friend, carefully shaking out the ashes of his pipe + beyond the crow's-nest rail, “that belongs in a different compartment of + the ship.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BOY OF NAZARETH DREAMS + </h2> + <p> + There was a Boy in Nazareth long ago whose after-life was wonderful, and + whose story is written in the heart of mankind. His birth was predicted in + dreams foretelling marvellous things of him, and in later years there were + many true visions wherein he played a wondrous part. + </p> + <p> + Did he not also dream, in the days of his youth, while he was growing in + wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and man? It would be strange + indeed if his boyhood was not often visited and illumined by those swift + flashes of insight and clear unveilings of hidden things, which we call + dreams but which are in truth rays from “the fountain light of all our + day.” + </p> + <p> + The first journey that he made, his earliest visit to a great city, the + three days and nights when he was lost there—surely these were times + when visions must have come to him, full of mystery and wonder, yet + clothed in the simple, real forms of this world, which he was learning to + know. So I let my revery follow him on that unrecorded path, remembering + where it led him, and imagining, in the form of dreams, what may have met + him on his way. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I. THE JOURNEY TO THE CITY + </h2> + <p> + There was not a lad in the country town of Nazareth, nestled high on the + bosom of the Galilean hills, who did not often look eagerly southward over + the plain toward the dark mountains of Samaria, and think of the great + city which lay beyond them, and long for the time when he would be old + enough to go with his family on pilgrimage to Jerusalem. + </p> + <p> + That journey would carry him out of childhood. It would mark the beginning + of his life as a “son of the commandment,” a member of the Hebrew nation. + Moreover it would be an adventure—a very great and joyous adventure, + which youth loves. + </p> + <p> + Palestine, in the days when Augustus Caesar was Lord of the World, was an + exciting country to travel in. It was full of rovers and soldiers of + fortune from many lands. It was troubled by mobs and tumults and + rebellions, infested with landlopers and brigands. Jerusalem itself was + not only a great city, it was a boisterous and boiling city, crowded with + visitors from all parts of the world, merchants and travellers, princes + and beggars, citizens of Rome and children of the Desert. There were + strange sights to be seen there, and all kinds of things were sold in the + markets. So while the heart of young Nazareth longed for it, the heart of + older Nazareth was not without anxieties and apprehensions in regard to + the first pilgrimage. + </p> + <p> + This was doubly true in the home of the Boy of whom I speak. He was the + first-born, the darling of his parents, a lad beloved by all who knew him. + His mother hung on him with mystical joy and hope. He was the apple of her + eye. Deep in her soul she kept the memory of angelic words which had come + to her while she carried him under her heart—words which made her + believe that her son would be the morning-star of Israel and a light unto + the Gentiles. So she cherished the Boy and watched over him with tender, + unfailing care, as her most precious possession, her living, breathing, + growing treasure. + </p> + <p> + When he reached the age of twelve, he was old enough to go up to the + Temple and take part in the national feast of the Passover. So she clad + him in the garments of youth and made him ready for the four days' + pilgrimage. + </p> + <p> + It was a camping-trip, a wonder-walk, full of variety, with a spice of + danger and a feast of delight. + </p> + <p> + The Boy was the joy of the journey. His keen interest in all things seen + and heard was like a refreshing spring of water to the older pilgrims. + They had so often travelled the same road that they had forgotten that it + might be new every morning. His unwearying vigor and gladness as he ran + down the hillsides, or scrambled among the rocks far above the path, or + roamed through the fields filling his hands with flowers, was like a merry + song that cheered the long miles of the way. He was glad to be alive, and + it made the others glad to look at him. + </p> + <p> + There were sixty or seventy kinsfolk and neighbors, plain rustic men and + women, in the little company that set out from Nazareth. The men carried + arms to protect the caravan from robbers or marauders. As they wound + slowly down the steep, stony road to the plain of Esdraelon the Boy ran + ahead, making short cuts, turning aside to find a partridge's nest among + the bushes, jumping from rock to rock like a young gazelle, or poising on + the edge of some cliff in sheer delight of his own sure-footedness. + </p> + <p> + His body was outlined against the sky; his blue eyes (like those of his + mother, who was a maid of Bethlehem) sparkled with the joy of living; his + long hair was lifted and tossed by the wind of April. But his mother's + look followed him anxiously, and her heart often leaped in her throat. + </p> + <p> + “My son,” she said, as they took their noon-meal in the valley at the foot + of dark Mount Gilboa, “you must be more careful. Your feet might slip.” + </p> + <p> + “Mother,” answered the Boy, “I am truly very careful. I always put my feet + in the places that God has made for them—on the big, strong rocks + that will not roll. It is only because I am so happy that you think I am + careless.” + </p> + <p> + The tents were pitched, the first night, under the walls of Bethshan, a + fortified city of the Romans. Set on a knoll above the river Jordan, the + town loomed big and threatening over the little camp of the Galilean + pilgrims. But they kept aloof from it, because it was a city of the + heathen. Its theatres and temples and palaces were accursed. The tents + were indifferent to the city, and when the night opened its star-fields + above them and the heavenly lights rose over the mountains of Moab and + Samaria, the Boy's clear voice joined in the slumber-song of the pilgrims: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I will lift up mine eyes to the hilis, + From whence cometh my help; + My help cometh from the Lord, + Who made heaven and earth. + He will not suffer thy foot to stumble, + He who keepeth thee will not slumber. + Behold, He who guardeth Israel + Will neither slumber nor sleep.” + </pre> + <p> + Then they drew their woollen cloaks over their heads and rested on the + ground in peace. + </p> + <p> + For two days their way led through the wide valley of the Jordan, along + the level land that stretched from the mountains on either side to the + rough gulch where the river was raging through its jungle. They passed + through broad fields of ripe barley and ripening wheat, where the quail + scuttled and piped among the thick-growing stalks. There were + fruit-orchards and olive-groves on the foothills, and clear streams ran + murmuring down through glistening oleander thickets. Wild flowers sprang + in every untilled corner; tall spikes of hollyhocks, scarlet and blue + anemones, clusters of mignonette, rock-roses, and cyclamens, purple iris + in the moist places, and many-colored spathes of gladiolus growing + plentifully among the wheat. + </p> + <p> + The larks sang themselves into the sky in the early morn. Hotter grew the + sun and heavier the air in that long trough below the level of the sea. + The song of birds melted away. Only the hawks wheeled on motionless wings + above silent fields, watching for the young quail or the little rabbits, + hidden among the grain. + </p> + <p> + The pilgrims plodded on in the heat. Companies of soldiers with glittering + arms, merchants with laden mules jingling their bells, groups of ragged + thieves and bold beggars met and jostled the peaceful travellers on the + road. Once a little band of robbers, riding across the valley to the land + of Moab, turned from a distance toward the Nazarenes, circled swiftly + around them like hawks, whistling and calling shrilly to one another. But + there was small booty in that country caravan, and the men who guarded it + looked strong and tough; so the robbers whirled away as swiftly as they + had come. + </p> + <p> + The Boy had stood close to his father in this moment of danger, looking on + with surprise at the actions of the horsemen. + </p> + <p> + “What did those riders want?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “All we have,” answered the man. + </p> + <p> + “But it is very little,” said the Boy. “Nothing but our clothes and some + food for our journey. If they were hungry, why did they not ask of us?” + </p> + <p> + The man laughed. “These are not the kind that ask,” he said, “they are the + kind that take—what they will and when they can.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not like them,” said the Boy. “Their horses were beautiful, but + their faces were hateful—like a jackal that I saw—in the + gulley behind Nazareth one night. His eyes were burning red as fire. Those + men had fires inside of them.” + </p> + <p> + For the rest of that afternoon he walked more quietly and with thoughtful + looks, as if he were pondering the case of men who looked like jackals and + had flames within them. + </p> + <p> + At sunset, when the camp was made outside the gates of the new city of + Archelaus, on a hillock among the corn-fields, he came to his mother with + his hands full of the long lavender and rose and pale-blue spathes of the + gladiolus-lilies. + </p> + <p> + “Look, mother,” he cried, “are they not fine—like the clothes of a + king?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you know of kings?” she answered, smiling. “These are only wild + lilies of the field. But a great king, like Solomon, has robes of thick + silk, and jewels on his neck and his fingers, and a big crown of gold on + his head.” + </p> + <p> + “But that must be very heavy,” said the Boy, tossing his head lightly. “It + must tire him to wear a crown-thing and such thick robes. Besides, I think + the lilies are really prettier. They look just as if they were glad to + grow in the field.” + </p> + <p> + The third night they camped among the palm-groves and heavy-odored gardens + of Jericho, where Herod's splendid palace rose above the trees. The fourth + day they climbed the wild, steep, robber-haunted road from the Jordan + valley to the highlands of Judea, and so came at sundown to their + camp-ground among friends and neighbors on the closely tented slope of the + Mount of Olives, over against Jerusalem. + </p> + <p> + What an evening that was for the Boy! His first sight of the holy city, + the city of the great king, the city lifted up and exalted on the sides of + the north, beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth! He had + dreamed of her glory as he listened at his mother's knee to the + wonder-tales of David and Solomon and the brave adventures of the fighting + Maccabees. He had prayed for the peace of Jerusalem every night as he + kneeled by his bed and lifted his hands toward the holy place. He had + tried a thousand times to picture her strength and her splendor, her + marvels and mysteries, her multitude of houses and her vast bulwarks, as + he strayed among the humble cottages of Nazareth or sat in the low doorway + of his own home. + </p> + <p> + Now his dream had come true. He looked into the face of Jerusalem, just + across the deep, narrow valley of the Kidron, where the shadows of the + evening were rising among the tombs. The huge battlemented walls, + encircling the double mounts of Zion and Moriah—the vast huddle of + white houses, covering hill and hollow with their flat roofs and standing + so close together that the streets were hidden among them—the + towers, the colonnades, the terraces—the dark bulk of the Roman + castle—the marble pillars and glittering roof of the Temple in its + broad court on the hilltop—it was a city of stone and ivory and + gold, rising clear against the soft saffron and rose and violet of the + sunset sky. + </p> + <p> + The Boy sat with his mother on the hillside while the light waned, and the + lamps began to twinkle in the city, the stars to glow in the deepening + blue. He questioned her eagerly—what is that black tower?—why + does the big roof shine so bright?—where was King David's house?—where + are we going to-morrow? + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow,” she answered, “you will see. But now it is the sleep-time. + Let us sing the psalm that we used to sing at night in Nazareth—but + very softly, not to disturb the others—for you know this psalm is + not one of the songs of the pilgrimage.” + </p> + <p> + So the mother and her Child sang together with low voices: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “In peace will I both lay me down and sleep, + For thou, Lord, makest me dwell in safety.” + </pre> + <p> + The tune and the words quieted the Boy. It was like a bit of home in a far + land. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. THE GILDED TEMPLE + </h2> + <p> + The next day was full of wonder and excitement. It was the first day of + the Feast, and the myriad of pilgrims crowded through the gates and + streets of the city, all straining toward the enclosure of the Temple, + within whose walls two hundred thousand people could be gathered. On every + side the Boy saw new and strange things: soldiers in their armor, and + shops full of costly wares; richly dressed Sadducees with their servants + following; Jews from far-away countries, and curious visitors from all + parts of the world; ragged children of the city, and painted women of the + street, and beggars and outcasts of the lower quarters, and rich ladies + with their retinues, and priests in their snowy robes. + </p> + <p> + The family from Nazareth passed slowly through the confusion, and the Boy, + bewildered by the changing scene, longed to get to the Temple. He thought + everything must be quiet and holy there. But when they came into the + immense outer court, with its porticos and alcoves, he found the confusion + worse than ever. For there the money-changers and the buyers and sellers + of animals for sacrifice were bargaining and haggling; and the thousands + of people were jostling and pushing one another; and the followers of the + Pharisees and the Sadducees were disputing; and on many faces he saw that + strange look which speaks of a fire in the heart, so that it seemed like a + meeting-place of robbers. + </p> + <p> + His father had bought a lamb for the Passover sacrifice, at one of the + stalls in the outer court, and was carrying it on his shoulder. He pressed + on through the crowd at the Beautiful Gate, the Boy and his mother + following until they came to the Court of the Women. Here the mother + stayed, for that was the law—a woman must not go farther. But the + Boy was now “a son of the Commandment,” and he followed his father through + the Court of Israel to the entrance of the Court of the Priests. There the + little lamb was given to a priest, who carried it away to the great stone + altar in the middle of the court. + </p> + <p> + The Boy could not see what happened then, for the place was crowded and + busy. But he heard the blowing of trumpets, and the clashing of cymbals, + and the chanting of psalms. Black clouds of smoke went up from the hidden + altar; the floor around was splashed and streaked with red. After a long + while, as it seemed, the priest brought back the dead body of the lamb, + prepared for the Passover supper. + </p> + <p> + “Is this our little lamb?” asked the Boy as his father took it again upon + his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + The father nodded. + </p> + <p> + “It was a very pretty one,” said the Boy. “Did it have to die?” + </p> + <p> + The father looked down at him curiously. “Surely,” he said, “it had to be + offered on the altar, so that we can keep our feast according to the law + of Moses to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “But why,” persisted the Boy, “must all the lambs be killed in the Temple? + Does God like that? How many do you suppose were brought to the altar + to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “Tens of thousands,” answered the father. + </p> + <p> + “It is a great many,” said the Boy, sighing. “I wish one was enough.” + </p> + <p> + He was silent and thoughtful as they made their way through the Court of + the Women and found the mother and went back to the camp on the hillside. + That night the family ate their Paschal feast, with their loins girded as + if they were going on a journey, in memory of the long-ago flight of the + Israelites from Egypt. There was the roasted lamb, with bitter herbs, and + flat cakes of bread made without yeast. A cup of wine was passed around + the table four times. The Boy asked his father the meaning of all these + things, and the father repeated the story of the saving of the first-born + sons of Israel in that far-off night of terror and death when they came + out of Egypt. While the supper was going on, hymns were sung, and when it + was ended they all chanted together: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh, give thanks to the Lord, for He is good; + For His loving-kindness endureth for ever.” + </pre> + <p> + So the Boy lay down under his striped woollen cloak of blue and white and + drifted toward sleep, glad that he was a son of Israel, but sorry when he + thought of the thousands of little lambs and the altar floor splashed with + red. He wondered if some day God would not give them another way to keep + that feast. + </p> + <p> + The next day of the festival was a Sabbath, on which no work could be + done. But the daily sacrifice of the Temple, and all the services and + songs and benedictions in its courts, continued as usual, and there was a + greater crowd than ever within its walls. As the Boy went thither with his + parents they came to a place where a little house was beginning to burn, + set on fire by an overturned lamp. The poor people stood by, wringing + their hands and watching the flames. + </p> + <p> + “Why do they not try to save their house?” cried the Boy. + </p> + <p> + The father shook his head. “They can do nothing,” he answered. “They + follow the teaching of the Pharisees, who say that it is unlawful to put + out a fire on the Sabbath, because it is a labor.” + </p> + <p> + A little later the Boy saw a cripple with a crutch, sitting in the door of + a cottage, looking very sad and lonely. + </p> + <p> + “Why does he not go with the others,” asked the Boy, “and hear the music + at the Temple? That would make him happier. Can't he walk?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered the father, “he can hop along pretty well with his crutch + on other days, but not on the Sabbath, for he would have to carry his + crutch, and that would be labor.” + </p> + <p> + All the time he was in the Temple, watching the procession of priests and + Levites and listening to the music, the Boy was thinking what the Sabbath + meant, and whether it really rested people and made them happier. + </p> + <p> + The third day of the festival was the offering of the first-fruits of the + new year's harvest. That was a joyous day. A sheaf of ripe barley was + reaped and carried into the Temple and presented before the high altar + with incense and music. The priests blessed the people, and the people + shouted and sang for gladness. + </p> + <p> + The Boy's heart bounded in his breast as he joined in the song and thought + of the bright summer begun, and the birds building their nests, and the + flowers clothing the hills with beautiful colors, and the wide fields of + golden grain waving in the wind. He was happy all day as he walked through + the busy streets with his parents, buying some things that were needed for + the home in Nazareth; and he was happy at night when he lay down under an + olive-tree beside the tent, for the air was warm and gentle, and he fell + asleep under the tree, dreaming of what he would see and do to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III. HOW THE BOY WAS LOST + </h2> + <p> + Now comes the secret of the way he was lost—a way so simple that the + wonder is that no one has ever dreamed of it before. + </p> + <p> + The three important days of the Passover were ended, and the time had come + when those pilgrims who wished to return to their homes might leave + Jerusalem without offense, though it was more commendable to remain + through the full seven days. The people from Nazareth were anxious to be + gone—they had a long road to travel—their harvests were + waiting. While the Boy, tired out, was sleeping under the tree, the + question of going home was talked out and decided. They would break camp + at sunrise, and, joining with others of their countrymen who were tented + around them, they would take the road for Galilee. + </p> + <p> + But the Boy awoke earlier than any one else the next morning. Before the + dawn a linnet in the tree overhead called him with twittering songs. He + was rested by his long sleep. His breath came lightly. The spirit of youth + was beating in his limbs, His heart was eager for adventure. He longed for + the top of a high hill—for the wide, blue sky—for the world at + his feet—such a sight as he had often found in his rambles among the + heights near Nazareth. Why not? He would return in time for the next visit + to the Temple. + </p> + <p> + Quietly he stepped among the sleeping-tents in the dark. A footpath led + through the shadowy olive-grove, up the hillside, into the open. There the + light was clearer, and the breeze that runs before the daybreak was + dancing through the grass. The Boy turned to the left, following along one + of the sheep-trails that crossed the high, sloping pastures. Then he bore + to the right, breasting the long ridge, and passed the summit, running + lightly to the eastward until he came to a rounded, rocky knoll. There he + sat down among the little bushes to wait for sunrise. + </p> + <p> + Far beyond the wrinkled wilderness of Tekoa, and the Dead Sea, and the + mountain-wall of Moab, the rim of the sky was already tinged with silvery + gray. The fading of the stars travelled slowly upward, and the brightening + of the rose of dawn followed it, until all the east was softly glowing and + the deep blue of the central heaven was transfused with turquoise light. + Dark in the gulfs and chasms of the furrowed land the night lingered. + Bright along the eastern peaks and ridges the coming day, still hidden, + revealed itself in a fringe of dazzling gold, like the crest of a long + mounting wave. Shoots and flashes of radiance sprang upward from the + glittering edge. Streamers of rose-foam and gold-spray floated in the sky. + Then over the barrier of the hills the sun surged royally-crescent, + half-disk, full-orb—and overlooked the world. The luminous tide + flooded the gray villages of Bethany and Bethphage, and all the emerald + hills around Bethlehem were bathed in light. + </p> + <p> + The Boy sat entranced, watching the miracle by which God makes His sun to + shine upon the good and the evil. How strange it was that God should do + that—bestow an equal light upon those who obeyed Him and those who + broke His law! Yet it was splendid, it was King-like to give in that way, + with both hands. No, it was Father-like—and that was what the Boy + had learned from his mother—that God who made and ruled all things + was his Father. It was the name she had taught him to use in his prayers. + Not in the great prayers he learned from the book—the name there was + Adonai, the Lord, the Almighty. But in the little prayers that he said by + himself it was “my Father!” It made the Boy feel strangely happy and + strong to say that. The whole world seemed to breathe and glow around him + with an invisible presence. For such a Father, for the sake of His love + and favor, the Boy felt he could do anything. + </p> + <p> + More than that, his mother had told him of something special that the + Father had for him to do in the world. In the evenings during the journey + and when they were going home together from the Temple, she had repeated + to him some of the words that the angel-voices had spoken to her heart, + and some of the sayings of wise men from the East who came to visit him + when he was a baby. She could not understand all the mystery of it; she + did not see how it was going to be brought to pass. He was a child of + poverty and lowliness; not rich, nor learned, nor powerful. But with God + all things were possible. The choosing and calling of the eternal Father + were more than everything else. It was fixed in her heart that somehow her + Boy was sent to do a great work for Israel. He was the son of God set + apart to save his people and bring back the glory of Zion. He was to + fulfil the promises made in olden time and bring in the wonderful reign of + the Messiah in the world—perhaps as a forerunner and messenger of + the great King, or perhaps himself—ah, she did not know! But she + believed in her Boy with her whole soul; and she was sure that his Father + would show him what to do. + </p> + <p> + These sayings, coming amid the excitements of his first journey, his visit + to the Temple, his earliest sight of the splendor and confusion and misery + of the great city, had sunken all the more deeply into the Boy's mind. + Excitement does not blur the impressions of youth; it sharpens them, makes + them more vivid. Half-covered and hardly noticed at the time, they spring + up into life when the quiet hour comes. + </p> + <p> + So the Boy remembered his mother's words while he lay watching the + sunrise. It would be great to make them come true. To help everybody to + feel what he felt there on the hilltop—that big, free feeling of + peace and confidence and not being afraid! To make those robbers in the + Jordan valley see how they were breaking the rule of the world and burning + out their own hearts! To cleanse the Temple from the things that filled it + with confusion and pain, and drive away the brawling buyers and sellers + who were spoiling his Father's great house! To go among those poor and + wretched and sorrowful folks who swarmed in Jerusalem and teach them that + God was their Father too, and that they must not sin and quarrel any more! + To find a better way than the priests' and the Pharisees' of making people + good! To do great things for Israel—like Moses, like Joshua, like + David—or like Daniel, perhaps, who prayed and was not afraid of the + lions—or like Elijah and Elisha, who went about speaking to the + people and healing them— + </p> + <p> + The soft tread of bare feet among the bushes behind him roused the Boy. He + sprang up and saw a man with a stern face and long hair and beard looking + at him mysteriously. The man was dressed in white, with a leathern girdle + round his waist, into which a towel was thrust. A leathern wallet hung + from his neck, and he leaned upon a long staff. + </p> + <p> + “Peace be with you, Rabbi,” said the Boy, reverently bowing at the + stranger's feet. But the man looked at him steadily and did not speak. + </p> + <p> + The Boy was confused by the silence. The man's eyes troubled him with + their secret look, but he was not afraid. + </p> + <p> + “Who are you, sir,” he asked, “and what is your will with me? Perhaps you + are a master of the Pharisees or a scribe? But no—there are no broad + blue fringes on your garments. Are you a priest, then?” + </p> + <p> + The man shook his head, frowning. “I despise the priests,” he answered, + “and I abhor their bloody and unclean sacrifices. I am Enoch the Essene, a + holy one, a perfect keeper of the law. I live with those who have never + defiled themselves with the eating of meat, nor with marriage, nor with + wine; but we have all things in common, and we are baptized in pure water + every day for the purifying of our wretched bodies, and after that we eat + the daily feast of love in the kingdom of the Messiah which is at hand. + Thou art called into that kingdom, son; come with me, for thou art + called.” + </p> + <p> + The Boy listened with astonishment. Some of the things that the man said—for + instance, about the sacrifices and about the nearness of the kingdom—were + already in his heart. But other things puzzled and bewildered him. + </p> + <p> + “My mother says that I am called,” he answered, “but it is to serve Israel + and to help the people. Where do you live, sir, and what is it that you do + for the people?” + </p> + <p> + “We live among the hills of that wilderness,” he answered, pointing to the + south, “in the oasis of Engedi. There are palm-trees and springs of water, + and we keep ourselves pure, bathing before we eat and offering our food of + bread and dates as a sacrifice to God. We all work together, and none of + us has anything that he calls his own. We do not go up to the Temple nor + enter the synagogues. We have forsaken the uncleanness of the world and + all the impure ways of men. Our only care is to keep ourselves from + defilement. If we touch anything that is forbidden we wash our hands and + wipe them with this towel that hangs from our girdle. We alone are serving + the kingdom. Come, live with us, for I think thou art chosen.” + </p> + <p> + The Boy thought for a while before he answered. “Some of it is good, my + master,” he said, “but the rest of it is far away from my thoughts. Is + there nothing for a man to do in the world but to think of himself—either + in feasting and uncleanness as the heathen do, or in fasting and purifying + yourself as you do? How can you serve the kingdom if you turn away from + the people? They do not see you or hear you. You are separate from them—just + as if you were dead without dying. You can do nothing for them. No, I do + not want to come with you and live at Engedi. I think my Father will show + me something better to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Your Father!” said Enoch the Essene. “Who is He?” + </p> + <p> + “Surely,” answered the Boy, “He is the same as yours. He that made us and + made all that we see—the great world for us to live in.” + </p> + <p> + “Dust,” said the man, with a darker frown—“dust and ashes! It will + all perish, and thou with it. Thou art not chosen—not pure!” + </p> + <p> + With that he went away down the hill; and the Boy, surprised and grieved + at his rude parting, wondered a little over the meaning of his words, and + then went back as quickly as he could toward the tents. + </p> + <p> + When he came to the olive-grove they were gone! The sun was already high, + and his people had departed hours ago. In the hurry and bustle of breaking + camp each of the parents had supposed that the Boy was with the other, or + with some of the friends and neighbors, or perhaps running along the + hillside above them as he used to do. So they went their way cheerfully, + not knowing that they had left their son behind. This is how it came to + pass that he was lost. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV. HOW THE BOY WENT HIS WAY + </h2> + <p> + When the Boy saw what had happened he was surprised and troubled, but not + frightened. He did not know what to do. He might hasten after them, but he + could not tell which way to go. He was not even sure that they had gone + home; for they had talked of paying a visit to their relatives in the + south before returning to Nazareth; and some of the remaining pilgrims to + whom he turned for news of his people said that they had taken the + southern road from the Mount of Olives, going toward Bethlehem. + </p> + <p> + The Boy was at a loss, but he was not disheartened, nor even cast down. He + felt that somehow all would be well with him; he would be taken care of. + They would come back for him in good time. Meanwhile there were kind + people here who would give him food and shelter. There were boys in the + other camps with whom he could play. Best of all, he could go again to the + city and the Temple. He could see more of the wonderful things there, and + watch the way the people lived, and find out why so many of them seemed + sad or angry, and a few proud and scornful, and almost all looked + unsatisfied. Perhaps he could listen to some of the famous rabbis who + taught the people in the courts of the Temple and learn from them about + the things which his Father had chosen him to do. + </p> + <p> + So he went down the hill and toward the Sheep Gate by which he had always + gone into the city. Outside the gate a few boys about his own age, with a + group of younger children, were playing games. + </p> + <p> + “Look there,” they cried—“a stranger! Let us have some fun with him. + Halloo, Country, where do you come from?” + </p> + <p> + “From Galilee,” answered the Boy. + </p> + <p> + “Galilee is where all the fools live,” cried the children. “Where is your + home? What is your name?” + </p> + <p> + He told them pleasantly, but they laughed at his country way of speaking + and mimicked his pronunciation. + </p> + <p> + “Yalilean! Yalilean!” they cried. “You can't task. Can you play? Come and + play with us.” + </p> + <p> + So they played together. First, they had a mimic wedding-procession. Then + they made believe that the bridegroom was killed by a robber, and they had + a mock funeral. The Boy took always the lowest part. He was the hired + mourner who followed the body, wailing; he was the flute-player who made + music for the wedding-guests to dance to. + </p> + <p> + So readily did he enter into the play that the children at first were + pleased with him. But they were not long contented with anything. Some of + them would dance no more for the wedding; others would lament no more for + the funeral. Their caprices made them quarrelsome. + </p> + <p> + “Yalilean fool,” they cried, “you play it all wrong. You spoil the game. + We are tired of it. Can you run? Can you throw stones?” + </p> + <p> + So they ran races; and the Boy, trained among the hills, outran the + others. But they said he did not keep to the course. Then they threw + stones; and the Boy threw farther and straighter than any of the rest. + This made them angry. + </p> + <p> + Whispering together, they suddenly hurled a shower of stones at him. One + struck his shoulder, another made a long cut on his cheek. Wiping away the + blood with his sleeve, he turned silently and ran to the Sheep Gate, the + other boys chasing him with loud shouts. + </p> + <p> + He darted lightly through the crowd of animals and people that thronged + the gateway, turning and dodging with a sure foot among them and running + up the narrow street that led to the sheep-market. The cries of his + pursuers grew fainter behind him. Among the stalls of the market he wound + this way and that way like a hare before the hounds. At last he had left + them out of sight and hearing. + </p> + <p> + Then he ceased running and wandered blindly on through the northern + quarter of the city. The sloping streets were lined with bazaars and noisy + workshops. The Roman soldiers from the castle were sauntering to and fro. + Women in rich attire, with ear-rings and gold chains, passed by with their + slaves. Open market-places were still busy, though the afternoon trade was + slackening. + </p> + <p> + But the Boy was too tired and faint with hunger and heavy at heart to take + an interest in these things. He turned back toward the gate, and, missing + his way a little, came to a great pool of water, walled in wit, white + stone, with five porticos around it. In some of these porticos there were + a few people lying upon mats. But one of the porches was empty, and here + the Boy sat down. + </p> + <p> + He was worn out. His cheek was bleeding again, and the drops trickled down + his neck. He went down the broad steps to the pool to wash away the blood. + But he could not do it very well. His head ached too much. So he crept + back to the porch, unwound his little turban, curled himself in a corner + on the hard stones, his head upon his arm, and fell sound asleep. + </p> + <p> + He was awakened by a voice calling him, a hand laid upon his shoulder. He + looked up and saw the face of a young woman, dark-eyed, red-lipped, only a + few years older than himself. She was clad in silk, with a veil of gauze + over her head, gold coins in her hair, and a phial of alabaster hanging by + a gold chain around her neck. A sweet perfume like the breath of roses + came from it as she moved. Her voice was soft and kind. + </p> + <p> + “Poor boy,” she said, “you are wounded; some one has hurt you. What are + you doing here? You look like a little brother that I had long ago. Come + with me. I will take care of you.” + </p> + <p> + The Boy rose and tried to go with her. But he was stiff and sore; he could + hardly walk; his head was swimming. The young woman beckoned to a Nubian + slave who followed her. He took the Boy in his big black arms and so + carried him to a pleasant house with a garden. + </p> + <p> + There were couches and cushions there, in a marble court around a + fountain. There were servants who brought towels and ointments. The young + woman bathed the Boy's wound and his feet. The servants came with food, + and she made him eat of the best. His eyes grew bright again, and the + color came into his cheeks. He talked to her of his life in Nazareth, of + the adventures of his first journey, and of the way he came to be lost. + </p> + <p> + She listened to him intently, as if there were some strange charm in his + simple talk. Her eyes rested upon him with pleasure. A new look swept over + her face. She leaned close to him. + </p> + <p> + “Stay with me, boy,” she murmured, “for I want you. Your people are gone. + You shall sleep here to-night—you shall live with me and I will be + good to you—I will teach you to love me.” + </p> + <p> + The Boy moved back a little and looked at her with wide eyes, as if she + were saying something that he could not understand. + </p> + <p> + “But you have already been good to me, sister,” he answered, “and I love + you already, even as your brother did. Is your husband here? Will he come + soon, so that we can all say the prayer of thanks-giving together for the + food?” + </p> + <p> + Her look changed again; her eyes filled with pain and sorrow; she shrank + back and turned away her face. + </p> + <p> + “I have no husband,” she said. “Ah, boy, innocent boy, you do not + understand. I eat the bread of shame and live in the house of wickedness. + I am a sinner, a sinner of the city. How could I pray?” + </p> + <p> + With that she fell a-sobbing, rocking herself to and fro, and the tears + ran through her fingers like rain. The Boy looked at her, astonished and + pitiful. He moved nearer to her, after a moment, and spoke softly. + </p> + <p> + “I am very sorry, sister,” he said; and as he spoke he felt her tears + falling on his feet. “I am more sorry than I ever was in my life. It must + be dreadful to be a sinner. But sinners can pray, for God is our Father, + and fathers know how to forgive. I will stay with you and teach you some + of the things my mother has taught me.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up and caught his hand and kissed it. She wiped away her tears, + and rose, pushing back her hair. + </p> + <p> + “No, dear little master,” she said, “you shall not stay in this house—not + an hour. It is not fit for you. My Nubian shall lead you back to the gate, + and you will return to your friends outside of the city, and you will + forget one whom you comforted for a moment.” + </p> + <p> + The Boy turned back as he stood in the doorway. “No,” he said. “I will not + forget you. I will always remember your love and kindness. Will you learn + to pray, and give up being a sinner?” + </p> + <p> + “I will try,” she answered; “you have made me want to try. Go in peace. + God knows what will become of me.” + </p> + <p> + “God knows, sister,” replied the Boy gravely. “Abide in peace.” + </p> + <p> + So he went out into the dusk with the Nubian and found the camp on the + hillside and a shelter in one of the friendly tents, where he slept + soundly and woke refreshed in the morning. + </p> + <p> + This day he would not spend in playing and wandering. He would go straight + to the Temple, to find some of the learned teachers who gave instruction + there, and learn from them the wisdom that he needed in order to do his + work for his Father. + </p> + <p> + As he went he thought about the things that had befallen him yesterday. + Why had the man dressed in white despised him? Why had the city children + mocked him and chased him away with stones? Why was the strange woman who + had been so kind to him afterward so unhappy and so hopeless? + </p> + <p> + There must be something in the world that he did not understand, something + evil and hateful and miserable that he had never felt in himself. But he + felt it in the others, and it made him so sorry, so distressed for them, + that it seemed like a heavy weight, a burden on his own heart. It was like + the work of those demons, of whom his mother had told him, who entered + into people and lived inside of them, like worms eating away a fruit. + </p> + <p> + Only these people of whom he was thinking did not seem to have a demon + that took hold of them and drove them mad and made them foam at the mouth + and cut themselves with stones, like a man he once saw in Galilee. This + was something larger and more mysterious-like the hot wind that sometimes + blew from the south and made people gloomy and angry—like the rank + weeds that grew in certain fields, and if the sheep fed there they dropped + and died. + </p> + <p> + The Boy felt that he hated this unknown, wicked, unhappy thing more than + anything else in the world. He would like to save people from it. He + wanted to fight against it, to drive it away. It seemed as if there were a + spirit in his heart saying to him, “This is what you must do, you must + fight against this evil, you must drive out the darkness, you must be a + light, you must save the people—this is your Father's work for you + to do.” + </p> + <p> + But how? He did not know. That was what he wanted to find out. And he went + into the Temple hoping that the teachers there would tell him. + </p> + <p> + He found the vast Court of the Gentiles, as it had been on his first + visit, swarming with people. Jews and Syrians and foreigners of many + nations were streaming into it through the eight open gates, meeting and + mingling and eddying round in confused currents, bargaining and haggling + with the merchants and money-changers, crowding together around some group + where argument had risen to a violent dispute, drifting away again in + search of some new excitement. + </p> + <p> + The morning sacrifice was ended, but the sound of music floated out from + the enclosed courts in front of the altar, where the more devout + worshippers were gathered. The Roman soldiers of the guard paced up and + down, or leaned tranquilly upoa their spears, looking with indifference or + amused contempt upon the turbulent scenes of the holy place where they + were set to keep the peace and prevent the worshippers from attacking one + another. + </p> + <p> + The Boy turned into the long, cool cloisters, their lofty marble columns + and carved roofs, which ran around the inside of the walls. Here he found + many groups of people, walking in the broad aisles between the pillars, or + seated in the alcoves of Solomon's Porch around the teachers who were + instructing them. From one to another of these open schools he wandered, + listening eagerly to the different rabbis and doctors of the law. + </p> + <p> + Here one was reading from the Torah and explaining the laws about the food + which a Jew must not eat, and the things which he must not do on the + Sabbath. Here another was expounding the doctrine of the Pharisees about + the purifying of the sacred vessels in the Temple; while another, a + Sadducee, was disputing with him scornfully and claiming that the + purification of the priests was the only important thing. “You would wash + that which needs no washing,” he cried, “the Golden Candlestick, one day + in every week! Next you will want to wash the sun for fear an unclean ray + of light may fall on the altar!” + </p> + <p> + Other teachers were reciting from the six books of the Talmud which the + Pharisees were making to expound the law. Others repeated the histories of + Israel, recounted the brave deeds of the Maccabees, or read from the + prophecies of Enoch and Daniel. Others still were engaged in political + debate: the Zealots talking fiercely of the misdeeds of the house of Herod + and the outrages committed by the Romans; the Sadducees contemptuously + mocking at the hopes of the revolutionists and showing that the dream of + freedom for Judea was foolish. “Freedom,” they said, “belongs to those who + are well protected. We have the Temple and priesthood because Rome takes + care of us.” To this the Zealots answered angrily: “Yes, the priesthood + belongs to you unbelieving Sadducees; that is why you are content with it. + Look, now, at the place where you let Herod hang an accursed eagle of gold + on the front of Jehovah's House.” + </p> + <p> + So from group to group the Boy passed, listening intently, but hearing + little to his purpose. All day long he listened, now to one, now to + another, completely absorbed by what he heard, yet not satisfied. Late in + the afternoon he came into the quietest part of Solomon's Porch, where two + large companies were seated around their respective teachers, separated + from each other by a distance of four or five columns. + </p> + <p> + As he stood on the edge of the first company, whose rabbi was a lean, + dark-bearded, stern little man, the Boy was spoken to by a stranger at his + side, who asked him what he sought in the Temple. + </p> + <p> + “Wisdom,” answered the Boy. “I am looking for some one to give a light to + my path.” + </p> + <p> + “That is what I am seeking, too,” said the stranger, smiling. “I am a + Greek, and I desire wisdom. Let us see if we can get it from this teacher. + Listen.” + </p> + <p> + He made his way to the centre of the circle and stood before the stern + little man. + </p> + <p> + “Master,” said the Greek, “I am willing to become thy disciple if thou + wilt teach me the whole law while I stand before thee thus—on one + foot.” + </p> + <p> + The rabbi looked at him angrily, and, lifting up his stick, smote him + sharply across the leg. “That is the whole law for mockers,” he cried. The + stranger limped away amid the laughter of the crowd. + </p> + <p> + “But the little man was too angry; he did not see that I was in earnest,” + said he, as he came back to the Boy. “Now let us go to the next school and + see if the master there is any better.” + </p> + <p> + So they went to the second company, which was gathered around a very old + man, with long, snowy beard and a gentle face. The stranger took his place + as before, standing on one foot, and made the same request. The rabbi's + eyes twinkled and his lips were smiling as he answered promptly: + </p> + <p> + “Do nothing to thy neighbor that thou wouldst not have him do to thee, + this is the whole law; all the rest follows from this.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said the stranger, returning, “what think you of this teacher and + his wisdom? Is it better?” + </p> + <p> + “It is far better,” replied the Boy eagerly: “it is the best of all I have + heard to-day. I am coming back to hear him to-morrow. Do you know his + name?” + </p> + <p> + “I think it is Hillel,” answered the Greek, “and he is a learned man, the + master of the Sanhedrim. You will do well, young Jew, to listen to such a + man. Socrates could not have answered me better. But now the sun is near + setting. We must go our ways. Farewell.” + </p> + <p> + In the tent of his friends the Boy found welcome and a supper, but no news + of his parents. He told his experiences in the Temple, and the friends + heard him, wondering at his discernment. They were in doubt whether to let + him go again the next day; but he begged so earnestly, arguing that they + could tell his parents where he was if they should come to the camp + seeking him, that finally he won consent. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V. HOW THE BOY WAS FOUND + </h2> + <p> + He was in Solomon's Porch long before the schools had begun to assemble. + He paced up and down under the triple colonnade, thinking what questions + he should ask the master. + </p> + <p> + The company that gathered around Hillel that day was smaller, but there + were more scribes and doctors of the law among them, and they were + speaking of the kingdom of the Messiah—the thing that lay nearest to + the Boy's heart. He took his place in the midst of them, and they made + room for him, for they liked young disciples and encouraged them to ask + after knowledge. + </p> + <p> + It was the prophecy of Daniel that they were discussing, and the question + was whether these things were written of the First Messiah or of the + Second Messiah; for many of the doctors held that there must be two, and + that the first would die in battle, but the second would put down all his + enemies and rule over the world. + </p> + <p> + “Rabbi,” asked the Boy, “if the first was really the Messiah, could not + God raise him up again and send him back to rule?” + </p> + <p> + “You ask wisely, son,” answered Hillel, “and I think the prophets tell us + that we must hope for only one Messiah. This book of Daniel is full of + heavenly words, but it is not counted among the prophets whose writings + are gathered in the Scripture. Which of them have you read, and which do + you love most, my son?” + </p> + <p> + “Isaiah,” said the Boy, “because he says God will have mercy with + everlasting-kindness. But I love Daniel, too, because he says they that + turn many to righteousness shall shine as the stars for ever and ever. But + I do not understand what he says about the times and a half-time and the + days and the seasons before the coming of Messiah.” + </p> + <p> + With this there rose a dispute among the doctors about the meaning of + those sayings, and some explained them one way and some another, but + Hillel sat silent. At last he said: + </p> + <p> + “It is better to hope and to wait patiently for Him than to reckon the day + of His coming. For if the reckoning is wrong, and He does not come, then + men despair, and no longer make ready for Him.” + </p> + <p> + “How does a man make ready for Him, Rabbi?” asked the Boy. + </p> + <p> + “By prayer, son, and by study of the law, and by good works, and by + sacrifices.” + </p> + <p> + “But when He comes He will rule over the whole world, and how can all the + world come to the Temple to sacrifice?” + </p> + <p> + “A way will be provided,” answered the old man, “though I do not know how + it will be. And there are offerings of the heart as well as of the altar. + It is written, 'I will have mercy and not sacrifice.'” + </p> + <p> + “Will His kingdom be for the poor as well as for the rich, and for the + ignorant as well as for the wise?” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: From a painting by Holman Junt. The Finding of Christ in + The Temple} + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it will be for the poor and for the rich alike. But it will not be + for the ignorant, my son. For he who does not know the law cannot be + pious.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Rabbi,” said the Boy eagerly, “will He not have mercy on them just + because they are ignorant? Will He not pity them as a shepherd pities his + sheep when they are silly and go astray?” + </p> + <p> + “He is not only a Shepherd,” answered Hillel firmly, “but a great King. + They must all keep the law, even as it is written and as the elders have + taught it to us. There is no other way.” + </p> + <p> + The Boy was silent for a time, while the others talked of the law, and of + the Torah, and of the Talmud in which Hillel in those days was writing + down the traditions of the elders. When there was an opportunity he spoke + again. + </p> + <p> + “Rabbi, if most of the people should be both poor and ignorant when the + Messiah came, so ignorant that they did not even know Him, wouldn't He + save them just because they were poor?” + </p> + <p> + Hillel looked at the Boy with love, and hesitated before he answered. + </p> + <p> + At that moment a man and a woman came through the colonnade with hurried + steps. The man stopped at the edge of the circle, astonished at what he + saw. But the woman came into the centre and put her arm around the Boy. + </p> + <p> + “My boy,” she cried, “why hast thou done this to us? See how sorrowful + thou hast made me and thy father, looking everywhere for thee.” + </p> + <p> + “Mother,” he answered, “why did you look everywhere for me with sorrow? + Did you not know that I would be in my Father's house? Must I not begin to + think of the things my Father wants me to do?” + </p> + <p> + Thus the lost Boy was found again, and went home with, his parents to + Nazareth. The old rabbi blessed him as he left the Temple. + </p> + <p> + But had he really been lost, or was he finding his way? + </p> + <h3> + THE END + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Valley of Vision, by Henry Van Dyke + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VALLEY OF VISION *** + +***** This file should be named 6009-h.htm or 6009-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/0/6009/ + + +Text file produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +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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